How far I would go to get closer to someone I love

If I remember correctly, I was fifteen casually going on sixteen when Frost told me ‘something there is that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down’. It was the most intriguing line of his masterpiece ‘Mending Wall’. The words jumped out at me. It is surprising they did. For a bunch of girls in a classroom in Bulawayo living life with the luxury of youth, poetry was story time with Mrs. Eddington on a lazy summer day. I suppose sometimes, some words just stick with you.

I remember the line now because I’m thinking of D. We would talk about life, boys, gossip. We met in high school in our candy-stripe summer uniform, around break time. That would be around ten past ten of a morning. And somewhere after the ‘hi’ and ‘hello’ and all the conversations in between, a friendship was forged that managed to weather more than just Bulawayo-African summer days.

It even managed to make it through the economic meltdown and rising dictatorship of a country that was both her home and mine. Mugabe at the time was busy building walls between races. People were moving out. To other parts of the world.

She moved to England and gained citizenship from her English ancestry. Four years into a new millennium, I came back to India. We were on different continents plunging into adulthood. Eighteen was liberating. And excruciating. It was the wall that divided childhood and the advent of adult life. We found a way to tell each other about our lives. I remember a surprised uncle returning home one day to tell me the police had noticed unusual activity on the telephone line. An hour-long call from England to a small town in North Karnataka was suspicious. I doubt if the powers that be ever realize that ‘something there is, that doesn’t love a wall, that wants it down’. It might be a telephone line.

Twenty one came by and I was officially a twenty-something veteran of the teenage years. D fell in love and so did I. Our conversations changed too. We spoke of the future, of love and family. I told her about the little dreams I was building; she shared hers with me. And the more things had changed, the more they stayed the same. I suppose sometimes, some people just stick with you.

In 2011, the first year of the second decade, she visited me in India. It was the first time we had seen each other since high school and we wouldn’t stop talking. We traveled around the North. I saw the Taj Mahal and the Himalayas for the first time with her.

Soon after that her left-hand ring-finger was blinged out. She was engaged to be married. I started plotting to get to England. I have this vision of D looking drop dead gorgeous in her wedding dress. She would look so beautiful.

But life unfolds in so many different, unexpected ways. She called me one day and said she wanted to chat. There was something in her voice that was different.

It was cancer. 

The thing you must remember, is that at first, you think to yourself: it’s ok. She is young. They have the best doctors in England. They have such a good support system. She is so strong and amazing. Everything will be fine. So you chat normally about chemotherapy, radiotherapy etc. And all the medical jargon…well it’s just jargon really isn’t it? So you postpone the plans for England. It’s better to wait until she is ok isn’t it?

Then the radiotherapy is done and so is the chemotherapy and you think, well there you go. Let’s plan life. There was the question of flowers for her wedding. I suggested hydrangeas because purple is her favorite color.

Except the doctors get back to you and say, no. No. Wait a minute. Hang on. Not yet. We need to operate. So you leave the question of the flowers unsettled. But you don’t leave out hope because there are always options.

You wait to hear how the operation went. Is she ok? They will confirm in a little while. Right now though, all is good.

But it’s not all good because that’s cancer. In a little while they say, wait. Hang on. We need to operate. Again.

So you hang on. And they operate. By now you’re thinking, they have been so thorough, that everything has most definitely been addressed. She will definitely be fine. The thorough doctors tell you to wait a bit more, just to be sure. So you do that.

And all the while you go on living life like everything will be ok. Let’s face it. She is young and strong and there are still options. So you go for a coffee or a movie with a friend or even hang out with colleagues. You talk about when would be the best time to visit England and keep plotting. Never stop plotting.

Then what happens is that the doctors tell her, that’s it. Here’s the thing love, nothing more can be done; you will be around for this Christmas, but not necessarily for the next one.

The truth dawns on you, that there are, in fact, just two options: life and death. Cancer is breaking down the wall that divides the two.

Through it all, you see her being strong and graceful, asking you how you’re doing, what you’re going through, being there for you, when really, you should be the one trying to be there for her. You feel guilty and helpless. Guilty, because she suffers while you live so comfortably. Helpless, because you are sitting thousands of miles away, unable to do a single thing that could save her.

Then one day, a little more than a week ago, D says, “I’m not afraid to die, Anu. I just don’t want the people I love and leave behind to experience the pain of loss, like I’ve done before.”

I am asked: how far would you go to get closer to someone you love?* If I were to get scientific that would be exactly 8056 kilometres from London Heathrow to Bangalore International. It’s the trip I have been wanting to take to see her. 

