Friday, March 23, 2012

Why can’t I be a writer?


No offence but pun intended.
First of all, my history is as blatant as it can be. I am not from a prestigious college, so, half my chances of narrating my experiences are gone. I didn’t have a professor who was against me for all four years or a friend who could bring the US down. Even a description of me at the end of the book could be very blank.

“Subhashree Srinivasan studied at Madha Engineering college, just like her 3 lakh counter parts of Tamil Nadu. She managed an MBA. Hell! Who cares from where? It’s not the IIMs”

So, the publications will not even lift an eyebrow if I said the book was narrating my academic experiences. I am lost into the labyrinth of mediocrity and randomness. Jargons do play a role, you know!

Born into a country of high emotional quotient, I have lost the race there too. I didn’t have a boyfriend who left me to pursue his career. If he did, it would have been a book. Coming from a girl, it would have actually been a personal diary of sympathy. The only other who would have read it are the ones who broke up from their boyfriends. I would dedicate it to all those who were/are/will be in love. I think that pretty much covers everyone.

“I miss the hands. Those warm fingers fondling my hair.I missed the sense that spread emotions of all layers into my body. Love,protection and care. That is what he was. I missed him.I missed him like hell.”

I am less creative. I can’t make wizards out of normal people, vampires to fall in love with the werewolves or even make God a human being! It is my inability to think out of box that restricts me to write anything at all. I am the one who is satisfied with non-fiction boring narrations of mamis and their filter coffees.

“Its eyes glistened in the dark. It paved its way to the prey. Prey in an ”out of world” form. Its breathing heavily tinted with blood. The sky turned orange helping it to move faster down the path. The dusk was nearing, so, was the death of the enemy”

My gender hinders. I mean, think about it. If a guy wanted to make a joke, it is usually crude language. I can’t use it. Either I would be considered a desperate person or too conservative to make a point. There are no grey shades if I wrote something.

“He was hot. Err..tall and simple. He wore an aura that spelt genius. He was like Greek god. He was..like..hmmm..like..hot. ya, hot.”

It is an unfair world that doesn’t let anyone write in peace.

You write about your caste, million will frown. You write about Bhagavad Gita, Russians will ban it. You translate the works of a Tamil author, the essence is lost. You write about sex, enough is enough. If you write about war, movies will be copied from it. You write about the UFOs, controversies would be created. Apparently, I am lost in the blank pages that will make no sense to anyone.

“Unfair propagation towards the religion that might cause wars”-The Guardian
“The names are already taken by me in my book. I need right-full credit”- Kootan Boogat
“I don’t like it because it can’t be made into a movie” – TajKumar Biriyani
I am not done yet. I have one more big worry which all other authors do it with ease. To whom will I dedicate the book to?
To my father, who believed that benzene structure made more sense than my English?
To my mother, who felt all my books smelt like her sambhar
To my sister, who intends to write better books.
To my friends, who asked to throw away my MBA degree and asked me to write.
To my cousins, who were the greatest and the most proactive critics.
To my hostel mirror, to which I shouted, “what the hell am I doing now?”
Now, you tell me, with so much prejudice and faulty imaginations, where and how can I write? I only can crib in many pages that my writing will not be accepted.

So, all the world’s a stage. But I am thoroughly misplaced!

Sniff. Sob. Mental trauma. 

Monday, March 12, 2012

Kahaani uski

My stomach has not been at its best. It churns and sends a signal to visit the bathroom. Not new to this but this is the first time that it is being unreasonable from its side.

Last time the stomach played with me was when I was cornered in an ac room by the bespectacled man who seemed to know more than what my entire set of neuron can hold. He asked, scribbled and pointed to crawling graphs and numbers that seemed to make sense only when I left the room. Like the door of elevator, stomach turned normal after I reached the door knob.

With a population of 2000 in my b-school and over 60% of them being boys, I just couldn’t get a boyfriend. I thought I was socially challenged and that was the worse feeling than your close friend holding hands with a guy who has been acclaimed as one of the best looking in the campus. Tragedy took turns; the best men were with worst girls and decent men delved in their own worlds with a bottle of alcohol not able to get away from their past. In all, I was left stranded wondering what is wrong with me.

