The Auto-complete List

Ha Ha Ha!!! I feel so stupid and yet so gleeful saying this: I am now on the autocomplete function on google. This is hilarious. When I googled myself and saw my name on the auto-complete list, I was astonished. At first I thought that it must be because there are lots of people with my name. But it turns out that the majority of hits (those that do not have a comma between my first and last names) are indeed related to me. Presumably, this is either because there is a lot of information about me out on the internet, or there have been a lot of people looking me up - I am not sure which of these google uses as a auto-complete list criteria. And I am not convinced that either of these is a very good thing, but am nevertheless flattered.

What Has Happened To Me?

I don't know the answer to the above question. My life has suddenly become more banal than ever. I go from home to school and back home again in a sort of daze, and nothing seems important enough to report. Although that sounds very much like a bout of depression, I can safely say that I am actually quite happy. I have a dissertation defense date set for the 15th of May, and I am looking forward to the summer holiday. I am also beginning to wrap up things in Ames in anticipation of my big move in August. Things are looking cheery, hopeful and very busy. But nothing seems important enough to post on here. I do wish something exciting would happen to me!!!

However, having come to the terrible, but inevitable conclusion that nothing exciting or new is going to happen to me unless I make it happen, I make the following resolutions for the coming month (and hopefully will follow through on them):

ONE:
Will buy a nice variety of alcohol and mix myself a fancy cocktail every other night. (This one is inspired by an envious admiration of my friends A & A's choice collection of booze bottles).

TWO:
Will watch ABSOLUTELY NO cable television - especially crap reality shows (news shall be excepted); and go for an hour-long walk each night instead in order to enjoy the wonderful weather that Iowa is getting these days. This will also be time to muse and think up things I want to post on here.

THREE:
Will call one of my friends each night. Maybe the reason for the dried up imagination is the unwitting isolation I've let myself into during this busy month.

FOUR:
Will eat at one (or two) restaurant(s) each week which I have not been to during my stay in Ames. For Lent, I gave up eating out when I was not travelling. While this did vastly improve my home-cooking and bank balance, it did rather take a lot of fun out of the eating. Now, I intend to savor every single non-chain restaurant in Ames between now and August.

Let's hope that makes life more interesting and gives me more to write about. Stay tuned...

I've Been Busy - In Verse

I have been busy all month, and these lines from Anne Bronte's "The Student's Serenade" capture what the past few weeks have been like.

"I have slept upon my couch,
But my spirit did not rest,
For the labours of the day
Yet my weary soul opprest;
And, before my dreaming eyes
Still the learned volumes lay,
And I could not close their leaves,
And I could not turn away." ~ Anne Bronte (published as Acton Bell)

I'm writing an update that I'll post in a little bit...

The Fourth State

Today, Vermont has become the fourth U.S. state to legalize gay marriage — and the first to do so with a legislature's vote. This happy news comes at the heels of the April 3rd legalization of same-sex unions in Iowa, the state I live in. On Friday, the Iowa Supreme Court legalized gay marriage by a unanimous decision. And today, Vermont did so by the legislature's vote. Of course, there is widespread uproar and unrest at these decisions. Already, opponents of the same-sex marriages are seeking constitutional amendments that will reverse these controversial laws.

I simply do not understand people who oppose same-sex marriage. I get that many people, for primarily religious reasons do not think that same-sex relations are right. And I am okay with religious institutions not accepting such unions. But why some people think that the non-religious state should discriminate against gay individuals (or indeed side with a religion on any issue) is beyond me! Homosexual individuals and their allies have yet to go a far way in their struggle. Congratulations to them on their second victory in the same week!

Beaded Lace

Those of you who know me, know that no matter how liberal I might be in terms of my attitudes and beliefs, I tend to be pretty old-fashioned when it comes to my tastes in design, décor, architecture, and lifestyle. My furniture is well-worn and cozy, I rarely hang abstract pictures on my walls, my surroundings in general tend to veer away from minimalism or cold straight lines, and anything that is old or antique finds a warm reception in my environment. Of course, this makes me less fashionable. But I don’t care too much about that sort of thing.

In my quest to obtain quaint little knick-knacks for my home, I comb thrift stores, garage sales, antique malls, and so on. However, I rarely make anything old-world myself. Since it would seem that most of my creativity in writing seems to have dried up over the past few months, I decided to craft something. I was looking for inspiration, when I found it in the old britcoms that I watch. First in “Jeeves and Wooster”, and in quick succession later that night in “Rumpole of the Bailey”, I chanced to see two very delightful beaded lace jug covers. I was captivated and wanted one.

