If Germany were a person

If Germany were a person, she would always be a bit cold.

Always reserved, polite but clear with her boundaries.

She would be beautiful off course, and I won't go on to describe her because everyone's idea of beauty differs, but she would catch your eye.

If Germany were a person she would be good with her hands, good with mechanical work.

She would be practical, so much so that her romantic aspects are often overlooked.

Germany would get things done, she would be a leader.

She would work out and stay fit and stay strong.

But once you got to know Germany, you would realize she is not as different from you as you thought, that the common aspects of humanity link the both of you.

Sometimes Germany would show a bit more affection, and her kisses would be sweet, would brush you like a cool breeze on a hot day.

If Germany were a person, if neat, organized, beautiful Germany were a person, she would have had a past. She would, if she felt secure enough, show you her scars and let you know that the wounds heal slowly, and that some marks are permanent.

But she would also show you that people are not remembered by their scars.

I do not know how Germany would treat a tourist, but she stretched her arm out to me, and as her fingertips met mine, whispered in my ear, 'Let me show you the true meaning of wanderlust.'

Happy Ugadi!

I wish I could call him something other than 'Garbage Waala Uncle', but I don't know his name. I should ask. He works in my apartment and is probably one of the nicest people I know.

Today, I wished him 'Happy Ugadi' and his mouth widened into a grin. He started thanking and blessing me, his eyes not meeting mine, but the joy on his face obvious. This was not the first time he had acted like this. The last time, I had inquired after his family, and perhaps had wished them all the best or something, but I remember the same delight on his face, the way he started muttering under his breath, blessing me.

The security guard uncle outside the grocery store, Ahmed Bazar, acts much the same way, smiling every time I thank him or wish him.

It makes me wonder... These people are happy with the smallest things in life. And it leaves me feeling bittersweet. How much attention do they really get? How much are they acknowledged in daily life? Their whole social status, probably their view of themselves, is determined by their job and how it is ranked in the social ladder.

In the US, I think, it would not have been so. Whether a person is a maid, a babysitter, or a businessman, they make sure they are recognized. They raise their voices if they aren't.

These people around me, they are probably the most humble people I know. To be acknowledged is a great thing for them, to be treated as an equal, even more so. And yet, they are the strongest. They provide a lot to the society and they ask for so little.

The tradition of Ugadi is to eat something both bitter and sweet. And these people, make our lives that much sweeter.

Subject: Recommendations Of Candidates For Mars One

Have you heard of the one way trip to Mars?

A bunch of people who aim for the stars,

But on the red planet are landing,

A feat (and a price) quite outstanding!

It must be super hard to participate,

But I know a few potential candidates.

No, I don't want to go on this trip,

I'm not really into space ships.

But please take into consideration,

My suggestions, recommendations.

My neighbor is a great example,

A woman with energy ample,

Which would better be spent in outer space,

Than used to scowl every time she sees my face.

So yes, I'd be over the moon,

If I knew she'd be going soon.

Then there's the Aunty across the street,

Who's fashion sense is always on beat.

But unfortunately so are her ears,

And she makes it her mission to spread all she hears.

Who's generous with the information she's acquired,

And of bitching, is never tired.

So for the gossipiest character under the sun,

She definitely belongs on Mars, that one.

Then there's the ... unique case,

Of just returning someone to outer space.

Who was lost and aimless and seemed to roam,

It's all about just sending them home.

He calls himself my class teacher,

But I'm still convinced that he's a creature,

From a planet even further than Mars,

Whose home planet is lost in the stars.

But for this man whose teaching is extraterrestrial,

Mars is just as good a home, I feel.

There are few more people who you wouldn't have thought

Of as the ideal astronaut,

But should be in that spaceship, should sit in,

I have a good feeling they'll fit in,

And will create a community that is meant,

For people like them, sour and unpleasant.

So here you have the list of candidates from a 15 year old girl,

Of people she wants out of her life, and if possible,

Out of her world.

Brain Drain

When neurons keep firing,

Life just gets tiring.

With a brain that chatters,

About things that don't even matter,

Little events become dramatic serials,

And everything makes me feel inferior.

I start to lose hope,

I self pity and mope,

Thinking that I just can't cope..

With a brain that never shuts up.

My brain is the mosquito that won't leave me alone,

It's three a.m., and sleep's still not my own.

The mosquito that won't leave no matter how much I swat,

And continuously bombards me with thought after thought.

My brain is the motorcyclist on Indian streets,

Who decides out of the blue that there's just too much peace.

And even though the traffic can't move an inch,

He honks so hard, it makes people flinch.

