The Little Voice Talking

The Worst Parts Of Fighting

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1. Too many reminders of how much you love them.

Which only follows into how much it hurts. If you fought over WhatsApp, you’re GOING TO find his pictures on your phone, her emails, mom’s presents, friend’s book. It is almost programmed into us to run into the people and the worlds of the people whom we are hurting with, almost like that’s driving our subconscious!

2. You’ll want hugs. From them.

And it will feel extremely silly to ask for it. Especially if one of you has gone away to clear their head.

3. It always happens around exam time.

In India it’s ALWAYS exam time so this one is pretty much guaranteed.

4. You will question a good memory.

That’s the part where you’re going to hurt yourself more than anything the other person in the fight could have said. This is your cue to go to sleep. Stop thinking, or you’ll end up with a brain warped on itself, feeling even more miserable and your reason will be so far lost that you’ll find no problem with headbanging a pan.

5. It eventually becomes simpler and easier, but you don’t know how much is ‘eventually’.

Everything is awkward and strange meanwhile. Especially talking. You don’t really want everybody to know you’re low but you can’t be bothered to make an effort and sound cheerful. Not while you’re swirling in cold hell.

6.You indulge.

I am a really good money saver so at most times, I have a stash of money for a good treat. Come hurtful fight, I will dole out thousands on food- creamy pastas and cold drinks and crisp potatoes and fried foods. Nothing available in my house will please me. So I’ll also spend money traveling halfway into Delhi to Connaught Place and back.

7. You know this isn’t permanent, and that you want that person back.

So it’s confusing- do you want to forget all about it and make amends? Make sure the other person isn’t hurting? But that can be bad for relationships, so should you feel this through?

There’s no mind-blowing conclusion to this post (much like its beginning). I only wish that whoever feels like that at any time be blessed with soft pillows and heavy fatigue. Grief can be really exhausting so it’s pretty appropriate to sleep it off.


No Neat Title

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“I would love to say that you make me weak in the knees, but to be quite upfront and completely truthful, you make my body forget it has knees at all.” Tyler Knott Gregson.

How can someone who loves like that, feel so sad.

I come here and I see a pack of lies. Yet somewhere in this web string is the truth too, not caught in a neat title with a border and margin, but in the archive spread, the page breaks, the errors and corrections. It is, perhaps, in my agitation, fixation on a misplaced comma in a previous sentence that I refuse to correct. I refuse to set it right, teaching myself that EVERYTHING is subject to perspective, including right, fair, correct and straight lines.

Perhaps it is befitting that I talk of this place before I talk of others. How strange must it to be, for someone otherwise a wall of grey bricks with streamers thrown across it to be raw, breaking stone, hollow in the middle at a completely public, vulgar place, in sluttish manner. In fact, I should think it’s so strange, it’s stereotypical. And I couldn’t care less. I already see idiots assuming they know how to put these words together and form a coherent sentence. I see them now grimacing, some hating, that I should be so full of myself to call some people idiots. And I still don’t care.

Can, sometime, everything around you be so convincingly the same that you’re done and tired of it. Not tired, because you’re tired of tiredness too, aren’t you. I fail at words so hard, sometimes. I mean…. Can everything around you be so itself, happiness so happiness and trials so trials, that you just transcend beyond, shot up on a catapult, while you wish you could grope a stray memory and hold on, despite the knowledge you’d be fooling yourself in the process. Dimwittedness is a strangely lovable word.

But that wasn’t the point. The point is, funny thing is so blunt, that every time I try to touch it, my fingers just rub off dust and fall to another paragraph to edit. Sneaky little thing, the roots of the plants as they say, maybe the root is there is no root. Wait, wait. Maybe that’s it, that the problem isn’t fixed to an event, or cause, and it’s wayward, powerful nature is its scare. Shelter is so absolute and warm with him, but when something becomes too precious, you lose your mind protecting it. The problem is, I’m protecting it so viciously, anything that shifts it a millimeter swirls me off my axis. And that’s when this agonized madman writes blogposts.

Things…. are Still touching me!!!!

Now, pause.

Always, always, always taking care of yourself. And how can anyone else ever help when every word that comes out of your mouth is a riddle in another language to them. Only he could know.

