The lean girl diaries.....

 Have you felt like you were being pulled to different directions (at least in your mind) by versions of you that could've possibly existed? Not a casual ‘what if’ grazing at the back of your mind, a stray thought that can get a very economical, opportunity cost-ish resolution (not that such thoughts aren't bothersome). As a kid, when I was studying, if I knew I had a particularly vexing subject or homework, I would keep the book under my bed — out of sight, out of mind, or at least out of the forefront of my mind. But this pull is not like that, it's much more visceral - because the current version of you isn't formed yet, not completely. So the other versions of you are very real possibilities of what you can be in the here and now. A much more dangerous version of literary interstices. It feels like the other version of you is there and you can pull it into you.  My primary school teachers have this version of a very annoying, talkative girl who should have talked wa...

Calling a place home comes easy to me. Most houses that I've stayed in, fortunately, have become home; so have many people, and they continue to be. But there is one image in particular that comes unbidden every time someone utters the word home……that of a seven year old running around in a mosaic floor (all Indian millennials will know the exact pattern I'm thinking of), darting from room to room, looking at the old TV, trying to scale the bookshelves. She appears to look around the house as if it holds answers to all the mysteries in the universe, as if she didn't experience the greatest loss of her life little less than a year ago in that very same house. I definitely came into my own person in college but I think I started to see it take shape in that house. Almost like an unfinished Monet painting, or one that was looked at too closely - as what looked like random paint blotches, waiting for an experienced observer to view it from a distance to get a perspective on the...

I've never seen love age. When I say love, I mean love between two people in companionship. My dad died when I was young and so did my grandfather. So sadly all I saw was a pair of women who were mourning their love. Don't get me wrong, their love didn't fade way. Amma and Appachan's love lives through the fond stories my mother tells and the little private smile she has when I call her "aanoo" (ആനോ) - the name my dad used to call her. So I've seen long lasting love; but that love is a longing, a lament.  My parents had a difficult and impoverished childhood, which is probably why I don't see a lot of friendships that stood the test of time. For some weird reason, none of my siblings also has friends that could show me how love travelled through life and aged. Which is why the videos of old couples bring tears to my eyes - to see the fortune of being in love and being reminded that you get to share your life with them everyday. The little cynic in me ...

I am my mother's daughter. I look like my dad, I speak like my dad and many say that I behave like him too, but I am my mother's daughter. It was easy to call my dad a role model, because I only knew him for 6 short years and I guess death does tend to soften memories. I've only heard of great things about him - from my mom and everybody else. There was an altar of legacy built around him where I had to be the perfect copy to carry the torch forward. With amma though, I could just be. I could be whatever I want and would be accepted for it. Amma tends to downplay her role in building the person I am now. She thinks genes and 6 years of inane babbling with my dad has contributed to my personality more than 23 years of consistent effort she has put on me. Everything I know about love, commitment, kindness and a hundred other things are solely because of her. There are not enough words to explain everything she has taught me and how much I love her; but words are the only thin...

My sister had a baby last month. This tiny ball of sunshine has since occupied my life completely. Probably because now, I'm older than I was when all my other siblings had babies, I am much more directly involved in the care of baby Miriam. While I've always been obsessed with babies (if you want to kidnap me, showing cute babies is the way to go), it's pleasantly surprising to have a baby love me this much. Yup, I said it. Miriam ADORES me. In a big way - stops crying when she hears my voice, smiles when she sees me in the morning, sleeps easily in my arms, makes it obvious that I'm her favourite - BIG.  It is humbling as much as it's brag worthy. Being the youngest in the family with a considerable age gap meant that I was often too young for the milestones that my siblings were at. I wasn't old or brave enough to hold tiny babies, giving proper support to their neck. My favourite experience was holding the babies when I was sitting for a few moments and just...

