Dreams

Can I dream?

Yes, I may not be special

Nothing to recommend myself with,

Yes, I may be ordinary

Plebeian even;

Undistinguished and indistinguishable,

But perhaps I can dream.

Perhaps in my mind’s eye

I can stand out

High over the sweaty scalps of the masses

Unruffled

Crystalline.

Perhaps I can be perfect.

Perfect?

The perfect of today, the perfect of right now

Forever.

Perhaps

Perhaps, perhaps I can dream!

But my dreams are not reality;

My reality is just dreams.

I live half awakened

Half conscious

Not present.

I am no longer average.

I am falling

I am failing

I am flailing

I set out to fly.

Catch me won’t you?

Wake me up.

But you are lost

In your own dreams

Crashing.

I have cashed my last chances.

Burnt out

I have nothing left now but

Dreams.

The Possibility of Androids

The future. It’s funny thinking about it. Such a vast mysterious thing. It can be what you want it to be. So full of possibilities, so full of excitement.

My brother is 25. He is working as a market analyst in London. He has a swanky job, a swanky apartment, a swanky car. He has a gorgeous girlfriend back in India. He is happy. Yesterday he told be the best years of his life were in college.

My flatmate is 34. She is an apparel designer. She works till 6, then has dance classes, guitar classes and a baking class. She is beautiful and has an adorable merchant navy fiancé. Every night during dinner she goes on about how she wishes she were back in college.

My father is 56. He is a mechanical consultant. He owns his own company. He has a beautiful house, an incredible wife, amazing kids (if I say so myself).  His best years were in college.

I am 20. I am in college. I have a fantastic time. I am learning all sorts of things, most unrelated to my coursework. I have a whole future full of possibilities. I have dreams and goals and hopes. I want a future where I am even happier than now. But all evidence indicates that that will probably not happen. These will be the best years of my life, and then I’ll settle down to the monotony of routine and schedule. My capacity to be happy and be excited will diminish. My dreams and hopes will be compromised with reality.

Why try then? Why try so hard, get my hopes up when this is the top point of the graph? After this, reality kicks in with all its responsibilities.

Of course, there is no way about it. I know that. Nothing lasts forever. This too shall pass. It’s just a little depressing thinking about how fast it’ll all end. The supposedly best chapter in my life will be closing in just a few months.

But I know other doors will open. There will be change, and that in itself is exciting. I look forward to whatever the future throws at me.

Who knows, in my future, there may even be androids :D

Sadhu

Men in saffron robes.
 

Probably doesn’t mean much to you. You may have seen them around. Those ‘Hare Krishna’ guys. Clean shaven heads, huge hairy beards, draped in saffron, wearing beads. Well, their Indian antecedents are called Sadhus.
 

Sadhus are ascetic, wandering monks, solely dedicated to achieving liberation through meditation and contemplation. They are a common sight in India. They go around asking for alms and giving blessings.

In my household, sadhus were a common sight. My father, and before him his father, were devout believers and admirers of the sadhus way of life. From an early age, I remember scores of these saffron men coming by our house, asking for alms. Ask is what they did; they never begged, they just…expected. Like it was their divine right. My father would give them whatever he was able to at the time. He gave them money, rice, cell phones, tickets to pilgrimage destinations. He is a good man my father. He believes in helping out those in need. I did too.

These sadhus would come over to our house and take their alms. Then they would bless the inhabitants, perform some rituals, even do palm readings and the like. I remember being told once that I would get married to a wealthy man and travel a lot and have lots of kids. That is the accepted and desired future for women here. Of course, my plans for my future headed a different way, but I knew they were trying to be nice. They were elders, they were respected by my father, they were holy men. Even though I was a budding agnostic, I had nothing but respect for them. I was a good girl like that.

When I was 17, we shifted into a new house. My father is extremely close to his brother. They have their own business where they work as partners. We used to live as a joint family too, with my uncle and aunt all living under the same roof. There was some friction between the two ladies of the household and we shifted into individual flats, facing each other.  Our old house served as my father’s office too. With the change, he got a separate office some blocks away. All sadhu activity was directed there hence. No sadhu came to our home. Of course, we would still see them on the roads, stopping cars and asking for alms; but all in all, I lived a sadhu-free existence. Till last year.

It was summer. I had just come back from college for my summer break. I had two months of vacation. My parents still had to go to work, but every evening we would cuddle and have fun. The mornings I would spend on the computer, reading, drawing, watching movies, just lazing around.

