To Kill or Not To Kill

Yesterday I saw the white knight of Gotham city, Harvey Dent, go mad, go criminal and go absolutely delusional in revenge for the death of the one he loved. She was all he had, she was all he wanted. And she died, as he heard the explosion. He had been talking to the woman he loved in the last 30 seconds of her life, and she accepted his proposal three seconds before Batman arrived to save the wrong person. Batman saved Harvey. And everyone died a little inside as Harvey’s girl, Rachel, burnt to death.

Of course Harvey got mad. Of course he wanted revenge. Of course he wanted to blame, and hurt the people who put Rachel in danger, and eventually killed her.
But they make it a little dramatic in the films. Amazingly brilliant as The Dark Knight was, it left me with a question. Would I kill? Would I kill for revenge, for my love? Do real people really do that.

Funnily enough my best friend, Peter Zoe asked a very similar question recently. He asks here what he would do for the one he loved, and he too drew the question from the movies.
Well, due to technical difficulties I cannot tell you his answer , but I can tell you mine.

Yes.
I would kill.

Are you paying attention? Let me clarify. My boyfriend gets murdered, I would probably be the damn craziest person on Earth. I don’t stand violence anyway, but there are some things that just tip you off. So yes, should my boyfriend, or just about anyone who I love be taken away from me, it IS possible that I may lose all sense of righteousness and such things that only sane people believe in, and become one of the insane who are bound by no such rules.

Poor Batman, he couldn’t kill the Joker either, because he had the one rule I say I would break. Now admit it people, would as many people have died, would Rachel have died (and hence would Harvey have lost it) if the Bat had just put a bullet through The Joker way early in the film? No offense to the Joker, I am  BIG fan, but to put the whole situation in a practical world, a real world; I don’t want to see the hero abstain from killing a psychopath.

Now, since I left the matter midway, and to the aid of all the schoolmates who are just about to freak out that I admit i may kill, here’s a justification:

I am not mad. I won’t just hack off someone’s head or do a Colorado spree remake. I am just saying that I do not believe the world’s laws in black and white. Why is it that when a common man shoots his wife, he is in jail within the day, and when a superstar shoots his wife it takes days even moths for him to be in the jail, and in some luxury jail? Shouldn’t law be clear on what it sees. Man. Gun. Fire. Wife. Dead. It’s that simple. Where did the superstar’s Oscars and money power come in the equation of law?

So, basically I do not go sugary on what’s “right” and what’s not. There is too much subjectivity. However, I know in essence that killing is WRONG. I do not support any form of killing; by criminals, in war, by police, none. But you kill my boyfriend, I will probably gladly put aside any rules I have for this already irrational world, and i might even kill.

Of course, the first choice is to find the dysfunctional lout who touched my boyfriend, and make him pay Bad, but if the system fails in justice (yet again) I know how to pull a trigger (Courtesy: American Tv).

Oh boy, did I just set a lot of people from talking to me? I hope not. This is just very deep very dark thinking

Uhh, now I can almost feel Peter raise his eyebrows… (C’mon, don’t judge Pete!)

Anyway, all you guys, hope you and your besties and family and love are all safe always, and you are never in a situation to want to kill in the first place!

Peace out.

Wisdom of the Years

A wise sage once said:

Forget about the past, you can’t change it.
Forget about the future, you can’t predict it.
Forget about the present, I didn’t get you one.

Clearly, the sage speaks from years of experience, years of wisdom. I’m pretty sure he’s had a lot of birthdays.

It is indisputable that birthdays are milestones of life. I for one firmly believe that birthdays are all about the person who was born many years ago on that date. The families must make it special. The day must be jovial.

Birthdays are to look back at the year and laugh and cry. Birthdays are to measure the ‘wisdom’ we gathered over the year, though funnily enough, on my winter birthday, I am as mentally retarded as the previous day. Birthdays, more than anything is to think about the person and wish them good for anything they ever do, even if it’s just survival. Birthdays are for directing the special energies of earth, the unexplained miracles, to maybe make the year ahead happy and cute for that person, and we NEED that special day to appreciate the person because we tend to forget to love everyone all the year. Everyone needs their special day.

