Goodbye Stanford – I

I am moving out of Stanford tomorrow. Two long long years later. I leave with mixed feelings. I leave, but am not going too far.
I came to Stanford for a reason, and did I live up to that dream? Hell no.
I made some really good friends. One of them even introduced me to a potential date as his best friend. Aww, that hadn’t happened in several years.
I made mistakes. Some big ones. Some small. Like agreeing to write a chick lit column.
I lost someone whom I loved very very dearly.
I made my much vaunted solo trip to Europe, but to be honest, enjoyed the non-solo nights and weekends much more.
I battled recession, depression and the lure of shiny shoes and chocolate icecream.
And in return, I got a degree I have no use for.
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Things have been going terribly wrong for the last few weeks, starting with the disappearance of my beloved Nikon D70s. Haven’t had the inclination to write at all. It hasn’t come back yet, but I want to write nonetheless. It’s like marking minor milestones, like leaving a trail that I can follow years later to reconstruct these times. I am using Twitter more and more to do that, but because of how little it allows to be said, it’s no more than the crumbs Hansel and Gretel left behind. The birds of time will peck away at the sentiment behind tweets in no more than a few weeks.

Anyway, some themes that come to mind when I think of my time at Stanford. Over the next few days.

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Before I came to Stanford, I probably saw my body as little more than a safe deposit box for my mind, a vehicle perhaps, a chariot. I had never really used my body as a tool an instrument or a medium. I couldn’t swim. Or dance. Still can’t play any sport half-decently. It looked good in some clothes, not so much in others. That’s all I knew, and cared for. Did I use my body to impress, not express? Maybe.

Stanford changed a bit of that. I learnt swimming. Tried my hand at golf. Picked up some skiing too (and I am not too bad at it!). I am still not a good dancer, but a white russian or two down, I have got some moves.

Will always be grateful to Stanford (and the US) for that.

–
I typed out the rest of the entry and stared blankly at my screen for several minutes. Blankness is probably the most pervasive theme of my time at Stanford. Without further ado, I will sign off with a quote from one of my earlier posts.

In order to live free and happily, you must sacrifice boredom. It is not always an easy sacrifice.

- Illusions, Richard Bach

My lust list

Last year at about this time, i put together a list of things i was planning to do back in India. Well, i am not going back home this summer – my first time away from India for more than six months at a stretch. So here i am, doing the next best thing, putting together a wishlist for the next few months. Tangible, material, no ‘purpose in life’ or ‘peace of mind’ spiel, i promise.

1. Alphonso mangoes. Because there is no other kind.
2. The Nikon D90. As soon as i can afford it. (Edit: Now I have lost my D70s and really really need this, but absolutely can’t afford it, or any of the other items on this list)
3. A trip to South America. i am almost 25 now and haven’t been south of the Equator (no wordplay intended)
4. Bottega Veneta knot clutch. The Madras Knot. Less keen on this now than i was a few months ago, but hey, the list has to have its shallow bit too.
5. Red hair! Again.
6. A meal at the French laundry perhaps.

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Edit: I got some complaints about this post from some finicky friends. Ok ok, the lowercase i’s were intentional. It was an experiment, an (insincere) attempt to downplay the egocentrism that inadvertently creeps into my blog. But what to do, I know of nothing but myself. So I will stop pretending otherwise and live with it!

Some borrowed words on writing

Amit Varma, one of India’s most widely-read bloggers, recently released his first novel. While I haven’t read the book yet, I enjoyed his interview on his blog. Some of his answers evoked a strong feeling of empathy in me. Very very familiar.

On wanting to write but putting it off.

“I’ve wanted to be a novelist all my life—since I began to read, I wanted to tell stories, and I can’t remember ever wanting to be anything else. I did various other things along the way, procrastinating furiously. In 2001, I took some time off and tried writing a book, but after 10,000 words, realised that it wasn’t working, and that I wasn’t ready for it yet, either in terms of craft or maturity. I bided my time till I was ready, and then eventually did get down to it.”

On the impossibility of devoting yourself to anything else.

“I felt that writing a novel needed me to devote myself to the fictional world I was creating, and weekly deadlines for columns and suchlike got in the way. I had to make a choice, and so I chose to give up journalism.”