My brain is the student with too many doubts,

Who's got three questions lined up before you can get the next word out.

The student you can't even kick out of class,

Just because she happens to be the principal's lass.

I wish I could see the parts of my brain and sternly tell 'em,

(While continuously glaring at the Cerebellum -

who controls the thinking)

That my sleep duration keeps shrinking,

Because of their nonsensical blabber,

Because of how they murmur and jabber,

And kindly request that they keep

Their traps shut, and let me sleep.

And just as my eyes begin to close,

Sleep is near, I just know,

I can faintly hear my brain say,

'Hey! Remember what happened the other day?'

And suddenly I'm alert, wide awake and bright,

It's going to be a very long night.

'Tis the time...

If I was someone else before I met you, I don't remember it. My parents say I am though, so I should take their word for it.

I guess I understand changing but now? Now, I won't be able to recognize my old self.

When I first met you, you seemed so promising. I told everyone about you, I told them about what all we would do together, I knew, I knew things would be great.

But someone sitting up there just laughed.

I can't blame you for everything. Some of my decisions were self destructive, and I brought the effects upon myself.

As I got to know you better, things started going downhill. Things that should have happened didn't and those that shouldn't have did, there were disappointments and hurt and drama, and it was hard you know? Hard.

Some things worked out though, and I feel good about that.

I can't say I'm sorry that we're leaving you behind, but I want to thank you for all the lessons you have taught me. And you did teach me a lot.

I don't remember who I was before I met you, 2014, but I think I know who I want to be now, and hopefully, I'll get there.

Reverse Psychology

I look at my list again. Here's what it says.

Husband - Divorced - pain. Discouragement - Mark in his custody.

No job - counselor post offered - should/should not take. why.

Have to pay rent - after divorce - find better environment.

How to connect with Mark again.

Cabbage.

I take out a pen and immediately scratch the last thing on my list. Cabbage. I already bought that.

I look around me again and feel a sense of hope ballooning inside me. Maybe change is possible. Maybe after I talk to this counselor, maybe, just maybe I can patch up my life again.

My session starts at 4:00, and there about five minutes left. I scan my surroundings again. There are little kids on the carpet, playing with toys, there are large posters on the wall telling us that we can do whatever we want to, all we have to do is try. There is a large Tweety Bird staring at me from the other wall. The walls are painted warm colors, comforting shades of blue and light yellow and orange.

'Mrs. Deeney, your turn,' A woman wearing a bright blue nurse's uniform taps my shoulder.

'It's Ms. Deeney,' I say through gritted teeth, and allow the woman to show me the way.

'Here we are, ' she finally says and points to a door, painted purple.

'How dare you! - No, you don't get it! Shut up!' I hear faint, ok, not that faint, shouting from behind the door. I look at the nurse in alarm.

She shakes her head, 'Don't worry Ms. Deeney, Dr. Fern Itcher is slightly...uh, different, but still a very effective doctor.'

She opens the door and we both get a glimpse of Dr. Itcher, a plump blonde haired woman screaming into the phone.

Even the nurse can't hide her surprise, but she pushes me forward and softly says, 'Dr. Itcher, your patient, Ms. Deeney is here. She's a first-timer here.'

The woman doesn't even look the nurse's way.

Dr. Itcher's room is a large one. There's a black reclining chair, and after standing awkwardly at the doorway for two seconds, listening to Dr. Itcher's, 'No! Listen to me, you daft dumbo! Oh, yes, hon, I just called you that. Oh no, you didn't!', I decide to sit down.

Finally she slams the phone down and for the first time, since I came inside, looks at me.

'My dear husband, that sweet darling,' She says, sarcasm dripping from every syllable, 'doesn't know the difference between soya milk and regular milk.'

I decide to respond to this rather strange proclamation by giving her the wide-eyed-confused look.

There's a pause.

 I decide to take advantage of this fact by starting, 'My name is -'

'In fact,' Dr. Itcher says sitting down in her seat behind her desk, 'My husband doesn't know the difference between anything. It doesn't matter to him whether the shower curtain is open or closed when he bathes, nor does he know the difference between green and blue. Green clashes with pink, but blue doesn't. But of course, my color blind, lazy ass husband doesn't care.'

 I'm staring at her now, open mouthed.

'I'm sorry, ' she says, shaking her head.

I let out my held breath, and feel a sense of relief, 'Oh, it's quite all right..'