Of course, I love birthdays.

Of course, i love others’ birthdays more than my own. Because well, what’s the fun in saying “Thank you, Thank you, Thank you” all day when you can laugh at someone else say “thank you, Thank you, Thank you” all day

Think about your b’days someday.. Not too many years ago you were just a big round baby, so unlike anyone else! Its a funny thought, imagining your teacher crying for milk, or your boyfriend running in knickers around the house Lol.. Meanwhile, happy b’day to the beautiful people who are a year wiser today.

A very happy birthday in fact, for gaining the wisdom over the years of how to poop, when to sleep, and how to explain this oh-so-strange grumble in the tummy as need of food!That at least we learn for certain, if nothing else!

Oh and one last tip for all the people who are critical of birthdays-

If you really think birthdays are all about age and getting older and hence dying away, don’t worry, I’ll love to have your piece of cake too.

Cheerio!

Avery Houston

#Fiction

Avery is a teenager but she has been an adult for the last five years. She has dealt with all her problems herself and she has had many. She has been her own mother, her own father.

Today is a holiday, and Avery has a nice crisp agenda. She has to write an essay, do her chores, visit a friend and maybe they’ll PlayStation, and she wants to talk to the phone company about some internet trouble, all before dinner time when there’s a party. Sounds fun. Sounds efficient, just the kind of things she thrives on.

Avery woke up at 8, smiling and glad she didn’t oversleep even though she forgot to set the alarm. “Good morning Ave!” she wished herself, and it really was a good morning, because it was the first cool morning in weeks since summer had set in. Avery finished her reading and homework first. She did her assignments with perfection and stored them properly when they were done. And then came a loud crash.

The shrieks of an accident… The scratching of rubber and metal tires on gravel, the inevitable thump of collision and the bangs and clashes as the two collided bodies fell and broke down on the road… The dogs breaking out in loud barks that told whoever had missed the first sounds that an accident had indeed occurred, then the footsteps echoing from each street, to one common destination…

That was the first hitch of Avery’s day. The first jolt to reality. The first time her smile faded. “Calm down Ave” she told herself. She wondered what went wrong today, and who died so close to her home today… she hoped it wasn’t a dog at least.

Soon Avery was told it was her grandparents’ anniversary today. So she packed some books, took some money from her mother and set off under a red cap to their house. On the way, she bought a frail red rose and got it wrapped in transparent foil with pink blotches that were supposed to be maple leaves. Anyway.

The rose smelt of plant weed; she would know because the little garden she had on her balcony was recently tended with a lot of plant weed. Sad that the rose was breaking apart, sad that even flowers were sad today. Maybe it was the heat. Anyway, the jolts had already started, the painful jolts that changed happy Avery into realistic Avery, that reminded her that the world wasn’t a happy place, wasn’t a sad place, but a place where she had to be on guard all day long. Where she had to be an adult every waking moment, and hope she was safe in her sleep.

Avery put two fingers on the edges of her mouth and pulled them away, towards her ears. She burst out at the stupid attempt to put up a smile. Well, it worked. Nice trick! Avery pressed the bell with a genuine grin on her lips, remembering the time when she practiced this in front of the bathroom mirror, and soon the whole shaft, the whole house, had been riding with the sound of her crazy laughter, from behind the shut bathroom door. She shook her head now and yelled “Happy Anniversary!” as the door opened.

They talked a little, they ate a little. Then it was time for her grandparents to take their afternoon siesta, she knew that, that was what she had brought the books for. She spread her papers on the table like a General unfolding the battle map. Her expression was just as vexed, as she struggled to write an essay, state of art. It had to be perfect, she was competing on a huge level with that essay. Thankfully today, she didn’t fail as badly as yesterday and the day before. She got five sentences on paper today. The General folded the maps back, happy that his unit would survive the battlefield one more day.

