The Wanderer Chronicles- Pune

Descending from the sky, an absurd green and brown patchwork of promises is what forms the city of Pune. As I stepped out of the plane, I was met by still, humid air, neither stifling nor overwhelming. It was like a warm embrace of home. Waves of an unheard tongue, sprays of unknown phrases in a sea of unfamiliar faces, I walked into Pune. My purpose for coming to Pune was a college interview. Less than satisfactory, unfortunately however, I decided that in the few hours I had to spare I would eat my way through the city.  With my mother, a vegetarian, my only companion, I was forced to be selective.
  We went first to Malaka Spice at Pheonix Mall. An inspired South-East Asian restaurant that plays a wondrous melody of tantalizing flavours on your tongue. The dish that really stole my heart was the Spicy Chicken in Beetal Leaves. Minced chicken, spiced perfectly, not overpowering yet just enough to arouse your tongue, wrapped in a Beetal or pan leaf which had a crunchy bite and a bitter after-taste. The waiter quite helpfully suggested that I try this dish with their sweet and spicy sauce, Smart advice that was! The sweet sauce complemented the spice of the chicken and the bitterness of the leaf.
 After my interview, the professors suggested a few local specialties I could try in the few hours I had. Juice World, a small Dhaba with an open seating had the alleged specialty of fresh Strawberries with cream. On MG Road also called Eat Street, I made my way into this hole in the wall, also satiating my mother's enthusiasm for street food. We ate the tempting Pao Bhaji openly made in a massive handi. True to its name, it had an incredible variety of fresh fruit juices. Having stuck with the classic Orange Juice, I was not disappointed. My mother, on the other hand enjoyed a frothy Alphonso mango milk shake. Alphonsos are a Maharashtran specialty and we were in season.
Unfortunately, strawberries were not. This was compensated by the an amazing Aplhonso with ice cream and sweet, lightly whipped cream. The characteristically mildly sour and sweet mango had a bite to it that complemented the varied but well married textures of whipped cream and cold, smooth mango ice cream.
  We then headed to Kayani's Bakery further on the same street famed for its biscuits. Just how popular, we found put as soon as we reached. There were about a few dozen people crammed into the sizeable bakery. We departed sadly, empty handed as we were nearing our deadline. Having bought the indigenous Lakshmi Narayan Chiwda, we had to head back.
  Another place I missed was Wholly Crepes which was on the other side of town, tugging at my heart strings for it was rumoured to have the most divine chocolate mousse. With the promise of next time, this greedy wanderer headed home.

Oblivion

My first love died today. Aged 18. He really knew how to live it up and he always did. He was a stark contrast to me, and I loved every part of that. He showed me the life I wanted and I never had. He loved me innocent and sweet. God! He'd hate what I am now!

I fell in love when I was 14. I didn't know it yet. He was the ultimate bad boy and I was the epitome of naivete. We were the perfect cliché. I could never even look directly in his eyes, being impossibly shy. He was my muse. He was probably the one person who inspired most of my poetry. He was my first kiss, my first love, my first male friend, the first person who ever got close- he was a lot of firsts. He made me. I hated him and I loved him. He was something else and even when it came to bad boys, I definitely picked the worst one. He had passion. I never realized how miraculous it was that some of it was directed towards me. I could never figure out what he liked about me. I was ugly, weird and had no discernable personality. He thought I was beautiful, though I could lose a little weight. When we started talking again a few months back, I wanted him to see me now. He'd be so proud. But he never did.

He died living the way he loved. I bet he has few regrets. Unfortunately, he left me with far too many. I never dated him. I'm tough that way. Impossible to girlfriend-zone. I wish I had been with him. I wish I had gone for a walk or coffee. I wish I was strong enough to not care and take risks like he did. I wish I had been brave enough to be his. I wish I had messaged him last night and maybe this wouldn't have happened! I wish I had met him just one more time. I wish our last conversation had been more meaningful. I wish I hadn't met some other guy today, in our spot. I wish he was here.