That day, my father left early. He had to go for a meeting to this secure complex where he couldn’t even take his phone. My mother left at seven, as usual. I went about my usual routine. I did my morning exercise, fixed breakfast, took a bath. I was just starting to get dressed when I heard the doorbell go off. I just grabbed a dressing robe, thinking it would be the maid. I would let her in and then go back and get dressed.

I opened the door. It was a sadhu. A pretty young one too. It had been ages since I saw one. The city my college is in doesn’t have the culture. Well, here was one, complete with saffron robe, beads, stick, alms mug and that all-knowing smile. Frankly I was a little annoyed. Holy men were scam artists; you heard stories of their tricks everywhere. Besides, by this time I had been living by myself long enough to understand the value of money and how every rupee counts. My giving to the poor phase was over. That sadhu at the door was the next most annoying person, after salesmen, that could have rung my doorbell. Oh well. I thought I would just get rid of him quickly and then I could go back and get dressed and get back to chatting with my friends on skype.

Despite all the metamorphosis my personality had undergone, he was still elder to me, he was respected by my father, he had come in good faith. I was perfectly polite and respectful, with a big smile on my face. I am a good girl like that.

He started talking. Sadhus have this way of talking that really gets to you. It’s partially obsequious, like a sycophantic whine while they sidle up to you and get you to pay big; it’s partially vain, with this innate pride at their being so obviously above the level of mere human beings and having a direct link with god. It’s sprinkled with praises and blessings and divinations and predictions, not to mention the obscene amounts of money that they should get as god appeared in their dream and ordered them to go to some pilgrimage. They talk really fast and next thing you know, you’re handing over a big wad of cash. Quite a good scam really. Of course, there are the rare few who actually follow the way of the true sadhus. I guess these are the ones my father is affiliated with.

So anyway, this guy started talking. I immediately cut him off and said with a big smile that I was sorry but my parents weren’t at home and I didn’t have any money. He paused. He asked for a glass of water. I went and got him one. He took it. He smiled obsequiously and asked if my father was there. I said no, he had gone to work. He said he knew my father and that my father always gave him something and that he has never left our house empty handed. I told him no can do. He insisted. I caved. My father probably did know him. And I hadn’t been living at home for a year now; who knew the new customs and traditions developed by my parents? I wanted to make him go away as fast as possible so I went to my room, grabbed my wallet and pulled out 30 bucks. I went back and gave it to him and said it was all I had. He smiled his all-knowing smile and put his hand on my head, the way sadhus are wont to when giving blessings.

He asked me if I was married. I said no, I was just 20. He smiled and said that was old enough. He blessed my future and told me that I was going to get married to a very wealthy man and give him lots of babies. I rolled my eyes at this traditional chauvinistic slogan but continued smiling, hoping he would go away. He was still talking. He asked me what I was doing. I said I was in college. He smiled and said I would be immensely successful in my future. Interesting. Finally a deviation from the age old routine. He said I would get a swanky job and thrive. I smiled. He said I had a good heart. He lifted his hand from my head and placed it on my heart. Well, my chest. He started patting slowly while he continued telling me what a good heart I had, how I cared so much for all that was around me. I don’t know why but I was starting to tear up slightly. He stopped and asked for another glass of water.

I went to the kitchen and refilled his glass. He was still standing at the doorway; standing, in fact, just a little within the threshold. I waited while he drank the water. He gave me the glass and started talking again. About my future, present, past. My personality. My ‘good heart’. His hand was back on my chest. This time it was groping. I took a step back and my hands crossed over my chest. I couldn’t say anything of course; he was a sadhu and sadhus are to be respected. My father taught me that. He immediately put his hand back on my head and told me it was ok, he was just blessing me. I felt calm. He gently removed my hands and told me this was gods wish and I should not shy away from a blessing. He started groping again. I was in a trance. He kept talking. He had a melodic, hypnotic voice that calmed me. Suddenly he stopped and asked for more water.

Somewhere deep inside me I knew something was wrong. But I was in some sort of a trance. I walked mechanically to the kitchen, filled his glass and walked back with a smile. He drank it and started talking again. A lot of what he said I didn’t understand. My hindi is pretty bad and he was using some pretty archaic words. Then he put his hand on my underwear. He asked me if I had had my menstrual cycle. I don’t even know how he managed to slip that in so casually, making it sound like a perfectly normal question. I said I did. He started to finger me. He said you’re not wearing any underwear now are you? I said I was. He asked me when my last menstrual cycle was. I think here my defenses kicked in finally and I lied and said I was having it at the moment. In hindsight, I think if I hadn't said that, he might have proceeded to rape. He took his hand away and started groping my chest again.. He asked for more water. In a trance I went, all the while smiling.