Well that called for celebration didn’t it! She opened a bottle of Pepsi, slipped low on the couch, and turned on an American Tv show. Gotta give it to the Americans, they have a show for every mood. And today was the day for efficiency, so she settled for a medical drama. What better than fake doctors in real white coats battle it out in front of her, oh the pulse of intelligence!

Then her grandparents came back, looking cuter than ever before, and she wrapped up her leisure time to talk to them for a while before she moved again. Grumbling, she then stepped into the direct hot sun, and walked a sweaty ten minutes home.

Back home, things were not so great. She needed the computer, but the darn thing just hated to work! She needed something to eat, but milk was on the agenda and she would rather starve than that, no thanks. “Fine Ave, you do what you gotta do” she told herself and first cleared her table, to burn some energy, and when she was patient enough she tried getting the sloth of the computer to work. (It did, grudgingly.)

And then it stopped. With her essay being processed for submission, the deadline two minutes from coming true, and important people from her school leaving important messages for her on mail, the computer just stopped. Gave up, went to sleep, and just. stopped. working.

Avery sat on the chair that had wheels. She bent down, close to her knees and rested in that crouching position. Her elbows were on her thighs, her hands clasped, and she rubbed her fingers and palms.. Then she moved the chair by applying pressure on the ground, without moving her feet.. backwards, and forwards, and backwards again. She was just trying ti burn out a little energy with a little movement. She was trying to calm down. She hated it when she was being efficient and someone else (or something else) slowed her down. She burnt off a little energy with the movements, and she tried to think of good weather.

Nature was on her side today. Soon a faint smell of wet mud enveloped her. The smell of rain… Avery smiled like a little goofy kid would. Now things were great! She loved the rain. To pamper herself, Avery pushed her chair near the window, and let the winds blow through her hair. Her hair was sticky from the walk in the sun, but the wind made it okay.

Avery sat back and thought about the day. She had kept her cool so far. She could go on. She decided she would, she would go on and make the day count.

 Carpe, Diem, isn’t that what her best friend said?

Her best friend… “Okay I won’t be sad, but I can think of him..”

Avery hadn’t spoken to her best friend for five days. He had busted his phone, and nobody lends a teenager their phone to go to Facebook. The silly guy! But Avery couldn’t be mad at him… she had never been. And she couldn’t be sad either, that would tip everything else in her day to a sad mode.

Nope, instead, Avery kicked the CPU, which miraculously set the computer to work, and she typed and typed and typed. She sent him a longggg email. She told him all about the smell of wet ground, and the sad rose, and the perfect homework, and the okay essay, and how bad flat Pepsi is.

Then Avery choked. The couldn’t breathe at all, and neither could she see. “HEY KIDDDDOOOOOO!” A voice yelled what seemed like a volcano tube above her. Her brother, he was HUGGING her. Avery pinched his arm to tell him to leave her, he did, she gasped, he laughed, and they hugged again, properly. The party was home. Dinner was ready. Avery shut off the computer and walked out of this story.

Why did you just read about this day of her’s?

Well, because she is one of my characters (slightly raw right now) in a longer story I am trying. The last post, Never seen her Cry, was another peek at the characters, and now you have to let me know what you think! Cheerio everyone!

Never Seen Her Cry

“I had never seen Janey cry. I had heard her cry, I had felt her cry, I even got my shirt wet those painful times (for me) when my Janey cried.. But I never saw her. She had always been a rather strong woman.. She wouldn’t cry easily. She would hold in, wait till the moment passed and cry later.. She would cry in retrospect. And I was always there when she needed to. Janey had faced more problems than anybody I have ever known in her life.. From seventh grade till today, I shamefully admit that I didn’t make a beautiful life for my wife. But my wife, she stays strong through it. She faces her share of assaults and aches head first and sits, and waits, for me to get home and then she runs right into me, buries her face in my chest and sobs to her hearts desire… Never have I seen her face when the tears fell.. I have only felt them.. And that is best for both of us, for I can’t see my Janey in pain.”