Following some preliminary research, I found that lace covers used to be used in pre-refrigerator days to keep the flies out of drinks. The lace was usually weighed down with beads so it stayed in place and did now blow away easily. I briefly considered making my own lace, but discarded the thought quickly – I can’t tat very well, and I wanted this jug cover quick! So, off it was to Hobby Lobby where I purchased several glass beads, and a lace doily. Then, I beaded round and drop beads together and sewed the loop to the ends of the doily. The result is magnificent – not quite as authentic as a real lace jug cover, but close enough. I’ve been using it all the time ever since. Mostly to cover a jug of lemonade, but I also have started using a creamer for my tea – which I have never done before – just so that I may be able to use the lace. This fascination won’t last of course, but it’s fun while it does.

P.S. I could not help clicking lots of pictures… enjoy!

Beaded lace on the lemonade jug…

…on a glass of lemonade…

…on the creamer that I usually don’t use…

Match Day News...

I just heard about my internship for next year... I got matched to the University of Minnesota - Minneapolis! Yahoo!

Laissez les bon temps rouler!!!

The Green Fountain Pen

As Valentine’s day came and passed, I began thinking about all the different loves of my life. I am not talking about the various things I am passionate about, and these are numerous. No, I am talking about the men I have been infatuated with. These have been numerous too. By now, you all know that it takes me absolutely no time to build up a fantasy land, replete with fantasy situations and fantasy romances. Throughout my life, I have built fantasies around many things – places, objects, music, animals… the list is endless. Individuals of the opposite sex occupy no small part on this list. Talking about all of them is going to take too long. Maybe I’ll start a series on them. But today is devoted to the charming W. who gave me a beautiful green fountain pen.

On the street that we lived on when I was growing up, there were no other children my age. Everyone who was not an adult was either an infant, or belonged to that delightful section of teenage where one firmly believes that one is an adult, and is always shocked to see that one’s parents don’t think so. In any case, once I returned home from school, other than my sister I had no one else to play with. The infants were boring and played ridiculously childish games that I thought were shockingly stupid and completely beneath my level of maturity. And those in their late adolescence treated me with a sort of benign pity, as if to sympathize with how young I was while also thanking the heavens that they were not that young and they never again had to be. Interestingly enough, all of these arrogant youngsters happened to be boys. The girls of such an age seemed to be secreted in the inner chambers of their houses. Hyderabad in those days used to be a much more conservative city than it is today. We lived close to the Old City, and it was not at all unusual to see burqa-clad women walk the streets, and for less-than opulent houses to have inner chambers that functioned as the women’s quarters. In any case, this was where the young women were – shielded from the eyes of the young men. But this is beside the point – it is the boys, or rather a boy that is of interest to this story.

Two doors down from my house, was the home of a large family. There was a grandfather, and a grandmother, and numerous uncles and aunts, and an absolute army of children – whose ages ranged from the early twenties to a few months, though still none in my age group. I always wondered as a child how they all fit into that one small house. As I grew older, I noticed that the presence or absence of the members of this clan seemed to rotate with the seasons. January and February belonged to Uncle X and his family, May and June to Auntie Y, and so on. It turns out that only the grandparents actually lived in the house, their numerous offspring - most of whom lived abroad - turned up about once a year to visit them.

One summer holiday, when I was about 12 years old, a new kid whom I had never noticed before surfaced within this clan. I call him a kid, but in reality he was about 7 years older than I was. He was cheerful and charming, but ever so intrusive. I was used to regarding this family (and indeed the inhabitants of my entire street), as interesting subjects from an anthropological viewpoint, and observed everybody closely. For the most part, they never noticed, and if they did, they all ignored me. That is, all except one. The new kid started back – as though I provided him with as much amusement as he did me. He would even go a bit further – he’d follow me around and stare at me. It’s not quite creepy as it sounds because I think he did it as a way of putting me in my place. And like all the other young men his age, he regarded me with a sort of benevolent pity. And he always had a smile playing at the corners of his mouth – an open and ready smile. He seemed to find my embarrassment, and my discomfort enormously entertaining. I hated him. At times I had an advantage over him – the vantage point from which I did most of my ‘anthropological observing’ was a section of my house which had a sort of screen one could look through without being seen. From this vantage point, set higher up than the single-story house he lived in, I observed him go about his day. It was sheer delight to be able to watch him – he had the other children devotedly following him about, and he seemed to be a favorite amongst those older than him. He was charming and delightful. I never could hear what he was saying, but he had everyone in bits and pieces. And watching him made me smile. Two months later, he disappeared.

