Confessions

1) To this date, every year I visit India, I buy an issue of Tinkle, usually at the Trichy railway station. Whether or not I remember all my baggage, I make it a point to sprint the entire length of the crowded platform, to the lonely bookstore tucked away at the very end of the station, to purchase said Tinkle. Needless to say, I usually get a lot of strange looks when I return, comic book in hand. Judging from my haste, I feel like people expect me to be running after a departing train, or in pursuit of a purse-snatcher, or at the very least, to the rescue of a toddler teetering precipitiously close to the edge of the platform as an incoming train comes uncomfortably close to crushing her to death. Imagine their disappointment when they discover that all of the fuss was just over a comic book.

2) Every year, despite the obvious set-back to my ever-increasing waistline, I make it a point to visit Seakings, a.k.a. God's gift to mankind [Can I get an Amen from all my Trichy peeps???] Not once, but at least several times a week. And yes, the chocolate sundae does kick the choco-chips butt, big-time. To all those choco-chips fans out there, you have no idea what you're missing out on.

3) Every year, I also make it a point to play a round of carom, despite my admitted ineptitude at the game. An older male cousin had a great time watching my most recent attempt. Apparently, I would be the world champion if points were awarded for most failed attempts at getting a single coin into a hole.

4) This is probably really going to date me, but "Chikku Bukku" from Gentlemen, the anthem of my early childhood,  is the most played song on my Youtube searchlist. In a close second comes "Mukkala Mukkabala" from Kadhalan.


5) To date, whenever I pass by a park, I make it a point to head straight for the swings and swing blissfully away for hours on end. This is extremely difficult considering that my backside, considerably larger than the children for whom the swings are manufactured, usually becomes completely numb after a few minutes of being squeezed into a volume only a tenth of its actual size. Given that, and the fact that the parents of the other children usually give me the stink-eye for hogging the swings, as their disappointed little babies stand by, eyes welling up and lips quivering pitifully in a preview of the waterworks to ensue. [I swear, I don't do it on purpose. The swings are always empty when I first get on them, and before I've even had the chance to use it for 30 seconds, 20 wide-eyed kids are waiting expectantly for me to get off. It's definitely some sort of conspiracy.]

Most of the confessions I made above are of the little things I do, even as a twenty-something, to relive the exhilarating joy of my childhood. Most of them are just rituals now, like the annual carom game or the issue of Tinkle, a feeble but worthwhile attempt to recreate an event that had a positive emotional impact on my life.

Others are an attempt at connecting with my roots, like the visits to Seakings. As third-generation Trichy folk, many of my cousins have had the priviledge of graduating from the same schools my parents, aunts, uncles, and even grandparents studied at, having the same teachers in certain extreme cases, and even frequenting the same hangouts. Few places in America are invested with that kind of history for me. That's why Seakings holds such a special place in my heart; whenever I'm there I can just imagine my mom bunking college with her buddies to listen to the latest Michael Jackson tapes playing at the parlor, or I can visualize my dad and his entire extended family taking the two buses from their house to Main Guard Gate, every single Sunday, to gorge on multiple ice-creams. Imagine the size of the bill they worked up each week!!!

Still other rituals have died a peaceful death, like my childhood infatuation with playing dress-up, using blankets to re-create a sari. Back then, wearing a sari held an unmistakable attraction, a symbol of the forbidden fruit of maturity and of being "grown-up". Now, a sari is merely a symbol of acting my age, and in a way, this has had the opposite effect on its appeal. The three saris my mother has forced me to purchase sit gathering dust in my closet, while every day, my inexplicable urge to wear my hair in pigtails again grows stronger and stronger.

 I guess the real confession I'm trying to make here is that no matter how old I get, or how many responsibilities I undertake in life, I have and will always continue to feed my inner child. Adults take themselves way too seriously, and I feel that taking the time out to be a kid every once in a while is the only thing that can help preserve our sanity in the crazy world we live in.

Just 'Cuz

Ok readers, today's post will be an exercise in stream of consciousness thinking. For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, it's kind of a literary convention describing the deranged path your thoughts tend to follow when you think about something. You know what I mean, one minute, you're sitting there writing an exam about cellular function, then all of a sudden the cell as a factory analogy they taught you in class makes you think about Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Two hours later, whether or not you remember anything about what a Golgi apparatus does, you most certainly do remember how hot Johnny Depp looks in eye-liner and mascara and you've got a sudden, inexplicable craving for a Nerds rope. Totally insane, but makes for very entertaining reading.

This morning I had a memorable stream of consciousness episode that I thought I'd share. I had a playlist running on Youtube when the song "Anjali Anjali" from Duet popped on unexpectedly. Apart from bringing on a rush of great childhood memories, the song started me thinking about the vast ocean called love. That got me thinking about cute marriage proposals, which got me thinking about the cliche one that everybody always does: proposing at the Eiffel Tower.

Now readers, I ask you, what the hell is so romantic about a triangular hunk of iron plopped unceremoniously in the middle of a city? Have you even been to the Eiffel Tower? I have, and I can confirm that there is nothing even remotely romantic about being 986 feet above the ground, unprotected from 90 mph winds that make it impossible to see out of the hair whipping painfully about your face, while you can't help but think that the cables of the only elevator you took up there, which seem to have last been serviced in 1889, could very well snap on your way back down. Being on the Eiffel Tower will definitely help bring you closer to God  as you will most certainly be praying to get back down safely. Bringing you closer to your significant other, not so much.

Thinking about the ineptitude of the Eiffel Tower as a setting for expressing one's everlasting love [ it's a radio-broadcasting tower for goodness sakes!!!] got me thinking about an underutilized yet infinitely more logical proposal site: the Taj Mahal. What screams love like a massive, marble mausoleum? Our love is so amazing even death can't do us part.

Easily the cutest kid on screen, ever. Image courtesy of lazydesis.com

The Taj Mahal was the transition to my next thought, a classic scene from Slumdog Millionaire. In said scene a young Jamal, now eking out a living scamming gullible foreigners as a tour guide at the Taj Mahal, proudly proclaims that Empress Mumtaz died in a traffic accident. Apparantly she couldn't get to the hospital on time to deliver her umpteenth child; sources say it was very tragic.


Which then got me thinking about Chowpatty Beach and roadside chaat stalls, which reminded me of how hungry I was since the last meal I had consumed was almost 10 hours ago.

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Studies have shown that being awake for 17-19 hours is similar to functioning at a blood alcohol level of about 80mg/ml. Considering how much sleep I've been getting lately, I'm probably functioning at a blood alcohol level of 240 mg/ml. I promise to try and get more sleep so that posts wil return to their normal sanity (or insanity, depending on your personal opinion) levels.