When She Closed Her Eyes...

A little bit of Media Meet, a little bit of Coldplay, a little bit of deep talks with a friend and a lot of imagination lead me to this piece :)

The Elysium she seeks

A Family she called home

A Lover who actually cares

A sprightly Camaraderie

A place of Eternal Sunshine and Bliss.

Her fantastical Escape

When she closed her eyes.

The dysfunctional abode

An alcoholic mother

An abusive father

A dreaded place

Where she found no solace.

She made the Escape

When she closed her eyes.

The confidence in his shoulder

As he looked the other way

Ignoring her very existence

Knowing no reciprocation

As she gazed longingly.

She made the Escape

When she closed her eyes.

The amity she lacked

A malicious sneer to the left

An indifferent shrug to the right

A piercing taunt from behind

A sharp smack across her face.

She made the Escape

When she closed her eyes.

She shut out the cruel reality

Forgetting her stifled sobs

And her soaked pillow

As she drew her blade

Across her deeply scarred palm.

She made the Escape

When she closed her eyes.

The Euphoria she encountered

Breezy spirits of Reception

Fluttering Heartbeats

And blooming Companionship

Where else could she go?

She could only make the Escape

When she closed her eyes.

The Lake

I don't usually write poems, but one day, I saw something that made me feel the need to acknowledge it some way or the other. So here it goes..a descriptive poem (or something like a poem!) :)

The lake was like molten gold
As it reflected the scorching sun 
On its surface.
Like an oasis in the desert,
The lake was an island
In the concrete jungle.

Out of place,
The trees made a ring, 
Enclosing and separating the lake,
From prying eyes.
Like old bearded men,
They brooded gloomily,
Over the plain sheet of mirror
Lapping at their feet.

Amidst this,
Stood a lone cylindrical pillar 
A pillar of concrete and steel
Reaching out to the sky.
Restricted by the ruins.
The creepers creeped over it
And seeped into its cracks
And engulfed it whole.

An inconceivable 
An inconsequential 
Victory of Nature
Over the seemingly invincible.
Like an oasis in the desert,
The lake was an island
In the concrete jungle.

A Book's Cover

“Are those randomly multi-colored nails?”

“Why would you get four piercings on one ear?”

“Do you have to wear such long earrings?”

“Do your accessories always match your clothes?”

“Are your nails really painted fluorescent?”

“Is that lipstick?”

“How long do you take to dress up everyday?”

These are questions I’ve encountered through my life. Superficial and limited to how I look and dress. Everyone judges a book by its cover. The first thing anyone notices about you is how you look. If you are blonde, you are dumb. Apparently, it doesn’t matter if you are actually a Harvard Graduate. If you are blonde, you are dumb. If you have a tattoo and piercings, you are a rebel. It doesn’t matter if you are an accomplished surgeon. If you have a tattoo and piercings, you are a rebel. All of us, no matter who we are, have been in situations were our looks were given primary importance. We have all either been rejected or wholly accepted into something because of the way we look.

“Her clothes are too loud. I don’t like her.”

“Her nose ring is weird. What is wrong with her?”

“He is wearing a pink shirt, he has to be gay.”

“If she spends so much time dressing up, when does she ever study?”

“She is so shabbily dressed. Her mind is probably as disorganized as her dressing sense.”

A counselor once told me that everything I wear and do to myself reflects something about me to the people around me. That had me wondering – when I choose what I’m going to wear every morning, am I aware of the image that I want to portray? Do I realize what kind of vibes I’m going to be giving off and still choose to dress a certain way? A small part of my brain responded, “Yes, I actually do.”

Even though I often feel that people over-analyze my clothes or that they unnecessarily attach importance to things that barely matter to me, it hit me that there is actually a reason for this kind of attribution. I wear bright clothes because it makes me happy – I am a person who attaches importance to the small things that make me happy. I have outlandish piercings – I actually want to stand out and be different.

The clothes we wear and our selection of accessories are actually another part of your personality. It is what distinguishes us from those around us. It helps us identify with those similar to us. Essentially, it represents our individuality. What we are on the outside represents what we are on the inside. Maybe not an entirely accurate depiction, but it is closest depiction of what you think you are.
Just the cover of that book is not going to tell you everything about the book. The cover is just giving you a glimpse of what lies inside. If you really don’t like it, maybe it is not your kind of book, but you’ll never know for sure, because you never took the time to actually read it.

Campaigns – not just politics, a livelihood

When a political campaign is announced at any part of the city, the average middle class man goes out of his way, literally, to make sure he avoids the scheduled place, through his day. “They are all about politics. We know all that we need to know. Why should we attend campaigns?” says B. Venkatachalam, an accountant. In Chennai, campaigns are not just about the politicians and their parties, it is also about the common man who makes a living out of these campaigns.

