Oka Pencilbox Katha

This is a work of real-life that seemed imaginary, does it make it fiction? Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either too true to be true or the author's too shy to reveal more. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental, it's not your story, it's mine.

                                                         (i)

"Inkentha Sepu?", I asked the young driver. 

At first, I tried to hide the desperation but I gave up soon because I hate being late for a movie, especially when it is an "unofficial" date. In the age of heart emojis and handsome choices, I made it through the initial screen test of obsessive, late night conversations and virtual giggles. The next stage is a heart-thumping test, which would begin in 23 minutes for me. 

"Ee traffic lekapothe...e tank bund medha direct oka flyover kattisthe, manam akkada 5 mins lo untam, madam", he smirked. 

Five minutes later, he revealed his failed plan of watching a movie with his friends that night. He had to cancel it because my mother was arriving from Guntur and needed to be picked from the station. This explains the sarcasm. 

"Meeru e movie ki velthunnaru? Evaritho? Friends a?", his curiosity was conversation worthy, but I was hyperventilating at this point of time. It was 7:51 p.m. I had 9 minutes to be in the theatre, appearing very casual. 

"Manamantha", I replied. He seemed disappointed. 

"Friends toh ne, andike kada late avvadam nacchatledu?", I watched his face light up instantly. 

"Oh, adi family movie kada?", he was pushing for a conversation to distract me from the traffic on the road. The red lights were testing every ounce of patience in my body and the greens were the oasis to my adventure for the night. 

"Meeru Pellichoopulu movie chusara, Madam?", he asked, with a grin on his face next. The lights turned green, an Audi on the road gave us way, it was 7:58 p.m. 

                                                       (ii)

                                                     

Last year, this time I walked into a room filled with ambitious tension and political couches, the kind that hosted informal, heated discussions, intense sessions of questions rallying between individuals, this time it was Cinema for main course. A little dog that greeted me at the entrance stole my attention and helped me avoid the awkward ice-breaking session with a prominent filmmaker. I found a familiar, unexpected face smiling at me from the group of people seated, the witness, while the rest were smiling unusually, shifting their gaze from the filmmaker to the rest of us who came to narrate the script of a movie. This movie would later go on to become a sensation in the Telugu Film Industry. 

Prashant meet Chitra. 

Chitra meet Prashant.

                                                      (iii)

"Sorry, there was crazy traffic on the way", he says, I wish I could see my face through his eyes that very instant. 

I am busy tearing his ticket from the printed two. How is it that one of the most efficient parts of the body - hands, give up on you at such times? The ticket doesn't tear, "It's okay, let's go before I lose it for missing the first 5 minutes", I mumbled, immediately regretting what I just said.

"Tickets", the lady at the escalator asked. "Screen 5 is downstairs, Madam", she said looking at the ticket, confused. 

We rush downstairs only to realise ours was Screen 6 instead and screen 5 was playing Rustom. I realise much later, during the interval that she probably wondered why would we watch a family movie and guided us to Rustom. 

"Late chestava nuvvu, movie ante?", I threatened him, secretly hoping I didn't scare him already. 

"Sorry, sorry, it was jam-packed on the roads...," he went on explaining, before I announced that we should go back upstairs and broke into a sprint. 

There are 2 conditions if you want to watch a movie with me: 
1) I don't want to remind you that we have a movie to watch that day.
2) Absolutely no Caramel Pop-Corn, whatsoever. 

The movie just started to play the moment we entered the theatre, I'm hoping that dad didn't book corner seats, I was very clear about the fact that I was watching it with a "friend". 

                                                      (iv)

The previous evening -

"Are you going for the movie?", he asked. 
"Yes"
I am going no matter what, I thought.
"Alone?"
"Are you coming?"
"I don't think so"
"Then yes, alone", I said.
"Seriously?", he asked. 

One year ago, I bought two tickets for a Santoor concert after a crush and I decided to go for it. 

It was going to be amazing, I thought, to be able to share such experiences with people. 

How lucky are we to sit together and experience something, separately? 

30 minutes before the concert, I find out he wasn't going to make it. I dragged myself to the ticket counter at the hall, swallowed my pride and asked for a refund for the extra ticket. It was one of the toughest things to do, tougher than fighting tears. I secretly believe they refunded without a fuss because they wanted to make this confrontation easier, so I could finish before shame took over. I have never been this thankful for the darkness in concert halls, if my cheeks could yield crops, a drought would have been cured that evening.

