These past days...

I woke up on Monday and cycled to work as I always have done. Stick to the rules and you will be fine Aishu, I have always said to myself. Stick to the rules. Keep left, hand on brakes, stop for annoying traffic lights. Stick to the rules. However Monday morning rush meant someone else who wasn't quite sticking to the rules hit me from the back. I lost balance and fell. In many ways my life changed that second.

I stumbled at first. But I knew I was hurt. I also knew that I could not leave my cycle, my love (named Firebolt) behind. I have no recollection as to who helped me but I later found out it was an amazing human being called Manasa. I was tucked into an auto along with my cycle and en route to home. My first call was to my best friend Ramya. I work with her and I knew she was levelheaded enough to come through (and she did!). She contacted my parents, who immediately called me. What's funny is that I don't remember much of this at all. I do remember thinking that it would be a funny story later on and summoned enough energy to take a selfie! I then called my friend and cyclist extraordinaire Aditya. I still am not sure what I mumbled to him but the gist of it was - "Adi what if I am no longer cute?" Poor thing was probably torn between trying not to laugh and trying to help me in anyway. But he calmed me down.

I decided that instead of going home, I would check myself into the hospital. "You will be fine. Bolt will be fine. Now let's hope this is not serious and hopefully your doctor is cute," I told myself. I paid the auto driver extra, got my cycle out and stumbled into the ER of the Malathi Manipal Hospital a bloodied mess. Immediately I was swarmed by doctors.

Again I lose consciousness. Parents come. I am sitting on a bed. Cracking a joke about running to the doctor who finds me amusing. Apparently I joked quite a bit in the ER. I just don't remember it. But hopefully I was funny. The doc at first seems to deliver good news. "No broken hand. But she needs stitches in her mouth. Bring her back at 2 in the afternoon".

My friend Shuveshek leaves everything and comes sees me. I am still not entirely aware. I continue to Whatsapp. He quietly blots blood coming from my face. Now things get interesting. My left hand is really swollen. An xray shows that it is broken. More bad news: I need surgery. The plastic surgeon has to wire three of my teeth on my upper mouth. He then notes that the lower part of my mouth needs to be stitched extensively. At first my stomach sinks. Then I quietly mumble "I am running TCS 10k in a month...is that out of the window now?". Both docs shake their heads. We need you to get back in one piece they tell me. I smile and tell them - "Just make sure I am still cute ok? Cause I am adorable". They burst out laughing.

I get admitted. Evening surgery. Friends and colleagues pour in. My friend Merlin comes and helps me into my robes. My friend Henna has me laughing throughout. Friends call. I assure everyone I will be fine. I get the message that my hometown team Bengaluru FC won the Indian League. I am genuinely happy and excited at that. Ramya is a rock who helps my parents through this storm. It's time for surgery. My sister in America had apparently been crying. I console her. My mum and dad look shaken but seem fine enough. Especially my mum. She is calm. Her strength inspires me every day.

I had been warned that anesthesia makes you say crazy stuff. When I came out of surgery, I told the nurse I found him cute and then I asked for my friends Prachi, Varsha and GP. Then I asked for my parents. Prach and Varsha were there thankfully and seeing their faces helped. I decided through all that mess that I would be positive and hopeful. I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day morning was the real shock. PAIN. But that didn't bother me. I saw my face in the mirror. I looked distorted. My face resembled me less and I looked more a zombie. "I will NOT cry", I told myself. Stared at my face a little bit more and returned to my hospital bed. Adi came. We spoke about cycling. He annoyed me when he told me there was a "correct way" to fall but lifted my spirits by calling me the prettiest zombie ever (I am :P ) and regaled me with tales about cyclists and their lives. I am told by the doctor that pain is going to be my companion for a while now. He also tells me I am the most cheerful patient he has ever treated (score 1 for Aishu!). My face has to heal. My stitches have to heal. My fracture has to heal and I have to pray that my teeth can be saved. Discharged in the evening. Curiously the doctor tells me that I have escaped something fatal. I remember fragments of my accident. I believe him.