My senses though were slowly coming back. When he tried to grope again, I quickly moved back. He told me it was gods blessing and that I shouldn’t shy away. I smiled and said I was not comfortable. I couldn’t be rude. You shouldn’t be rude to your elders. My parents taught me that. But my defenses were definitely building. I think he saw I was about to break because he immediately backed off and started collecting his things. He said I was to tell no one about this; this was a special secret between god and myself. He stressed that I shouldn’t tell my father. I smiled and said I wouldn’t. He left. I closed the door behind him. I went back to my computer. A horrible sensation was starting to descend over me. The friend I was chatting with on skype was still waiting. He asked me where I had been. I put on a voicecall. He picked up. I was still smiling. I remember the effect my words had on him. But it had a greater effect on me. I told him “I think I have just been molested.”

The poor kid was 14 years old. He had no clue what to do. In fact, I don’t think he was talking at all. Just replying in chat. I was the only one talking. My voice was breaking. I recounted the incident. Slowly I started realizing what I had let the sadhu do to me.  I wasn’t crying though. I couldn’t cry. I think I was in shock. He suggested calling up my parents. I got up on shaky legs and got the phone. I called my father. His phone was switched off. He had gone to that meeting. I called my mother. Switched off. She wasn’t allowed to take calls in school. Same went for my aunt, also a teacher in the same school. I figured my uncle would be with my father. I sat and I stared at my computer. I couldn’t think of what to do. I felt numb. I just wanted to stop thinking. And what better way to do that than be on the internet? I joined a random dmt match. I don’t know what I would have done if what happened next hadn’t happened. But it did and it was one of the things that saved me that day. My aunt came online on skype.

This is my mother’s sister. She is my idol. She is everything I have ever wanted to be. Both my brother and I are in complete awe of her. She is I think the only family member(except my brother) who I ever added on skype. It was a blessing she came online that day at that time. I tentatively said hi. She replied and asked how I was. I told her I thought I had just been molested. She immediately called. I gave her the cliffnotes on what happened.  She immediately took charge. She asked me if I had called my parents. I told her nor they, nor my uncle and aunt were available. She told me to call the police. In India, calling the police is….not desirable. The Indian police are a bunch of corrupt, useless lot who go out of their way to harass victims and won’t take a step without some money under the table.  They were the last option. I couldn’t understand my aunt’s urgency in getting help. The thing was done with. The police wouldn’t help at all. I just wanted to sit and do nothing and have people tell me it was going to be ok. But my aunt knew what I needed. I needed closure. She was forceful and I was in no condition to resist so I thought I would give my uncle a call just to make sure he was with my father and then proceed to the last option. I called him. To my surprise, he picked up. I started babbling. I couldn’t talk straight. He misheard me initially; he thought I was telling him a sadhu had come and I was asking him what to do and he told me to tell the sadhu to come later. Eventually he picked up the word ‘molested’ and told me to stay where I was. Two seconds later, he was at the door.

My uncle was the second person who saved me that day. I hadn’t known but he was at home, right next door, all along. He asked me what happened. I told him. I was shaking. He told me to lock the door and not open it until I confirmed who it was. And he told me to put on some decent clothes; I was in my dressing gown the whole time. Then he grabbed his motorbike keys and ran off.  I went shakily back to my computer. My aunt was still on call. Once she was assured someone was after the guy, she concentrated on calming me down and talking about her own experiences of being molested and how to handle it.

10 minutes later, my uncle called. He asked me to come to our balcony. Our flat is on the fifth floor. I went and looked down at the parking area – he was there. The sadhu. He was there beside my uncle. My uncle asked me if this was the guy. I nodded yes. My uncle grabbed hold of him and started beating him up. I don’t even know what I was feeling. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. I just hugged myself and made this shrill keening sound. All around me neighbors started poking their heads out of balconies and windows, asking what had happened. My uncle was yelling. He shouted at the guy how he dared take on the holy robes and then molest under gods name. He kicked him and stripped him off his robes. He took his beads and his stick and his alms mug and threw them on the ground. By this time some neighbors had joined in and were beating the guy up as well. That’s the thing about India; we may not have decent police but we don’t have apathy either. My uncle finally stopped them and told the sadhu that if he ever dared to take up the holy robes again or do what he had done today, he would be hunted down and punished. Then they let him go, semi naked, whimpering, bruised.