Movies, concerts, travel, pretty much everything, became a singular experience after that day. It made me question the purpose of company. The drought was imaginary, I told myself. 

"It's just that I want to write...in the mood", he confessed. "We'll watch it together, don't go alone. We'll watch it tomorrow". 

"One condition", I stated, trying to ignore the cute quotient in his previous statement. 

"No Caramel Popcorn", he declared. 

                                                      (v)

"Is this a date?", he asked. 

Was this a curious question or a test? If it were me, I would only ask a question like that if I'm genuinely curious. If it were a test, I would allow myself to discover the answer during the experience.

"Asalu, what do you think of yourself?", I ask.
"It's a movie", I write, trying to sound serious, "A girl, asked you to watch a movie, together. Nuvvu feel ayithe avvu", I tried to justify.

A few minutes later, I cheekily asked him, "Doesn't this sound like a date?"
"It does", he replied.

Modern day romance, however modern it is, is unapologetically in the spotlight always. With filmmakers studying youngsters, analysing every heartbreak, love story, or latest trends in the ever evolving field of expression, there is no dearth of inspiration in the art of love on-screen. Boy meets girl, girl is a happy, chirpy, wannabe ignorer of the boy's feelings, boy tries hard to win her love...Add some free-willing concoction of complex emotions and you have at least, many of the predictable stories in this sub-set of movies. 'Manamantha', a supposed family movie, tells the stories of 4 individuals fighting their own conscience and life's unforeseen consequences. 1) A supermarket manager (Mohanlal) who, realises that a younger, well educated, colleague is his competition for a promotion, 2) a house-wife who has the maximum soliloquies and tolerates a saree-selling, trouble making woman for a friend, 3) a little girl with the biggest heart, who befriends a street urchin and takes him to school after he follows her one day, and 4) a young, geeky man whose hormones go hay-wire after meeting a young, charming, rich girl.

In the movie, this young man receives a call from his friend about his crush being spotted at a mall, which forces him to skip a meeting with his idol at his university. A questionable action, but I know many who would do this in a blink. If you like something with all your heart, the whole universe will work towards bringing it to you, is the underlying mantra of this story and my life too, sometimes. Eventually after many trials to win her attention, he finds himself in a situation where he rescues her iPhone from being stolen and wins her, err, her time. This is followed by a series of dates, non-stop conversations on the phone, an obsessive process that involves the emptying of any common sense on the inside and pockets on the outside.

The girl, being the pampered, practical, princess who is also aiming to study abroad, one day decides to catch a movie with the iPhone-rescuer turned part-time stalker. At this point during the movie, I cross my left leg over the right and prepare for the following scene. I suppose it suddenly made me aware of the fact that I contribute to the whole Modern Romance Study, no matter how different my context is. Soon after settling down in their seats at the Cinema, the girl asks for Pop-corn, which sends the young man hurrying off to buy, his dignity and Pop-corn. Luckily, he finds a junior from college who not long ago, offered to pay for lessons during exams. He requests for the money now and quickly rushes into the theatre with his pride, err, pop-corn buckets. Unaware of his achievement outside, the girl excitedly reaches out for the pop-corn as soon as he sits.  "Caramel Popcorn ah?" she asks excitedly, while almost grabbing it from his hands. 

In a slightly sad, heart tugging moment of the film, we burst out laughing. We shared our first inside joke with a clueless, confused audience. 

                                                      (vi)

"Where do you stay?", he asked, when we were texting for the first time.
"Ala ela adigesav?", I remember throwing my head behind and laughing loudly after putting him in a spot and found my parents looking at me curiously. I sat up straight, pulled myself together and pretended to read something on my phone. 
"Vammo, nenu emaina Pellichesukomani adigana? Ekkada untavu ani adiganu anthe", he wrote. 

Speed breakers in Hyderabad appear during the most unexpected times, I say appear because, it is the same road that you would be traveling on, sometimes to buy groceries, or walk helplessly because auto-drivers teach you the real meaning of rejection. You know this route by heart, if you were blindfolded and made to ride on it, you would slow down, instinctively at most speed-breakers. But one good movie later, a ride on the necklace road on his pride-worthy bullet was a perk I almost invited myself to. All these incidents seemed to have created an imaginary conference of all the speed-breakers on the way home, ensuring I was bouncing off the bike every few minutes.