But I will tell you what I’ve learnt in my heart. To get closer to someone I love, I have gone as far as to break down my own walls. I believe it’s as far as I could ever go. In her own way, D taught me that. Through the years, we broke down the walls of race and religion, time and space. In these past few months, I have gone so far for the people I love as to break down the walls that stopped me from forgiving them. And I’m trying to break down the ones that stop me from truly loving and giving back. It has not been easy.

But D inspires me to keep trying. You should see her. She is incredible. Some people have the courage to face the breaking of walls. They are out there, silent warriors of this world, giving hope to the rest of us.

Frost tells me now, when I’m twenty eight going on twenty nine, ‘Before I built a wall, I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out’. I agree. And though the question of the flowers remains unsettled still, I will not build a wall that keeps out hope. 

*The question 'how far would you go to get closer to someone you love?', which resulted in this blog, was asked by the British Airways. Check out their link and video: http://bit.ly/1epU8Uj . 

A Hindu's conversation with St. Peter

I am condemned. Or so I’ve been told. I was perfectly unmindful of my condemnation until, when on my way to a spa to be massaged into a blissful state of contentment (Oh how I love spas), I saw certain signage, raised high above a Bangalore traffic signal, informing me about the sad state of my soul.

Now I grew up in Christian country. By that, I mean to say, I grew up in a country where Christianity was the predominant belief system (I hate the word religion). It never bothered me much what people thought about their God, until they told me there was something wrong with mine. I remember a certain conversation in Mr. Machiya’s chemistry class that made me especially uncomfortable.

Classmate 1: What do you people believe in anyway? Don’t you have like a million Gods?

Classmate 2 (laughing): Yeah, I heard you guys think that you could’ve been like a dog in a previous life?

Quite a few people joined in that laughter. I not going to lie, it was especially painful for me to hear it. Because nobody likes to be made to feel that the belief systems of their people are some sort of a joke. Nor do they wish to be made to feel that somehow, their strange thinking needs to be ‘corrected’. I think their reactions might have been different had I informed them that Pythagoras, one of the great Greek philosophers of western civilization, believed in that very concept of the transmigration of souls. I daresay, that I had informed them, their laughter may have been muted. I dare to say it because it was probably true.

Adding to this constant, almost subliminal, messaging that sprung from the subconscious belief of the superiority of western culture over everyone and everything else, were the occasional philanthropists coming to Africa with their agenda to save our souls. Oh how many kind compliments they gave us. “Oh my goodness! Oh we had no idea you could get such good schools here! Oh wow! It’s just so beautiful. We want to thank you so much for allowing us into your school. Now we want you to find all the love and joy you can find in the world...” I’m paraphrasing folks, but you get the picture.

One particular graduate of Harvard came to us to save our souls in a different way: by telling us about the importance of abstinence. And she began, very humbly, with the following statement (again, I paraphrase): “I know that as Americans, we need to set the example for women around the world, because the world looks to us…”

Not patronizing at all. Or annoying. But just an FYI, we didn’t follow the Americans over in that part of Africa.

We followed the British. Humph.

After one of these soul-saving, 45 minute sessions, I was confused about something and wanted to clarify with an acquaintance. “They said that you have to be Chrisitian to go to heaven. Is that true?” I asked. If I remember correctly, she said, “Yes.” But she would have to confirm it.

I have to tell you, that this confused me for a very, very long time. Especially because of its total and complete finality. If I were to dig deep, and truthfully search into myself, I have to say that I felt as though I was not enough. I had to change, and become something else and then I would be accepted. Not just by the society in which I found myself so painfully placed, a veritable fish out of water that tried to evolve into an amphibian in the course of a single human lifetime, but also by God himself. I was born into a certain belief system, in a certain way. And it was not enough. Therefore, I must change.

I wonder if anyone else feels that way, who has had their belief-systems shattered and their minds imposed upon by a vastly different ideology? I wonder, do you question yourself and your existence and wonder if you got it wrong and must therefore change? I have. So many, many times.

In my continued efforts to understand the world, an initiative recently taken up on account of certain unexpected circumstances that brought forth to me the painful question of the purpose of my life, I have decided to share my thoughts, my ideas and my questions with world. There are certain things that I no longer wish to be quiet about. Because silence, though necessary at times, and often the better part of valor, is not always the answer. I wanted to talk about my experiences with everyone just because I can. Not to judge or be judged, but rather to fulfill a basic human desire to share and connect. People who know me will realize what a big step this is for me. I tend to go off the radar and become extremely private at times. I’ve thought a hundred times before posting each and every post on the blog, which is why I hardly ever post anything (they usually don’t make the cut). I have to tell you, I thought a lot before posting this one.

