It's that time of the year...

If you'd come to my school right now, you'd see people roaming around randomly, holding maybe art equipment or cooking utensils, they could be dressed up outrageously. And once in a while (probably in the afternoon) you'd hear crazy screams from the auditorium. And let me tell you, when I say crazy and loud, I mean ridiculously high pitched screams coupled with catcalls and bellows and roars and possibly one or two parrot-squawks. In other words, it is a zoo.
Of course, ladies and gentlemen, this is the part I reveal to you what exactly I'm talking about. My school is enjoying its Lit Fest, which let me tell you here and now, is not centered around literary activities as much as cultural ones, and while its a misnomer, its a very enjoyable misnomer.
Lit Fest is the time a student can win major points for their House. There are events like salad-making, tattoo making, creative writing in English, Hindi, Sanskrit, Kannada, French, debate, play, solo singing, group music and....OK, I'll allow you to catch your breath. Let's just say there's a lot of events.
You know what the best part of this Fest is? You get to see how talented people are. It sounds all cliched, but there is a real beauty in seeing a person do what they're good at. I realized this while watching the boys in my brother's cricket academy bowl. Trust me, I know very little about cricket, but there was something about the way they ran and bowled the ball, the confidence in their step, the complete concentration. They looked good while bowling.
It''s the same during Lit Fest. No matter what kind of a person you are (unless you're like absolutely horrible to be around and have like zero friends or something), if you're good at something, people will appreciate you for it. They will cheer and clap and sincerely admire you.
I love watching people dance like they were born the twins of music, watching people act as if they were made solely for the stage, watching people paint, as if they had brushes instead of fingers, hearing people sing, like they were born with the melodies in their heart.
Then they could like get off stage and totally annoy you. But that pales against the talent they showed doing whatever they do. When you do something you're good at (and passionate about), there's a raw honesty about you that cannot be seen by doing anything else, which is why you look beautiful doing it. Nothing can replace honesty.
Watching my friends win medals makes me love them more. It makes me proud of them, and of their accomplishments. When people do what they love there's a beauty no matter what, and the Lit Fest does a great job bringing this out.

Dissolution

What it would be,
To fly away with the wind,
Become one with the air,
Disappear with the breeze.

What it would be,
To sink into the Earth,
Claimed by Our Mother,
Till the soil and I are same.

What it would be,
To lose myself in the water,
Carried by the currents,
Till I am nothing more than droplets in the stream.

What it would be,
To approach the flame,
Dancing and golden,
And then float away like the sweet smelling smoke.

What I would give,
To disappear without dying,
To rest forever, and awake once more,
Forgotten, but I remember...

What I want (and here's the point),
Is to be a teenager without stress,
And esteem issues,
And exhaustion (though I do nothing)
A hundred other problems,

Sometimes, I just want to dissolve into nature.

Homecoming

Four score minus seventy five years ago, the Saraffs descended from the airplane, landing in Delhi, immediately hit by the sweltering heat of the city.
That was June 27, 2009. After five years in India (which was celebrated with moong dal, Nutrela, and a broken RO system), we have come an amazingly long way. In fact, the whole US part of my life feels like a dream, it has become an unavoidable fact about me, an inevitable truth, but at the same time, it's about as hazy as the fogged mirror that is a result of long, hot, often melodic showers.
But this half decade journey wasn't just about us, it was also about India. My parents returning here after fourteen years, and my brother and I coming to live here for the first time.
Moving from the US to Gurgaon, and finally to Bangalore, I feel like I'm fitting in more and more. Even when I moved to Delhi, there was something comforting in knowing that I was with my fellow Indians, people of my own country and blood. And after coming to Bangalore, I finally experienced the thrill of living in a place where the people speak your mother tongue (even if you barely know it yourself).
Now what can I say about India? It's a mosaic - there are too many people, and too much poverty, and crime, and corruption, and beauty. People are modest, they work hard. And the best thing about living in Bangalore (apart from the whole Kannada-speaking thing) is the diversity. In fact all cities are diverse. There are people from Maharashtra, UP, Delhi, Gujarat. I love that in one classroom, you have people who speak different languages and celebrate different festivals and still, they can all come together and can support RCB (and love Virat Kohli).
I have thought about this a hundred times, and written about it even more - culture, language, travel. But the thing about me is that once a thing fascinates me, it continues to do so for a long time, and I have a feeling I will always be fascinated by India.
India, I am proud to call you mine, and even prouder to say that I'm yours.

It happened one morning...

All I want to do is rest,
But my sleep's been put to the test,
Whenever I try to sleep, there's too much noise.

Just when I'm about to doze,
Just when my eyelids close,
There is a sudden crash or a loud voice.

The door is creaking.
Is the faucet leaking?
I'm once again up in a snap.

The phone is ringing,
My daughter's singing,
Now I'll never be able to take this nap.

The phone has been answered,
Hubby says, 'The files were transferred.'
And then there's another resounding crash!

"Jeez guys, what have you done?
Now we'll have to make another one,
Quick now put that in the trash!"

I can hear my son yelping,
Do they need someone helping?
I know that they're going to give me a surprise.

Something starts beeping,
And while my heart is leaping,
I once again try to close my eyes.

Something goes BINGA-BONG-BONG,
That's when I know that something's wrong,
I just can't stand it anymore.