"Are you okay?", he asked after the first speed-breaker which almost threw me off the bike. He had a hand on the bike and the other on my knee, apologetically.

In the last one year, I learned one thing about affection - I missed it very, very much. I am physically, a very affectionate person. I hug people, I hold hands when I walk, I shower kisses on birthdays and tickle people. The one thing I knew was that none of the receivers would attempt to do the same with me. However giving I was with physical affection, I was very guarded while accepting it. I think I am always only prepared until giving, unaware of the effect of my actions. 

"Are you comfortable?", he asked. 

I burst out laughing. I was on Necklace road, on a bike, with a man I never met alone before, who was increasingly conscious after every speed breaker on the road, the cool breeze was hitting my face, I passed a restaurant I went to, on my very first date ever, I passed my childhood hangout spots to my right, the great Indian flag on Tank Bund had a slow-motion to it, like it would if it were in a film, and all he was thinking of was if I were comfortable? I was trying to hide the thrill of that very moment desperately. 

"I think, I should wear a helmet", I said, thinking of how it would be the best disguise to hide my face, in case he turns around to check on me (Yes, mirrors are a passé).

"Naadi kavala?", he asked. 
"Oddu, no way!", pushing the chivalry away. 

A dinner got us sitting face to face for the first time. I just find out that he watched the movie without his spectacles. I don't know if I should note this act as a part of understanding this man. I felt extremely shy, it was the silliest time to feel shy. Amma used to catch me during such instances and repeat, "Intilo Puli laga thiruguthavu, baita enduku pilli laga avuthunnav?" 

Right now, I'm such a Pilli-pilla and I don't have anyone helping me out of this moment. 

"Do you cook at home?", I wanted to take my question back. 

How is this question any relevant at a restaurant? 

"I eat more than I drink, which is why I'm fat", he said. 
"You think you're fat?"
He looked at me with a smile. 
"You're chubby, I wouldn't call you fat". 

The greatest feeling on the planet is to sit before someone who would slowly but honestly, reveal their truths. Especially, when you listen to similar words that you used before as a cloak that hid your true, chubby truth. But that's not even the best part, it was how we thought of the same body, so differently.  

Right after we finished eating, the waiter skeptically placed the bill on the table. 

"Why are you asking us to pay right now?", he questioned immediately. 
"Why are you asking us to leave right now?", I complained. 

I lost the game.  

The waiter runs away, I pray nobody heard me. The questions seemed quite attacking, to be honest. He returned with a plateful of sweeties as compliments and an apology.

"It's okay, it happens", I said smiling at the waiter, I couldn't help watching his guilty face. How was he to know what interesting stories I was listening to, wide-eyed with wonder and clueless how my company's moustache doesn't move when he speaks? 

Before I knew it, I was on my way home. I get off the bike, like a lady, unlike the first time where I almost pulled him with me as I got off. In my defence, I haven't sat on a bike in a year. As I'm getting off the bike, it occurs to me that I have no idea of the time, was it 12:00 or 12:30? I stopped wearing a watch because I acquired the skill of predicting the time in Lugano. Unfortunately, it was really hard to do now in good company. 

"Thank you for the dinner, Bye!", I said, hoping I wasn't too pink. 
"You're welcome...bye!", he said.

Was this it? Did I just say bye and walk towards the gate? 

I turn around to see him go, as I opened the gate. He looked right back at me, I froze. My auto-pilot controls made me wave at him unconsciously, whereas I needed a snap to reality.

I walked up to my room, slightly puzzled with how the evening turned out. My balcony is the only one that provides respite in such unexplainable moments. I watched the sky, it would have been very selfish of me to think the weather was brilliant for tonight, but I'm not taking anything as a co-incidence at the moment. I'd like to believe that I'm an optimist on most occasions, but the last thing I would do was announce to him about how incredible it was to be in such an interesting company tonight and scare him away.

My phone lit up. 

"Listen..", my heart was parked in my throat, "I had a lovely time, I enjoyed", he wrote. 
"I enjoyed it too", I admitted. 
"I'm a fan of your nose ring... chaala chaala bagundi", he said.

It would be very hard to explain the music that will be heard from my room for the next few days.

Fin.