And now for the conversation with St. Peter. I stumbled across the following verse yesterday:

“Whoever believes in him is not condemned, but whoever does not believe stands condemned already…”

- John 3:18

My overactive imagination imagined, in the course of a few minutes, the following conversation with St. Peter, (who is said to stand guardian to the gates of heaven), which I shall now recount.

St. Peter (upon reading my application to heaven): Child, a necessary prerequisite for your application to heaven, where the Fresh Springs of Eternal Youth await you, is that you must be a Christian. Therefore you are condemned. Now kindly move to the next lane, where you will be rerouted to the Hot Springs of Hell…[reading my mind] no, no, it's not a spa! They do not have any medicinal qualities, though they do contain certain quantities of sulphur, which have been known to help with rheumatoid arthritis. But we’re working on that.

Me: But St. Peter sir, I seek my grandfather, Advocate and Agriculturist, gone only a month and much missed by me and mine.

St. Peter (with sadness in his eyes): He was not a Christian child, and is therefore condemned.

Me: But St. Peter sir, how is that possible? He was a good man. People traveled far to seek his advice. He was a good man, who lived an honest life and saw so many, many things in his 90 years on Earth.

St. Peter: Then what stopped him being Christian child? Educated you say he was? Why didn’t he read Christian literature and learn of Christian principles? More than 400 years have we been in your country. Isn’t that long enough?

Me: Please sir, I seek my grandfather.

St. Peter: Enough child! No more about that now. But since you are still so young and confused, I will make an exception. Here is a form for your conversion. Fill it up.

Me (without hesitation): No thank you sir. Show me to my grandfather.

St. Peter: Child, leave your foolishness.

Me: No thank you sir. I seek my grandfather. Point me to him, and gladly shall I go.

And I meant it. Now I’ve never questioned my Christian friends about this (except maybe some of my closest, so please know that I do not mean to offend), because Mum has drilled it into my head that God is good no matter what. God is good Anu, and He will take care of you and us and everyone.

If there is a God, and a logical progression of thought leads me to believe there is, then it occurs to me that I don’t even know his name. It’s been suggested to me, albeit strongly, by many people and many sources, but never by Him. Strange to think, then, that this Entity created me, made me who I am, is the silent Force that may have shaped my life, and still, I don’t even know His name.

I suspect, it matters little to Him what name He is called. I suspect it so, because as the great Bard put it, ‘What’s in a name? It’s neither hand, nor arm nor foot nor any other part belonging to a man’.

Whatever be His name then, He must be an omnipotent, omniscient being who knows us all. I hope He can see into me, and realize that though I have my doubts about Him, I stumble across divinity every once in a while. And I am continually in awe of it. I saw it in that cute little St. Bernard puppy down the street. I will be good, thanks to the influence of my mother, and not puppy-nap the cute little thing.

Above all, I know now that you should always go to a good spa. Because when you go to a bad spa, you think about the signage you saw on the way to the spa, you will think about it after the spa, it will stay with during other spa sessions and then you will end up writing a blog post about it. I leave you now, with the following beautiful song, as sung by a little known artist, Mathai.

What it means to have curly hair

I was dead serious when I asked a certain Mr. R, “Mr. R. what’s your opinion of curly hair?”

What was his opinion? Was he going to pause before he answered? I hoped to God he would never pause because a million little things can be said in the silence of a single pause that can have devastating consequences for a relationship. Why, you might ask, was this question so important that my possible future fiance’s unknown future hung in the balance?

Like Copperfield, I will begin at the beginning.

I was born. And when I was born, I let out such a cry, mum tells me, that the minute she heard it, she knew I was going to be trouble. Then she saw the mop of curls I was born with and thought to herself (and I’m paraphrasing here) paramatma, this child is going to be just like the rest of the Kalgudi family. Apparently, this was not the compliment my grandma, her mother-in-law, thought it to be. We, of the Kalgudi family, are not exactly your run-of-the-mill ordinary creatures, according to mum, and she wondered how she would cope with another one coming into the world.