Friends stream to my house. My friends Nagu, Shri Ram and Naveen (all incredible cyclists) come see me. My friend Niki rushes over.  Nagu always lifts my spirits and he didn't disappoint. He always puts a smile on my face. Henna and Geeta come over with a million rose milk bottles and ice cream. It's just what I needed. My niece looks at my face and sees me and not my injuries and gives me a hug through Skype. I love her more every day but that was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. But I was still haunted by my own reflection.

Sidenote: And incredibly enough my favourite player Sunil Chhetri (captain of the Indian football team!!) calls. It hurts for me to smile but I was so incredibly happy when Chhetri called that I forgot all about the pain. Even now the memory of that phonecall boosts me. Bengaluru Football Club is seriously the best club ever! (Thank you Kunaal)

This past week I have broken my hand, my teeth. My face looks like a zombie. I have lost 3 kgs and haven't eaten anything solid whatsoever. I wake up in the middle of the night in pain. But I have also felt incredibly lucky. My friend Tim's mom called me every day to make sure I was fine. My friends have been pillars of support to me and my family. And the kids in my building regularly bring me friendly flowers they scrounge from outside. I have started working from home and intend to resume regular duty from Monday. I cried only once this past week and it was for 30 seconds (yes I timed it like dork) when I got my confirmation mail for TCS 10k. But then decided I would be the best cheerleader at the event :)

All in all, I am fine. I am cheerful. I still take selfies. The pain is reducing by the day and my face is healing. It is amazing to watch as nature slowly but surely heals you. And I am not afraid or worried. I will get back on the cycle when I can. And I plan to start running again when my cast comes off. Yes, I will be starting from square one but I look forward to pushing myself again in the race track.

In the meantime I want to thank everyone in my life. Everyone who has dropped in a kind message. Everyone who has shown concern. I am very blessed to have you all in my life. But as far as my reflection is concerned. I think I was looking at my face wrong all along. I kept seeing the distorted swollen mess. But I didn't see the brave kid who stared right into the camera. The scars will go away. In a few months, the pain will go away too. But I hope that I never forget to be grateful. For my life. For my family. For my friends. And the love that surrounds me.

As for the person who hit me and sped away: I forgive you. I won't waste a second of my life being angry at you or at life. I hope someday you learn to take accountability for your actions but that's your battle and not mine. And I wish you well in life (no...really I do). I have learned so much about myself because of you. And I am grateful.

Eternally hopeful,
Aishu.

P.S My cycle Firebolt is in perfect condition. I swear I would have died if something had happened to it! (Yeah I know the joke's in poor taste but couldn't help myself :P )

Finding my religion

Yesterday something happened to me. I took the bus after work and nestled myself into a corner and pulled out the book I wanted to read. Next thing I knew the conductor came and told me to get off the bus because we had reached the last stop. Essentially I had missed my stop by several kilometres. And it's not the first time that's happened to me. Not the first time when I have lost track of time reading a book...

Books are my best friends...they are who I turn to when my faith is tested. Where I feel the safest..where I am home. I remember when I was just over two years or so old. My mum bought an illustrated and abridged version of Gulliver's Travels. Sure, I didn't have a clue what the words meant or even how to read. But I looked at the pygmies and an illustration of a giant and I was hooked. To this day it remains to be the clearest and earliest memory of my childhood. We didn't have a lot of money growing up and my grandparents lived with us. It was cramped to say the least. And summer vacations didn't mean travel as both my parents worked. But it never mattered to me. My mum would come back from her school (she's a teacher) with at least 20 books to satiate me through the two months. I would finish them in two weeks straight.

When I look back on my childhood, I remember sitting in the balcony with a cup of snacks that my grandmother made and my head buried under the latest Enid Blyton book I was given to read. Faraway Tree...Famous Five...Secret Seven...Naughtiest Girl in School series...these were my gateways to adventure. I would finish reading a book and then rush to tell my grandfather and my friends exactly how amazing it was. I was able to get more than my share of friends hooked onto the same books I loved.

As I grew older, my thirst for books didn't quench. I graduated to reading Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Pickwick Papers and Pride and Prejudice. They were not set in my time but I understood the emotions. I read RK Narayan and imagined what it would be like to live in Malgudi. I devoured Jane Austen's Emma in one reading. Then I turned 11. Harry Potter entered my life. We can often remember that moment when our lives changed forever. It happened when I went to my granduncle's house and found out I had no company. So had to settle with the book they had lying around - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I remember reading the last line of the first chapter and distinctly thinking - I never want to put this book down ever. I didn't like the series much after the fifth book and I am not the fan of the writing at all in the final book but the series grew up along with me. It was my security blanket. I hoped and prayed for Hagrid to come knocking at my door bringing my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. The books mattered to the 13 year old me more than I can describe.