Neitherway Norway

After speaking to his parents like they've seen me graduate from pig-tails to pony tails, I ask the Shaadi.com supposed suitor questions that I wish he asked me. Sitting through him explain about his MBA and other professional achievements, I consciously, inoffensively corrected my last question: "What do you do in Norway...?" 

 "I meant, what do you do when you're alone in Norway?" I asked, hoping I'd get a peek into his universe. 

"I go out with my friends, watch movies...and I like to cook", he replied.

My eyes were rolling until he spoke about cooking. I let out a giggle and asked, "Cooking? You mean like making tea?"

A long pause later, a serious reply stood against the light-weight bullying from a woman who didn't know how to make the perfect bowl of rice until a year ago. 

"No, I mean, like Chicken or Pasta. From scratch", he explained. 

Making Pasta is one of the most holy acts of cuisine. It is an intense, loved and relished activity in any Italian household. Pasta has 4 Main ingredients - Flour, eggs, water and olive oil. There could be variations to the ingredients. For example not all traditional Pasta have egg in them. Some have spinach or chilli, it depends on the region where the Pasta originates. 

So how's a girl to choose the very best way? If you're this girl, you obsess. You make batch after batch—dozens and dozens of batches, in fact—to find out. 

"Where are you studying in Switzerland?"

" At the University of the Southern Switzerland, or SUPSI. Like S-U-P like Sup?..." I stare at the trees and suddenly I hear only the rain pouring outside the window. Sup? Really? 

"And S-I, like Si!..." Si? SI? Really? 

"Can you repeat that? University of?...."

"Are you noting this down?" 

"No, no, I'm not that kind of a guy." 

I laugh at his defence, yet again. 

You walk around dusted and streaked with flour, crumbly bits of dough crusted to the end of your sleeves. You make spreadsheets and charts, and sometimes you maybe even cry. 

"I learnt how to make Pasta here. I think I troubled most of my Italian friends with my horrible pasta making skills and they gave up teaching me how to make the perfect Pasta..."

I wondered if he was smiling right now. 

"Eventually, to rid my guilt, I started making Indian food for them and they love it!"

"So you know how to cook Indian food?", he asked.

"Not until last year! My parents are really proud of me now I hope."

He probably thinks I'm a spoilt brat already. 

You make all-egg pastas, pastas made with just whites, just yolks, and nothing more than water. You try different flours and check resting times at fifteen minute intervals for almost an entire day. 

"I'm kind of a spoilt brat back in India..", I admit sheepishly. 

Seriously, as an Interaction Designer, the first thing I should design is something that stops the tongue uttering what's supposed to remain in the head. Wait, did I hear a soft laugh or did I imagine that? 

"So how long have you been living in Lugano?"

"Almost a year now.." I say, thinking about the first time I smelled the air of Lugano at the train station. It had a hint of dew or maybe it was moss, something fresh. In the mornings on the way to school, I walked through a park on somedays to catch a bus. I would smell the same fragrance of freshness while running downhill...will I miss it when I leave? 

You taste more ratios of egg yolk to egg white to flour than you care to admit. You add oil, you add salt, you add oil and salt. 

" I really like it here. I've explored so much and I think it has had a great influence on my thinking.."

"Yeah, you become independent and...." 

I didn't let him finish that sentence, "I was always independent. But I wanted to live by myself, manage my own things..."

"Yeah.."

"I wouldn't have been able to do that back in India. I'd probably be thought of as this daughter who doesn't love her parents enough to live in the same house"

Actually, I don't think so. Maybe the people I know would be taken aback about the idea of living away in the same city. But I do know friends who live in a different house. Why did I feel that it would be an unthinkable act? 

You wave forkfuls of fettuccine at your friends and family and colleagues, wrangling them into taste test after taste test. You read every book you can get your hands on. Your forearms get totally ripped.

"Yeah, I understand. People here leave their houses at 18, figure it out, make a living, setup a family..."

"I wish i left home earlier, at 16 or something when I had the opportunity to.." 

Really? Do you want to also tell him of your other regrets like how you never won the Nobel Peace Prize because you fought the demons inside you that pulled you down everytime you tried to reach for something intellectually higher? Go on, I'm sure he'd be amused. 

" It's good, it's an experience"..

Few minutes after, we finally hung up. I've always been curious to see how men answered a call and hung up. It speaks volumes about them. He struggled to start when he called but hanging up was easier than I thought.