Our women, my grandma Ajji has always told me, are known for their stubborn hair. It runs in our genes, she says. My youngest aunt, the great beauty of the family, could not escape it. And now, even my grandma’s great granddaughter, offspring of a Kalgudi, has it. When I was a child living with Ajji, it was a routine every Sunday that my hair was brushed and oiled thoroughly before being washed. At least once a week, you should oil your hair. That’s what I was told. And even today, when I visit her, she sits me down to brush my hair and tells me that I should always oil it. Once a week. Without fail. My Ajji has always emphasized on the custom and tradition of our ways, lest I forget my true roots.

At the tender age of 7 when I left India to join my parents abroad, mum chopped my hair off. Her reason?

“I don’t want to sit there brushing all those curls out.” So every time they grew two inches too long, it was off to the hairdresser’s for a nice good chop. I see myself now, in those primary school pictures, a distinctly black mop of curls surrounded by blond and auburn hair, steadfastly refusing to fit in with its gentle surroundings.

I can’t remember when exactly my curls became entangled in my sense of identity. It might have been the time dad’s idiotic friend described me as ‘the girl with the big hair’ or the time I had a huge fight with mum to grow them back or the time I did grow them back and then decided to chop them off in a fit of frustration during my O’Levels, much to the shock of all my classmates. I just know that without being consciously aware of it, I began to wish I had straight, silky hair. I didn’t want to be this person anymore. When I took up swimming it wouldn’t fit in the swimming cap. When I decided to try out different hairstyles, the hairdresser told me very politely that nothing much could be done. I was tired of waking up in the morning and wondering what my hair was up to. The older I grew, the more complicated and messy it became. Life became convoluted and messy, intricate and labyrinthine, complex and confused.

By the time I came back to India, I didn’t know who I was. Ajji’s customs and traditions were forgotten. I determined to straighten my hair. Permanently. But there was a problem. My family places great emphasis on natural beauty. Random relatives were perplexed by my choices and chose to voice their opinions. Why would I want be something so unnatural when I had the best of everything? I guess you could say I was confused. I was trying to understand India at the time and our country has that effect on people. She takes you by the collar, shakes you and asks you exactly what you think of yourself. And I thought my hair needed to be straight.

I straightened it and it looked fantastic for a week, even two weeks. But you could tell the strain it was under, trying so hard to stay straight. It didn’t last very long. I went to numerous hairdressers, took many different paths to find what I was looking for. Nothing changed. When I tried to have it ironed, smoke rose out of it. My cousin and I (she suffers a similar fate) used to discuss shampoos on a regular basis, trying new brands, experimenting with different methods. No change. I experimented with banana and beer. All I learnt was that picking bits of banana out of your hair for hours makes you suicidal and beer is better in your belly than on your hair. I explored more traditional routes and tried shikaykai and tulsi. I tried amla and henna and blah blah blah. I even walked around smelling like rotten eggs for a day. It’s all a blur now.

Slowly, I grew disgusted with all those ridiculous women in TV ads who could run a comb through their hair and have it slide down with no effort at all. I started to curse girls walking around with flowing silky hair. I tried to be polite and kind to people with nice hair, the way mum raised me, but I couldn’t.

Then I swore that my future husband, who ever he was, would have to be a lover of curls. Because my hair would not become straight. And he must know this fact, embrace it and love it, even if I never did.

So you see, all those things were rushing through my mind in the instant that I casually asked my Mr. R. what he thought of curly hair. And now for the question of a lifetime. Did he pause?

No.

He said, with no pause at all, ‘I love your hair. And I always will.’

I had to make sure he understood the implications of his statement.

“Are you sure you know what you’re in for? Kalgudi hair can be complicated,” I said.

“Of course I do!” he replied. Again, with no pause.

I searched his face intently. He held my gaze steadfastly. It appeared Mr. R. was sure he could handle curly hair.

I guess that’s the moment I really started to let go and embrace things as they were. Just exactly as they were. No chemicals and no changes. No more trying to be something other than what I am.

It’s the weirdest thing in the world, but I swear it has gotten better with the passing seasons. Sure, I occasionally make the 1 hour international phone call to discuss my hair issues with Mr. R., but such calls are now fewer and farther in between. It’s still stressful when the time comes for new things, and I know I must change shampoos, but such times grow less and less worrisome. And through it all, or rather because of it, I have learnt to love my hair.

India doesn't need a sexual revolution

India doesn’t need a sexual revolution. And patriotism isn’t about supporting the Indian cricket team. We just need to stop pouring acid on unformed foetuses of baby girls and bashing their bones to smithereens to hide the evidence.

Did you know that according to a recent survey female foeticide was highest among women with university degrees?