Of course along the way many other books changed my life. I introduced myself to Charles Dickens (my favourite writer of all time). I read Catch 22 and was fascinated by a new kind of writing. I wept through Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and I saw a different face of humanity when I sat down with Dostoevsky. Most recently it was Hilary Mantle's series on the Tudor era that has kept me up at night and taken me to the world of imagination and political intrigue. Of course not to forget writers like JRR Tolkien, George R R Martin, Camus, Kafka, Haruki Murakami, Christopher McDougal who have all come into my life and changed it for the better and countless others.

There are those who think childhood should be about rolling around in the mud and being outside. I don't disagree. I have had my fair share of the outdoors but given a choice, the scrawny little kid in me preferred being alone to my own thoughts, my own imagination and my books. My books introduced me to new ideas, a different way of thinking. They pushed me to question the status quo. When the rest of my classmates where arguing about the latest movies, I sat and wondered if there was a purpose to life if even family members could desert you (Metamorphosis). I learnt not to judge people and their choices (Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina) and I learnt that no matter how bleak a situation might be, you have to stand up for what you believe in (To Kill a Mockingbird).

I venture out to the world and compare my own experiences to what I read in my books. I see betrayal, comedy, moments of love, chances for redemption and people being brave every day of my life. I also love the fact I can quietly run into the arms of my latest book and stuff more fluff into my mind and fill it with even more different ideas. But I don't want my life to be like the books. A book no matter how epic and realistic (100 years of Solitude), still comes with a clear beginning, middle and an end. Life on the other hand is longer and probably even devoid of purpose. But that's perfectly fine with me. I can write it any way I want. I like the uncertainity of the future. I like that I may be the hero in someone's life but the villain in some other person's existence. My life is messy unlike my books. And I like it that way. I am wholly aware that most of the time, I have no control in how it pans out (even on a daily basis) and anything can change its course. I like the excitement that brings. I like the curve-balls it throws. I love my friends and family and I also love how those relationships can change in a dime.

But most importantly I love that on any given day, I can walk into a bookstore and just stare at all the books I have yet to read. All the worlds I could get lost in. All the adventure that lies in front of me. They are always there. My friends.

- A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies (George R R Martin).

What is a feminist really?

A Facebook acquaintance posted this highly offensive advertisement on his wall today and called on his male comrades to respond on its brilliance. I saw it. Got quickly offended and immediately protested to the woman in the advertisement being turned into a commodity for a man's pleasure. Of course that meant that the man and all his friends ganged up on me for my perceived lack of humour. One of them called out of the society's ever increasingly intolerance for all things politically incorrect and how it is killing the world. And of course my favourite insult of them all - you are such a feminist.

That had me thinking. What is feminist? Feminist as a being has been long defined differently for decades now. The feminist is a thing that burns its bras...attends rallies. Screams when a man cups her publicly. Goes to the police and starts demanding equal rights, equal pay and does not shave its legs or arms. The hairy feminist is also a party pooper ready to literally poop on everyone's fun by offended about everything. The feminist is also a negative and angry being. So this young chap when he described me as a feminist, it wasn't a positive pat on the back but rather a derogatory kick in the face. Why can't you be chill woman and let the men have some fun?, he seemed to ask.

To be honest, I do not know what a feminist is. I don't know if I am one. I like things that are pretty and shiny. I like pink and purple and yellow. I am a regular at the parlour and I have never burnt a bra in my entire life (I like them and I support their existence wholeheartedly :P ). I am independent. I work. I earn. I pay for the things I like myself. I am not afraid of doing lunches or movies by myself. But I also am sensitive and vulnerable and not at all like the hardened female feminist figures that have been portrayed by the media over the years.