Does he think I'm a chatterbox? Did I say something stupid? Or did I boast about something? How does my mind manage to make me feel so wrong about a phone call so naturally, unexplainably normal? 

                                  Eventually, you realise that there's no perfect Pasta.

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Pasta sections from "Science of the best fresh Pasta"  by Niki Achitoff-Gray. http://www.seriouseats.com/2015/01/best-easy-all-purpose-fresh-pasta-dough-recipe-instructions.html

Everything is Chemistry

Ten years ago, I decided to start pouring my heart on this blog. I've always used this space to vent, introspect or simply complain about mostly unfair boyfriends or events. Sometimes I look back and giggle, most times I cringe. It's good that I can do both of them sometimes.

"I've got to show you something", he said, "someone's going on a Cruise!". 

I squint to get a better look at the view on my screen. Pixels appeared, constantly rearranging themselves to form a digital impressionist frame of a dockyard with blinky lights. "I wish I were a part of your first cruise trip", he sighed and looked away. There were many things to do, places to go, things to talk, kisses to be given, life had lots of plans for them, at least they believed so. 60 days seemed to be a long journey.

"When you come back, I'm not letting you go", he used to say. "If there is a road for us, it starts with your coming home". I often find myself wishing I were around him, we'd have tea in the evening, go for a run, I imagine our dog running with us. We would mostly live on the sea-side, it would never be a boring sight, sometimes we would sneak out at mid-night and walk on the shore, the waves teasing our feet with their constant kisses to the land, we would look at the stars and thank the universe for bringing us together. Sometimes he would be in a mood for a long drive, these would make me squeal in delight because I'm going to be listening to his favourite numbers with him explaining his favourite verses and I would look at him thinking he'd make such a wonderful grand father. He'd catch me phasing out but I'll remind him that I know this is his favourite verse and I'll never be bored of his story. Sometimes we would listen to a song that would remind him of his first girlfriend, he has a special place for that experience, I nod and watch his eyes trying to focus on the road, but internally reviewing the reel of the relationship. "I would have liked her", I would tell myself at that point.

"I'm not gonna let you cook alone", he said, "we never let Mom cook on weekends." I made Aloo Parathas when we met. He watched me make them without a break, he slowly put a piece into my mouth while I was shuffling between kneading and tossing. I would have made Parathas everyday in return to that piece, had we lived together. He had eyes that twinkled and sometimes they looked deep into mine, often blurring the screen between us. 

"Come back, I need you here" he said, "I'll make you happy and healthy". I know he's right. I need him. And he needs me. "Goodnight", I'd say, "See you tomorrow". 

The screen fades, suddenly I'm aware of the walls around me, blue curtains that blind the swiss mountains, peace that's hard to reach and a bed that hosts your dreams each night. 

59 days don't seem to be an easy journey. 

Waiting

Waiting on destiny,
To live up to the hype,
That it has been creating,
Through the words of many.

Waiting on change,
To get uncomfortable,
While searching for comfort,
In unfamiliar places.

Waiting on soulmates,
To make their mistakes,
So they can aim to get closer,
to meeting the one.

Waiting on wisdom,
To make me realize,
The only way to gain,
Is losing it now.

Waiting on love,
To bloom in the lands,
where barren is their fate,
But hope is strong.

Waiting on the wait,
to continue its course,
As the only answer,
Is to wait.

An incurable romantic

Long time ago, a storm announced it's arrival to a village. It was a beautiful day, the clouds seemed happy courting the sun, unlike us, fighting to own people and tying them down to our lives. This storm was not like the usual ones, but then, no two storms are alike, this one was unique just like every other storm.

It started at a pace it could pick up, so silent and beautiful, it was curious. It didn't feel like the speed was like it imagined, could it go a little faster? A little fierce? Maybe, add a mysterious touch to it's form, grow bigger. Look really mysterious, nobody must know.

It roared, going past things like a casual saturday evening walk. Flipping trees, throwing things in the air, going past everything like it never existed.

And then it reached the village. The village that survived so many attacks, threats and punishments of nature, the village that repaired itself immediately after every disaster. It was a virtue, the storm couldn't fathom. It felt challenged. It felt eager to run past the village, destruction was the only language it spoke. Some people or things are made to balance the good in the world, they are the bad guys we hear about. The guys who would make that heartthrob look beautiful in your eyes, that cute guy who stood up for you in class when the baddie was poking fun at you, why are they not given their credit? Isn't it unfair?