(I actually wrote this for an assignment for a philosophy course - your autobiography from the POV of a body part) I grow about a tenth of a millimeter per day. And I have regrown countless times, so a different version of me has seen her everyday, I suppose. She leaves me be, when she's away from home but cuts me down as soon as her mother comes anywhere near a hundred meter radius. It was fine when she was 5, but now that she's in her early 20s, it's a little silly how decisions about her own body are still dependent on other bodies and minds. The way she's groomed me from when she was a child shows how she grew up and what she grew up to be. The little girl who used to sit with trembling fingers expecting pain as her mother cut her fingernails was a picture of a mess. We were always caked with dirt and if let loose, was coated in spices which amma had to quickly wash off before they inevitably landed in her ear. Always (trying to be) an overachiever, she figured out ...

Last week, I gave a eulogy for my grandmother. I was in jitters the day before. It was unlike any speech I had done before.  In my head, my word vomit in those 5 minutes would determine how she was remembered by the people who came for the funeral (at least the ones who did not know her that well). I had to verbalize a fitting legacy. But more importantly, in a childish sense,  it would be the last time that I would get to talk to her - face to face - even though I knew that she couldn't possibly hear me.  Following the funeral, it was little difficult for all of us to look at her things - her sarees, her airbed, towels......An absurd thought occurred to me then. What if she had a phone? More specifically, what if she had a phone number?  If she had a number, then it would soon get deactivated; after a point of time, it would be reassigned. What would I have done then?  Message her everyday, only to get a "sorry,  wrong number", one morning in return? ...

  I read somewhere that “the purpose of the first draft is to simply exist”. This was an idea that gave me immense relief in recent times - times when I wrote nothing other than what I absolutely had to. In the pursuit of academic writing and a short-lived content writing job, I forgot the joy of writing. When I finally told myself that I had to go back to leisure writing, I was appalled at how empty my head was. I could not think of a single thing to write. Sure, if you gave me a topic, I could make up something and put it out there - but they were not out of my own imagination. The pandemic took away my ability to see beauty in ordinary things. I could no longer look at a passenger in the metro next to me and romanticize her life. There was a lot of strife and conflict around me, that every version of the future looked bleak. I found escape in fantasy books and movies as I was scared of relating to the harsh realities in other kinds of media. It felt like while I still had a lot ...

  Today my grandmother forgot how photos worked. She looked at the picture of a kid in the magazine and thought he was smiling at her. It was a weird thing to see - to see her let go of her understanding of memories. It was sad to know that she would not remember a thousand good days but it also meant she experienced every moment afresh. There is bound to be some confusion when she sees herself on some of those photos. But I will deal with the flurry of emotions if it means she smiles back at everyone who smiles at her through the prints, so full of joy. I always thought memories became important because of their ability to be shared ; that nostalgia was what made certain experiences worth going through. My grandmother's gummy smile today tells a different story. Memories are important because they can be felt (maybe only one time, maybe many many times) This revelation is a turning point for me - because with the idea that memories gained their worth due to the ability to be treas...

Camouflaging is cardinal to cages, secondary only to its function of restriction – that’s what makes them harder to break. They escape detection by distorting themselves into something that can be perceived as utterly non-problematic. One such seemingly fashionable trap that I see in higher academic spaces is the so called ‘academic elitism’ or ‘intellectual sophistication’.  As a disclaimer, let me clarify that this piece is not against genuine scholastic and academic experiences, rather against elitist, inaccessible structures that are purposefully packaging inaccessibility as an indicator of intellect or academic merit. While I appreciate and acknowledge the volume and levels of research that goes into creating intricate notions, I am disturbed by the unwanted complexity their description often assumes. Why is the tendency to use fancy language a form of exclusion? As somebody who has been a student of both posh, well-known schools as well as schools with underdeveloped infrastr...

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the caged bird sings of freedom    - Maya Angelou It can be a gift-wrap. It can be golden. It can look a lot like a home - camouflaging is cardinal to cages, secondary only to its function of restriction. In days clouded with seemingly fashionable traps of apathy and violence, the question is, do we recognise our cages? More importantly, do we want to break out of them? As we explore our shrinking spaces of dissent and liberation, let's take a while to align our thoughts on the cages made of stone, steel, identity, hate and what not, that seems to surround us. Maybe once we've recognised those cages, we may be able to bring in more authentic tales of freedom and appreciate the struggles for liberation.

