Confessions of a hygiene freak

Being paranoid abount hygiene isn't very pleasant, particularly in a country like ours where roads are every now and then spewing out sewer water, where public bathroom knobs are fondled by a 100 dirty hands everyday and where every roadside delicacy is enchanced by the sweet taste of it's maker's sweat. Life for a hygiene obsessed person is hard, very hard.

People often confuse a hygiene freak as a snob. NO.
My friends are very kind, despite my stubborn refusal they always offer me these seemingly sumptuous delicacies. Let me be honest, those oil drenched jelebis and crisp samosas make my heart rumble with cravings but then my stupid mind voice kicks in and menacingly propagates thoughts like, 'guess where those fingers were before the dough of the samsosa was rolled, have you seen the amount of hair the bald frankie wala had on his hands? Where does all of it go? Don't you remember the video you'd seen where a bare slab of ice was dragged on the road, that is exactly what goes into that milkshake looks so tempting.'

On other days, the food is really well made, with almost ISO Certified levels of hygiene. But then, my hands are never clean. I cannot fathom eating with hands that haven't been frothed by the lather of a proper hand wash. (No, I don't trust bar soaps and santitizers). I'm baffled beyond my wits when I see people in trains (after running their palms over numerous germ-infested railings and handles) casually eating sandwiches. But then I realise a majority of people do so, myself, being the 'weird minority'.
My kind friends who always offer me, are well versed with my 'unclean hands fix' and very benignly offer to feed me. I truly appreciate their affection, but no. You my friend haven't washed your hand either. I saw you tying your laces just a few minutes before you set your hands on that wonderful Veg Roll, I saw you pet a stray dog in the morning, which is cute, no doubt; but the Ms. Paranoid about hygiene in me gets frenzied at the thought of it and thus I must decline your offer.
On days when I don't have access to soap or worse even santitizer it's a nightmare. I grab the food item by the tip of my fingers trying to minimize the radius of contact on the food item and shove it into my mouth as fast as I can (Resorting to the highly unreliable 5 second rule).

No I am not here trying to remark on other people's standards of hygiene. I'm not trying to impose upon anyone my obsession, neither am I stopping anyone from gorging onto those lovely street chats. I am merely trying to give you an insight of what it is to be this 'bizzare minority in a country full of foodies'. Ps. I am a foodie, but a selective one.

One last thing, NEVER confuse a hygiene freak with a cleanliness freak. They are not the same. Like the former holds true for me but I don't give a damn about cleanliness. I am very much comfortable sitting in a room full of littered papers as long as my hands are clean before a food particle makes it's way through my mouth. 

Why I love Navratri.

Navratri is undoubtedly my favourite festival. There's something magically merry & powerful about this festival that keeps me in high spirits. We do something called as a 'Kolu' (or Golu as some may call it. SouthIndians have perpetually been confused about the 'K' and 'G' usage). Which simply put, is an assortment of figurines placed in a staircase arrangement. That, probably sounds terribly drab; but trust me it's beautiful.

In the earlier days, families would gather stools, books, writing pads, tables and every possible household item with a flat base and create steps to place these dolls/figurines. Thankfully, now realising how lazy the generation has become, shopkeepers sell 'Stands' meant exclusively for this.
Oh! and these stands can later be converted into shelves. #DoubleWin
But that too, is no cake walk. These stands have to be assembled. There is a vast amount of engineering, analysis and bouts of hand-hammering that goes into coupling the right parts together (Not as easy as Lego, my friend).

Post that, the steps have to be draped (This step is optional, though recommended). At our place, crisp, white dhotis are pulled out, sewn together and pinned carefully so as to cascade down the steps.
Then old crates and boxes are opened, a whiff of ensuing dust is hauled in and then the clay figurines are carefully unwrapped. This step fills my heart with boundless joy. I can't put to words the excitement that brims within as each figurine is unwrapped. Painted in bright hues, each figurine appears to have a story to tell.