Just when I'm about to rise,
I hear shushes, I hear cries,
And my husband and children burst through the door.

My children sing, 'Happy Mother's Day'
While my husband hands me the tray,
There's coffee, my favorite muffin and some toast.

"Mom, it's not much, but look,
we (they exchange glances) can't really cook.
We just want you to know we love you the most!"

'I know', I think, and I'm all smiles,
I won't be angry for a really long while,
But why does my hubby keep throwing glances at me?

"Mom, you're so happy, stay like this a bit longer,
We thought things would be OK, we couldn't have been wronger,
Something's really gone wrong in the kitchen, you see..."

Homa

The smoke,
   A light grey,
               curls up from the flickering flames.
My eyes tear,
        sting, hurt.
To think it's an after effect of a few lighted logs.
The chanting oscillates in a strange pattern,
           between opposite sides of the fire.
Two pujaris chant, and fast, in Sanskrit.
                                      The sounds of which reach my ears,
 But the meaning of which does not reach my brain.
                     When those two pujaris end with a Swaha hay!
The other two pick up,
                  to form a strange sort of,
Shloka rap song.
                             And so it goes on and on.
My grandfather throwing half-fried sweets into the flames,
             My grandmother, adorned in purple, sitting faithfully beside.
The flames reflecting off her large-framed glasses.
                            Photographers at the side -
My dad. So formal in his blue shirt,
                                       weilding one camera.
While my bhaiyya, in a white kurta,
              wearing an orangey scarf, that makes all the difference,
holds the other camera.

And so,
        I sit here.
           My eyes stinging,
                My forehead sweaty,
                     But my heart growing,
As I watch the homa.

Humour Has It...

We all have our guilty pleasures,

Things we’re not supposed to do or have, but we do or have anyway, and that makes these things our secret treasures,

And I’d honestly be kiddin’,

If I said I didn't go after things that are actually forbidden,

OK, maybe forbidden is a word too daunting,

But let’s just say, I don’t look at it my parent’s way,

And I keep doing and having the stuff I’m wanting.

Like when I’m supposed to be studying and attacking my texts,

I’m online looking up Castle, seeing which episode is next,

And when I’m supposed to avoid our huge candy stock,

I might just slip myself an extra choc.

But there’s one pleasure that’s different, and it’s a book –

And when my parents decide to check whether I’m studying, and come to take a look,

And they see me reading, and to cool their anger and my conscience which is wriggling,

I read out a few poems, and soon enough we’re all giggling.

Because this book, which is called Candy is Dandy, and has an introduction by Anthony Burgess,

Gives you all kinds of strange urges,

To manipulate even the simplest of words,

Creating the weirdest spellings that ever occord.

The poems in this book can turn your bad mood off,

Read just a little, and you’ll start to loff.

Let me tell you, it’s quite a miracle,

You start reading and you’re laughing and you seem hysterical.

The poet has written about topics various,

And has managed to make each poem hilarious.

They’re about animals, pianos, money,

Yet each one is special, each one is funny.

He has long poems, but I think the real talent-definers,

Are the couplets, and the four liners.

He’s my favorite poet, and I wish to write,

Just like him, with a humorous light.

And maybe one day I will,

But there’s a lot of work still,

And until that day, I’ll just enjoy my stash

Of brilliant poems by Ogden Nash.

At the Wedding Reception

I watch the bride and bridegroom, the bride who shines in a lovely blue-green sari and the groom who looks well groomed in a brown kurta, and I smile,

They are receiving people, standing on the podium with the background decorated with flowers, meeting and greeting people, one after another, one after another.

The process goes somewhat like this: Say hello and shake hands, accept a hug, smile widely when the people congratulate, and then pose for a picture,

A picture in which there could be anywhere from just four to nearly twenty people squeezed together, 

and the groom gives a smile and so does the bride, but hers seems smaller, like she’s tired,

Which she is. She is tired, and so is the groom, for who doesn’t get exhausted when getting congratulated by dozens of people for your marriage?

But it’s the moments in between each group of people that I wait for.

For it’s then that they bond, getting just a little closer I feel. She holds him by the arm, and they laugh, or she tells him something, even when they are in the midst of a photo, from the corner of her mouth, and he listens, giving her his fully undivided attention, and it’s sweet, so sweet.

I see their expressions change, as it goes from a smile, to a slightly more serious look and back to a laugh. They welcome person after person.

The groom seems a bit confused, and I don’t blame him, for there are so many, so many, so many,

Relatives, and they’re of his bride, his girl, and it’s hard to keep up, and yet they smile winningly,

There are so many people around, girls who look like they’ve walked off fashion magazine covers, and men who look like they’ve come from the Wall Street, and others who are just there, from ordinary newspaper pictures which try to capture life in the city.

I turn back to the bride and groom, and they are tired and holding each other’s hands, ready to be by the other’s side during tiring times like these, 

And when its our turn, I congratulate them once, twice and again.

My dad assures the groom that our family tree is hard to learn and he laughs and we lean in for a photo and I congratulate once more, just once more, because it’s all so lovely and sweet, this love marriage that is happening, and I resolve to tell my best friend everything for we are both romantics,

And I ease off the podium as the next wave of people come by…..