#what do you think? I am working on a slightly longer story here, and this is how it begins. 

 

Sodomising Literature

Tuesday morning at school. A classmate sets her bag down at the bench in front of mine and takes out two volumes, parts of a series, and sets them down on the desk for a brief moment as she zips her bag close. And my eyes go wide and immediately I am gritting my teeth. What could possible be that horrifying about, well, books?

I’ll tell you what… Fifty Shades of Grey.

(Follow the link if you don’t know about the ‘book’. You should. It would be easy to put in a picture here, but somehow that makes me feel like I am encouraging the book… I’ll skip a picture.)

Behind her stands a goofy girl, obviously waiting to collect the volumes. So Girl 1 is lending these… these… texts, to Girl 2. And my first thoughts are: WRONG! This shouldn’t be happening! Because I know for a fact that Girl 2 is not a reader, so why the hell is she starting with graphic sexual text!

I wonder if any of these two ‘extensive readers’ have had the great pleasure of knowing, just knowing, that books like ‘To Kill A Mockingbird’ or even ‘Hardy Boys’ exist.

Nope, English literature to them will mean insane screaming of ladies in bed.

I wouldn’t really say it’s the writer’s fault that teenagers put these books on their list. But it a definitely a crime, that the reading and writing world has let these books go scott-free. I wish we had talked enough about the books that these two girls today wouldn’t casually flip through them, but have real reason, and be readers before they picked these.

An era infatuated with sex and its not-so-hushed intricate details.. THAT is what literature is for these girls.

I cannot help but say, we should have done something… I should have done something.. But if looks and tones could say everything, that other girl wouldn’t have taken those books after I articulated my thoughts at that very moment.

The girl who was lending them to her, I can still accept that she owns those books. Though she too is a rather innocent girl (innocence is subjective) she does read widely. And when a reader picks books, of any kind, there is no need to judge them. But when a girl like the second girl does that… Sad…

Owning, reading, or even liking Fifty Shades of Grey isn’t a sin… but it’s acceptable only if the reader displays some guile! Random impressionable teenagers, or even adults for that matter, that have never felt books an important thing, suddenly start saying they ‘read’ on the basis of reading this series.. NOT okay. Not for me.

Nice Vocab, said the girl who owned them. Which caused me and one of my sensible classmates to erupt- What vocab? Bondage? Masochism? What!

E L James… author of this series… I have no reason to smile back at you when I see your gleeful grin on magazines and newspapers. Its a grudge I have to carry.

I may be very wrong in my entire judgement, and if you do think I am, I would wanna know how… How does a girl as far from books as sky and land, suddenly start with E L James’ disastrous texts and start saying she reads “books”. How is that okay?

I find that an insult to literature, an insult to books in the very essence of their meaning.

In fact, I will go as far as saying this, that girl, and girls like her, don’t have any right to even go for books like that. At one point they say they don’t want to even think about a boyfriend cause having one is shameful (What?) and then they pick cheap graphic sex books. This is just wrong.

I feel like someone should defend real literature.

Honestly, I never bothered much about E L James and magnanimous articles dedicated to her and her books, and I never cared much for her books either. But today, I don’t know, I just got rattled beyond reason.

Now I am wondering if I should check the books out again, myself. I would have to, of course, cover the front and back with newspaper… Like any other book, I would give them a fair chance too. And I would read with that in mind that I am not guilty of reading just frivolous naughty books, (if it can be called that even) I read real books too.

Makes you wonder, why would someone publish it… It makes money I’m sure. But I believed publishing houses have honour.

Last word of the day… It wouldn’t have mattered if the book was rich in sexual detail… We already have a lot of those, Mills and Boons being legend… But the book is cheaply written in bad BAD English, and to put it on the same rack as someone’s real intellect is plain SHAME.

Juliana Won’t Speak

#Wrote this story as an assignment with the British Council, and got pretty flattering response, except the part where I lost one mark on ‘unclear resolution’ in the end… Do tell me what you think!