 But he still is the first guy I ever admitted to being in love with. By the time I did that, it wasn't that big a deal. I mean, I did take over a year. I have a lot of memories. He's dead and I can't even think of the amazing, cherished ones.

Right now I'm just afraid. I'm afraid that if I don't do something, I will forget. I'm afraid of oblivion. Not of being forgotten but of forgetting. That one boy who met me, loved me and changed me. I can't type out every single thing I remember about him. I'm having trouble recalling. But when the memories come, they flood. Its a flood I wish to drown in, to never forget, to submerge in our memories and have him consume me. But I can't. I'll forget how he made me laugh, how he loved me, how playful and protective he was, how he made me love and change yet stay the same. How he made me realize I was better the way I was- unadulterated, innocent and sweet. You know what they say about first loves- you never forget them. I hope I never do.

It's not real. I still expect him to show up on my newsfeed saying "Hey meri jaan". I can't let anyone else call me those words. Ever. They're his now. It's not real. He hasn't really gone. We only communicated virtually lately. I wanted to see him on my birthday. At least he got to see the dress. I wish I hadn't waited to ask him to my birthday. I wish I had seen him! I wish I had been with him for the rest of my life, just spending days like he does, free, impulsive and crazy. Naina, I wish you could have been here to read this and then make fun of me for being the nerd you think I am :p I love  you jaan, I always do.

Try

Inspired by Try- Colbie Caillat, Body Love by Mary Lambert and several other videos and slams targeting women with self esteem and body issues, I figured I'd give in my input as well.
   I am an average girl. I am not too fat, not too thin. Just right? Nope, its all wrong. We all have our perceived problems, regardless of what size we are. They are self induced or just permeated through the judgment in our general atmosphere. My best friends are super thin and utterly gorgeous yet I hear them complain. All the plus sized girls only wail in front of the mirror. Me? I'm not supposed to complain. Don't I get to decide that? My stomach spills out of any tight piece of clothing I love and I look funny in clothes that are a size bigger. Plus sized girls are stunning! They can wear tight clothes are flaunt their curves like nobody's business. I have all the wrong ones.
  I have dabbled with a whole lot of self esteem issues and what I am now makes it all fairly conclusive- I am what I am. I like how I am. I don't dress up for a boyfriend. I dress up for the mirror. I don't brush my hair to look cute in class. I don't bother changing my clothes so I have a new look everyday. I am lazy! But I know when I want to look nice, I want it so I can gaze into the mirror and feel proud, happy and sated. When I look nice, I actually compliment myself before I allow anyone else to complete a sentence. This is the major crisis in our lives- our self worth depends on what others think. others say and others react. Newsflash- No one cares! Well, maybe they do but I tend to ignore them. I only found true happiness when I created a bubble around me, impenetrable by the scathing remarks and judgmental stares. I'm like that.

  Eating disorders are a whole different story. No one in the universe can get you to shove your fingers down your throat, press it till it is sore and regurgitate all that you consumed, purging it with all the guilt, negativity and shame you now associate with food, but yourself. Anorexia becomes easier really. Instead of sauntering into the kitchen like you usually do, just redirect yourself to the mirror and lift up your shirt. It doesn't matter if your world revolves around food like mine does, you will lose all appetite. It is painful and stupid and ridiculously unhealthy and I can only blame myself.
Every boy constantly tells me how pretty I am, or their gazes do, but that is never good enough. I need to be pretty for myself and its a might high bar I set. However, I can't ignore every time I feel weak and dizzy, sleeping 10 hours a day because I'm faint, I can't lift weights anymore, I can barely lift my arms, and the persisting head ache which is a constant reminder of this secret you can't share because you know it's wrong but you will do it anyway because you are sick and tired of comparing yourself in everything and still coming up short. Eating disorders are not borne out of a feeling of being overweight or not pretty. They are a culmination of every problem, every shortcoming, all the times you feel you are not good enough. The same things that push people to smoke or drink. Bulimia is an outlet. In my fantasy, every time I looked into the bathroom mirror, I could hear someone scream -"You are fat and ugly and unloved!", "You flunked! Again!", "Name one thing anyone could actually like about you!" I am always at a loss for words. Having purged myself, I look back at the reflection at the eyes stinging with tears of pain and breathlessness, the red eyes making my face look blotched and I face the pot yet again to relieve myself of every last morsel I consumed, never feeling satisfied yet instantly hit by the growling of an empty stomach. Sleep comes easily after this, my body exhausting any fuel it may have had, falling in my bed as if the puppet master just snipped my strings.
  I do this for myself. I do this because of myself. I don't regret it, though I do realize there are better ways. What can I say, I'm an impatient child.

