Pure, Unadulterated Poetry, I tell you!

Sometimes, one is bored. And when one is bored, odd things happen. I, having lived with myself, for 17 long years, am very much accustomed to my general level of oddity (or as I call it, uniqueness). But sometimes, very, very rarely, in fact, I do things that weird myself out. This is one of those noble things.
Read on, and prepare to be dazzled by my literary ability!

Lo, it dawns on me,
how pretty I scream!
As thy fur grazes muh skin,
And thy teeth, "gently" bite moi neck.

Ah, I suddenly conclude,
how natural my tears
as they flow outta my contorted face,
And my countenance but freezes

Oh, that which I once loved so,
And, surely, continue to,
Has bitten me in casual play.

Well, my resolve has not wavered.
I will defend ye till the end.
For I know you meant it not,
To but slightly threaten moi lyf.

At the crack of dawn, I decide,
I will lead thee to moi amma,
And explain to her crystal-clear,
How you still the gr8est wolf ever.

She may regret getting me one,
She did say a hamster would be better,
But I argued! And, oh, I won!
And thence, *blushes, u wer my bae 5ever

But, oh, what this be?!
For my legs, hang as they did normally,
But betwixt them now,
For sure, a tail I see!

I see a snake in the distance
And filled with a canine urge, I charge,
And the poor bastard is in pieces before
I realize, humans don't have teeth that large.

Horrified,
You by my side,
I walk to a lake,
I look in,
my fears are confirmed.
My eyes, once blue like the colour,
Are ruby-red slits
My gay smile, once wide and nice,
Is but a lopsided snarl.
By me mom's baggiest slacks
A crazy-ass wolf I be!

I look to Yer face.
I took you under my wing.
I thought,
You were a wolf
But my words were ordered wrong.
For, by my troth,
I now see,
You a were wolf!

I snarl at you happily.
I like the sound it makes.
You snarl back, like you always have,
And reveal this was your plan all along.

We paw-bump and touch noses.
You'll be king and I'll be king-er.
For till this earth explode, and even after,
We shall be heroes. Frackin forever.

Yes. No structure, no rhyme scheme. And no damns given by me. There is a reason I never wanted to be an English major.
This is high quality art. I stand by it.
Also, special props if you got the David Bowie reference.

Totto-chan: The Little Girl At The Window (A Book Review)

Due to general Boards trauma (I exaggerate, my friends. Don't worry!), I found myself preferring to procrastinate by mindlessly scrolling through Facebook rather than further challenging my mind by consuming the written word. Basically, I was a lazy blob and this is the first book I've read in 2016. And in reminiscence of the 400-word book review the ISC Board compelled us to write in 20 minutes, I have decided to review it.

The book, of course, being...^that thing you see in the title there that is too long for me to type out again. Set during World War 2, it's a memoir by Tetsuko Kuroyanagi (Totto-chan) about her unique preschool experience. The title invokes imagery...sorry, I'm fresh off my English 1 paper...ahem...the title makes me think of a childish, imaginative mind looking into the unknown. And that (surprise, surprise) is exactly what the book is about. The author, however, said the title was inspired by an old Japanese expression referring to people being "over by the window" as "out in the cold" or alienated.

Totto-chan was indeed alienated. She was a curious little thing, that wanted to spend all her time in elementary school listening at the window to the street musicians outside. This enthusiasm was seen by teachers as being "a disciplinary problem", and led to her being expelled.

Her mother never told her she was expelled, never made her feel like a failure. She quietly admitted her into Tomoe School, an enterprising endeavour by Sosaku Kobayashi to educate all children in a very organic, encouraging way. In this school where classrooms were old railway coaches, only one rule was followed: everyone deserves respect. Respect for their likes and dislikes, respect for their disabilities, their passions, and respect for their place in society. The headmaster (Kobayashi) enforced this rule universally. He was extremely supportive of all of Totto-chan's quirks-he never criticized her or corrected her. He taught her (and all of Tomoe's small student body) to learn from everywhere-nature, music and art. He taught them to love and respect everyone without prejudice. He was exactly the mentor every kid wishes they had.

Tomoe also allowed the children freedom to learn whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted. This way, their natural curiosity was fulfilled. They were taught to explore everything from nature (outdoor cooking expeditions) to differences between them (they swam naked-making every child, disabled or otherwise, comfortable with their body). If every quality glorified in the school songs of the world were to come together into one school, Tomoe would be it (much more so than Hogwarts. There-I said it).