They give them to street sweepers to be disposed of like garbage. They tell them to catch rickshaws that go by riversides and throw them into the water. The doctors tell them this.

Of course there will be a skewed sex ratio! And when there aren’t enough child girls for them to marry as brides they traffic them from other states. Yes folks! We have brides for sale in India. All you need is RS. 10,000 or $222. So if I go Sunday shopping twice, I could buy a bride. And so could you!

I want to rattle the bars of those caged minds and scream! Whatever happened to our ‘lovely Indian culture’? Are we all insane?

People turn blind eyes to this. WE INDIANS turn blind eyes to this. Because if it doesn’t affect you, why should you be bothered right? Why should you be bothered at all?

Maybe if you have ten minutes to spare, you’ll find the time to educate yourself about this: http://www.buzzle.com/articles/129103.html (Guardian News & media, published '07).

But wait, don’t you have that cricket match to worry about? Isn’t that the most important thing in the world? So what if in some state of your country they’re mashing a baby foetus' bones (some of them developed enough to be legally called babies by Indian law)? As for me, I don’t give a damn about the cricket match. And I’m angry as hell.

I'm not even going to apologize for my harsh tone. Like I said, I’m angry as hell. And if you're not after reading that article, then you're just plain weird. Oh but wait, maybe you're just turning a blind eye. I'm so sorry...didn't mean to make you see. Carry on. Turn that blind eye.

A lady I met in my travels

When I first saw Huliamma, she’d come to a school I was visiting to collect a transfer certificate for Lakshmi, her 16 year old daughter, who’d dropped out of the education system a year before in order to get married. She didn’t know her own age or how old she might have been when she herself had an arranged married. If she had to guess, Huliamma said, she was probably around 35 years. But then I asked her the age of her eldest child, and she said with fair certainty that her son, Hulgappa, was around 25.

Now, taking into account the average age that women of her generation and social class were married in Bellary District of the State of Karnataka, India, it was possible to make an educated guess as to her real age. Many of the women I’ve spoken to were married around the age of 14 or 15. They usually had their first child when they were 16 going on 17 and they were almost always uneducated, without any basic literacy or arithmetic skills. Not surprising. Adults in South Asia have, on average, completed only 4.5 years of schooling according to a UN report. If Huliamma’s eldest child, Hulgappa, was around 25, then that would place her age between 40 and 45 years.

Only 40 years and she was the mother of 6 children and the grandmother of one baby girl. Both her daughters were already married. Hulggiamma, her eldest daughter, was only 20 years old. And she was pregnant with her second child.

“Girls still marry at a very early age around here. We try and tell them not to marry them off so soon, but they won’t listen. That’s how it’s always been,” says Renuka, a teacher in the village.

The weather-beaten contours of Huliamma’s face appeared much older than 40. They hinted at decades of hard labour in the unforgiving Bellary sun. She’d been working since she was 13, she said. They were field workers. Gaddi kelsa was their way of living. And life was tough. If it wasn’t the heavy rains, then it was the severe shortage of them during dry seasons that constantly added to their troubles. But agriculture was their only source of income and they had a lot of mouths to feed.

On average, field workers get paid between Rs. 150 to Rs. 200 per day around Bellary. That’s around US $3 to $4. The cost of a kilo of rice in Karnataka is around Rs. 40. Average cost of a kilo of dal: Rs. 60. It’s fair to say that it costs at least Rs.100 for a large family like Huliamma to eat a simple meal of rice and sambar three times a day. Where is there money left for anything else?

A few hundred meters from the main highway that threads through all the surrounding villages like a string to so many pearls, was Huliamma’s home. Five feet from her doorstep, in the cool shade of a thatched roof shed, buffalo lay resting.

Coming from the concrete jungle that is Bangalore, I was touched to see such civil pastoral simplicity. What was even more touching was the close knit sense of community that wrapped around me as I sat down at her doorstep. All her neighbours came out to see their new visitor, come all the way from the big City. And for a brief moment, I felt I was a part of her life and her village. In that moment, I also felt trapped and powerless. What would I do if I couldn’t write?

Huliamma was staying home these days, because of Shivappa, her 18 year old son. Shivappa was sitting in front of the family house, one swollen leg wrapped in a towel, his emaciated form showing clear signs of chronic distress. He’d been cycling when he fell into a ditch months ago. They weren’t sure what was wrong with his leg.

“We went everywhere, from Bellary, to Hospet to Bangalore, but nothing happened. We spent nearly Rs. 150, 000 but no one did anything,” said Huliamma.