'I'm sorry. The person I should be complaining about is my brother. At thirty two, with no job and a pot belly, he still thinks he can attract women. He stops at my house every Sunday hoping to catch me with one of my girlfriends. Of course, my husband doesn't mind. Birds of a feather flock together, don't they?' Dr. Fern looks at me in the eye, as if daring me to go against what she's saying.

'I, well speaking of women, my husband decided -'

'Yes, speaking of women, can you believe that my brother was considered a catch? He used to work in the army. That's where he met my brother-in-law. My brother in law..' Her gaze drifts and I realize what must have happened.

'Oh, I'm so sorry.' I quickly say.

'Yes, I'm sorry too. My brother in law actually came back alive. Now he lives to control our lives. My husband has absolutely no spine of his own, and Older Brother is his constant mentor. What a dictator.' She huffs.

I know a thing or two about being told how to live constantly. 'You should tell him yourself. That you don't appreciate his constant mentoring,' I say.

Dr. Itcher looks at me, 'I've tried. But he's a soldier, who can go against him? Every time I say anything, he goes all, 'While you  were partying, I was busy defending my country.' How can you argue with that?'

I consider this for a moment. 'Don't counter it, go around it. You're a counselor, tell him you've counseled his fellow soldiers and tell him that they thought he was too bossy,'

'Hmm...' Dr. Itcher closes her eyes for a minute, 'so...lie?''

'Alter the truth, more like.'

'Well, I've tried altering the truth with my son. You know, the birds and bees, and all that? But he knows everything. How many second graders do you know who ask for Axe Men's Perfume for Christmas?'

I burst out laughing.

Dr. Itcher shakes her head, 'My daughter  is no better. We disagree about everything. Brands, boys, bands, everything. She just thinks she's right about everything.'

'You have to show them who's boss,' I say, 'I was a teacher for quite some time, teaching ninth graders, that too. You have to be firm, it's the only way that works. If you have a hard time, practice in front of the mirror.'

'I don't have the energy for anything. As if counseling isn't exhausting enough.' Dr. Itcher says, 'I'm an excellent counselor, though I don't really know what I do. All my patients say they have a change of perspective. I don't know what I do, I suppose it's innate.'

Change of perspective? I see what they mean. Suddenly, my problems don't seem that bad. I think.

'And don't even get me started on my patients. They are all so exhausting, always trying to tell me their  problems as if my life isn't hard enough. You know the other day....'

Suddenly the door bursts open.

'Excuse me, Ms. Deeney, I'm afraid your time is up.' The same nurse who led me to the room is speaking.

'Oh, well then,' I say, 'Nice to meet you, Dr. Fern.'

The doctor nods at me.

As the nurse leads me out, she asks, 'So, how was it?'

I shrug. Surprisingly, I'm feeling better. At least I've decided something on my list.

As I leave the center, I take out my mobile phone and dial a number.

'Hey, Mom. How are you? Yeah, remember the counseling post that was offered to me? I think I might take it...'

The Road Much Taken

When the traffic gets worse,

My mom begins to curse,

Stuck on the Bangalore roads,

She feels the need to unload,

Unburden her frustration,

Her anger, irritation,

And so she honks and hurls abuses,

At whomsoever she chooses,

And so you dare not cross her path,

Or else, you’ll incur her wrath.

By other’s stupidity, my mom is pained,

But we are thoroughly entertained,

We watch my mom’s vocabulary rock,

Every single time her car’s blocked,

It’s not often we see adults,

Lose their cool and insult,

Other grownups they pass,

Call them an idiot or an ass,

When it’s not us, who take the blame,

We quite enjoy my mom’s cursing game.

So Sachin and I sit at the back,

As mom pursues her verbal attack.

It’s important to note, dear reader,

That my brother turns cheerleader,

He might as well have pink pom-poms,

He constantly encourages my mom,

And even offers to pitch in,

And help her while she’s bitchin,

He finds the whole scene quite fantastic,

I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic,

As when my mother’s stuck on the road,

For Sachin, swear words are the way to go.

As for me, I remain amused,

When too many vehicles get confused,

She reminds me of angry cartoons,

When her head pops like a balloon,

I give a snigger, and a snort,

Because my mom’s usually the calm sort,

I just thank my lucky stars,

That I’m not the driver of those other cars.

To all those, at work,

Who have never seen her go berserk,

You actually think she is calm,

And she can be, my mom,

It’s a trait I share with my mama,

We both tend to do drama,

But otherwise she’s cucumber cool,

Is chill, and follows the rules,

If you do not always agree with her,

If you beg to differ,

Challenge her in the office, or on the streets,

But never when she’s in the driver’s seat.