Every morning without fail, Juliana would walk down to the gentle stream by the woods and sit, with her feet enveloped by the cold water. It was the brutal, sharp sensation of the waves hitting her ankles that Juliana desired… it was her vent. When her toes got numb and she started shivering, Juliana would grudgingly slip on her boots and walk back home leaving a wet trail behind her. For fourteen years Juliana only had the river for a friend. On the outskirts of rural Maryland there was hardly a living soul, let alone one willing to show a deaf and dumb girl compassion. Mr. and Mrs. Smith loved their little darling so, but they weren’t able to help her escape the shell of a mute world.

Thomas wasn’t particularly jovial either. He traveled the world, in quest of something he still was to find. His was a tormented soul, desperate to find a place where he could be of use. Despite his inward turmoil, Thomas appeared to the world a charming man, calm as the river. That was really what drew Juliana to him the first time she saw him on the bank… He looked like her river.

Later, at dinner, the Smiths were filled with anticipation of meeting the newcomer, their only neighbour for miles. As always, Juliana only stayed silent. It happened much sooner than they expected.

The winter days were bitter and the woods wet. Naturally, any hope of finding dry logs for fire was a long shot. The residents knew that, but a stranger wouldn’t. Within a week of his arrival, Thomas found himself cold and perched outside his neighbour’s door, the Smiths. They were very welcoming. The woman was feisty as electricity, jumping on her toes to help in any way possible. The man disappeared instantly, to get some good wood from their winter stock for Thomas to take back.

And while he did so, Thomas was tucked snug in the Smiths’ humble living room, warming himself by the fire. His teeth still chattered, but he could feel his muscles loosen. Thomas surveyed the room… little furniture, an old clock, no photographs on the mantle above the fire… it looked like these people weren’t very well off.

“Thankyou. Thankyou so much,” Thomas accepted the cup of tea Mrs Smith offered gratefully and didn’t mind that it barely had any milk. Then he saw her. A pretty girl peeking at him from behind the kitchen door. He set the cup down and smiled at her. She didn’t return it. Thomas beckoned her. A shade of doubt flashed across her eyes, but she decided against it. She came forward shyly. Thomas noticed her years in the beautiful visage he saw, and yet her innocence convinced him she was still in her teens. But hadn’t he seen her before… he though he had… by the river…

Thomas reached in his pockets and pulled out a stick of candy. It took her a minute to come for it. “What’s your name,” Thomas asked. It was like a wall had emerged. The hand stopped mid-air, she dropped her eyes, and fled the room. Mrs Smith saw her daughter run, and her own smile weakened. Poor Juliana… she probably hadn’t even understood he was only asking her name; just the movement of his lips had riddled any comfort.

“She- She can’t speak. Or hear,” Mrs Smith said in a husky whisper. “Juliana. That’s her name. I am sorry.”

Thomas rose. “No. Please don’t be. I didn’t know.”There was an awkward silence. It gave Thomas a chance to wonder if this was the climax of his journey. He could help this girl… “If,” he began. “If ever Juliana wants to meet, Mrs Smith, or any of you would, I’d really love your company… And its not a problem that Juliana can’t speak… we can work around that. You see, I am deaf myself. I’m sure we’ll find a way.”

Start Up Days

The best thing about being in India, in eleventh grade, is that Craziness is CERTIFIED. It’s not just the scheme of my school, the thing is, in eleventh grade every one every where goes ballistic down a rat race to form, form, and form a winner profile, and then to apply to BIG colleges.

The sad part about this, is the moment you let your passion be your sole concern, that’s when you start getting Ifs and Buts in your plans. The Indian education system is perfectly moulded for the Science and Commerce people. Talk about the Arts/Humanities and you mean Problems.

In very simple terms, we have a cut off system in eleventh grade. In the results of tenth, those students you get 9/10 or above are eligible for Medical Studies, 8/10 are eligible for Non Medical Science, 6/10 are eligible for Commerce and anyone else, gets PUT INTO Humanities. I repeat, Anyone Else gets Put Into. Of course you can always OPT for Arts, as I did following passion, but then you are greeted with very very raised eyebrows. Are you stupid, they ask. If you’re not, are you bent on wasting your school years, they ask then. Oh you want this field, so you ARE stupid, they spell verdict.