Bohemian

My latest phase- an obsession with all things Bohemian. The moment I saw this picture, I mentally exclaimed- My people!
  Everything I want to be and everything I am denied. People say you have to be bold to be non-conformist. Well, I have more balls than this city combined but I also have a family to think of. It is that very family and the reputation in this small town which stops me from always expressing myself in ways I love. This blog is my only escape and I am ineffably grateful. It's actually cathartic.
  Back to bohemian, the first thing I loved were the clothes- ragged, worn-out, crazy and completely original. Their clothes are as free as their souls. Crazy, huh? Who knew that one day my dream would to become a hippy? ha! The idea is honestly amusing. The community, what I can actually call the Coachella crowd is so fascinating that I live vicariously, every moment, through pictures.
  In India, I can hope to run away to Manali or Goa (without my parents!) and live, unjudged and unencumbered.
 Considering I am nomadic, and my dream job requires living out of a suitcase, I have to this seems fairly suitable. Until then, I shall hope. Hope is what's keeping me alive right now.

Jobs

Before you get overly intrigued, I am not writing a review of the Steve Jobs biopic.
  In order to become independent, especially if you want to stop living indebted to your parents, under 'their house and their rules', you need to pick up the slack. The easiest way- get a job. So, here I am at 2:30 am skimming the net for Freelance Online Writing jobs. There are a whole bunch of websites that talk about further sites offering jobs. Thank God for those or I'd be lost right now.
  What is more important that as the cocky teenager I am, I feel I have a pretty decent work ethic and a tolerable aptitude for words. I have felt since the age of 15 that I probably should have a job. Though, India being India, the only children who show the slightest bit of independence are the ones living in poverty. So as not to ruin my family's social standing, I ensure people do not mistake my independence as penury.
  This ingenious idea of getting a job has been firmly planted in my head since the past few years, and having written for a children's newspaper for the better part of the past academic year, I feel it is fairly easy. However, looking at the competition and pay I can get for writing, I'm exhilarated and terrified. The real world is scary, mostly because of the self doubt that creeps in ridiculously unexpected.
  Writing my blog has become easier now, since I have realized no one exactly cares about the crazy rants of a caged bird. I don't read blogs, so I actually expect this. However, if I am to make something of myself, I would really like to start now. I wish I had done it sooner but hell, it isn't too late. Now I resume my search for interesting, well paying jobs that maybe tone my ego down a little without completely crushing my self esteem. Wish me luck!

Scars

Sitting in Math class again, I started up with my musings mulling over an interesting conversation I recently had with a friend. According to her view, people spend their life trying to hide scars and blemishes from their body but they get tattooed which, to her, is like voluntary scarring.
  Accepting her point of view with respect and an open mind, I couldn't help but wonder. However, after a few hours of wondering, my subconscious pointed out the most obvious flaw- A tattoo is not a scar, it  is artwork.

 To me, my tattoo will represent the freedom I long for every moment of every day. It will be a symbol of my defiance, a secret insignia of the rebellion that is so hidden, it hardly has a voice. I can never explain to anyone how much it means to me because they will never understand. But every time I look at it, I will know, and I will remember what I want, where I came from and who I am. For everyone, it is a permanent reminder of a time in their life. For me, I want it to be a recollection of the rare times I did what I wanted to do.
 
A tattoo is not a scar, it is a whim, it is a fancy, it is a phase, it is a hazy might in Bangkok, it is a reminder of a broken friendship or a lost love. It is a lot of things. it is not a scar.