Wise men say that you should learn life from animals (atleast some aspects of it). Solomon, the wise king, asked the sluggard to learn from ants about the importance of hardwork. Crows are often used to remind man to live in the present. Conies are an example of having strong foundations and locusts are remembered for their unity. (I'm aware that all of these examples come from Bible. My literature review is limited, the application of these examples are not though) But what do I say? More importantly, is it important to listen to what I say? Probably not, but I think it's important to have a voice and to find the courage to be opinionated during these trying times. How do I know this? Because the more I bothered about the political correctness of t his post, the more I realised that people will find lacunae in whatever I write and that's ok, because we have different opinions and that's exactly why we need to open our hearts to what other people have to say. While...

“മലയാളം  ഞാൻ  മറന്നു പോയോ?” – ഈ  അടുത്ത കാലത്ത്  എന്നെ  ഏറ്റവും കുഴപ്പിച്ച,  ആശങ്കപ്പെടുത്തിയ,  വിഷമിപ്പിച്ച  ചോദ്യം. ഡൽഹിയിൽ എത്തി  ഒന്നര വർഷമായ എനിക്ക്  ഒരു  കൊച്ചു ഡൽഹിക്കാരിയുടെ  ഛായ  ഒക്കെ  വന്നു തുടങ്ങി. കെട്ടും മട്ടും ഭാവവും ഒക്കെ മാറിയല്ലോ എന്ന നാട്ടിൽ  ഉള്ള  ചേച്ചിമാരുടെ ചെറിയ 'കുത്തും' , കണ്ടു പഴക്കം  വന്നിട്ടും  ഇന്നും  അത്ഭുതത്തോടെ നോക്കുന്ന പൂവാലൻ ചേട്ടന്മാരും എല്ലാം മേൽപറഞ്ഞ ഡൽഹിക്കാരിയെ ഉണർത്തി കൊണ്ടിരിക്കുകയാണ്. ഈ രൂപമാറ്റത്തിനും  ആശയരൂപീകരണത്തിനും  ഇടയിൽ നഷ്ടപ്പെട്ടു പോയ ഒന്നുണ്ട് – എന്‍റെ  ഭാഷ, മലയാളം. ഡൽഹി  ഒരു കുഞ്ഞു മലയാളി കോളനി ആയതുകൊണ്ട് മലയാളം സംസാരിക്കുന്നതിന് കുറവൊന്നുമില്ല. അല്ലെങ്കിലും ആദ്യമായി പറഞ്ഞു തുടങ്ങിയ ഭാഷ എങ്ങനെയാ മറക്കുന്നത് അല്ലേ? എന്നാൽ അല്ല. മലയാളം മറന്നുപോകുക എന്നത് ഒരു റിയാലിറ്റി ആണ്. സംശയം ഉണ്ടെങ്കിൽ ഞാൻ ഈ പോസ്റ്റിൽ എത്ര 'ആംഗലേയ' പദങ്ങൾ ഉപയോഗിച്ചു എന്ന് നോക്കു… എഴുത്ത് സാരമില്ല എന്നു കരുതാം; പക്ഷെ സംസാരമോ? മലയാളം...

Walls. Fences. Barbed Wires. Me and you. Us and them Black and white. Right and Wrong They are arrogant. We are proud We request when they demand The voice of our statements drowned in their threats Always warring. Always sparring. Always scarring. Who are we?! Humans. Two legs. Two arms. Two eyes. One large heart (the size of our fist) Them? Almost humans. Two legs. Two arms. Two eyes. One small stone heart (the size of their wrist), Beating, till we shoot 'em dead. So they aren’t like us? No you stupid child. They’re not. For the 'other' is and should always be OUR BLIND SPOT.

