The patriot

I've held out from making this post for as long as I could. Or from making any post, for that matter.
All around me, people have been ranting and raving about everything from the beef ban to the roast ban, and the latest update on that, the furor over a PJ a comedian posted on his Snapchat.

I am in awe of these proceedings. Literally rendered speechless by the monumental insignificance of most things people have decided to obsess over lately. But mostly, the reason I haven't made a post or so much as a rousing comment is that I am a pacifist.
'Non-confrontational' is, in fact, my middle name.
Now, I admit that that's a much less cool middle name than say 'Trouble', but what to do? That's how I roll.
Or, more appropriately, given my age and disposition, that's how I take a couple of puffs and pass, when someone else rolls.

Anyway, as you, my too intelligent and often patronizing reader, have guessed, this post is about other, more important things. I actually have a point to make!! I know, right?

A point about patriotism, to be specific.
So, here's the thing... I used to be an extremely patriotic child.
Reared on a fodder of films ranging from 'Saat Hindustani' to 'Gadar- Ek prem katha', my devotion for my nation knew no bounds.
I idolized our freedom fighters, insisted that everyone stand up when the national anthem was so much as hummed, and felt 'proud to be an Indian' every single day.
Now, you might think that I was disillusioned when I migrated to another country or, you know, gained some perspective as I grew up, but nooope!
That's not even close to how I reached (cynical) enlightenment.

Here's what really happened...
I studied Indian history.

That's it. That's all, folks. That's all it took.
Suddenly, all my glorified ideas about heroism and sacrifice came crashing down.
At 15, I realized that our 'freedom struggle' was a political war, more than anything else.

As much as there were patriotic heroes, with their youthful passion and their rose-tinted glasses firmly in place (and I count everyone from Bhagat Singh to Birsa Munda among them), there were also the shrewd politicians, the Nehrus, Gandhis and Jinnahs, who were planning their empires, lining up their pawns.

I read about the freedom struggle, and I saw that it was really a negotiation between two sets of powerful people: the empire that was waning, and the 'democracy' that was rising, but both represented solely by their 'leaders'. Not their warriors.

This newfound patriotism is the disease of a nation fed on nationalist propaganda. This is a nation that did not study its own history. Because if they did, they would realize that this 'patriotism' is a sham.
Its an elaborate and fairly riveting story fed to us by clever marketing geniuses, who knew that their empires would only survive if the people believed that they were heroes who liberated them. Not cowards who struck a bargain with their oppressors.
Because, at the end of the day, many of our 'heroes' resembled our oppressors more than they resembled us. Many of our leaders still do.

Welcome to the animal farm, where some animals are inevitably more equal than others. Especially cows.

Bharat mata ki jai.

twice removed

These days and nights that you spend so far away from your home away from home, they must break your heart.

How lonely it must be to return, time and again, to a luxuriously sterile space that is anything but yours. Where everything reverts to being exactly as it was, every time you leave.

I can almost see you, sprawled in your usual disheveled way, on fresh, too-white sheets. I can see you watch the rain fall over a strange city, while the city you call home puts on the colours of spring.

Sleep eludes you. Peace is even harder to come by.

But remember, even in exile, that everything that you long for is exactly where you left it. And that yearning makes homecoming that much sweeter.

the watermelon incident

So, I've always thought of myself as someone who can manage everyday operations, keep track of small inventories, optimize utilization, etc.

Basically, I thought I could run a bloody household fairly efficiently. And to be fair, I have managed pretty well so far.

When I lived with my parents, I managed the buying, stocking and dispensing of toiletries, cleaning supplies and other such materials. During my epic parties, I managed the buying and distribution of snacks, food and liquor. Even matches and lighters for the hapless smokers, who would stagger around, barely awake, at 3 am, trying to find me, so that I could locate a matchbox for them.

When I moved in with friends, I retained my reputation of ensuring that very little got thrown away, from leftovers to clothing. I'm a conserver, a reuser, a recycler.
I'm practically Captain Planet!

But every now and then, my superpowers are superseded by something monumentally stupid. Such as a watermelon.
One that has resided in the vegetable crisper of my fridge for no less than a quarter of a year. I kid you not.

This melon has witnessed the change of seasons. We bought it sometime in summer, and now that it's autumn, nearing winter, it still sits there in all its glory, mocking me. We planned to eat it. Truly, we did. We just never got around to it.

The most curious part is that it shows no signs of decomposition, at least on the surface.
I don't know what to do with it anymore. I'm too afraid that it has become sentient, or sprouted an ecosystem of its own. So I'm just avoiding the crisper altogether.

As I write this, the watermelon continues to occupy its place of pride in my fridge, an indubitable testament to my failure to adult.

Ginger naps

wound

Okay, this might sound enormously creepy to you, but I have a slight thing for wounds.

Let me clarify, I am no fan of large gashes or disembowelment (except in gore movies), nor am I an angsty self harm enthusiast.
Nope. notatall!

On the contrary, I try to avoid injury at all cost.
However, when the occasional unavoidable corporeal damage does occur, I am incredibly fascinated by the mechanism of it, and the efficiency with which my body heals itself.

Having a cat means being constantly subjected to affectionate nipping and games involving claws, which often result in gashes. I find myself carefully observing these small tears in my skin scab over and heal over the span of days, sometimes weeks.
I think it's beyond cool that cuts on my palms and fingers, that is, parts of my body that are constantly in use or in contact with objects, heal much faster than those on my forearms.

Blisters heal differently, a fine layer of skin forming under it, as the upper damaged layer slowly peels off. Burns are a different story, as are deeper cuts, which might scab over, but stay fragile underneath for days.

Hangnails are the devil's own invention, so are paper cuts. Both are tiny and deadly, all at once.

The newest addition to my small collection of wonders is a "blood blister", which resulted from accidentally pinching my hand in a door. It looks about as scary as it sounds.
Now to wait and see how it heals.

throwback

It's so strange to think that we are in different time zones!

That as I write this mail, you're probably still asleep.

Or maybe waking up bleary-eyed,

your sleep-blurred mind baffled by the new surroundings. 

Just for a few minutes, though.

After that, you'll be back to being the usual focused and self-possessed you, ready to take on a new city and a new day.

But it is for those few warm, fuzzy, lost minutes, that I long to be near you. Before you snap back into routine. 

humpty dumpty

Almost all my pets fall off buildings at some point in their lives.

It's like an unspoken agreement between them.
An implicit act of... solidarity? rebellion?
Who knows.
But they all fall down.

What makes this that much more ridiculous is that the majority of these tumblers are cats!
In the spirit of that morbid curiosity, which is touted to be the nemesis of the feline, they venture where they shouldn't, perch on precarious walls, and then proceed to roll off them.

Combined with the other unfortunate fact that I have mostly lived in upper floor apartments, this makes for small episodes of pure horror.

Notice cat is missing, search frantically for cat, fail to find cat, realise cat has fallen off building, find cat (often injured or bloody) at bottom of apartment/lower floor, proceed to nurse cat back to health so that you can slap it silly later on.

There was the one that landed on its feet, injured one of them, then crawled under a car to hide, making it that much more difficult for us to find him.

There was the one that fell five floors and smashed up his face so badly that I screamed when I saw him (he recovered, thank God!)

There was the one that fell off the balcony and rolled into the downstairs apartment, kept us up all night searching, then made us stage a daring rescue mission that involved walking across planks.

There was the one that fell four floors and broke his paw, which had to then be put in a cast for a month.

And then there was the genius who fell one floor down to the garden, hurt his leg and broke a tooth. :/

*sigh*

And they say cats are graceful.