Daylight come and me wanna go home...

So anyway, am back in the homeland. Things to note on the first layer: a) I currently live out of a suitcase and have done so for the last three months, and will continue to do so at least for another month. b) Since I tend to pack light, I have a sum total of three different outfits that are my own. Basically I look the same every other day. Yay for minimalism. c) I have with me none of my favourites—my books, my mugs, my masks, my earrings. I guess I miss them. d) My suitcase keeps getting shifted from room to room based on presence or absence of guests. e) Moral of the story, I am in transition, basically :).

I took this career choices test as a senior in college. Essentially you sit for an hour or so and fill out a pointless questionnaire with a host of largely unentertaining questions. Why did I do this exercise? Because I was struck by senioritis, and it seemed better to sit in the AC room of the Career Center rather than attend a boring lecture. More importantly though, the Center gave away free pens and I liked collecting pens since I keep losing mine. Anyway, after two weeks of waiting while the test was being ‘processed’ in an undisclosed, far off location in the Nevada desert, perhaps, I was summoned back into the office for a ‘discussion’ of my results. Okay, I thought, one more hour of lecture to be missed, and so I rather looked forward to this discussion. Maybe, if I got lucky, ‘the results indicate’ that I’m meant to be the next female Elvis or something.

I was met by this too-much smiling short woman with even shorter hair. I can too-much smile back if I so choose to do so, and at that moment I did choose to do so. So after a few minutes of too-much smiling at each other, exchanging pleasantries on the weather, and how exciting it was to be a senior and all, the official ‘discussion’ started. The first thing this short woman did was open her drawer and take out four pens. Four. I would have merely noticed the number and gone back to ‘discussion’ mode, if I had been color blind, perhaps.

But unfortunately for me, I was not color blind. And I did notice that the pens were a) sparkly gel pens b) of different colors c) all colors were pastels. Now these three observations set off a distinct train of thought in my head. The long and short of that train of thought was ‘God, is this for real?’.

Try to step into my shoes, and think, sparkly gel pens?!, pastels?!, are we in drawing class?, in third grade?. Whether you step on the same train of thought as me or not, is not the point. The point is the moment ‘gel pens’ registered in my head, the minute sense of seriousness that I had about this ‘discussion’ dissipated into total nothingness. I couldn’t believe this lady sitting before me with her short hair and gel pens and really, really just wanted to leave her and her pastel colors. How could I take anyone who does this to me any seriously?

Poor me, no. I don’t have the patience for this type of sparkly pastel pen nonsense really. But I was in too deep at this point. She reached back into her drawer, and I was half expecting her to produce whiteout, but thankfully for me, she brought out my ‘report’. Then she proceeded to mark up this report with the sparkly gel pens. I could have retched right there on her desk.

Some have ventured to suggest that I may have been overreacting, but I stand firm by my feelings. There is no way in the world I can ever, ever give anyone who uses sparkly pastelly gel pens for a supposedly serious discussion, any ounce of serious respect.

Not noticing my feelings so superbly hidden behind the too-much smile I still had plastered on my face, she proceeded to mark up the whole report. All along, she kept up a barrage of auditory cues and too-much smiles thrown in for safe measure. I nodded every now and then. In reality I was dreaming of a hot bath and cream-filled donuts to calm myself down. Either way, the ordeal somehow came to conclusion and the final result was pronounced.

*Drum roll*….I was supposed to be a kindergarten teacher! Apparently the ‘report’ reflected my inherent patience, understanding of children, creativity in designing activities like coloring and make-believe, and desire to educate.

This pronouncement erased all the sparkly gel pen induced torment I had silently endured thus far. I laughed, right in her face. I really did. Just the irony of it all was too much, just too much. I was being lectured to via sparkly pen route that I would do best if I chose a career as a kindergarten teacher, and in fact, used these very same gel pens for my grading. Such is life. End of random story.

However, after watching Rani Mukherjee in KANK, I would start work as a kindergarten teacher any day now, as long as I was paid as much as she seemed to be getting paid. At least by the looks of her clothing and her house interiors. At this point, with only three outfits to my name, I would do anything for a nice new wardrobe, really I would.

Okay, okay, this time I am overreacting.

Respectfully yours, said the curator, and left the stone, alone and waiting…

An unpolished piece written at an airport. Would have liked to work on it more, but decided to leave it as spontaneous as it was. Any resemblance to anything in reality is coincidental...

She adjusted the fabric over her forehead, carefully looking into the mirror. She didn’t mind it anymore…he had said he liked how her brown eyes blazed through out of the black when she wore it. So she didn’t mind as much as she used to in her university days. They had only been married a month, and of that the two had only spent a few days and nights together. The family was moving the business south, you see, and he was busy with work. And she too was caught up in it all... helping her sisters-in-law pack, tossing out old carpets, taking the paintings out of their frames and wrapping them up….