'Caged birds still remember how to fly '. I read somewhere the other day. Well that's exactly the problem. You do not lose your ability due to the place you're trapped in - makes you wonder if you're trapped in at all. And when does that misunderstanding change? When the bird actually tries to fly past the limits of the cage - that's when the cold steel stops you and realisation hits. And how do I know this? Because it hit me once. When I was going for my first ever serious protest. The act of protesting itself wasn't new to me. But there was always a line that protected me. Deciding to go for a protest where armed police force would not hesitate to attack you, if the goons didn't reach you first - is a different thing. It didn't bother me initially though, the thought that I was going for a protest. How would it be unsafe? I was going with my friends, there was going to be a large crowd of known people and it was a place I visited quite ...

The title gives you the exact picture. I am going to talk about tea shops and their significance. Let's get certain things out of the way - By tea shops, I don't mean the modern chai stalls, with their posh interiors (and chai worth thousands). The shops I talk about don't serve the fancy varieties of chai (Assam, Darjeeling, masala chai etc). It serves only 3 kinds - strong, medium and light (lite?) They don't have plush chairs , not even the aroma of tea leaves. They have broken benches, aluminium or glass tumblers and serve a homemade snack. So much for the fancy menu cards in modern cafes! I really honestly don't know if they exist in any other state than Kerala - even in Kerala, those shops are dying. Sure, we have a lot more 'thattukadas' (a version of roadside food stalls), but they aren't our beloved tea shops - 'chayakkada'. One final clarification, there are political thinkers like Habermas who talks about the importance ...

She waited. All her life all she did was wait. She couldn't take the plunge Couldn't bring herself to do it Fate and Providence sat in a corner With sad but hopeful eyes She was at the end, all she needed Was to jump and she could fly She started moving, running, sprinting Fate cheered for her, so did Providence But she stopped. Stopped right at the end. She went back and she waited. Down below the cliff, The world went back with a sigh.

Finger tips. The only part of my body that seems to work. Because my flesh crawls and tries to spit out the venom. Except I can't. I can't because my tongue is shut My spirit is sealed. I choose my life over justice Because I can. I have to. Because my fingertips are the only thing that works. Because my voice is just about the size of my fingertips. Note :   Everytime I stay quiet even after I know something is wrong , I tell myself it's for the greater good. I am a hypocrite. Atleast I realise that. Because who are we kidding? I keep quiet for my OWN good.

Kashmir was and very much still is, the zenith of our political discourse on nationalism, relevance of history, multilateral perspectives on questions on integration and perceived injustice. I have had amazing people around me, who expressed their different opinions on Kashmir, its history, its people and of course the government. I, however, wrote nothing about nor did I make my opinion known to a lot of people. Why? Have I, as a political science student, lost all interest in actual politics and clammed myself in theory and philosophy? Have I moved into the spiral of apathy and indifference? I searched for answers and this is what I came up with. I haven’t written anything about Kashmir yet because I’m tired. I’m tired of explaining to people the meaning of democracy. I am tired of having to hide my sympathy (mind you, I mean sympathy because the scope of empathy doesn’t even arise) to all Kashmiris I know. I’m also tired of seeing my Kashmiri friends acting more brave and ...

Know that feeling when you feel like you're sitting in a dump and the rest of the world is moving ahead of you? (You must have seen it in movies atleast where the main character seems to be moving in slow motion and the background is blurred - exactly that,  but not so aesthetic) You know, basically, nothing is working in your life,  you aren't meeting deadlines, you don't want to talk to anyone- that sort of stuff. I had one recently and my dump taught me things. There's a word in navigation vocabulary for that, I believe  - doldrums. The Ancient Mariner (Samuel Taylor Coleridge's wonderful creation) will know what I'm talking about. Regardless of what happened to the mariner and his crew, the doldrum let them think. It gave them time to shape and reshape their beliefs. That's what a dump is...  It's a phase. It'll pass. Like some wise man said,  it might pass like a kidney stone, but pass it will. And why is it good? It lets you think. True, ...