I later found out that my uncle had asked around the building and met a maid who told him that she had seen a sadhu somewhere in the next block. Then he circled the neighborhood till he found a sadhu and got him to come back with him by saying that no sadhu ever left his house without getting alms. Then my uncle made sure I was watching and gave me closure. That, I think, was the one thing I needed the most. He made sure I saw the guy get punished. I often wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t caught the guy. I would be afraid to step out of the house, let alone go live in a big city by myself. That day my uncle and my aunt saved me.

For a short while I blamed my father. I thought that it was because of him this guy had come to our house. That passed of course. Then I blamed myself. That still hasn’t passed.

I am not a wimp. I am not a spineless coward. I have always been a rebel. I stand up for myself and my beliefs. I am pretty big built and have gotten into tons of fights before protecting my delicate female friends from males bullying them. So then what happened to me? Why did I just take it all? The whole thing went on for a good ten minutes. Where was I? WHY DIDN’T I DO ANYTHING? I have been tormented with this question ever since. It has been one year. I still can’t get over it.

Many people have tried to provide explanations: all girls become like this the first time they are molested, my defenses were down because I thought I was in a safe environment at my own home, I was hypnotized (my mother’s theory), I thought that a sadhu was to be trusted and respected. Whatever. Still can’t accept it. I have come to terms with being molested. I cannot come to terms with my behavior. I hope someday I will forgive myself.

The Woman

Janu took off her glasses and lay down, eyes open, facing her three birthday cards. She had been sixteen for a whole minute now. She had stopped being a virgin for ten. She could hear the breathing of the Woman behind her. Rough, low, interspersed with a hint of a snore. Janu could tell she was awake though. She shivered and drew her blanket closer. Still the same star speckled blanket. Wrapped around a new Janu. And a Woman. Janu peeked over her shoulder. She was lying in utter ease. She had put her white slip back on. Her lipstick was smudged. Red. Her black curls spilled over the pillow. One tickled her back. She turned away again. Her back was tingling where the Woman's hair touched it. Slowly that sensation spread across. The nape of her neck grew hot. The tingling invaded her, brushing aside the numbness that had been in its place just moments ago. Her heart was racing again. She willed it to calm down. She willed her mind to stop acting befuddled. She willed the situation to start making sense. But then again, there is just so much will power can do.

Janu turned and faced her. She reached out and pulled at the wandering lock. The Woman smiled. Beautiful. Like a mystery wrapped around an enigma. Unveiling itself slowly, vulnerably. Janu had only known her for the past half hour. But she was already in love. This was someone she knew she would spend the rest of her life with. She winded her fingers around the Woman's hair and closed in till the tips of their noses were touching. A pair of piercingly bright eyes stared back. She backed up a bit. Masses of black hair offsetting a dusky complexion. Skin blemished with marks. High cheekbones. A roman nose. Slight dark circles under the eyes. Small, serious lips, cracked from lack of moisture. A mole slightly above them. The Woman was gorgeous. Janu bent down to kiss her. Enveloped in her beautiful fragrance, she felt at peace.

Hands roamed about her body. One clenched at her breast. Round, perky, perfect. Fingernails dug into her back. Skin against skin. The bite of the sharp January wind. Heat. She ran her hand up the side of her body. Down her back. Touching. Feeling. Knowing. Down her stomach. Between her legs. Moisture. Pleasure.

Love.

The phone rang. "Hello?"

"Hey girl! Happy birthday!"

"Haha thanks!"

"I just remembered. Omg you're sixteen now!!"

"Yeaaah!"

"Woah. We need a party."

"Mhmm totally. I'll call the guys tomorrow."

"Awesome! Oh wait. What time is it? Crap. I didn't realise it was this late. You weren't sleeping were you? Did I wake you up?"

"Haha don't worry. I was awake."

"Oh cool. What were you doing?"

"Nothing much…just looking at myself. In the mirror."

Friendship

I have just one friend. So this should be pretty easy.

I haven’t spoken to her for one month now. Not one word. No texts, no Facebook pokes, nothing.

We go to Uni together. She is what makes my college bearable for me. Before that, she made school bearable. Hopefully, she’ll make some shitty work place bearable some day.