There are a few ways things could go on in a matter of time. The best part is I don’t want any single one of them. What I want is such a mighty bang that it even knocks me off my feet. And I know just what to do to get that.

Yes, now would be the time that you puff, huff and go away. Do you not see my hatred, do you not feel my resentment, I’m breathing down your neck, teeth gritted, tears pasted to my eyes. I hate.

I hate. Tonight, for five minutes, I burn hate.

Comments have been disable for this post. Whatever you think you want to say, you’re wrong. You are all wrong. Except him. But how can he be right from so far.

You’re wrong.

The worst thing in the world is ALMOST, for its insatiable need to become an Always. It’s the almost that makes mud out of minds, nerves half electric, thoughts half formed, feelings have felt, because everything is frozen in almost.

Wandinoda… {} Tight. Always. Always.

I love you, always.

A CommonApp Backstory I Didn’t Tell

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The Professor asked the creative writing class to write a story “that involves sex, mystery, religion and royalty; and you have one hour!” Within five minutes, one student got up, handed in his paper and left. The professor read his four line story.

Oh God!

The King is dead.

The Queen is pregnant.

Who did it?

I laughed. Mom told me her favorite joke when I was only ten, kissed me good night and turned off the lights. My mother never did try to keep my feet on the ground. Always, she told me what all was possible, irrespective of what was probable, or even proper. She never told me that anything was something I couldn’t understand, but let me try, and stood by to help me if I asked. She taught me to imagine before I knew, and to appreciate the beauty of perspectives. A math teacher herself, while she instilled in me a joy of rapid solutions and numbers, she also showed me how to prove four equal to five, and amazingly, all it takes is a few basic math laws.

Sometimes, I think knowledge hasn’t been as important to me as imagination. Knowledge, to some extent, is a good book away. But to expand my imagination, I have no tricks and no guarantees. I tried imagining ‘six impossible things before breakfast’. I wrote stories and rewrote all the names. I tried to imagine a new color, until I got a cross between peach and brown and pretended that it was original. Imagination has become my closest friend. It is also my most trying one. And it is a gift my mom chose to raise me with.

Dad taught me more practical things; the machinery of a world. A man rather obsessed with meditation, organisation and assisting, he roped me into all three as soon as I could write. I rejected meditation outright, my already developed imaginative mind mocking the concentration demanded from it, changing the silence involved into waking dreams. But I happily picked up the other two. There are countless incidents in my life when sheer organisation has made everything -academic, personal, random- so much simpler and easier. Being collected also benefited me in managing my time and consequently, in helping others, and anyone who knows me today knows that I will be there when they need me.

What I am is significantly touched by other members of my family as well. My little sister is a living testament of the power of optimism. My grandmother taught me Mahjong, an old Chinese game, that adds to my life of wonders. My uncle took me across India, as I followed his transferring Air Force home, collecting music and endless hobbies along the way. My grandfather showed me that all you need to do to travel first class on an economy ticket is ask. The list is endless, just like the lessons. The result is me; Icarus, with long wings.

Today, this positive-positive combination is the bedrock to my strength. If I am known as the Ruchika that doesn’t break, its because I know how to handle hard-hitting situations. I know how to put seemingly larger than life moments in the context of time, to project my feelings in outrageous proportions just to ridicule them and make them palpable. I fail, feel lost and get hurt, but I know that anything is only as grave as I let it be.

Even if they didn’t specifically know the ripples of what they were teaching me then, my family has given me this world in an oyster. They’ve equipped me to achieve anything I truly want.

Now, I just have to choose where I want to start.

Where am I Content

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“Do you think people who live alone close the bathroom door behind them when they take a shower?” I asked, my eyes pinned on the kiwi pastry behind the glass.

In response, I got a swat on the back of my head that said everything: “Of course they do.”, “No, why would they?”, “Just do your work”, “Wut.”