People had said that this was a good family, they didn’t share like some others did. She had accepted the proposition and now was very excited. She had never been south and looked forward to setting up house, to raising the children that were bound to come, and sending them to study abroad like her aunts had done with theirs. She was excited, for sure, and her excitement manifested itself as frenzied activity. She packed all through the day and then helped cook a large meal at evening. She even put her freshly loved nieces and nephews to bed each night. And sometimes when she fell asleep beside the youngest baby, she felt as though the well that held her excitement hidden through the day would have risen to the earth before the night ended.

Her older sister had said that being married was wonderful, more so than sitting in the back of humid classrooms swatting flies to dull out the drone of the professor, especially if you married to a good family. And she had done just that, she thought, and smiled into the mirror. She felt open; her senses were expectant of all the happiness that was to be hers. There she was, prepared to be happy, eagerly anticipating, ready and waiting, like she never had been before.

The train ride south was long, but uneventful. One of the boxes got misplaced and had to be searched out.... He had given her a special name during a few stolen moments on an unnamed platform stop....They were to stay in an unused wing of an uncle’s house while their own was being painted. All six adults and six children in two rooms made for cramped quarters, but it was only for a few days, so they adjusted.

The very next day the men went to open their new office, while her sisters-in-law decided to take the children out to keep them from running over themselves in the house. She offered to stay back and do some dusting.

In the midst of all her cleaning, she also made tea for her second brother-in-law who had come home early and tired. She arranged the biscuits neatly on the tray like she had seen her sister-in-law do the week before. Both sisters-in-law freely shared their cooking skills with her. They had even begun to give her tips on starting a pregnancy. She was thankful for all their help, but had not anticipated she would need it so soon. The tea, on the other hand, lay untouched and grew cold.

The painting took longer than expected, but three weeks later their house was ready and they moved in. The very next day the new family doctor told her she was carrying child. Everyone laughed and good-naturedly made fun of her that evening for her ‘quick work’, as they called it. Her sister-in-law made special lamb for dinner.

But…how could she tell? And…maybe she needn’t tell, maybe they already knew. Maybe they deliberately didn’t quell the talk that said they didn’t share. Yes, that was how it was, she thought as she fell asleep that night. They knew already.

Da di dum dum....

The shape-shifter Artful Badger has said tag. Although I do not much like picking and choosing one out of a whole set of possibilities, I shall. Better to know that each answer is situated in thought and time. Cause motion in either one, and the answer changes…

Which book changed your life?
Reinterpreted as which book left a deep impression on you. I guess Michael Ondaatje’s Anil’s Ghost. Lesser known than his The English Patient, and not in the awesome book category. But one that sets you thinking. Understated violence, devastation of strife, understated identity crises. Read between and beyond the lines, then lasting impact. Especially relevant today with what is beginning to re-happen on the island.

Which book have you read more than once?
Many, especially poetry anthologies. Also go back to The Prophet by Gibran a whole lot. Reading it takes you to different plane altogether.

The other book I often go back to is Rebecca by Daphne du Maurier, not because it’s a life changer, but mostly for its appealing visuals. I have a worn copy from an aunt I never knew, and I’ve read it so much that I think there’s a small niche of my brain devoted to Manderley—the grounds, the mansion, the water, the dogs, the cottage, everything. It’s like a favorite room I can visit every now and then and just sit and be. Ditto for Illusions by Richard Bach.

Which book would you want on a deserted island?
Tales of Suicide by Luigi Pirandello, a collection of short stories on people committing suicide. I’ve read this before without it being of any use to me, but the situation might perhaps be different on a deserted island.

Which book made you laugh?
All Blandings tales by PG Wodehouse. Never fail to make me laugh out loud. Lord Emsworth is my dear darling, and I often wish I had one of him in my life.

Which book made you cry?
Hmmm, I tear up very easily, and do so at all sorts of moments, even happy ones. But I guess Kamala Markandaya’s Nectar in a Sieve. An older book, one that I read after a long refreshing walk in a light drizzle, the kind that leaves your senses intensely acute for hours afterwards. I cried much during this very real book.

Which book do you wish had never been written?
Sidney Sheldon nonsense, I’ve read one and found it intensely detestable. Enough said.
Oh, and everything by Haruki Murakami, because I wanted to write them :).

Which book are you currently reading?
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle by Haruki Murakami. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Each time I pick it up, it’s like I’m drawn into this magical world of intense uniqueness, and yet it’s uncannily identifiable. Everything is ‘normal’ and yet nothing is. Expectedly, it’s also hard to put down.

Which book have you been meaning to read?
Steppenwolf by Herman Hesse. I once met a very interesting transitory friend and she lent this to me, but had to leave before I got very far. I mostly want to read it because it was her favorite book, and as I said, she was very interesting. Oh, and Steppenwolf are a cool band too. Okay, I’m off on my own Magic Carpet Ride for now :).

Hmmm, I believe I may have missed a question. Anyway, to tag—Govind—do it :)