But I don't think this is an issue about being a feminist. I think it is a matter of being a woman at all. It is a tricky tricky thing to be. You like sports and video games, you get branded one of the boys. If you wear your hair short and walk around in jeans and t-shirts, you become a tom-boy. If you are conscious about what you eat, you become a stick in the mud. If you wear makeup, then you become barbie doll. When do you get to be yourself? 

I am at loss for words. But for now I have "unfriended" this person from my life. I don't want such men polluting my life. I don't want this person to tell me that the "only offensive thing about this advertisement is that Aston Martin is far superior to a hundred women" (I hope his mother or his wife never reads this comment  because man is this an insult to them!).

For my part, I want to figure out for myself what being a feminist means to me. I get angry when a woman is compared to a car, a perfume, a bag...like she is something that is for sale. I don't like it when someone tells me to "be a man." They should try being a woman for few minutes to know what it takes to be us. But for the most part I just want to hug all the women in my life. Every day we show up to take on life, we are already ahead of the race. Happy women's day.

I am allowed to hate my home and love it too...

There have been two periods of my life when I couldn't wait to get out of India. Once when I was in 11th standard. For about six months I had decided I wanted to live in New York like those beautiful people on Friends. I would be like Rachel and Monica living in a nice NYC apartment talking about my first world problems. India was no good and I was meant for bigger things. I was meant for America. The first chance I got, I would leave and never come back.

Of course immediately after my 17th birthday, the American economy collapsed and the subprime mortgage bubble broke and I quietly congratulated myself for being in one of the fastest growing economies in the world - India. Who needs America when you have festivals, colour, beauty, a million languages and so much to do right here? I would make my home in India, I decided.

The second time I truly considered moving to America was when I visited my sister in California last year. It was a month of bliss. The weather was beautiful. I drank water out of the tap and was not worried. There were cycle tracks everywhere I turned. Beautiful trekking trails. Mountains and valleys. Hardly any traffic at all. And I could wear shorts and go for runs and no one would bat an eyelid. I think that's what appealed me to the most. I felt safe in whatever clothes I wore. In India I think twice about wearing something before going out, I enjoyed real freedom staying with my sister. I wore anything at all and was not remotely worried. She lives in one of the safest neighborhoods I have ever been in and I felt truly safe for the first time in my life. So, when I came back home I thought about it hard and long. America meant I would be closer to my sister and niece. And it also meant less pollution, better beaches, cleaner trails and I could run without worrying about some random man attacking me. But India is my home.

I have spent the last 10 years of my life using public transport in this country. Think Mumbai, Calcutta, Pune, Delhi, Chennai, Bangalore and even Hyderabad. I like public transport. You don't have to worry about weaving in and out of traffic and you can put on some music, take out a book and you can enjoy some "me time", till the chaos of the day takes over. But it hasn't always been like that for me. I was 17 when I had to first handle my first frisky "uncle". In Chennai they are famous. They come stand right behind you. And slowly they will put their hands on your hips. Some women squirm. Some women move away. Some women fight and some even ignore. I didn't quite know what to do when it first happened to me. I turned around startled. The man smirked almost daring me to scream at him. I came home in angry tears.

Of course I learnt to protect myself. I would loudly tell them to remove their hands. I would physically grab their hands while crushing their fingers and push them back. I would also sometimes (if I had the energy), fight. All this time it should also be noted (so the moral policing aunties and uncles won't claim that I was asking for this with my attire), I wore salwar kameezes as they were the dress code of my college. In a week I turn 26. I have had men flash at me. I have had men whistle at me. I had have men scream obscene words at me. And every time I have tried to fight back, I have often found myself surrounded by apathy. "You are a girl. This is India. It is for your own safety to be quiet and ignore." These are words I am very very used to hearing from people.

So why do I blame India? The truth is women are badly treated across the world. It's not an Indian issue. It's just that in India, I see it happening more in open. It's more accepted. I read everyday about young girls, women, aunties getting attacked, raped and worse. And every second you can trust me some girl is being harassed. But we tell ourselves that it's not the nation...it's the singular man in question. Does this mean India as a nation is not to blame at all? I don't buy into that theory. While the whole world is often described as a "man's world", in India, it is hard to be a woman at all.