I am not a very social person. It’s not that I don’t have people being friendly to me. It’s not that I find it difficult to open up to people. I just find it difficult to socialize. Always have. I can’t follow social norms. Or rather, I can, but refuse to. I don’t like gossiping. I don’t like bitching. I don’t like meeting up in cafes, all dressed up, and making eyes at cute guys. I don’t like the endless stream of posing and Facebook-profile-mobile-photo sessions. I absolutely detest being fake. I don’t like nailpolish and fairness creams and hair irons and...you get the drift.

However, we don’t always get what we like. So since I was 3, I was best friends with this girl who was the complete embodiment of all of the above. We were in the same class and our parents were friends. So lots of exposure to each other. I grew up with the knowledge that girls HAVE to gossip, manipulate, and back-stab.

When I was in the tenth grade, Nim joined my school. She was the daughter of my father’s college best friend. She was kinda weird. Different from all the other girls my age. And proud of it. Her dad traveled a lot. She only stayed in my school for 6 months before being shipped off to Delhi. Those six months, however, changed my life.

I learnt from her that it was ok to be myself around others. That it was ok to maybe read a book in the corner during lunch break, rather than participate in the gossip sessions. That I could, perhaps, direct my camera towards other things, rather than those which so obviously made me hate it. That I should stand up for myself and my beliefs rather than partake in such ridiculous hypocrisy. And hypocrisy, I definitely don’t like. In my little hometown, whose rules I knew to be law, she showed me change.

And I did.

This is not the reason I continued to be friends with her after she left for Delhi though. Nor the reason we somehow both needed up in the same crappy college in Kolkata. This is just what I am most grateful to her for. That and the anime.

Eleventh and twelfth grade was a revelation to both of us. I flexed my new wings amidst old territory. She gingerly stepped on the rocky precipe of having an unrequitable crush. We talked 5 to 6 hours a day. We laughed and we cried and we choked while trying to do both. We missed each other terribly. We met once both those years, and we went nuts. We had fun. That was our mission throughout, and I’m proud to say we are still sticking by it.

So, is friendship really about opening your heart and soul? Is it about support through thick and thin? Is it about constantly keeping in touch? To some people, maybe. Perhaps because of the family I was brought up in, I never looked for those things in all the people I looked at as friends. Which is good, because I never found them either. To me, friendship is having someone I can laugh at and laugh with. Someone I can be so complete comfortable with that I can go a month without talking to her and know that when I come back, we’ll go back to whining about exams. And sneaking off for film festivals and plays. And tramping about the city we love. And having an obscene amount of fun. And being happy.

On second thoughts, this wasn’t as easy as I expected it to be. Huh.

Faith

A few days back when I was on the brink of losing a friend, I asked Rosie about faith. She said I would find mine eventually and it would come on its own. To give it time. Well, a day after that I asked my dad what his version of faith was like. And he described it. And I realized I had already found my faith….a long time ago.

He said his faith was like a great big hand cheering him on for his every rise. Cushioning him in his every fall. Always there, sometimes, the only thing there. Giving him strength to face everyday. I always thought my dad was admirable in the way he handled everything alone and took charge of his responsibilities facing grave pressure; now I know he wasn’t alone. God was with him.

Despite being Indian, my family has always had a rather lax and cavalier (and oh so cool) approach towards religion. My father performs his own private prayers every morning. My mother is into Buddhism and has chanting sessions with a large group every Sunday. My brother…I don’t even know what my brother believes. But I know he does. And me, the agnostic. We all do regular routine Indian ceremonies and all. But that is custom and tradition, not actual religion for any of us. Maybe that is why I grew up with a screwed up sense of what faith was. My father set me straight.

No, I still don’t believe in god. Or the existence of a higher power. But I do have faith. I have something that gives me the strength to face everyday. I have something that cushions my every fall and cheers me on always. And I always know I am not alone. I have my family.

So I have faith in…..my FAMILY? Sounds kind of ridiculous when you think about it. Not to mention juvenile. But the moment dad described his faith to me, it just clicked. My mother, father and brother to me aren’t just those titles. They are more, oh so much more! All three of them, individually are three of the most incredible people I have ever had the opportunity to get to know.

My parents faced a great deal of hardship when I was a kid. I know this because I was told later. I was told at one point, after my dad lost his business, we were poor enough not to be able to afford milk. I was told that my dad spent a night in jail after a couple of goons from his business came after him subsequent to his company’s failure and beat him up. I was told that they came and took all of my mother’s beautiful wedding jewelry; not to mention our TV, car, AC, and everything else of worth in the house. I was told all this because they didn’t let me feel a thing. Not one thing! They took loans and kept me and my brother in our ridiculously expensive private school. They borrowed from our relatives to keep the house. They begged favors from friends and we still got our toys and dresses and everything else. They begged and they pleaded and they borrowed to keep our lives the same. And 10 years later, my father is still paying those debts. All in order to keep our tender childhood unmarred by sorrow of any sort and our studies unaffected. My father bore the brunt his burden by himself. My mother…well I can’t even begin to describe what my mother did.