Time

Soo.. in a strangely tranquil mood, I became unusually philosophical though I do feel as if sitting in Math class for 4 hours straight might have had something to do with it.
   Studying the quantification of time and work, I realized time is the ultimate impeachment of freedom. Every life has a time limit, every test, every activity, every monument, every (rare) moment someone looks beautiful. As long as we are constrained in the unbreakable shackles of time, we are never truly free. However, we can be free in a moment, for a moment, for a while and in a while.
   Time gives us incentive. I've always been a 'right now' person. Everything I want is 'right now', everything I do is on impulse, everything I am is in the moment. The moment is free. This moment is free. Right now, no one is telling me what to do. For that fraction of a moment, I am not bound by material things. I am free in my mind, but for a millisecond. Given, I can't sneak off to Coachella and be back before the jiffy ends but that promise of tomorrow gives us something to live for.

  Time is the ultimate impeachment to freedom. But it is still the measure of all things universal. The time in which the earth rotates, the time it takes for a star to shoot across plants, the time it takes for an ant to cross the road, or for me with it. Time is everything. It is what makes us free.
  Strange ranting, I concur, but it is food for the marijuana-infused mind. Mine isn't, but I honestly think this is how people think when they are high. Maybe someday I'll find out. Maybe. Someday.

Reason to survive- Raison De Etre

Eleutheromania is an obsession with freedom. There! I gave it away.

  I did that so I could explain how I feel. Do you know that feeling when you want something so desperately every thought you have surrounds it, you suddenly become an insomniac, every move you make is directed towards it, it becomes your sole reason of survival?

  Well, getting out of this city, tattoos, dip dyed pink hair, Coachella- that is all I can think about. It is everything I want with every fiber of my being. It drives me crazy to want something with such a lust that I am blind to all other actions and consequences. All my prudence is focused towards this and for this, I have become the sum of my id. My conscience is blunted and I defy all logic.

  I finally felt true obsession, true motivation and a reason to live. It's nice, strange, maddening and peaceful. As I always did, I laugh perhaps even harder now at the teenagers who look for 'love' at this tender age. The rush of having something you want a hair's breadth away but just out of reach pales the Shakespearean notion of passion in comparison. My heart is soaring, my words are free and my mind is wandering, venturing into every possibility, every ambition, drowning me in memories of things I have never even seen. I'm driven and I'm driven mad but if this is madness then put me in a straitjacket and you will never even hear me complain. I am free in my mind but my body wants everything to be tangible. The wanderlust is overwhelming and the cage around my heart is cracking slowly, freeing me from myself.

Introduction

I'm not going to make it easier for you and just tell you what eleutheromania is so please look it up. This blog is for my selfish reasons- to get my creative juices flowing as I (mostly in vain) try to come up with something to write, and to remind myself that no matter how often I feel like my freedom is a fallacy, my freedom of expression isn't.

I am a narcissistic teenager, on the verge of becoming a rebel, defying every expectation and norm because I am an incongruent liberal in this city of thinly veiled hypocritical conservatives. I am currently trying to get into a good college, despite my lack of interest in academics because it seems like the only way I might get away from the ideology and ostentatious culture I have come to loathe.

All I want to do with my life is travel, eat and write. "I'm in love with places I've never been to and people I've never met." I am a voracious reader, a compulsive TV addict and I pretty much worship chocolate. I am obsessed with the idea of freedom because I have lived a thousand lives vicariously but now I just crave more. I am an adrenaline junkie, Eminem worshipper and just an average kid.

The only cage I need is the one around my heart. My reality is juxtaposed with my ambition and I'm breaking out of this glorious prison I have been taught to love. I have my roots and I love my anchor but its time to branch out and the wanderlust is overwhelming.

Alis volat propriis- 'she flies with her own wings'. I finally realized I don't need to become a Victoria Secret's Angel to earn my wings, which is a relief because I could never be that skinny. Now instead of ranting like an insomniac on a procrastination spree, I should bid adieu and start studying.

Words are my key out of this prison and I need to learn more than just that if I am to get into college. Goodnight, goodbye and dream- it's the best escape from reality.