Reading internship rejection letters hurts way more than you can imagine. 

Art

I was good at art.

My aunt is a professional artist, she used to churn out beautiful oil paintings by the dozen and my Grandmum would gift them all over. She would say I got my talent from her because the only drawing my Dad ever did was drawing future sci-fi cars on his engineering stationery.

I had a keen interest in art, I loved to draw. I hated to color because we couldn't color beyond the predefined lines. The teachers at my school would pester Mum at parent teacher's conferences to get me to make a chart for the class walls. Losing the cloak of modesty, I reckon I was an extremely good kid. I was good at art, I played the harmonium beautifully, I sang Hindi classical music and I danced rhythmically to all the Kathak beats that my teacher churned out. I was a straight A student and teachers would sign up my name for competitions before asking for my parents consent.

And then Class Six happened,

To be thrust into an entirely new environment with strange people from other classes was something my naive mind never comprehended. The student I was seemed to be a slight shadow of what I had been once and terrible thoughts accompanied me throughout the day.

I still remember the embarrassing things I did during class six, I do not think I could possible ever rid myself of the humiliation. I withdrew into a shell so tight that even my "passions" weren't able to pry it open. The only thing I continued to do was play instruments with a bunch of coming of age boys. My instrumental teacher considered me one of his best students but the rebuke I faced from my peers during the class who unfortunately were boys who had discovered the gender difference took a toll.

As for singing, my music teacher left the school and the new teacher fell for the charms of the "popular girl gang" who couldnt sing to save their lives.

We were always given a choice between Art and Instrumental and I never failed to chose the latter.
Instrumental became my escape, something I continued to choose over art or home science for which I suffered the ire of my friends. There were times when I was the only girl in the group of boy playing my xylophone terribly.

I did a lot of growing up during those years, waiting in the wings of the auditorium for the performance with a dozen boys. Perhaps looking back, I grew shy further, withdrew further, fell in love also but learnt to be on my own, comfortable with myself (because teenage boys will make fun of you till you cry).

I just need to close my eyes and I can feel the cold that permeated the instrumental room, the slight haze of cigarette smoke that hung in it through out the day. The funny smell of smoke and sandalwood combined, the dust that covered the smocks lying over the instruments. I remember how I used to hate taking of my shoes and putting them back on because girls could never just raise the foot onto the little shelf and tie their laces.I developed long lasting hatred and love in that room for some people. I still harbor that in the depths of my heart.
Unfortunately, the dance and the music room were located right next to the instrumental room and naturally the beautiful girls got the time.

Honestly it never bothered me till class tenth, when the object of my affections decided to grow up and get a real girlfriend. My girlfriends never realized the secret I kept. Even in class ten, I had a crazy friend, my partner who no one could possibly stand. Us and the couple that sat in front of us formed our own little world of private jokes. Class eighth to tenth was the best period of my childhood, I was a good student with the exception of math, my teachers loved me and one hounded me till the end of the year regarding a chart. I had girlfriends who were cool and I was cool with them. I was good at instrumental, getting comfortable in my skin, discovering my love for books and travelling.

And then class eleven happened.

It was class sixth over again except I never found anyone. My heart fills with pity as I look onto those years at the girl that I was because high school had finally caught me and it did not let go till it broke me down.

I left instrumental to choose art much to the heartbreak of my teacher. He clearly did not understand  my need to be part of something 'girls do' because I needed to make girlfriends. The place I loved so much, that little room at the end of the corridor became alien to me as I would bypass it. My heart yearned for it.
Until now, when someone smokes that brand of cigarette, it reminds me of Sir. His voice, his name-calling, his patience, his crazy handwriting and my cowardice : I never went back.

The only brush with art I had in the years through my middle school was winning the art competition that The Bengali Association used to organize every year at the time of pujo. Once they realized that I had won three times in a row and that I was a non bengali, the awards went to worse Bengali artists.

In class eleventh, I competed with people who had professional training in art and I couldnt keep up.
I have never taken it up again. I have pencils, brushes, paints and all sorts of supplies but the drive is gone.

This is what I wonder at times : When life happens how do you keep your passions alive ?

Art has now become something that I will pursue once I leave for my master's degree because I have tried to learn it but we all know how that goes.

I see sketches, paintings and pallets of my peers and there is an odd jealously. Odd for it is not their work I am jealous of but the freedom they have.

Goa changes you

Did I tell you Goa was fun.

I just realized what a big deal I made out of Goa clothes. The thing is I hardly remember the clothes, I mean I do remember looking the worst of the lot but then Goa takes over.

You remember when we were kids we used to have this camera's where you would hold it against your eyes and click a button and photos would change. It was like a reel inside and with natural light against the back, it was like a tiny projector inside that small little colored box.

Goa is like that for me.

First image is of the tiny hits barely a metre away form the rail tracks where our train stopped before entering the station. the yellow and blue low huts with large overhanging coconut trees. It had a litter of kittens roaming around in the yard, my friends jumped out of the train and stood at the gate staring at them

Second image is of two drunk girls and guy walking down the main road of Goa at two o clock in the night searching for their hotel after being dropped home by a bunch of young adults they met walking down the hill.

Third is a couple on a white Activa, driving down the curve towards the left onto the Anjuna Road with wind in their hair, fear of being discovered by their friends, not knowing the way and just riding along. 