There was a strong sense of community in the school. Everyone knew every single peer of theirs, and their parents too. The headmaster interacted with every child and inspired them equally. Every child felt like they fit right in. The community is so strong, in fact, that Tomoe alumni meet up every year where Tomoe used to be, and they boast a long list of achievements too. They have among their ranks a research physicist, a television personality (the author herself), a graphic designer and a high-school dropout who's Japan's foremost authority on Far Eastern orchids. This repertoire is as diverse as one would expect.

The reason this book did so well in the Japanese mainstream (sold 7 million copies) is because it differs so much from traditional Japanese customs-which, by my limited understanding-are pretty orthodox. It was probably a welcome change from rigorous schooling systems, tedious exams and constant pressure to study (sound familiar?). It made them question whether things were working ok, whether consistently high scores on standardized tests meant the Japanese were doing schooling better than the West was.
In fact, this book borrows heavily (again, by my very limited understanding of things) from Western culture, in that Totto-chan and her schoolmates are politely encouraged to live outside the social norm (a very non-Japanese thing to do). Learning is what's important, not the systemic impartment of knowledge through outdated curricula. They learn "body rhythm"-a universal skill-through the Western art of Eurythmics (also a great band. Check 'em out.).
Although the school burned down at the end (owing to America's bombs), the book ends on a positive note. The headmaster stands next to his son and muses on what kind of school to build next.

I loved this book. It brought peace to my soul. Forgive the cheesiness, but it really did. It made me feel warm inside, like hot coffee on a winter day (mmm...winter). I wish I'd read this book as a kid, or during hopeless times where one lacks purpose in life. It would have dispelled that feeling right away, for the world is just too beautiful to be ignored like that.
According to me, the internet creates a very similar, albeit less wholesome, safe space to Tomoe for Totto-chan. It provides a platform for ideas, it nurtures curiosity, and if you are with the right crew, it asks us to love everybody-regardless of race, gender and sexuality. I know it has opened my mind to all kinds of differing ideologies and systems.

I will probably be reviewing more books, now that I'm done with my Boards. So, after a year, life will be injected back into this blog! Stay tuned, my readers! (all...7 of you)

On Magic

I have an interesting relationship with magic, in that I wholeheartedly believe in it. The basic, raw definition of magic, for me, is something I do not understand-an occurrence I do not know the mechanism behind, an occurrence I attribute to the supernatural. So my pencil writing on paper is less magical than is my brain making the pencil move in my hand. To be aware of everything around you that you don't know the story behind, or whose cause and effect chain-of-events you cannot deduce at face value, is to accept the existence of magic. The unknown is magic and the "science" or "reality" you invoke to explain it, its caster.
Since magicality so often equals wonder, by the base act of learning about the world, are our lives moving from a very magical to a less magical state, and thus, from amazement to disinterest? Maybe. But logic has its own beauty, resolution, its own appeal.

Frayed laces and Foreign Places!

So I recently noticed that I have a huge temptation to start all my blog posts with the word 'so'. Yep. All of them. All NINE of them *smugface

All right, you can stop rolling your eyes. I'm still pretty darn proud of myself. Which brings me to the word 'darn'. Isn't it ridiculous how we have these substitute curse words so we appear more polite, when everyone knows what we're really speaking of? Pointless censorship. It beats me why swearing even has such a negative connotation. I feel it's a very effective way of letting out emotion, as the evergreen Hank of Vlogbrothers(pun absolutely intended) elaborates in this video. (It opens in a new window so you don't have to right click and all that jazz. Aren't I thoughtful?)... My train of though derailed-sorry about that.

Now, the entire soul, crux, point and other tautologies of this article is a point I haven't even touched on yet. It's my recent trip to Denmark. Yes, I've returned. Yes, I' have deep-seeded holiday blues. The reason I'm writing this so late is because every time I return from a vacation, I spend weeks mulling over every single thing I did. So I thought I'd share some of that with you guys!