My mother made up in creativity what we lacked in funds. My birthday parties were the BEST in town. Period. Girls who weren’t invited used to die of envy. There were richer girls who threw huge expensive bashes with expensive watches and imported toys as return gifts. But they were floored by the gifts my mom made. My mom made personalized masks. They were so pretty, covered with sequins and feathers. Some were of animals. All of them were completely tailored to fit the tastes of the kids attending. Mine was a tiara. She made handmade gifts, which cost nearly nothing, but were everyone’s prized possession. She decorated our dead and decaying house to make it look like a castle. She made all sorts of goodies; golguppas, dahi vada and of course her famous chicken sandwiches. My favorites. She made me feel like a princess always. She still does. And she did all this for every single event that came our way. She adored me and my brother to death. It is a miracle we didn’t end up utterly spoilt brats.

I remember this one Christmas; she was with me on our Verandah when Santa Clause came. We lived in a Christian-Muslim locality. All around us lived Christians. On Christmas Eve, nearly every house would have that telltale star hanging in front of it, signifying to Santa that this was a house worth his time. There were tons of visiting Santa’s who would drop by these houses with gifts and songs and well, happiness. That was a particularly depressing Christmas for my mother because that was the year those goons had come and taken everything away. But that’s not why it was depressing; it was depressing because now she didn’t have a vehicle to drive us around town and show us the lights. So when Santa came next door, I remember her getting up and running downstairs. She had told me to wait. She went to our neighbor’s gate and approached the guy. I could see them talking. I sneaked downstairs and hid behind a tree and eavesdropped. My mother was asking Santa to come visit our home for a little while and play with her children. No she wasn’t asking, she was BEGGING. I stood behind that tree and I heard my mother beg this random stranger dressed in a red suit to come say hi to me, to make my day a little brighter than it already was. I could hear the desperation in her voice, he could too. He snubbed her with disdain. I was 10 I think. I cried. I cried for my mother and for how much she loved me and my brother. When I think of that night, I still do. I don’t know why.

My brother, now that is a whole other ballgame altogether. He was my best friend. He was my mentor. He was my hero. Ah screw the ‘was’es. He still is. I always hero-worshipped him. We were like equals though. He told me his secrets, I told him mine. We went through thick and thin together. The four years age difference between us never made much difference. There was never any jealousy between us or rivalry for our parent’s affection. Not that we needed to fight over that; that was provided to us aplenty.

All my life I have known the worth of my family. All my life I have seen them as the strongest and most powerful force in my existence. For me, they are a religion. For me, this is faith; knowing that there is somebody out there for you no matter what you do. Holding your hand tight as you try and figure life out. Never letting go.

Bugs

I have always had a very intimate acquaintance with bugs. In India, it is hard not to. Since I was a wee baby toddling about my house and gardens, they have always been there to escort me. My own personal convoy of buzzing, biting, tickling little freaks. Many a solitary, rambling walks have I taken over hills and meadows and well, noisy trafficy roads, with them as my constant companions. I won’t say the relationship we have built over the past twenty years has grown to be particularly fulfilling; in fact there are times that I am very tempted to outright squash them, those annoying little midgets. But then again, isn’t that how all relationships work out?

Growing up, I was always by myself. Not that I didn’t have girls who wanted to be friends with me; quite the opposite. I just didn’t particularly like their company. Playing with dolls and doing makeovers and painting each others nails…bleh. Oh and the worst of the lot – gossiping. I never got it. I still don’t. What pleasure could these people possibly get by picking someone else’s life to pieces? So I boycotted them and went on long excursions to places wild, something I am always going to be eternally grateful to my country for having. And that’s where my true friends played with me. Dancing with the butterflies, crawling along with centipedes, chasing spiders and following them to their webs. It was fun. In my teens, I would often sit on the edge of my terrace, surrounded by the reassuring drone of chirping crickets and think. Later still, could any girl ask for a more fascinating model to practice her amateur photography on? One who would stay so obligingly still always; waiting till I got the perfect angle.

I never had any pets but if I did, I think I would adopt the whole of Insectdom.