These were the thoughts of a little girl sitting on the porch, in the village. Should we try to know why these exist? Why must we worry and hurry around saving our things when the storm visits, of course, it sure does know it isn't welcome. Why must we refuse an opportunity to start over, pick things up and repair. Out bodies do it, the planet does it, the microorganism does it. Repair is how we function, it's a necessity.

Meanwhile, the storm picks its prey. Tossing and turning everything in order, no regrets.

The courting clouds are back again, this time, the sun is reluctant to be seen with them.

Hit and go, Typhoon Haiyan.

Please appreciate the ability to lose your thoughts, confuse yourself and change your mind often. It is in this process that you re-discover what you really want and discard the rest, for later use. After all, what is life without a little recycling? If you are reading this here for the first time, I'm sure it was quoted by someone already, like I said, recycle.

Thoughts, ideas, design, everything comes from an epicentre of pre-conceived and existing options. Art and its history, the numerous periodic shifts it has taken is an example. Even renaissance came in with a bang with precocious ideas and principles. Is originality far too over-rated?

I picked my paint brushes and dusty art materials from every nook of the house and read more about art these days. A constant barrier from the beginning of my design education was distinguishing art and design. Though it seemed very ambiguous in the beginning, it slowly dawned upon me that if art were the vivid colors of a Van Gogh, design would be his skill to create such art. But in today's world, where and how do we differentiate art and design? How educated are people around you to appreciate good design and great artworks?

I've been fighting this phenomenon of late, where the word 'design' would talk only about the attractiveness of an object. Or worse, a Rangoli (it's a highly structured design btw) or any excessive mindless decorations that we indulge in because, for some reason we believe excess is excellent!

One isn't entirely wrong referring them as "designs", however one isn't entirely right when they say the milk-man gives milk. How do we educate the world about design? Why is it important? (O.K so I did spend a whole lotta money on my education, but that isn't why) Do we ignore any acknowledgement towards design that makes our life smarter, easier or more comfortable? If so, why?

Before I begin answering my questions (in case, you thought this was about me educating you about design, no, it is me obsessing with questions and trying to answer with whatever I know till date, to come back five years later and snigger at myself), let me discuss this recent incident that took place that may be a revolutionary design/idea that can be an excellent disaster management tool. And also a brilliant example to explain my argument.

Super Typhoon Haiyan has caused massive damage to the Phillipines, estimating the largest death toll so far. Mind you, just an estimate. The city of Tacloban and other badly hit areas have been mapped online by millions of volunteers who with the help of online mapmakers, spot the Typhoon hit area, roads that have been damaged, building missing, landmarks that will identify the hit-areas so rescue operations would run smooth and provide care and relief to places that will be identified with the help of these online mapmakers.

And this is possible just because of the internet.

This isn't the first time online mapmakers were used to detect disaster hit areas to rescue, but this is one such time that the Red Cross has tied up with OpenStreetMap (OSM) and planned to rescue people who are struggling and missing. The best part about this process is that, the mapmakers weren't difficult or confusing to users. It was simple to track roads using satellite data, areas and edit them online. See where this is going?

    Image taken from: www.telegraph.co.uk

Now, how does this actually help the entire operation? The data will be collected and printed by the volunteers, distributing it among themselves. Just take a look at the amount of inputs by the people that brought in this edited map of the rescue areas. Not just that, offline editing can be done too. Workers can pin, cross buildings and roads on the printed maps as well. And people who have contributed to the online mapmakers? Well, they tweet. They post the areas, the landmarks, the area covered, the major hit locations that needs emergency rescue. As quick as possible. And this is how a plan can be devised, this is managing a disaster with evidence and proofs of how to channel workers and plan operations that will not only be resourceful but time-conserving.

This is technology and design coming together and giving solutions to a problem, people would take a whole month to assess, contemplate and provide half-true estimate values and news. This is design.

But whoa, wait a minute. How can it not have loop-holes? Of course, that is the best part about design. It need not be perfect and it can never be. It's a process that endures enormous amount of changes, iterations and more often than not, leading to several other solutions for different problems.