The increased density of a massive, unruly, and most often, fanatic crowd lures all kinds of traders to political campaigns. Street hawkers who sell stickers with party symbols, pictures and towels or even food items like samosa or tea earn more money at the campaigns then at their regular jobs.  V. Thirunakarasu says, “I have a binding shop, but during election times, I am fully devoted to making stickers for DMK.” He follows the party around Tamil Nadu and sells at every campaign. He says that he makes Rs. 200-300 more when he travels outside Chennai. These hawkers are dedicated to a particular party and sell products that showcase the party symbols, colours and statements.

However, tea and samosa sellers are not particularly aligned to any political party and usually, do not travel long distances to attend campaigns. The crowd and the prospective customers draw them to the nearest campaign. “I don’t care much about parties or politics. People buy sundal and murukku here just like they buy it at the beach where I usually sell them.” says G. Selvakumar. He claims to earn Rs. 400 at every campaign, which is Rs. 150 more than he gains usually.

The male members of the family are not the only ones profiting from these events. L. Kuppamma, a housewife, says she is offered Rs. 300 for attending a campaign and an additional Rs. 50 for every other member she is able to rally to this cause. “Every election season, I am guaranteed a regular flow of income,” says Mrs. Kuppamma. "The party doesn’t matter. I choose wherever I want to go.” 

Although there are many who gain out of this political play, the local shopkeepers are at a disadvantage. A campaign in their area keeps the pharmacists, tailors, tutorials and local grocery shops shut and out of business for a whole day, due to fear of riots.

With the election season coming to an end, everyone will have to get back to his or her regular business and daily routine.

Eighteen

After all those months of whining, I am finally 18. The magical number that represents The Mysterious World of Adulthood. I am not sure what I expected, but I think I vaguely expected to just wake up on the 28th and feel mature and responsible and somewhat…adult-like. In reality, I woke  up on the 28th in my Superman tee lying beside my teddy bear on a Disney bedspread. I had cake for Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner, I indulged in my chocolate cravings, I actually got scared of a little dog that growled at me, I frightened myself watching horror movies, and I jumped around excitedly seeing and touching real human brain specimens. Nothing I did, could be described as “adult-like”. I was barely a day older and it was supposed to represent a year of growth.
One of my best friends had given me the idea of making a list of the silliest activities that represented childhood and completing every single one of them before I turned eighteen. I wasn’t able to complete all of them and I felt like I was beginning a new chapter of my life without reading the last few pages of the previous chapter. Now that I am officially an adult, emancipated and on my own, does it mean that I can’t be immature, stupid and silly? On my birthday, my friends helped me remember that chapters might get over but there is still a long way to go in my book. 
Maybe growing “old” was not exactly what I had expected. I don’t have a license or a voter’s ID. I haven't donated blood or gotten a tattoo yet. I haven't lost all my teeth or grown gray hair (wait, I do have that!). On that special Friday, my friends helped me remember that even if all of the above do happen and I’m sitting all alone in my rocking chair 80 years from now with my five big dogs and eating tofu, I’d yell “Oh my God! I feel like I’m eating my brain!” I remembered the child in me, or rather, the child that is me, and I’ll never forget that even if I could be referred to as a Major now. I know that there is just a part (if not the whole!) of me that will forever remain a child. And I accept that — Disney-loving, cartoon-watching, Happy Meal-buying, Supernatural-fearing — part of myself, because, let’s face it, what’s the fun, playing your age? :)

More than my usual blog post, this is a special dedication to all my most awesome friends for making my day so memorable (because just a status is too mainstream :P ). Thank you all so much! :)

Dispersed

I attempted at something like poetry and I ended up with this :D
(Small Clarification - It's from a guy's perspective.)

Dispersed

I don't understand. I don't understand what she says. I love her. I love her almost unconditionally. I love her for what she shows me and I love her for what she is. But is she really the person I think she is? Am I only seeing one side of her? 

Is there a dark side of the moon? 

Should I keep my distance?

And be blinded by the sun 

Who chooses to ignore me, 

Or should I be a tide?

And accept my attraction 

To the beautiful moon 

Who chooses to embrace me 

In her seemingly warm hug.

When I get too close to her,

Will I realize that she is not warm,

But cold.

Cold on the outside

And frozen on the inside - 

Too damaged to salvage anything at all?

My sun is all I have.

My sure source of warmth.

But why would you burn me?

Never let me get close to you?