So what exactly are these figurines? You might ask. They're clay dolls of literally everything under the sun; like anything! The Dashavtar set, the 8 Lakshmis, A Music Concert, A dance show, A wedding, A cricket match, A park with cows dawdling around and what not! (Barbies & Kens can also feature, just saying)
As the dolls are unwrapped, they are then arranged with their respective sets (Note: Individual dolls are also there).
So all the 10 Vishnus are huddled together, The dancers are placed in their formations, the stage is set and the musicians are seated for their concert and there is a mini-movie that runs behind these seemingly still figures.

I love the way the aroma of the incense stick hangs in the air, I love the sound of the bell ringing as the Pooja is done and not to forget, I gorge onto the 'sundals' with utmost elation. I swear I could sit for hours together staring at the figurines as the decorative fairy lights flicker gallantly. In my head, the figurine of Krishna on a tree, is not a work of clay moulded into a mythological character, instead is the story of a young boy who swooned every living creature in his world with the euphony of his flute. In my head, I can hear his flute lilting in the air, I can sense the magic he casts on the people and cattle nearby and I delve into his world at the blink of an eye.

These 10 days make me feel blessed, blessed thinking about the remarkable gift of culture we've all inherited, from our communities in the form of a multitude of festivals. As I end this blog, sharing a picture of this year's Kolu.

The Spiritual Saga

I'm a moderately pious person. I am someone who firmly advocates the existence of god. However, I'm not an entirely religious person (Except when situations turn very shitty, ahem). Which led me into discovering the three stages of your relationship with God.

Stage 1: Before the task happens

So before you embark on a new task, journey or beginning; most of us Indians are told to pray. Beginnings, being awfully deceptive darlings, are usually positive. Most of us humans, wallow under a simulation of positivity and optimism. At least for me, I'm lured into believing that God is by my side and is in his highest spirits to bless me with all goodness. Sometimes, when I'm skeptical about god's commitment, I also try to bribe him by promising him, what we commonly call as a 'mannat'.

Stage 2: When the task happens

1. Either it goes well, in this case, bingo. You are happy, God seems happy and everything seems fine.
2. Here's the messy situation. What you'd hoped would happen, goes askew. You are frightfully miffed/depressed/lost/sullen (Depending on your character). Initially you blame yourself or some other human bait, you'd choose to put the blame on. As time passes, you get tired of holding yourself responsible and shove the blame on fate and then finally God. Isn't he the only mute spectator who pitifully and unquestioningly takes up the fury of human anger? Haven't we always been told that God shall always look after his devotees? Didn't we embark on this journey, cajoled into believing that God was going to sort things eventually?

Things turn sullen and you feel cheated. You feel terribly let down by God. You now act like a rebel. You refuse to look at his pictures/idols. You spit nasty words when someone tells you, your behaviour towards god is 'morally wrong'.

Stage 3: After the task happens

It's been days; You haven't been talking to God, God apparently hates you, but in reality, you are just as miserable as you were earlier. Things haven't turned sunny, you're probably still lamenting about the tragedy in your life. This is when 'Renaissance' happens. 

You feel helpless, nothing is working out right, you carefully walk up to god when no one's around. A mind voice says, 'he's the only resort'. You feel slightly abashed, but isn't God, gracious and all forgiving? 

You mend your ties with God, hoping he'll be nicer to you this time. Once again, brimming with Spiritual Positivity you take on life, hoping and waiting for a miracle. 

mAD-MISSIONS

I've written an olio of exams, ranging from design to engineering, economics to psychology and finally media studies. Though I've always been clear about my lack of interest in studying most of the above mentioned courses, I ended up giving all of them, *For Fun*

हम भी Artist

Writing the design exam was a clear example of me succumbing to friend-spiration. Being a newly launched exam, I saw most of my folks giving it; and particularly since I presumptuously prided my art skills too much, I decided to give it. Ironically the design exam never asked us to draw, much to my disdain and now I suppose the outcome can be plausibly comprehended. 

मेरा Badass Moment

Writing engineering entrance exams were the best. 'I-IT, N-IT, SH-IT' 

I'd study one day before the exam, and when I say study, I'd open my crisp and printing-press fresh coaching class books and wonder what would have happened if I'd stayed on and slogged like the others. There's a nano-second of regret, I wont deny; but then it's quickly overshadowed by the cloud of my big dreams, for which, I'd dropped the plan in the first case. Rummaging for books, I'd eventually find something more interesting, from the treasures of my cupboard to fancy my thoughts with. 