There’s just big point of difference. The art of brevity is one that still eludes me. I write with large long lazy strokes. Well, a few more weeks on Twitter and that might change!

“Blogging also taught me one of the most important lessons of writing: Respect your reader’s time. When someone is online reading your blog, there are a thousand other things they can do with their time. The whole world is just a click away. If you’re self-indulgent, if you waffle, if you use 10 words where five will do, boom, they’re gone. To build a readership, you have to keep giving your readers value for their time. Blogging made my writing crisper, more economical, and less self-conscious. I’d like to think that these values reflect in the other writing I do. “

(Full article here)
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If anyone back in India reads the book, let me know if it’s worth a read.

Reverse psychology

Last week, I found myself seeing a doctor after several years. I have a very strict policy of self-healing which makes me averse to popping pills or consulting doctors. However, with the wretched H1N1 virus spreading wantonly, I decided to compromise on my unfounded ideals.

At the pharmacy afterwards.
“Don’t take more than two pills at a time. The masdxgdvsbcoxin (or some such thing) in it acts like caffeine and makes you jittery. You don’t want that, do you?”

Wrong question.
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The most obedient and conformist of kids (and adults) have strange ways of manifesting subversiveness.
Yes, this is where I launch into a story from childhood.

I clearly remember the time I bought one of my first raincoats. I was four, living in Surat (This was in the pre-plague days, much much before the city cleaned up its act, and its streets. To mark our arrival into the city, a pig came and died at our doorstep).

The rains arrived, and it was time for me to get a new raincoat. We went to the market, my dad and I, on his green scooter (the car was reserved for special occasions, and oddly, he didn’t think this was one).

My father is a good rational man at most times, but he hates the colour yellow. I don’t know why, much like I don’t know why I hate pigeons. And needless to say, I narrowed down my choices to a pretty pink raincoat, and a yellow one.

‘If you buy the pink raincoat, I’ll buy you a Barbie.’ (Yes,yes, talk about good parenting)
And I, who was really close to picking the pink one, thought for a full minute and said, “I want the yellow raincoat”.

Why?
To be honest, I still don’t know. I really still don’t know.

–
Anyway, I didn’t OD on my nasal decongestant or go hopping around like a caffeinated bunny. But there are still so many times I defiantly pick the yellow raincoat and it hangs in my life, a symbol of small sedition, and missed opportunity. With specks of pride and flickers of regret.

–
Several years later, I realized that ‘Barbie’ anagrams to ‘A bribe’.

–
Two days before the aforementioned visit to the doctor, my Facebook status read
“I wish someone had advised me to go to Stanford two years ago”

Postcards from 1991

(Note: This post had been a draft since February ‘09. Rushed to finish it, which explains the patchy writing)

In 1991, a banker’s family moved to a small town in Gujarat. It was a postcard middle-class family, with their postcard-coloured Maruti 800. Husband with a bank job, wife who made excellent dal, two children, both of whom spoke English and also sang along “Mile sur mera tumhara” before the 9 PM news every night.

A little about the daughter. She went to the only English medium school in the town, a school with classes only till the 7th grade, a school where as a 7-year old, she got ribbed by her classmates for wearing shorts to a school picnic, classmates who sniggered, ‘Arre dekho, yeh chaddi pehen ke aayi hai.’ (Look at her, she’s wearing only underpants) She sniggered harder. It’s amazing, how children know so little shame.

A school where the English teacher recited, “Miss Molly had a dolly who was sick sick sick, she called for a doctor qyook qyook qyook”. The girl was horrified and perplexed. Qyook doesn’t even rhyme with sick.

It was also the school where she met Shaheen, a sun-kissed imp with big eyes and bigger questions. The precocious daughter of an engine driver, she had a biscuit-coloured face and short brown hair. She said what was on her mind.

‘You have a car? I have never sat in a car! Can I tell you something? When I saw you in the car, I felt like pulling you out and taking your place.’ It never occurred to her to offer a ride.

Shaheen was a straight-C student. The banker’s daughter was lonely. What followed was after-school tutorials, homework assignments, reprimands and stars (in red ink, for authenticity). Stories and lunch boxes were exchanged. In a few months, Shaheen’s report card was dotted with B’s. It was a proud day for two girls. (Yes, kids are adept at taking credit too!)