If you can sense the connect between the above two paragraphs, in the world of career and matrimony, it is truly the survival of fittest.

Apparently, placements proved that Darwin’s findings don’t seclude to the rush of suitable mates.

There is a common connect when it comes to either getting hooked or beating the wisest at the placements. Both give a satisfaction of achievement beyond the natural feeling of happiness.

What more? Here it goes:

(1) In placements, it is the package. Nothing beats the package. Try convincing your friend that profile speaks more than package, he will still ogle at the numbers that stretch.

With the boyfriend story, it is the handsome one that is taken notice of.

(2) In placements, the interviewer has no idea what you can do and you have no idea what is needed of you and both begin from scratch.

“Why is your engineering score less?”

(I screwed up my projects with movies and the HOD never liked me)

“I was doing more in college than in school, for example, I started an E-cell in my college..blah blah..leadership..blah blah..versatile..blah blah..dream big.

In relationships, you don’t know how you got there, nor does your claimed better half and everything begins with scratch. Well ya, it ends with a drama.

(3) During placements, you believe you are the best the company can have. Every other contender sitting in the small room with files and neatly combed hair is no match for you. The feeling is Spartan and confidence is enormous.

In a relationship, it’s the same story of false presumption that you are the best the other can get.

(4) Initially, you are willing to wait. Wait for the recruiter and wait for the lover. Then, you get used to it.

(5) You dress the best for placement. You dress what you don’t like but what the recruiter might. You notice that a particular shirt is lucky though it doesn’t go too well with the pant.

In a lovey dovey situation, you dress for the other.

(6) You forget a lot. Forget to take copies of resume or wear a tie or your particular certificate. Your memory elapses in a sudden rush. You tend to lose things everywhere. It’s a natural trauma of situations. You lose track of what is happening with friends and family. Only your job matters.

In a relationship, hmmm..you know better.

(7) You are forever editing your resume or your couple photo for the Facebook profile photo.

(8) Last but not the least; to end it with a truth that tastes funny, in either, you don’t know whether to speak more or less!

Friday, March 9, 2012

The day that passed

“Anna!”


He didn’t look up but gestured that it would take him few seconds.


I let out a sigh, obviously to show him that I was irritated.


“Sorry, sorry. I was just in middle of the sum”


He marked my mess card and I just left the place scorning.


This story repeated every day, every meal and every five hours. Our college had 2 food messes

and I never changed my eating place even once.

I saw this particular mess guy who was always involved in some book. He took some time to

mark our mess cards. I didn’t bother to ask him what he was doing.

I studied, did projects, presented papers, wrote tests and even got through a job in the final year

but the mess anna didn’t change a bit.

He sat in the corner, busy with books, scribbling small numbers with his short pencil and smiling

apologetically at everyone who waited for him to mark the mess card.

Time flew and it was last before day of college life when I saw him. He was counting the coupons

of the mess.

I didn’t know why but a feeling inside me pushed to ask him questions.


“Hi, I am leaving college tomorrow”, I told him to start the conversation.


“Nice ji, all the best. Placements ho gaya?”, he asked. (Are you done with placements?)


“Ya, mostly I would be joining in Bangalore. What about you? What were you doing all these

days?, I asked in curiosity.

“Nothing ma’am. Looking at so many people studying MBA travelling from all over country, I

felt I must also study”, he replied.

“Oh! Wow! What course? Why didn’t your parents send you to study?”, I added more questions.


“I don’t have parents. And I need to earn to study. Two reasons”, he gestured smiling at me.


My heart melted and filled with guilt at same time.


“Why are you glum? Come on! They are more under privileged people than me. Feel sorry for

them, not me”, he smiled again

“Take my number”, I told him pulling out my mobile.


“What?”, he asked in confusion.


“Take my number and let me know what books you need. I will courier it. Let me know of you

need something else too”, I explained.

He looked reluctantly and then punched my number in his phone.


“What should I store as your name?”, I asked.


“Yadav, ma’am. Yadav. And thanks. I don’t know what to say…”, he controlled his emotions.


I smiled and joined my friends in the mess. I am to educate one Indian.


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