After all this is nation where Sati was once glorified. Where widow re-marriage is still an anomaly. This is the nation where the boy-girl ratio ( 917 girls to 1000 boys) is so skewered because parents simply do not want a girl child. Where young girls are held back at home and not allowed to attend schools. Where dowry still exists. Where there aren't even enough bathrooms for girls in government schools. Even girls who are highly educated are expected to get married at 25, have kids by 27 and cook perfect meals while also having the perfect jobs. The Indian society has lived for centuries and decades under the impression that having a girl child is a burden. When a girl is raped, women snigger and say that she ought to have dressed appropriately. This is a nation where marital rape is not recognised by law. So if a woman was to be raped by her husband, he can get away with rape and she will never see justice meted out. She will never get justice. So, we can't blindly put the blame on the men who think it is their right to mistreat women, centuries of reinforcement in the nation has led them to believe that they can in fact get away with murder.

But why am I still here? I know a lot of you who love love love this nation, don't like to see it criticised. Would you even believe me when I say that I love this nation too? After all I have described it as being the perfect hell for women. The truth is I love my country. I want to see it prosper. I want it to be corruption free and safe for men and women alike. I want children to get the best possible education regardless of their economic strata and I want the caste system gone for good. But in order for this happen, I have to acknowledge that there is a problem. I can't get angry at the foreign tourists who come here and then talk about how their safety was violated. Their safety is often violated and I cringe every time I read those stories. I feel embarrassed for my nation. And I want it to get better.

After all this is my country. My home. I love the colours. I love the festivals. I love its broken roads. I love the overcrowded trains. I love its smells. I love its mountains. I love its people too. I love bhajjis you get outside Besant Nagar beach. I love how sometimes when you least expect it, a man will let you take his seat on the bus just because he noticed that you were tired. I love its bad movies. I hate its item songs. I love running in Cubbon Park early in the morning. I love travelling and discovering parts of this country that are brimming with history and tradition. I want to be part of its redemption. I want to pay the taxes here and be part of the solution. I want to be there when the roads get fixed. I want to be there when a politician surprises us by doing his/her job for a change. I want to be there when every child in the country has access to education. And I want to be there when women are not blamed for everything in the world. Where mothers-in-law don't kill their daughters-in-law for not paying enough dowry. Where infanticide does not occur. And that can happen only when good conscientious Indians stay back and try to create a new nation where women don't feel like they enter a battlefield every time they leave their homes. I will criticise this country. Because I love it. And I know that by sweeping the problems under the rug will not solve them. The dirt just accumulates. I love India and hate it sometimes. But I am not going anywhere. This my country and my home and it's not safe for me yet but one day it will be. I won't stop fighting. Because India is my home. 

That damn phone - a note on Valentine's Day

So I bought this ugly boxy Nokia phone set four years ago. It was a cheap set even back then and it started malfunctioning about the time I bought it. But I bought it with my shitty salary from my first job and I learnt to live with it. Then a funny thing happened - I got attached to my piece of shit phone.

The phone stopped working properly (and almost entirely) about a year ago. It had already lived past its prime. As my friends and family went onto to buying newer phones and started using words like 'Whatsapp' and 'BBM pin number', I used SMS and called people to talk. 3G? Well, I still have no idea what it's like to have even decent internet connection on mine (technically it supports internet but my phone has its own personality and it refuses to connect me to the World Wide Web). The screen no longer works and it shuts down at random hours. And just when I think it has died for good, it perks up again and reboots itself. Some might even suggest that my phone is haunted.

So why don't I simply replace it? Well, I fell in love. To the little piece of shit. I like the way it fits inside my bag. When I put my hand inside the side pocket of my backpack, I know it's there. I like how it feels when I hold it. And even though the keyboard no longer displays digits (they have all eroded), I have muscle memory when it comes to typing things out. I have used this phone to spend hours talking to my friends, crushes, family and Tata Docomo helpline guys (Docomo sucks but I refuse to change it as well because I can't let go). I have lost this phone in Mumbai, Pune, Delhi, Bangalore and Chennai. Weirdly enough it has always come back to me. My friends claim that it's so ugly and useless that no one in their right mind will steal it. They are probably right.

