Life Unbuckled.

She walks into my classroom almost every day, short hair bobbing, a half-eaten cornetto in her hand. She comes to 'hang out', a child with an adult. She talks of this and that as I listen, bemused. But she goes back to her question ever so often. "Ma'am, what's it like being an adult? Is it fun? Do you like it?" Each time she asks me, I have to consider her question carefully. When I do answer, I'm surprised at the number of 'ifs' my answers have. She must think happiness as an adult is such a conditional prospect.

Maybe I am just ill-prepared to answer her. Sometimes, when she asks me, my first reaction is surprise at being asked. It feels like just yesterday, I was her. I was a little girl too, chock full of carefree thoughts, uncertain about life but strong, armed as I was with nothing but a few fairytales. Will she too grow up and be disillusioned? Will life's experiences huff and puff and blow down the castles that housed all her beliefs? Will she learn that those who love her the most can hurt her the worst? Will she break her heart, and heal it, and still trust, still look up with shining eyes at all the possibilities that are before her? Will she be plagued by self-doubt, quailing at the prospect of having to make decisions that shape her future? Will she move from sadness to happiness to sadness, an endless cycle, and struggle to stop and settle so that peace can walk in and take root? Will she look at her parents and realize with sadness that she has moved beyond their world, and where she goes, they will not follow? Will she be utterly terrified to look back and see the proof of their mortality in the bends of their back and the lines on their faces? Will she learn how many nights money will keep her awake, this paper backbone that seems to hold up the planet? Will she stand alone, in a strange country, surrounded by the new and the unfamiliar, and still feel safe, at home, because she knows she belongs to the whole world, and it to her? Will she discover the depth of her own compassion, the shallowness of her own thoughts, the futility of her pride? ...And if she felt all this, lived through all this, would she be lucky or unlucky?

Maybe what I should tell her is that you never stop growing up. Only the lessons change, the field expands, the people come and go, varying in their intensity, in their capacities to surprise, disappoint, to love and hate. But she won't understand. She cannot yet. And when I realize that, I have this overwhelming urge to protect her, to shield her from all the pain that will come. I see myself in her again, strongly this time, and I want to whisk her away, the little girl that was me, to some magical place, perhaps Blyton's Faraway Tree, so that she/I can move from one land of joy to another, our fairytale castles intact. Because, though people insist that life, with all its highs and lows, is a great blessing, it can also be tiring, demanding, always 'on'.

A TV show told me once that it takes courage to keep moving, and sometimes, it takes courage to stand still. Life itself is an exercise in courage... She has courage, this little one who can think for herself, as she nods at whatever answer I give her, barely understanding but satisfied that when she grows up, like she thinks I have, she'll know too. I'm laughing at that. Little girl, you have no idea. Just buckle up and be unprepared.

Anti-peace

My neighbors are a good sort. They generally are around here. However, one day, I was awoken from my afternoon nap by the noise of a song filtering through the walls. Having a holiday where one can indulge in a nap is not something that happens often enough, so I was understandably mad. Our apartments are connected by the wall that adjoins my kitchenette. So I took my laptop, chose '1234, get on the dance floor' (an Indian number that could actually register on the Richter scale), pointed the speakers at the offending wall and blasted the music at it. After one song, the music died down on both sides. When I related this story to someone later that day, I finished with the moral- "see, violence IS the answer to everything."

Humor aside, there's no denying that sometimes, the low road just feels good. Cheap satisfaction, but quite satisfactory. So I'd say that though searching for heart-warming stories to rekindle your faith in humanity is definitely a good idea most of the time, there are some moments when you just want to slump to the dark side. During my latest slumping, I found an inspiring story. I meant inspired. Whatever.  All I know is that the guy in it is kinda my hero now.

So, this is a story about a guy who had a freeloading roommate desperately needing a lesson in manners. It has a moral too! Enjoy ;)

EngineeringGuy
March 4th, 2012

There are multiple ways of preventing the mooching roommate from devouring your food. The simplest is to obtain your own mini-fridge and put a lock on it, as suggested. I, however, took a different approach with my roommate during my college days. Please note that my roommate did not confine himself to the kitchen, he “borrowed” shampoo, soap, toothpaste, and, well…everything. That is, he did this until I could no longer tolerate it.