I have a small gift for you, teacher. She smiled.
It was a peacock feather. Shiny blue-eyed cyclop. Simple but complex, beautiful. Like haiku.

–
I changed many houses and towns in the years after. The feather slipped away, and I didn’t even realize it. Nostalgia often acts as inflation, making artifacts from the past seem worth a lot more than when you first held them. But nostalgia didn’t kick in for many years.

Till 27 February 2002, to be precise.

For the small town in Gujarat was Godhra, which became etched in public memory forever on that day. As the eye of a storm, a storm that started near the railway station, where families of engine drivers lived; an eye where a terrible terrible nightmare was born. But long before, the eye had seen many dreams.

I know one of them at least. A car ride.

Confessions, catharsis

I am back.

The worst is over, and behind me. I walk away making no attempt to hide my tracks. Smooth criminal indeed. Yes, I have pulled out of a very troubled period. It took some effort and a lot of work. Literally. The only thing that can fill the Void is being occupied. Emptiness and Emptiness mate and multiply faster than rabbits.

Just being conscious of the fact that I have no control gives me so much more control, I told her.
She smiled, we are good then.

–
I have spent a lifetime making mistakes and living by them. I guess it’s high time that I broke out of the cycle. Alright fine, I care two hoots about engineering. Hell I don’t even think I am an engineer. Yet, it stings when people point that out. Because I would love to believe that I am a good impressionist. Yes, I prefer impressionist to impostor.

But you loved Aero, didn’t you?
I thought I did, but what I loved was the idea of flight, of wresting free of gravity, of Icarus and of melting wax, of fragility and freedom.
It’s like becoming a gynaecologist because you enjoy watching porn, I told a friend.
It cracked him up.
–

The last few weeks have been fantastic. The miracle I had prayed for forever was granted: I saw snowfall. How was it? Hmm, let’s just say I wish I had prayed for a plate of pani puris instead. I have also discovered a sport (?) I don’t naturally suck at – skiing. That is probably because I am already pigeon-toed and walk with a slouch too. Just strap some skis on and go down a slope. That’s easy.

Started working part-time at an early stage start-up too. Will publicize it shamelessly once the product launches. As of now, I am happy working with some amazing energetic people, taking an idea to fruition. That’s my career goal of the month: become an entrepreneur. I think Silicon Valley is rubbing off on me (am I the only one or does that sound incredibly lesbo?). Anyway, last month it was venture capital. Non-profit the month before. Let’s see how long this lasts.

And Margaret Atwood. Her writing brings me to life. If someone could assure me that I could write half as well as she does, I would drop everything and pick up a pen.

The way you make me feel

I have been thinking a lot over the last few days (having given up on engineering completely and on life partly). About life, the universe and my skin (I can swear that I have aged considerably in the last 6 months) But given that it’s Valentine’s Day, and enough pink chaddis have already been washed in public, what better topic to write about than people, people you care about, friends, family, foes and uh, let’s just say loves.

I have come to realize that close friends are of two kinds only: those around whom you can be your worst and those who make you want to be better people. And of course, my set of friends is convex, because there are people who are a bit of both. (Did I say I have given up geekdom?) I was talking to a close friend last month and boy, did the claws come out. People were torn apart, institutions were rubbished, bad advice freely traded. No matter how much time passes, we have something in common, something that connects us. And of course, when you connect at the lowest common denominator, you form a bond that is not contingent upon frequent calls and catch-up coffee.

And I have met people who believe in you so completely and unflinchingly that the single speck of grey on your soul seems encompassing like an overcast sky. Friends who make you long for innocence, for doodles, for that last vestige of higher purpose in the recesses of your soul.

Of course you can’t pick between the two. Maybe you need a bit of both in your life, to be flung from one end to another like a ping-pong ball, to avoid being in one place for long enough for you to say, ah, so this is me, with an air of finality and a sigh of resignation.

And I must add that close friends don’t have a monopoly on strong emotions. It is the acquaintances who breeze in and light up an evening with their ridiculous banter. It’s the roommates who open your eyes to a whole new world in your world. The frenemies make you feel like shit with just a cock of the eyebrow and some unguided (but lethal) missiles of words. Keep it coming, I say.

I was an emotional cutter long before this kind of atyachar came to be in vogue.