Anyway, this isn’t a whiner post at all, today. This is a celebration post. I found sense in eleventh grade, and in the first two weeks too, hurray.

What is the good part about humanities. Field trips. Taken for granted, so kinda free. Time to breathe as there is no extra tuition or coaching centers. We do get the maximum holidays too. Pluuuusssss, we get to waste time.

No seriously, that is very important, cause Imagine a day after a lot of heavy theory subjects, like Political Science and History, and all this in a school where you read from textbooks only and other resources are your own extra digging. So when we get lots and lots and lots of reasons to waste some time, we like Humanities.

Today, for some abstract reason I haven’t yet fathomed, eleven-thees were on the prowl, roaming free and frolic. There is some kinda Math Conference tomorrow, so we had something that resembled a trial run today, and many volunteers, most of them from the ‘useless humanities’ were “busy” with that. That left the rest of us innocent bystanders with very less class strength and very disinterested teachers. Ohh, it gets better!

So, to put all us eleven-thees under one roof to make it easy to watch us, we were called in the Auditorium, where some silly film about an Indian mathematician, Ramanujan, was played for us. Now everyone knows that was just a herring, no one expected us to actually listen or the volume would be appreciable, the teachers only wanted us in one place and all accounted for.

That’s where my friend circle comes in. When you choose a stream, you choose YOUR stream, and all your friends from the previous class are dispersed. Now we are all teenagers, and we are all rather emotional and possessive. So I took my nine periods of school today as The Opportunity to meet anyone and everyone I knew. And that worked just fine.

I have friends in every class, and every sphere I engage in. Sure, some are very special friends, but it’s pretty established that I’ll find someone to talk to anything I sign up for. When you’re just separated from long friendships and put in heavy streams like Humanities, this is important.

Back to the Auditorium we are. So we are “watching” a film, and we are all talking. Two of my friends from the row behind me engaged me in a debate on how good (they said) and how bad (I said) a new TV programme was. I said it was so typically American that it wasn’t really American at all. They laughed to that, and I cried after that, as another friend aimed a paperball at my head.

This guy is Ankur. He has symptoms of ADHD (just kidding), is destructive (not really kidding), and has very similar interests as mine. First we talked about upcoming Video Conferences, Debates, Seminars, Student Exchange with Foreign Countries, Blogging and also some tests like SATs… Then, drained of such mundane things, we dismantled a fallen ID card and shot it into the crowd. I don’t know how I became so senseless.

He then shrieked “Eish hairy!” looking at Ramunjan’s chest in the film, and while I recovered from the laughter, he was moving towards the front rows where the chairs became sofas and I followed him, with two other friends. It was a tight squeeze for all four of us to fit in one sofa, but we did it, part because we really all just wanted to sleep, and part because it was fun fighting for space.

My friends, are saviours.

Later in the day, I had a seminar about education outside India planned with the insane dude from above, Ankur. Secrets of the trip include why we were going for this particular seminar. We are interested and blah and blah.. but we admit, Most of the reason for attending was because it was held in a Good 5-star hotel.

Ok everyone, lay back, and imagine…

Golden and cream doors, with polished glass and valet service pronto. Scented air conditioning. Wide corridors, flower decor, carpet to muffle the footsteps, huge crystal ball afloat a porcelain saucer that together made a sort of fountain. A second fountain where the steps at the end of the hall began, and this one with tiny orange and golden fish in it. Violet and deep blue flowers in every nook. Glossed handouts outside the seminar hall and inside, a BUZZ of ambition and a JINGLE of intelligence.

It’s these kind of places that remind me what dreams mean. Dreams… are our personal world of 5-star.

Tonight, so, my word for all the eyes that read these words now is, Please do remember to enjoy. New beginnings I find may be hard… But with friends and a little dreaming, these start up days can become bliss.