There will arise a few questions when discussing this design solution. Geospatial mapping and its uses have been popularised and have benefited many a time. However, when predictions and warnings have been given, do we not take alerts seriously? Considering previous small storms and minute occurrence of heavy rainfall, do we tend to take it easy during such disasters? Also, is the prediction time and warning time enough for people to evacuate and run for their lives, in shelters or other locations? Do such places exist where the government provides shelter and basic needs before the occurrence of a natural disaster? And, just because this is another alarm, doesn't mean we glide into worrying and obsessing over climatic change, global warming, sea levels rising, etc. Don't even start your religious discourse on "sins" and "evil doings" by humans that affect us back. This can go on for ages and can be forgotten too easily. What we can do, is repair. Rise back as soon as possible, one must move on and technology can assist in that direction tremendously. Design alters life, it provides reasons to look for hope when there is nothing but black and muck around the worst possible occasions. It is not a single man's job to clean up after the damage is done. We can do much more, bring in more possibilities of a future where such incidents can be managed well, not saying everything is in our hands including the end of the world, but you get the drift that design has to offer right? 

Design helps you co-exist. And art makes your design understood.

Rest in peace, you were braver than the rest. I pray for your peace, people and pain to heal quickly.

Love,

Snigdha Nanduri

Sources: www.theatlantic.com, www.science.time.com, www.telegraph.co.uk. 

What's going on?

Part of my days end up in thinking about what's life going to be like? After all the ups and downs that I've faced, frankly my childhood was perfect, can't point a finger at anything wrong from that phase and then comes the adulthood, pretty much everything from 16 to 20. Ever since I hit 16, all I've encountered was confusion. This new introduction to bewilderedness and unpleasant situations never made sense. Why would I always want things I could never handle? Even as a child, I'd prefer drinking water from glass tumblers than normal stainless steel ones, just to have a different take at drinking water, different from others. Glass tumblers were slippery in my hands, I'd end up dropping them (pretty much all the time) or once I almost bit the top of the tumbler, for what joy I can't remember, but I'm sure I was annoyed or something. So I bit the top chunk and it was shaped like a broadened U. Fifteen minutes later my mother started panicking about the missing piece of the tumbler. They searched the sink, the utensils, the kitchen, my room, my dress, everything that made them think it would be lying there. My father probably joked about how they should hold me upside down and it would pop out of my mouth or maybe tomorrow morning it would be in the pot by itself. My mom for sure didn't appear to adore his sense of humor at that moment. While I watched everyone panic, not comprehending the situation, I was keeping busy.

It didn't bother me till somebody suggested that they must take me to the doctor immediately. Mother must have panicked worse after that, imagine a sharp glass piece in my tiny stomach. Imagine the number of cuts my intestines would have to endure, the internal bleeding, the unconscious damage my body will go through and slowly, mind you, slowly kill me and choke me. Or maybe bleed me to death till morning and if I weren't operated upon, I'd just live 5 years on the planet. Imagine what my parents must have gone through. Those moments when somebody suggested that it's high time I was rushed to the hospital, mother could have been worried, sweating drops of fat sweat and praying that nothing damages my throat-oesophagus-stomach etc. My father was the man who'd control his nerve in situations like these. I guess, that's where I get the 'I don't lose my cool so easily' from.

While all this chaos was taking shape, I was still unsure what's the hullabaloo was about. I'm still sipping on my green apple soda and wondering what I would give to go back into that moment and remember what I was thinking. Was I scared? Was I enjoying the sudden shower of attention? Was I anyway interested? Did I understand why my mother was panicking? Did I want my father to lift me up and hold me in his arms? Did I want to sit and watch tv letting the chaos settle on its own? I don't know. But I do remember it was this guy who used to help mom with the household work, this guy called Rangavalli, who came running with the glass showing the chomped off area. I wonder what he is doing now. I wonder if he has naughty children and a nice wife who cooks and takes care of him and the kids. I wonder if he's making any money, enough to send his kids to school and give them a good education. Making sure they would be a hundred steps ahead of him, he was after all a bungalow peon. He wouldn't want his children to grow up and be him. Every man who has worked for us, probably secretly wished that his children grow up and be somewhere like Dad. With the designation, the respect, the confidence, etc. Why won't they?

So back to the missing glass chip that everybody assumed was inside me, already cutting my young cells and internal organs that will not like the bleeding one bit. Mom tried to get me to puke my guts out, well really, puke my guts out, hoping that the part would fall off with the dinner I just had with water from the almost famous glass tumbler. When would I jump up and cry? When would I scream and run around the house in pain? Would I cry loud that the neighbors would curse and come running too? Would I choke? What if it's too big to go through the throat? Would I gasp and cut my throat further? What would I do?