Two years later, he miraculously appeared again. This time, I was older and wiser, and did not spend too much time perched behind the screen wall on my roof. I had my tenth class board examinations to study for – they were a year away, but my mother made sure I was at my books each day in preparation. Every once in a while, I’d see him in the street and he’d smile at me with the same kind of benevolent sympathy that he had done two years before. But this time, it infuriated me. What was his problem, I’d mutter to myself, fuming! I was fourteen, and practically and adult! What did he mean by smiling at me in such a pathetic fashion? How dare he? Did he not see that I no longer had time for this? He might be here to enjoy his summer holidays, but I had no time to waste. I would seethe with anger at him. But anyone who has been fourteen, and has professed hatred for someone who once fascinated them, knows that beneath the burning passion of fourteen year-old hatred, beats the heart of a much more tender feeling – fully blown infatuation. I was smitten by him. The more he treated me like a child, the more I wanted him to feel I was his equal. The more benevolently he smiled at me, the harder I fought back the tears. The more good-natured he was, the more violently I sobbed at night. He haunted my thoughts day and night. I experienced a rare and beautiful heartache, all summer long.

Two weeks before he left Hyderabad, one balmy summer evening found us both on our terraces. I was reading an old and battered book. He was playing with one of the numerous infants who inhabited his house. I would look coyly at him, and he would smile. It took me all my courage to stay put and not disappear indoors. Surprisingly, it seemed that he was finding it difficult to say something to me. This was not lost on me, and it made my heart ache even harder for him. Finally he spoke, and I heard his voice for the first time. There was nothing spectacular in his voice or what he asked me, but it was sweet relief to hear it. He asked me what I was reading. I told him, he asked me if he could see the book, and he scaled the terrace that separated our homes. As I passed the book to him, he smiled, and I saw that he was shy too. It was the closest I had ever been to him, and I was weak at the knees. He flipped through the pages of the book and then asked to borrow it. I nodded assent – I would give anything to talk with him again. He asked me my name. At the time, I had been reading another book in which the child-heroine was called “Susanna”. I told him that was my name. I knew instantly that he did not believe it – he knew my name already. But he said nothing, and told me it was a beautiful name. In that moment, knowing that he went along with my little falsehood to humor me, I loved him more than ever. His name, he said, was W.

All week long, I repeated his name to myself countless times. I built beautiful fantasies of a shared life together. It was the most delightful week of my fourteenth year. A week later, he returned my book to me. On one of the pages, he had written his name and his address in a faraway land. He also seemed to have scented the page – because it smelt wonderfully like him. He wanted me to write to him, he said. And he gave me a slim box wrapped in festive foil. He bade me open it, and I did. In the box was a green Parker fountain pen. It was beautiful. I promised to write. A week later when he left, I sobbed myself to sleep for a fortnight. We exchanged two letters. In the letters, he called me Susanna. But the intensity of my feelings for him was lost in them, and I looked forward to his return two years later.

When he did, we were both older. He tried to talk to me once, but out of fear of something unknown, I was unkind to him. He left again, only to return a year later. This time around, we got an invitation to his wedding. I felt empty when I saw the invitation, and although I knew that I did not love him, I was jealous of his new bride. At the end of that summer, I left to go to college in Kerala. The next time I saw him was four years later. I was twenty-one, and he was twenty-eight. He had always been handsome, but now he was radiantly so. He had lost none of the charming and impish smile, but it was tempered with an easy and mature air that became him well. One evening, as I was walking along a different street of the colony, a motorbike pulled up beside me. I looked around sharply, and there he was. He had a small child on the bike with him, whom he introduced to me as his son. The child had his father’s good looks, and good nature. ‘Can we not be friends?’ W. asked, and I said that we could. This exchange was neither bursting with supressed passion like our first had been, nor bitter like our later meeting had been. It was easy, and light. It was also our last. I have not seen him since. As long as my sister lived in India, each summer I’d ask her if he had come home for the holidays. I don’t love him anymore, maybe I never actually did love him. But I dearly cherish my childish infatuation.

The green Parker fountain-pen was stolen from me at my college-hostel. It was well-loved and well-used, and I never wrote in my diary with any other pen until it disappeared one day from my desk. I still have the diary in which I wrote of my childish fantasies about W. And on my bookshelf in Ames, sits a book whose inner pages hold a long-faded scent, and a slightly smudgy name and address that remind me each time I read them of balmy summer evenings, and beautiful heartache.