This exchange program has been a journey (an ongoing one, actually, since the Danes will be coming over in March), and one I've completely enjoyed so far. An experience like no other. Now, I've visited a fair share of countries. I've begged and pleaded my parents to explore forbidden lands seeking adventure (aka eating KFC in a hotel room, crying as I watch bad reality television). I've visited about twelve countries, I'd say, but I've only truly experienced one. Only one have I locked in a special cubicle in my heart. Only one has blown my mind so thoroughly that sweet memories of it are revisited every morning I wake up. If any of you dunderheads (or Ron Weasley) reading this haven't yet understood which one.....it's Denmark.
Funnily enough, it's not the sights we saw, the food we ate or the natural beauty we experienced that made it different. It was...the feel. The spirit. The depth. The aura about it. We didn't listen to a radio guide who told us the exact year something was built. We didn't call ourselves food connoisseurs and then only eat McDonalds when in the country. We didn't spend five minutes on the top floor of a really tall building, clicking photos of a city that looks like every other city from the top floor of a really tall building.
No. We stood still. We watched. We marveled. We stayed at a Danish family's house. We ate their food. We greeted them in the morning. The fact that the domestic atmosphere here and there are so different, yet the same....
The way they addressed each other. The way they joked around. The way they just...family-ed. Exactly like our own families. Exactly like every other family in the world. But in a different setting. In a first world country, instead of a third. With cows mooing and horses neighing and the wind hooting instead of cars...horning and beggars crying. We never think of people so foreign and so different to be as much of a real entity as we are. And that in itself is ridiculous.
Anyway, ten days in a foreign land definitely leaves you wanting more. But so does fifteen years in your home country. I only wish to interact with other foreigners as well. Oh boy, a place where I can freely talk with other people of different nationalities, where we can share ideas and thoughts and feelings about common things that matter to us, creating a diverse platform for enhanced communication and meeting awesome people! How awesome does that sound! Where can I have that, I wonder?

Wait a minute....

It's a Wobbleful Life

I'm guaranteeing you guys have heard of the famous Indian Head Wobble. If you haven't, it's something foreigners think Indians do when asked a yes/no question, where they wobble their heads left to right, center to front, and in every other direction humanly possible.

The reason I know of it, is because I Google things like 'What foreigners think of Indians'.

Getting to the point, I had assumed this to be a purely fictional thing, because I'd never seen a real life Indian do it before. So imagine my consternation when me and some of my fellow curry maniacs were accused of doing that very thing. Following this, I decided to observe people around me for one entire day. And guess what I found out? It's a real thing, ye potato heads.

We're just supremely accustomed to it, and don't think it's anything out of the ordinary.

Having said that, I think the Wobble is an extremely effective form of communication. It's a great way if responding without really responding. In the following circumstances, for instance:

"Didja do yer homework?"

Wobble Wobble!!

"Didja feed the dog??"

Wobble Wobble!!

"Didja go to school??"

Wobble Wobble!!

"I haven't seen the dog for the past week! Do ye know where it's gone??"

Wobble Wobb....Wobble?? WOBBLE!!!!!!!! ***

So, folks, until next time....

...

Wobble Wobble Wobble, yeah!

***- RIP Doug the Dog. You will be missed furry much.

Denmark Diaries

So I kinda promised people I'd daily blog my Denmark trip, and I obviously haven't been doing that. Oh, by the way, I'm on a Student Exchange Program to Hjørring, Denmark. There's 22 of us, and we flew out on the 13th. 

The reason I didn't daily blog is because there was nothing particularly remarkable about what we did the first two days. Yeah, it was the first time I flew without my parents, and yeah, we sat on a two-loop roller coaster and we had epic fun, but none of it triggered the writey part of my brain. I sure didn't want to write about what I had for lunch the other day. 

To begin, let me give you some background about the kind of place we're staying in. It's essentially a farmhouse, and there's a hundred cows in it. In fact, we get deliciously fresh milk on the table every morning. So, we'd been told about this neighbour of my host's, who carved wood sculptures. He lived about half a kilometre away. It took us 10 minutes to get there on foot. To give this some perspective, it takes all of five steps or two seconds to get to MY neighbour's place.

So we get there. The entrance's decorated with cool sculptures of a unicorn, sea horses and owls in interesting poses. You can take a look at them at www.olmholm.com. 

It was about eight in the night, or in the evening, if you have to be all Indian about it. His house was way off the main road. We walked through a small forest patch to get to it. 