One Friday, after he had left campus to return home to his parent’s house for the weekend, I loaded the fridge with gag food. I made a salad topped with shredded soap for cheese, covered it with some Saran wrap, and put it in the fridge. I made a couple of sandwiches with soap slices for cheese and put them in there as well. I bought a half-gallon of some kind of chocolate ice cream that had fudge chunks in it, but I emptied the ice cream out of the carton and gave that to my girlfriend. I filled the carton back up with some store-brand chocolate ice cream that I put bits of roofing tar in and put that in the freezer. I baked some chocolate chip cookies with chocolate ex-lax for the chocolate chips and arranged them on a nice plate that I covered with some Saran wrap and left sitting on the counter. I ordered a Papa John’s pizza, ate half of it, and covered the other half with Bhut Jolokia chili peppers (had to order these).

I filled an emptied 2-liter coke bottle with some kind of awful “dark” beer and put that in the fridge. I also put a pitcher of water in the fridge that was dyed with red food coloring and had a cup of salt added to it (looked like Kool-Aid). I blended a half cup of salt into the jar of peanut butter in the pantry, and I sugared the potato chips. I ruined a few other food items as well, but I can’t remember every food product that I tampered with.

Anyway, when I was finished in the kitchen, I moved on to the bathroom. I squeezed the toothpaste out of the tube, mixed it with salt and some ground Bhut Jolokia chili peppers, and then re-loaded the tube using an over-sized syringe that I obtained from a nursing-student friend. I found a brand of shampoo that was clear and replaced the contents with Wesson oil. I loaded an empty lotion bottle with some creamy vegetable shortening (from the restaurant that I worked at). I filled an empty Visine bottle with soapy water (he was a stoner), and I pushed a needle through the condom packs that I kept in MY room.

Now, this was kind of expensive to do, but I could not take the mooching any longer. This had gone on for almost a year, and it persisted in spite of multiple discussions regarding the fact that he needed to chip in if he wanted to consume my groceries and use my toiletries. Please note that every product that I tampered with was mine AND had MY name on it (except the condoms as they were in my nightstand). Every food item had a small sticky with my name on it, or my name was written on it with a Sharpie. This was always the case, but not really necessary since he never bought anything. The bottom line was that I was tired of supporting this guy, and payback was waiting for him on the following Monday.

Monday came and he returned in time for his afternoon class schedule. While I watched, he Zip-locked up two of the cookies and a slice of the pizza, stuffed the food into his backpack, and ran out the door. I was overflowing with smug. I had no classes that day and could not wait until he returned. While he was gone I decided to hide all of the toilet paper, paper towels, tissues, and coffee filters in my car trunk. At six PM he came busting through the door and ran straight for the bathroom. He yelled from behind the door, “Dude, that pizza was the hottest thing I’ve ever eaten; I thought I was going to die after one bite! It has my stomach tore up!” I yelled back, “Well, how were the cookies?” “Awesome,” he replied.

After a few minutes he yelled, “Dude, where is the toilet paper?” I informed him that “we ran out.” He wanted to know if I could “pass him some paper towels.” “Out of those too,” I replied. “Any Kleenex?” “No, sorry…someone needs to go to the store I guess.”

In true college guy fashion, he jumped into the shower to wash himself off. While in there he decided to take a full shower. When he finally came out he asked, “Dude, what kind of shampoo are you using?” I looked at him and said, “Mine.” That was when he knew something was wrong. He sat on the couch, with his flat and crazy-looking hair, and watched television with me for a while. Then he went into the kitchen and helped himself to another cookie. After a while he decided to eat one of my sandwiches. After the first bite he yelled, “What in the hell are you trying to do here?” I looked at him in a frank and serious way and asked, “What do you mean?” He slammed the sandwich onto the counter and said, “Dude, this sandwich has soap or something on it!” I told him, “Frank, that is a special cheese that my mother makes, I like it, that is why I put it on my sandwich. If you don’t like it, don’t eat my sandwich.”

Now he was mad. Steaming in fact. He said, “look, I’m starving, I’m going to eat this salad in here.” Same thing as with the sandwich, “Dude! This has that crappy soapy cheese on it too???” I told him, “Frank, why are you complaining about my food?”

Frank pulled the freezer door open so hard I thought it would break off. He saw the ice cream but passed on it and went to the pantry. After surveying the contents he made himself a peanut butter sandwich with some potato chips on the side and poured himself a glass of “Kool Aid” to go with it. Let’s put it this way, after tasting everything on his plate and taking a swig of the “Kool-Aid,” Frank got the message.