When I asked her which hospital in Bangalore they took her son to, she responded, “I don’t know. I’m a woman, how will I know these things? Our work is just cooking and cleaning. The men will know,” she said. So Shivappa was still suffering, with his left leg swollen and bandaged in a towel. And as an uneducated mother, she was powerless to do anything about it.

I’ve read so many statistics about the need to educate and empower women. How an educated mother will improve the quality of life for her children. How an empowered woman will have the means to sustain her family through difficult times. I think this is the first time that it really hit home.

I know it won’t be the last time. There are hundreds of thousands in the world like her. I’ll read another article in the newspaper tomorrow on the plight of women the world over. It’ll be written with an ‘angle’ on human development and have oh so many facts and figures that show just what a shame it is no one’s doing anything about it. The story will be right next to the latest scam on Government corruption, after the all important news on the latest superstar gossip.

But for people like Huliamma, this is their life. She has to get up the next day and go about her household chores. She has to tend to her son and ease his suffering. She has to find a way to cook three meals a day on whatever can be afforded. At least her daughters can read and write. Maybe her granddaughters will do much more.

When I read about this competition by Dove on the beauty of a woman, I was so happy because it gave me the opportunity to show others how amazing we women are through Huliamma's story. I thought of her immediately. For me, this is the true beauty of a woman: our ability to face life head on, despite the trials we have faced, despite the pain we have suffered, just like Huliamma does everyday. We find a way to get up each day and deal with everything that comes our way with a quite fortitude unmatched in any man I've ever come across. I see it in my mother's eyes, I see it in my Ajji's careworn features. I saw it Huliamma. And one day, I hope to see it in myself.

restless souls

stuck in the middle of traffic, i asked my colleague R* why she was in the social sector. When you're stuck in the middle of traffic, you'll ask anyone just about anything. its the god damn traffic.
Why are you in the social sector R*?
because, she said (and i'm paraphrasing here), i got sick of my old job. I'm a little restless that way.

a restless soul. like me.

Some people in this world are lucky. they were born in just the right place, at the right time, and they never struggle with themselves. they were, are, and always will be exactly suited to their life and place in this world.

then there are others. others like me. restless souls. wandering through here and there, never fitting anywhere, not even in the skin of their own existence. i remember being 13 and looking in the mirror. first time i asked my eyes to explain the meaning of their look. first time that iris brown turned to mystery and confusion.

and i wandered and wandered through the days and found nothing but confusion everywhere i looked. sometimes in that iris brown shining through the mirror...sometimes in the iris brown of others..or iris blue or iris green.

i gave up at one point. that misty haze of life would never clear, the sun would never shine. darkness was all i had and i should get comfortable with it. or so i thought....so i beleived.

until someone came along who looked right through the iris brown and saw me.
just as i am. no putting on a pedestal. no seeing a me that doesn't exist.

through the meandering path we wander together.

i am restless no more.

my first job ever

poonam said over her chapati at lunch that they were looking for someone in communications.

Communications? i asked.

Yes. communications.

Why don't you speak to priti about it?

and then Pavi came up to me and said so too. speak to priti about it, she said. kalpana had asked her to ask me to speak to priti about it.

and then priti came up to me, before i could go up to her, and said...we're looking for someone in communications.

i said oh? communications?

she said yes. and event management, and fundraising.

hmmm.. i said.

then priti started to tell me what it meant to be in communications. priti with the full weight of her 30 yrs of experience.

and by the time she was done, i was almost convinced.

but i had to speak to kalpana first. and by the time she was done, i was totally convinced.

so there you are. i landed my first job in the social sector as a paid intern. which may not sound like much, but its better than an unpaid intern. from now on, i'm officially saving the world, one little child at a time. through life skills. and communications. also, event management.

isn't that cool? i think so.

dad, however, thinks i'm wasting my talent. i should be in corporate, saving myself. making my money. god knows you're talented anu, why are you throwing it all away?

he has a point, though i'll never admit that to him. he has a point, no doubt. but then i have i point too.

and my point begins with a painted tree. several trees in fact. it was a hot saturday. the indian summer was on. i was smelling of turpentine bananas and delicious paint. it was a small classroom for the littlest children in the school. and it was filled with perfect strangers.

perfect because they were new. and new people are always perfect. with them, there is no familiarity that has bred contempt.

we all painted a wall. with trees. and flowers, and happy loitering clouds. i was putting the grey in the clouds when i made up my mind to save the world.

besides, i'll find the money somehow. i'm going to be a bestselling author remember?