So, the next day, I'd walk into the hall with nothing, but a pen. (Not even a spare, because... well, engineering exams were my stage to feel badass) I'd get a sadistic pleasure in seeing serious aspirants burying their faces into fat Sharmas and Vermas and I'd torment them with a nonchalant smiles. I'd write the exam, with whatever little knowledge that I'd retained after the boards and pride myself in being the first to complete the exam in the centre. ( At least first in something! #WIN )

With nothing to lose, I'd walk out like a hero; in my head a glorious background music plays, my hair flies, there is an inexplainable joy that pounds, I hear the worried chatter of serious aspirants discussing the answers and I smirk. A friend of mine, asks me what i'd done for a particular question. I shrug my shoulders (rather foolishly, now I think ) but in my head it's a character defining moment, a mind voice says, 'Worried little JEE aspirants, this ain't my race. A, B, C or D... Means nothing to me.' 

Sincere Last Minute Efforts.

For most of the media studies entrances (Probably the only entrance I'd given sincerely) I needed GK. As a regular and diligent reader of Bombay Times, my GK skills needed MILD brushing up. So I bought a book, a non-intimidating 200 paged book on GK; that I believed would equip me well enough for the entrances I'd have to give. As I flipped through the pages, I stared in disbelief at the ocean of names and dates, ministers and ministries, places and awards, inventors and inventions, largest this, longest that and the sprawling world of GK that I was supposed to learn for ONE exam? My friend and I still tried. We spent our evenings at a park, discussing Presidents and CEOs, capitals and new policies, for two whole weeks. But I think it was a stroke of tragedy that none of the things we'd studied ever came in the exam. 

Nevertheless as the college admission mayhem nears an end, I feel it's been a mad, mad journey, with bouts of tumult, mild let downs and unforeseen surprises. 

Cheers to new beginnings. 

Breaking down the process of writing a bad paper.

The internet has a plethora of articles on how to write an excellent paper, but i'm here to explain you the process of writing a bad, an awfully bad paper.

Step 1 : Optimism is the way of life
In the reading time, it's likely that you'll cast your eyes over a bunch of wretched questions that will get you worked up. But, you tell yourself to be optimistic and cajole yourself that somehow, the moment you run your pen over the answer key the answer will miraculously occur to you.

Step 2 : Confronting the Question
After solving the first few questions the much dreaded question appears. You read it once, it makes no sense. You read it again, this time delving into your brain much deeper to figure if you've ever done that question; some bygone day, some bygone year or some bygone birth. Chances are that your brain returns with 0 results.
You still decide to keep your confidence and optimism intact.

Step 3 : Moving on
You move on, deciding not to waste too much time on that question. Something tells you that once you finish all the questions you know well, you can think freely and crack it. At this point, optimism seems shaky but there is no choice but to be positive.

Step 4 : Denial
You finish most of the other questions you know and now you're left with no choice but to finally confront the sore thumbs. You check the amount of marks those questions carry and get a little shaken up. You think of the consequences,
100 - 12
No! actually 100 - 16, but then 16 sounds terrible so you tell yourself *Steps ke liye marks mil jayenge* and come back to -12.
You read the question for the umpteenth time hoping the neurons in your brain will suddenly spark up and tell you the solution; but seldom do miracles like that happen.

Step 5 : Telling yourself you're a brave warrior.
You seem to be nowhere close to a solution, your emotions range from self-hatred to self-sympathy and immense rage against the board, the teachers and this seemingly diabolical world, cussing your ill-luck and slow brain you realize time's running out. Fear grips you, the panic alarms of your body whine loudly.
You lift your pen.
You write a word, you realize the word too less for a 6 mark answer.
You write a sentence, by framing that word into a sentence with some flamboyant use of english language.
You re-read it and realize that it is a piece of crap.
You feel like bashing yourself with your dirty shoes, for that answer.
You know it's wrong. You know, aint nobody giving you marks for that crap you've written.
You still think something is better than nothing. And pray for a miracle.

Above all, You feel grateful that the examiner will never come to know who's brainchild that wondrous piece of shit it is.

Dedicated to my nightmarish maths paper.