He looked at me and said, “clearly you don’t want me here!” I told him, “yes, I want you here, but I want you to stop mooching my stuff. Buy your own groceries, buy your own shampoo, I’m not your mom, it is not my place to support you.”

Then, the Ex-Lax kicked in again and Frank ran off to the bathroom again. He yelled, “You have got to get me some toilet paper!” I said, “Uh, no, I don’t….” He was groaning, there was splattering, and he was pleading, “PLEASE, PLEASE!” I said, “Okay Frank, I’ll go to the store and get some, I’ll be right back.” I went next door and played video games for about half an hour, went to my trunk, got one roll of TP, and passed it to Frank, who was surprisingly still topping the toilet. He eventually emerged from the toilet and said, “Let me guess, the cookies were made with Ex-Lax?” I smiled and said, “I like them that way, it keeps me regular.”

Frank stormed off to his room for about an hour and I could hear him talking on the phone (later I found out he was talking to his dad). Eventually he came out of his room and went out the door. Through the glass doors leading out to the balcony I could see him pull away in his car. Two hours later he returned with a car load of groceries, toiletries, and other various consumables. From that day forward he was always willing to split the grocery bill. Too bad he had to eat soap, Ex-lax, Ghost chilies, sugar chips, salty-peanut butter, drink Krap-Aid, wash his hair with vegetable oil, and end up on the pot without toilet paper in order to learn his lesson. Actually, I was a bit disappointed that he never got around to the toothpaste, ice cream, and condoms!

Frank and I lived together all throughout college, and the expense I put forth to teach Frank his lesson was worth every penny since it started him down the road to contributing his fair share.

Don’t put up with mooching roommates, put them in their place. Some people just never seem themselves for who they really are until force them to do so. However, I will concede that there was the slight possibility that Frank could have gone crazy and killed me in the middle of the night, so whatever you do, you assume the risk associate with doing it. In fact, I recommend that you never do anything that I have mentioned here. Ever.

We Cannot Breathe...

Maybe if we were less accepting,
Of even a little unkindness,
Maybe if every living thing,
Was pointed out as precious,
Maybe if every child was taught to feel,
And not be deaf to the silent appeal,
Of starving men and suffering beasts,
Listening instead to unwise priests,
If we were not so unfeeling and cold,
Emotions in check, so richly controlled,
Maybe if we broke down and wept,
And refused to so easily accept,
The man on the pavement,
Broken and bent,
The dog all alone,
Dodging every cruel stone,
Maybe then the world would have far less,
Of criminals who transgress,
Of tyrants who oppress,
Of men who are able to sleep,
After deeds that make Gods weep.
For when the little acts are allowed to live,
They grow to proportions impossible to forgive,
Yet still we walk on by,
Masters of turning a blind eye,
Till the hand of fate,
And unthinking hate,
Reaches out and touches us,
Then we rail at the Universe.
This is life, I have come to see,
This is a side of humanity,
The pain is so hard to bear,
It chokes us of the very living air,
Till masses stand on the street,
And silently scream, "We cannot breathe."
~ Poornima Pillai

*Dedicated to the slaughtered Mexican students and Eric Garner.

Questions and Answers

As a teacher, I went into the field of education thinking that it was my job to teach children the answers to everything. In time, I've learnt differently.

It started in a quite literal fashion. I set exercises for all my students wherein I gave them a set of answers. Their job was to come up with the questions. There were many possible correct ways to do the exercise. At first, the children stared blankly, then they struggled to fit logic with language. I was surprised, but then I understood where we've been going wrong. It also took me back through my own life's journey of 'growing up'.

The first time I remember such a challenge was when I was a student. We were asked to write an essay about our favorite book. Back then in 6th standard, I think, I had left behind Enid Blyton and was going through Sidney Sheldon. I gushed for one page about this swashbuckling adventure called "If Tomorrow Comes". Ma'am Anuradha gave me the requisite marks, but she also wrote a note that froze me completely- she asked me why I so admired a protagonist who had taken to thieving, and justified it. I felt a few moments of deep shame. Then, I felt wonder at the fact that that was a question I hadn't asked myself. Why?

The second time I remember something similar was when I watched a stand up comedian make fun of the movie 'Titanic'. It was another bolt to my brain, as I realized that yes, I actually really didn't like that long-ass movie (his words, not mine  ). I had let myself be swept along with the tide of admiration that everyone around me had for the movie.