I was sitting with my friend at a café. She was trying to read, I was thinking of everything in the world except differential equations. I was dreaming about college again. But simultaneously, I had imagined contingency plans A to F which were to be executed if none of the universities I applied to accepted me. Plan D or E included flipping burgers in Lisbon, where I would live, a young, single photographer, and that was where my Pivotal Question about Closing Bathroom Doors had come from. It is not usual for me to wane at things that I truly want, but when I do, I respond to them like the goofball I proudly am, joking, projecting my emotions into ridiculous thoughts until they become palpable.

Sometimes, I am the most bored teenager in the world, sitting with a Pokéball of my energy in my hand, waiting for someone to show me what to do with it.

I go to school with great enthusiasm, but this zeal is not directed towards my curriculum as much as it is to the hopes of landing something new to do, something which carries meaning, possibly causes an impact, on me for starters. It is like being in a constant state of- I can’t wait to start my life. In fact, I have an entire history of it. In ninth grade, I took to theatre at the local American Center because I wanted to test my acting skills. The next year, I scourged Delhi for ballroom classes. When I didn’t find any, I switched to Jane Fonda Aerobics videos and supplied my family with film of me waving my arms about. Then I was showed how to prove four equal to five, and despite instantly pointing out the fallacy that made that possible, I was over the moon for a  month, twiddling with math laws, happy beyond limits.

My biggest break, just the thing I needed in my record, was when I got selected for a foreign exchange trip to Japan last summer. I remember thinking- This is it. Don’t you dare sleep now. And as I trudged my suitcase down the airports, I watched everything with big gleaming eyes, telling myself to believe it- I was doing something after all. I survived that weeklong trip solely on caffeine. I uploaded a few videos to my up-and-coming YouTube channel and I only kept my camera down when I did fall asleep, for not more than three hours at a stretch. Folks at home called it ‘typical sugar tourism’ but I didn’t want to hex it with tags.

The point is: I have always want to do. I want to create. I want to be on the radio, I want to write a column, I want to be in a cycling group, I want to go to concerts and galleries, I want to put another kid through college, so much and so badly, and I want to make my life worth it. I don’t find any reason to be satisfied with things that automatically happen; just as college for Indians is like a given. I want to try myself at the things that are hard to get, I want to be willful, meaningful. Living, though not started by the person whose life it is, is actively created by him through every second he exists. Whether awake or unconscious, we make ourselves people out of a mass of tissues, and I just can’t let myself go waste.

I sat at the cafe, beating songs onto the table. “So”, I asked my patent line, “What is the most unhealthy thing they have on the menu?”


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Time to make this personal blog personal. There are times when I am glad of this blog’s relatively small audience. It is not very comfortable to talk raw. Not for me.

I’m deep in the college application process right now. And finally, I feel tense. I don’t usually worry about results and outcomes, because sometime in the process of waiting, I have usually imagined how my world will go on just fine with any possible decision that comes out. So too, with college.

What I can not, however, settle down with is all this delay. Had the application process been just about me, I would have wrapped it up by now, 15 days from the deadline. But it involves far too much, far too many people- my school administration, my counselor, my teachers, my advisor, my parents- and I am going mad coordinating with everyone. They are all more relaxed of course, since it doesn’t directly affect them, nor are they keeping all the strings together. In fact none of them is even aware of all the dimensions I’m looking into. But then it’s not their job.

When you’ve been in charge and in control all your life, and when everyone sees you like that, it becomes harder still to even admit these things. People haven’t seen you like this, they don’t know how to help you. You have to sort yourself out.

And I’ve been trying to do that, so far. When things start slipping, I take a break. I sleep it out, or I turn up the music, just something that leaves no space in my mind to think of anything else, especially college.

Right now, I am tense. I am too awake, too free, and slowly, the tension is creeping into my sinews. Like when you hold something in too tightly, your jaw starts to ache.

There’s far too much involved in my process. Maybe it’s not like that for everyone, but it is, for me. There is an entire whole human besides me whose life depends on this. And thinking of all the levels it affects, and the depths I have to control, can seem too enormous.


There are essays I have to finish. There are transcripts and letters I have to supply. There are test scores I have to deliver, hoping badly that I get exemptions from a language test. There is fees to be thought of, in the backdrop of the BILL this process is ringing up already, in the backdrop of the tuition I need massive assistance for. There is a confidence of steel I need to have while doing all of that, otherwise I’ll fall apart, fail at reflecting the best of myself, and virtually guarantee not getting admission!