So when I know it's just a possession, why I can't I let go? Perhaps this is an observation on my own personality. I get attached. Simple. I won't let go of the book I bought several years ago that's tattered and utterly unreadable. I won't get rid of worn out shirt unless my mom throws it in the dustbin. I have never been able to let go of my football club (and boy have I tried). I hold onto to things I love and sometimes things I hate (or both at the same time) and it takes a miracle for me let go of something. I have a toy ghoul that I have lovingly christened my boyfriend. I have had it for eight years now. My mum has tried to get rid of the hideous looking thing for years now and she has been unsuccessful every time. He's my broken ghoul and I love him.

But perhaps there is something else happening here. After all, I have been able to let go of relationships (although takes me longer than other people), and things I have owned in the past. I am attached to things that are broken. Things that no one else will love. Things that are different. Things that don't make any sense at all. Perhaps I identify with those disjointed pieces.

Or maybe I am digging way too deeply into my own psyche over a piece of shit phone. Maybe I am just cheap, who is trying to find greater meaning to nothing at all. Either which way, I have sadly sadly come to the conclusion that it is time to let go of my baby. It breaks my heart genuinely. I am going to miss my POS (piece of shit as I call my phone lovingly). And I am going to replace it with a shiny new toy. Something that's not broken. Something that will make communicating with my friends and family much easier and actually doable. But it won't be the same. It won't have the same quirks as my POS. It will just be like every other perfectly serviceable phone you find in the market. But I refuse to throw away my old phone. It has stood as a testament to my life and it shall stay with me by my side even if I am not using it. When you love someone, you will know when it is time to let go of them. And I know it's time for me to let go of my phone. It has served me bravely and honorably. It has huffed and puffed and worked even when it went against basic logic and science. And I love it to bits but it knows and I know that it can no longer keep chugging along (the audio is out). And hopefully some time this month, I will find the conviction in my heart to go out to the world (and inside a Chroma) and bring home a new member of my family. A new item that shall populate my small world. And hopefully I shall learn to love it too. 

The Rahul Gandhi drinking game

Do you remember that feeling when you would go to an important exam completely prepared and you end up getting most of the questions from the one chapter you didn't touch because you thought it was unimportant? Rahul Gandhi's exclusive interview with Arnab Goswami was just that...only times million and it happened for all the world to see. The sweaty, mumbling, pretty boy of politics, when put under the scanner, did not disappoint - he came across as absolutely clueless. And for the casual observer of Indian politics, it was pure comedic gold. As I watched the interview unfold itself, I was hit with the greatest idea I have had since deciding to watch Dhoom 3 for the second time - the Rahul Gandhi drinking game. Indulge me a bit as I set across the rules for the game. All you need is a shot glass, a wine glass, alcohol and some water.

Drink up my friends!

Actually..um...actually
Every time Rahul Gandhi was asked an actual question do with the country, he blinked a whole lot and said "actually" a whole lot. Every time you hear this word, kindly take one sip of red or white wine of your choice. Sipping is enough because by the time he shall finish that sentence, you would have finished the glass.

Women empowerment
Oh boy. Sigh. The fate of the Indian nari (a clan I belong to) apparently now rests in the hands of the village idiot. And he seems to have taken his role as the crusader for "women empowerment" very seriously. So if you are a man, take a shot every time he says this phrase, if you are woman, take two shots (you really need it honey, we are doomed).

RTI
Yup. Ask Rahul about the economy, he will talk about RTI. Ask Rahul about the caste system in India, he will talk about RTI. Ask Rahul about his favourite sandwich, he will talk about RTI. The kid is clearly in love with RTI (maybe it's the easiest word to remember perhaps?). So, every time, he runs off on a tangent about RTI, help yourself to a swig of Long Island Iced Tea, if you have access to it.

Every time Arnab Goswami smiles
Arnab Goswami knew he hit gold, when Rahul Gandhi started sweating beads of sweat, while hemming and hawing his way through the interview. Goswami had a slight smirk, that widened every time, Gandhi nodded his head and blinked his eyes. The smile of a predator who knows he does not even have to make an effort as his prey was currently not only killing himself but also cooking and marinating himself in a frying pan. Just pour some red wine into your system and toast to Arnab Goswami, the king of smirks.

My family
Oooh boy. Even when he claimed, he didn't "choose" his family, Rahul spoke about his family a whole lot...didn't he? My mother, my father, my sister, my family. I don't know about the rest of the world but I am darn sure, baby Gandhi went back home after the interview to complain about the mean bully and cry into his mommy's arms. One shot of drink of your choice.