People like my teacher, and incidents like those are very visible markers that I can look back on and see how I was led into the path of questioning everything- my motives, my beliefs... it led to the most precious thing I have in my tool kit for life- my awareness.

Now, I see the children around me, going along- sometimes docile, sometimes defiant, and I am so amused at this process we all evolve by. And I am so grateful to the people and the circumstances that guided me. I look forward to giving back. (I am so moved I seriously considered adding a hashtag-feeling blessed, but thankfully the moment of weakness passed) 

More from Sanctinimonious

Stuff my Soul!

We had a seminar in school today. Stress-free living. Most of us had a headache when the man finally stopped droning after 2 hours. The headache was a combination of fighting the eyelid droop and fighting the urge to flee. However, at one point I was completely lucid. It was when the man said, "Why are we suffering like this?" I'm sure he had a context for saying it, but at that moment, it felt like the cry of our collective souls. I ducked, laughed, then fell back into my comfortable coma.

The conscious part of me registered something baffling though. The first 15 minutes of the seminar, the guy made it clear that truth and belief are two completely different things. Truth was undeniable, whereas belief was faith in something that could not be proved. For the remaining 72 hours, I mean, two and three quarter hours, he talked about nothing but the soul and how life should be lived from the soul perspective, not the material one. And there were many, many minutes of cheesy-music-with-cheesy-video-meditation when he was chanting stuff about being immortal and all that. Most of the teachers slept right through them.

The whole time I was thinking, 'Bloody hell, isn't the soul a construct of your belief? When did it become truth, that you would make it the complete basis for your life philosophy, and what more, preach it as fact?' I like my job, so I didn't stand up and embarrass him, the principal and the school. But I was sorely tempted.

It's not just this fellow that has me annoyed. Working in various fields, I've been subjected to quite a few seminars and talks by people who have no business being on stage. I'm all for people sharing and learning from each other life's experiences, but it has blown out of proportion and given rise to an alarming trend.

I speak of 'gurus'. Lifestyle coaches, relationship guides, spiritual mentors....call them what you like; I am very uncomfortable with the notion of a person who says he or she has answers that can satisfy en masse. They all sound like formulas to me, a kind of glorified version of the crap you find in fashion magazines- like 'how to get your ex back in 10 days' or some such drivel. Since when has life been so even across people that something that works for one person would work for another. And I must say, many of these gurus are utter crackpots who endow themselves with these titles- really scary shit. I wouldn't want to meet one of them alone in a dark alley, let me tell you. These people invariably are in a sea of denial, floating only because their egos are so bloated, you couldn't sink 'em even if you sat on 'em. A pity, really.

I'm toying with the idea myself. Being a guru, I mean. Why screw up a few people who call you a friend when you could reach a much larger audience? I'm off to buy boring white clothing. Peace out!

Invalid Search Strings...

There's a big difference between searching for something and finding something. To find, you don't always have to search. This difference is the answer to a question that's been on my mind- about what it means to grow up around books vs. growing up with an iPad. When I was a kid, I was incredibly fortunate enough to be surrounded by books- the complete Encyclopedia Britannica, the Tell Me Why series, comprehensive Space and Earth atlases... To me, discovery had very little to do with a search string, and more to do with stumbling, as in opening a book and stumbling upon things I never knew about, like echoes, or black holes. There was an innocent, wide-eyed wonder to my education, a feeling of it being precious since it came bound in pages that have to be opened, that have to be obeyed, not commanded.

As a teacher, I often get asked, often desperately, what a parent can do to make a child read more. Making a child read is like force-feeding an animal- a very bad idea, and counter-productive in most cases. Just leave a few nuts about, and watch a squirrel dance around, curious, afraid, toying with the idea, before it darts in and out. Children are very similar. They need to be around that which enriches them so that they reach for it themselves.

Any human growing up is going to eventually know that a round peg fits in a round hole. Yet we provide babies with such toys, not to make them curse (yep, we think it's cute only because we don't get baby talk), but to follow the educational principle simply known as i+1. This says that we introduce to a child information it is comfortable with, and then some more. A little extra jog to the brain to develop lateral pathways. Books do this naturally, because even when the content is unintelligible, we get a sense of logic, or little glimmers of understanding. We are challenged.

I love learning now as much as I ever did, maybe even more. Say what you will about knowledge now being at one's fingertips, I'll never concede the fact that I like my knowledge to be soaked up by starry eyes straight from crisp, light pages...