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It’s raining outside. Rainy days – and nights – are so fruitless that you rue being single. But the sound of rain makes me happy. And that’s more than I can say about most things these days.

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Only fools rush in

And finally, my much hyped column for iDiva (The Times of India’s new women’s portal) is out. It sounded good on paper, and now I am all oh, there’s too much pink, my picture’s too dark, this is all so silly. But well, pink silliness and all, it’s mine.

What’s it about? Well, it’s Indian chicklit. That means Sex and the City, minus the sex. It also means that the Pulitzer is not happening, not yet.

What does it say about me?

Amrita Mahale is a hitchhiker at heart and an engineer by accident. Now cynical, now soppy, her fickleness in matters of the heart is matched only by her eavesdropping skills.

When she’s not dissecting the loves and lives of those around her, she is trying to learn how to get a damned plane off the ground in the Department of Aeronautics at Stanford University in California.

You can read it here. Contractual obligations dictate that I can’t cross post entire articles…but a few words from the first article should be kosher.

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My brother and I share a passion for a literary genre – fantasy. He loves Harry Potter and I adore love stories. It is unbelievable what creative minds can do with unreal elements: wizards, goblins, spirits and soul mates….

Read on.

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I happened to show this article to a few (mainly male) friends. They disagreed with it vehemently and said I was too cynical for my own good. Yes, even the ones who don’t cleanse and tone their T-zones twice a day.
Hmm, what do you think?

I miss

I was going through my LJ blog archives today. Went as far back as 2005. That blog was different. Posts were shorter, fresher, sometimes unintentionally pompous, sometimes intentionally cryptic, more honest, more me.

I miss being younger, being naive (though I would have never admitted it then), being busy, being surrounded by friends I could crib to. I miss anagrams. I miss Sam, PPS, pc.  Lazy monsoon afternoons spent wordlessly in bed.  I miss being wide-eyed with wonder, like I was when I visited NYC for the first time or wore my first LBD to Olive.  I miss the time when being clueless was still cool.

I don’t miss the acne though.
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“Chronic dissatisfaction. That is what you suffer from. You will never be happy anywhere you go”

This is what the (smouldering hot) Penelope Cruz says to (I-related-to-her-in-spirit-not-in-action) Scarlett Johansson in Vicky Cristina Barcelona. Lovely movie.

Hmm, so what was I saying?

Thank you for loving me?

Thanksgiving is the time of the year when you realize how little you have to give thanks for. People ask themselves different questions: When will this end? How could they do this? How will I pull off this dinner for twelve? Shouldn’t I have a job by now? Was I really a size 2 last year? Why is my bank balance shrinking faster than forest land? Is tomato hummus really better than roasted garlic hummus?

If you are a poor lazy grad student with a weakness for hummus and pita, you find yourself asking all of them.

I was out outlet shopping and you must believe me when I tell you that the reason most clothes are on sale is because they got all the labels mixed up. What you think is a Large is probably a Small, and what not. And they economize by using dodgy mirrors that ahem, accentuate some mildly unflattering curves. And aliens with shrink guns and fish on bicycles…ah well, I know too much. Let me not give away too much in interest of my safety.

One person who was, however, not acting in the interest of his safety (or for the safety of his interests) was the boyfriend.

Scene 1.
‘What’s this?? I thought you were swimming every other day!’
‘It’s a tricky silhouette…who are they designing for? Supermodels? Let me try something else’

Scene 2.
‘Uh, why don’t you try a larger size?’
Raised eyebrow.

Scene 3.
‘Seriously, how did you put on so much weight in two months?’
Glare. Glare.

Emboldened by the observation that his bones and eardrums were still intact, he spewed a slew of endearments.

‘Oh fattie, what will I do with you? You are quickly falling off my ladder, and taking down some rungs with you!’. More witticisms followed.

‘Alright, if that’s what you want I am going to stop eating from now on. I hope you are happy’, and stormed out. I sulked and grimaced for two hours, but the barbs kept coming. The tantrum lasted all of two hours till I found myself outside one of my favourite cafes, that served delicious gooey hot chocolate in martini glasses.

I was amazed. Had I just gone from heartbroken to a hearty eater just like that? From glum to gleeful in minutes? I thought about my many mood swings and something struck me.

I think I have bipolar disorder, I have to eat for two.
That settles it. Now about tomato vs. roasted garlic…