Politician/my degree is not fake
Ok, by now I am sure you have gotten really tipsy and are probably just about to pass out. Gandhi visibly gulped when he was asked about his degree from Cambridge. It was awful to watch but also incredibly funny. And he stuttered and stammered his way while tring to convince himself that he was in fact a politician. A glass of white wine as you roll your eyes to Rahul Gandhi stammering about how he's a strange politician who is not after power and does not fit in with the others.

The youth
It's our final catch phrase of the day. "The youth of India" is obviously a cause Rahul Gandhi is committed to. He has done (in his words) tons to empower the youth. So if you consider yourself to be part of the "youth of India" and feel like Gandhi has helped you out in any way, drink a glass of water. It should help settle your stomach after all that drinking...Nobody wants to drink that glass water? Hmm...strange...

So that's it. This was my drinking game for everyone's pleasure. As a teetotaler myself, I apologise beforehand if I have gotten any drinking terminologies wrong. And just in case make sure you have an ambulance number on your speed dial. This game could be potentially dangerous. Long live Indian politics! I shall drink to that indeed. 

A birthday note to the love of my life

I met her three years ago but if I was being honest with the world, I felt next to nothing. She looked like a potato all scrunched up. Everyone else in my life was enamored but when I first met my niece I was an unimpressed dolt. I wasn't sure how my life would change. I was only a bit angry that now my sister will have even less time to spend with me. Thea being born, was to me, a rather unceremonious event. Something that would hardly affect me.

Our love was at first as one sided as they come. I liked her well enough to wave at her through skype. I was angry when I was pulled off my bed to chat up with a baby who could not understand what I was saying. I did not understand what the fuss was about. But she on the other hand seemed to be in love with me. She lit up when I was around. She called to me various names...sometimes I was Aish, sometimes I was Aaesh...but she would demand even as a baby to see me. Even through my initial indifference, it was obvious the tiny thing had found something in me, she really loved. When my sister first came from California to visit us, I was panicked. What if I could not make any connection whatsoever with my own niece?

I realise now, I shouldn't have worried. Thea already had better plans for our relationship than I did. I just wanted to be able to hold her without dropping her. But when we first physically met in the airport, even though she wasn't even a year old, she pulled me into a hug. Suddenly everything changed. I went from being a nonchalant observer who was trying to get some time to hang out with her sister, to a lovestruck teenager. A tiny ball of human being pulled me into a hug and I knew my life had completely changed.

It's a strange and loving relationship I share with Thea. Our faces brighten up every time we see each other. We are very similar. She is also incredibly hyper active. She befriends everyone in her life. She jumps. She laughs. She runs around so much, even I can't catch her. She won't let me pay attention to anything else in life. And she now calls me Aishu. When I look sad, she hugs me through skype. When I wear a new dress, her eyes widen and she says - "Aishu's so pretty" in a slight Americanised accent. When I pretend to hide, her face darkens as she panics that I have left.

On January 27, she turns three years old. Only three. She has only started with life. But she's my best friend (sorry to all those who think they are my best friends...my best friend is a three year old who is in potty training, deal with it). And as I think about what life has in store for her, I realise I don't want her path to just be roses. I want her to experience everything - happiness, sadness, tragedy, laughter, friendship, love and yes, heartbreak. I want her to be kind to others. To have empathy for those different from her. I want her to smile at everyone when she grows up, as she smiles at me today.

I also want her to see some bad times in life. She needs to know that life is a gift but not one without challenges. That it's not worth it to always be winning in life. That sometimes she will really not see the light at the end of the tunnel. But that's okay. Every time she finds happiness, she will appreciate it that much more. She will be more generous because of the things she may have lost in life. And when the going gets a bit too tough, that will be alright too because I shall be there along with those who love her, to give her a massive hug and tell her things will work themselves out. So happy birthday Thea. Even though you cannot read right now (at least you are pooping properly!), I hope someday you stumble across this blog. And figure out for yourself how a three year old (that's you) changed the life of an apathetic 25 year old (that would be me) who swore she hated kids. I love you baby and I need to give smush you with a bear hug right now.