What did I do. 


A good 45 minutes later, when everybody was ready to leave the house and rush to the doctor, Rangavalli was asked to take care of the house. He went back to his zone, the minding his business around the house zone, the zone which gives him the liberty to breathe easy, boosts confidence where he knows what he was doing, oh frankly, mom always thought he was a little cuckoo. Like if she asked him to get two litres of milk and a dozen bananas, he'd bring two bananas and a dozen packets of milk. Know what I mean? He was the typical Suppandi character from the Tinkles that I used to read as a child. This zone was more than just work. It would let him dream about a future that he would want to have, a future that lets his self respect grow by day. A day without anybody cussing him or his ignorance. He must have left his village with a local uncle who must have promised a job, he must have jumped onto a train with him without paying for the ticket and landed where we were and as luck would have it, mom needed a person to help her with the house and cleaning. (I somehow find servant very derogatory, also, mom didn't trust him with everything. Not the actual "trust" trust, she didn't trust that he understood what she wanted him to do around the house. So it was indeed "helping" my mother.)

Was I being carried downstairs? We lived in a big apartment of sorts called 602/J. It had two houses on either sides with a staircase going the usual straight way. We were on one of the top floors without a lift so we had to climb down. A minute before leaving the house, when daddy was probably checking his wallet and checking for the bike keys, mom was quickly pulling her purse and me, I was unusually curious about the events.

Rangavalli suddenly comes dashing to the living room where my parents are and with a bout of overflowing happiness holds the glass piece up. The world suddenly didn't have hungry children, dying animals, old dying people, terror attacks and crime, the world didn't have any of these for those couple of moments. Perhaps they celebrated a little, perhaps they laughed it off and all of this is my exaggerated version of what really happened or they were relieved and fell asleep holding me really close in the big bed the three of us slept in.

Perhaps. 

But here's the thing. When your childhood was so well taken care of and crafted, you will possibly be unknown with the fearsome and trouble waiting to jump onto you as you grow older and realize that life is not just about being a happy kid, surprising people in trains with precocious conversations that would lead to truck loads of compliments to my parents about how they're bringing me up and how I would one day grow up and make them proud, how I would grow up to be a sharp human being.

How I would grow up to be a very very smart human being. 

I still don't know what everybody meant by that. It's not funny when everybody you talk to end up saying that, not boasting but it gets creepy. After creepy it gets crazy, you would actually want to sit and ask them what exactly do they mean by I would be smart and grow up outshining? What is this smartness that I already don't know about? What's with the need to outshine and make the world notice me? Why the need to compliment my parents about how I was brought up. Why the urge to always judge kids based on how they make conversations or how they act grown up when the rest are still immature and ignorant?

No, really. Sometimes, the values and judgements of people are so baseless that you'd not find faith in anything to believe in. There will be a time in your life where you wouldn't believe anymore. The word belief would be reckoned as acknowledgment of the existence of a subject or idea. Until I find the right meaning and explanation to what goes on around me, I would cease to believe in anything people say about it. From crushes to people you've never met, if everyone ended up saying the same thing while the world is crumbling and falling apart with the never ending stress added on top of an already stressful schedule without any promise of fruits being produced by the plant called future and the roots called attitude.

I shall sip my never ending green apple soda and say loudly, "This too shall pass" while a couple sit across my table try really hard to order something to eat and not sound lame while ordering the right food, incase the other person judges them on their choices, oh no, wouldn't that be so sad? Imagine, somebody wouldn't have a second date with you because you didn't know what Bolognese Cheese it or  why a particular sandwich has been named "Manet" in a coffee shop that is partly an art gallery.

My world with it's never ending problems and beautiful music shall run its course and keep me on my toes from time to time, someone's always coming around and I'll be collecting a million pictures of them, a million sketches of things that made me feel something more than just normal everyday feelings, something that will redefine the history that Ive carried over my back since I was born. Something will come my way, that will slowly, very slowly blow me away, although I'm actually that person who would jump and burst in excitement immediately instead of letting nature take it's sweet time with the course of events that it wants to shape in my life.

       
But I've got to creep down the alley way, 

Fly down the highway, 

Before they come to catch me I'll be gone. 

Somewhere they can't find me.