Beautiful sculptures and beautiful surroundings, it was great. Later, we went to an even more remote area, to see a totem pole he had made. We  chatted with his wife, had an all-round awesome time.

It was there, standing in the grazing field, with sheep nibbling at our toes, trees peeking in to take a good look at us foreigners and two dogs prancing about happily, that the rareness of this experience really hit me. This was far from a tourist site. This was unlike anything I'd ever experienced before, the Eiffel Tower is a tourist attraction, everyone knows about it. I've been there twice, and both times, the tower has remained the same. This, however, was nothing like that. Few people probably even knew about this, or other things like it. Like I visited the Tower twice, I'll never visit this again. Even if I come to Denmark later in life, never again will I stand in that exact spot, and look upon that perfect scene around me. Never again will I breathe this exact same fresh, un polluted air I'm breathing right now, and marvel at how the sound of the dogs' barking is in perfect tandem with the wind whistling through the woods. This is now, in the moment, and this moment will never come again. 

I've never really absorbed everything around me as much as I did then. My mind is wandering, usually. Thinking of everything but what is happening right now. And that alternate reality is always crazier and more picturesque than everyday happenings. That, however, was definitely one moment where the two came damn near close.

Diary, I'll see you soon.  

The Power of the Dream?

6th April, 1990: A child is born in West Mumbai. Another in West California.

Just your average kids, brown hair, brown eyes, cute smile. Their relatives see them, kiss them. Their futures are speculated, their facial features analysed and matched. Two happy families.

6th April, 1994: Both turn four. One has picked up a paintbrush, the other a book. One makes rough, bright, haphazard lines on white paper, the other, a poem about the family dog. Both are praised, encouraged.

6th April, 1999: Both turn nine. Well into their school life, they enjoy every moment. By now, one is an art geek, the other, a book fan. Their obsessions slightly ridiculed by their peers, they are nonetheless supported.

6th April, 2000: Both are encouraged to write bucket lists. "Paint all the world into one canvas", says one; the other, "Change the world with my words." Show this to their parents. Parents promise to make it happen. Both kids swear to hold them to it.

6th April, 2002: Their twelfth birthday dawns. Relatives well aware of their art, one rips open gifts containing canvases, oil painting guides, liquids of all hues and fresh white sheets; the other, brown leather-bound volumes with gold-embossed titles. Both rejoice. Both remind everyone of their dreams. 

6th April, 2005: The fifteenth birthday. By now, both have their dreams set in stone. Both sets of parents inspire, motivate and appreciate. Only one set says the dream is impossible to reach. Only one kid sighs with disappointment. 

6th April, 2008: Both kids create art like never before. Both now strong in their fields, both wish to conquer the stars. One goes off to art school, ears filled with words of encouragement and confidence. One goes off to a College of Commerce and Accountancy, much more invested in writing than in a prospective career. 

6th April, 2012: Both graduate. Both have refined their art to near perfection. Both know that a carefully placed drawing, or a single sonnet can change the world. One of them is scared, however. Scared of his talent. Scared of society, and scared of poverty. One of them never shows his writing to anyone, ever again. The other one enjoys the attention, the limelight and the appreciation. Emboldened by society, he aims for the sky.

6th April, 2020: Both are happy. Families of their own. One struggles to make ends meet. The other's is far more successful. If we're speaking of money, that is.

6th April, 2028: One's work frequents art galleries. The other's? The bottom of people's files.

6th April, 2032: One lives in a two-bedroom apartment in South Jersey. The other, a multi-storeyed villa in New York City. A teenager walks up to the artist, hands him a roll of paper, says, "You inspired my childhood." The artist smiles, he feels his life's purpose fulfilled. The New Yorker returns home after a long day at work. His wife smiles, cooks him dinner. He writes a story before going off to sleep.

6th April, 2042: Both hit middle-age. Both remain happy. One because he's the world's 4th Richest Man, the other because his art matters. 

6th April, 2062: The artist dies in bankruptcy. He's mourned by family and close friends. His tombstone lies in a wayside graveyard, visited by few. It reads, "RIP, Henry Cook. Your art mirrored suffering and joy alike. You impacted the world without it ever knowing."

The accountant had died a few months ago. He was given a state funeral, attended by celebrities and Senate members. His tombstone, polished and glistening, read, "RIP, ", the name was soiled over, ",Accountant."