I have to do all this without even having finalised my list of schools yet.

That is like drawing lines on the ground without knowing which game you’re going to play on it. I need to be a very adept eraser. Ready to adapt.

Right now I’m just pretending that documenting this tension will place it somewhere outside of me. Let it exist if it has to, just not in me, because I can’t work like that. This blog is superb in that sense.

There is nothing else to this post really.

That’s ‘all’ just.

I discover Smoothies!

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To anyone who wants to pamper me, truly indulge me, and see my best excited face, gift me a Danone Choco-Smoothie this January, on my birthday.

(Life Potion)
(Life Potion)

I discovered smoothies this December, and I sincerely believe that I have wasted eighteen years of my life. But thank the universe for Reliance stores that introduced me to what I am certain will become my weakness forever. So anyone who ever wants to blackmail me, spend 20 bucks on a smoothie.

This stuff is honestly worth every cent, calorie and effort that even someone as lazy as myself will make to go get it. In fact, all of that doesn’t even matter because the moment you take ONE sip, your world will completely collapse into that singular mouthful of sheer magic in liquid form. If these were available in perfume, I would wear it.

This blog post is issued in public interest. To make your life complete.

Excuse me now, I have to go and edit my About section and the list of things that completely define me.

Boring Stuff About Reading

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I am my wisest, strongest, rawest and also most secretive this year. Or, this second half of the year.

I have a psychology practical tomorrow. Logically, normatively (literally according to norms), I should be dropping things at this stage, lashing out at people, downing coffee  and donuts like water and be buried in my practical file. Instead of that, at this exact moment I am shutting close files of two side projects I am on, and writing my blog. I know full well that the ripple effects of every action like this and hence my performance on every little or large test this year has a compound effect on my future- the one I don’t care for and the secret one that is my Achilles’ heel, both. Yet, I am not panicked, in the least.

If you’re thinking I’m a master in psychology or your adorable right-out-of-the-movie book geek, drop it. I am just attuned. Attuned, to the years and years (and years) of lecturing in school and fortunately not so much outside school: “Take this seriously, kids! Your future rests on this. You know how important these exams are now with the nth new curriculum! YOUR kids are looking at you with hungry eyes, growing hungrier with every minute you waste on the net or in a cafe or just about an inch away from your books, because they are malnourished and there’s no food in the house because you never went to college.”

Probably not that last part. But just as threatening. Maybe I’ve said this before but the ONLY effect such fear mongering has on students is that most of them give reading up at the earliest possible age, chastised with such negativity.  Many others learn to fear reading, and everything that goes with it, until the classroom just becomes a group of children who either no more respect reading or know no hope without it. Everyone does become successful robots though, and if that was the aim of education, we’ve nailed it.

I fit in this class too, of course. I’ve never turned away from reading. But I know that a world is not impossible without it. I may not be a candidate for either tight fit category, but I’ve bounced between them, just like a work-vacation time division. Currently, I am in a highly motivated, ‘blood only has adrenaline’ kind of rush for knowledge (being better/ touching glossy pages/ checking out writing styles/ especially looking for acerbic people and texts), and I STILL DON”T FEEL MOTIVATED FOR TOMORROW’S PRACTICAL.

I’m sure I’ll score good. That’s… not really the point of reading but it matters, on the ripple effect level. I’m also pretty sure that after it ends tomorrow, I’ll be lighter.

That’s because of the deadpan, silent acknowledgement I have that I don’t enjoy school anymore.

I mean the curriculum, really, but since the “studies” are the basis of time division at any school, I don’t find much joy in the plain brick structure either, anymore.

Yet, it has been nearly 14 years. Our outward behaviour and intrinsic delights find ways to merge. I am indeed my wisest, strongest, rawest and most secretive this year. That’s because nobody else sees that when I walk the corridors that everyone walks, I picture the Windsor Castle, I see the Danube, I smell burgers and I hear the piano, like the other secrets no-one needs to know.

I will continue to have a pleasant time at school, despite my unsatisfaction and despite my hopes, because that’s just who I am. I’ll find ways to put the fun back in reading.