If my eyes were a camera, it would be a video recording. I skip over the bad parts, the part where we get lost, I get into fights, where people talk, where they leave us behind and I bitch. Its just a recording of a a beautiful ride on a white Acitva behind a boy whose waist I was afraid to grip and chose to hold onto the handle bars at the back, a ride through wide roads, colorful houses lining the road, rolling sea on the other side, wind messing up our hair, not having a care in the world. There were times in Goa where the thing that bothered me the most was not time, not some pending work, not some responsibility, not something I had to say to someone, not something I had to work myself on rather it was just "Where is that damn beach"

I would take that on my to-do list anyday.

This is going to be a long post. 

Back ?

Prabhas ( on whom, unsurprisingly ! I had a tiny crush) emailed me inviting me to the CLC placements blog as a contributor. Once I had logged in, changed the God-awful background I realized I did not even remember the background of my own blog.

And then it was like flashing back to 2007 when I had started off. The journey since then, of how I have been drifting farther and farther each year. My resolves of keeping it a true account of heart forgotten somewhere among internships, college and friends.

At one time, Blogger was my friend. Random people whose names I cannot recall were friends, friends who lifted my spirits when I failed to get into a college of my choice. People who did not question the awkward phase I was going through or the sudden influx of responsibility that I was too busy shirking off. I forgot Blogger and its people when I made friends outside the virtual world. Sounds rather pathetic having "no" real friends. The thing is I had real friends, I just preferred the virtual ones. With me, preference becomes a huge deal. I make my preference known very clearly.

There used be days during exams where I would be furiously scribbling blog posts at the back of my register lest I did not forget everything I had to pour out to the online world.

Its been nine months since I thought about this.

There is this weird feeling in the bit of my stomach. The sick feeling of guilt for betraying Blogger, not my virtual friends but only Blogger. There is a tinge of happiness because I found friends I can tell things too. But  a large part of it is fear, fear of those very friends.

Goa !

Goa is okay.

I want Goa now. I have reached my I dont care phase about clothes hence i cannot be bothered now.

Sand, surf, sleep and tequila awaits me.

I promise not to worry or be bothered by anything in Goa. 

Girls :D

I am learning, to be a girl. Not just how to act and behave but also to talk.

I have friends who are girls now and rather than ignoring and not paying attention to their girly behaviour, I am actively participating !

Yes, I am rather proud of it myself.

Hopefully I shall transform before I end up getting married to a boy my Grandmum knows through someone (which btw is one of my biggest fears).

That reminds me, I must do a post on marriage. Perhaps after Goa. 

2012

2012 has been a memorable year. You know the kinds you remember when you are eighty, perhaps in a rocking chair wondering whether the dinner will have mashed potatoes. But the reason it will be memorable is because of the lessons I learned.

At the end of 2012, I am half a lawyer. I am not the confused teen I was, I know myself, my dreams and my ambitions. It has been a roller coaster year; there has been joy and sorrow, love and heartbreaks, calmness and depression and all the various volatile emotions ranging from the mad temper tantrums to those moments of perfect happiness.

I changed. Dreams changed. Friends changed. Family changed. Everything changed or atleast my perceptions did.

So lets round up a brilliant 2012,

So year started with the same resolutions as the previous ones. However, like the previous ones I haven’t fulfilled any of them. I honestly don’t remember much about January except that was the first winter in Law Faculty. I remember drinking the sweet tea from those sticky tea glasses and shivering for the morning eight thirty classes.

February was completely different, I was interning for the first time in my life at an “Uncle” law firm. The lessons I learned there (academic and non-academic) will stay with me all my life. It was my first brush with office life and while we were treated to a party on the second day there, backstabbing, gossiping, office culture were things whose existence I acknowledged for the first time. Frankly, I learned as much about law as you would learn from reading a Law Commission Report but what I did learn were Three Golden Rules. These rules have helped me through countless hard times. February was also the month of Comic Con, which was like visiting my childhood again. Pinki, Chacha Chaudhary, Tinkle were comics I consumed by the dozen. I suppose seeing them in existence ten/twelve years later brought sweet satisfaction, that even though Cartoon Network had changed there are things which remain the same. February also brought my first semester result, I have not jumped so high with joy since. It was also the month when I first kissed a boy.

March was Muscat. They say third time is a charm and it certainly was. If it felt like home in year before that, this year we did homely things, wined and dined with neighbours, exchanged cups of sugar and stories. If I concentrate hard enough, I can feel myself standing at the Seeb beach with those round stones under my feet and the turquoise water in front of me, amazingly I can recall watching the group of Muslim school girls chasing each other’s hijab as they flew in the cold sea air, the two Pakistani men who sat silently gazing at the horizon perhaps remembering home. Muscat is a tumultuous time always, the need to stay away yet the yearning for home.

April and May are months which flew by fast. Exams, notes and comprehending who were friends and who weren’t sum them up. Unfortunately I remember a lot of tears, heartbreak and anger. This was my low point of the year. I would love to disregard this time however it was rather significant. I was insecure about myself, doubting every move I made and had the confidence of science student giving an accountancy exam.

And then came June, I was at my second intern. The first ten days I spent as an actual law intern and I worked on drafting, Manupatra, privacy policy agreements (terms I had heard for the first time).  The rest twenty days were a never ending party, endless laughter accompanied with terrible read yummy dhaba food. I became friends with people from different backgrounds and colleges, it was exhilarating to know that I could go toe to toe with a student from a NLU. I will always remember this month not only for the lessons but for the laughter because it was endless. It reverberated through the room, I can hear us laughing about the things we did. The simple joys of food or smoking and having your senior come over and ask for a smoke or the rush of having spent an entire day doing productive work  and coming home to tell your Mum about it. It was about those small things and large but most importantly, June gave “me” back. I was me.

(second part coming next week or when I stop smiling because I cant stop remembering how much we laughed)