Morning, sunshine!

I've never been an early bird. Like, NEVER. Even when I was a kid, and I was the most obedient thing on the planet, waking up early was the one thing no one could get me to do regularly. I still remember the times my father used to yank me out of bed and throw me straight into the bathroom in an effort to get me to wake up and finish my morning duties in time for school. I even remember that one time my parents tried waking me numerous times to no avail, before giving up and realizing they needed to teach me a lesson. I didn't go to school that day because I woke up at 12 in the afternoon. It was only after a lot of pleading and crying that my parents agreed to write me a leave letter that didn't say I had missed class because I woke up late. Ah, good times.

And then university life came along, and what a blessing that turned out to be. No more waking up early every morning unless I had a class. Even then, my friends were around to give me missed calls, or in more desperate cases, bang my door down until I woke up. (Oh, they can tell many, many stories about trying to wake me up!) Life was blissful, and I never saw a single sunrise for the four years that I spent in university. (Unless, of course, I was staying up late, which is another thing altogether.)

And then university life was over, and it was time to get a job. I happily applied to become a teacher, and got in, not realizing what exactly was in store for me. I knew schools started early, but I wasn't quite aware of just how early "early" really was, until I started working proper. I woke up extra-early the first day, but then as time wore on, it hit me that "extra-early" was going to have to become "normal" for me very soon.

And now, here I am. I've been working for four months now, and every day, I wake up at unearthly hours to get ready and travel to school. I bathe and dress in the dark, because the sun has usually not yet risen and I don't want to wake my roommate up. The girl who used to sleep at 2 every night morning, has been reduced to going to bed at 10.30 every night (oh, the horror!) in order to get enough sleep to wake up on time in the morning.

Since the academic year is now drawing to a close, and school has officially closed down, the teachers get to come slightly later than usual these days. A few days ago, as I was getting ready to leave the house, I looked out the window and saw the most gorgeous view (I live on the 12th floor, so the view is good) I have seen in quite a while. The sky was a beautiful blue, tinged with pink and purple, and I could literally see the rays of the sun (distinct, separate bands) spreading out over a vast expanse. It was the kind of thing children draw when they're asked to depict a sunrise, except it was real and absolutely breathtaking. I tried to take a picture, but my camera batteries chose that exact time to die on me. I resorted to my phone as a last attempt, but a picture taken on a phone can never do the real thing justice, can it?

I woke up at around the same time for the next few days, camera batteries charged, in order to catch a repeat telecast, but luck was not on my side. I guess the sun rose earlier than usual that day, or for once, the sky was clear enough of rain clouds to be able to actually see the sunrise, because it was never quite the same after that. I still hope to one day catch that amazing spectacle, but I'm not sure when that day will be.

As I ponder my ill-fate, however, I realize this: I miss the freakin' sunrise every morning because I get up and leave for work way too early to catch it. Whoever thought THAT day would come, huh?

Airport Assault

I guess it shouldn't take a genius to realize that if you go around leaving comments in people's blogs saying "With friends like these, who needs enemies?", chances are good that the aforementioned "friends" will make sure to confirm your statement with a personal gesture.

For those wondering, that ugly garland looks as ugly as ever. I have to give props to the banner though, which said "The Clueless Graduate". I realize that it makes my graduate status sound not-so-great (which, hey! I graduated with an honours degree AND a minor!), but since it is at least partially true, I can appreciate the punning.

Anyway, moral of the story? Always think before you speak (or type). *smacks self*

ETA: The banner.

Leaving On A Jet Plane (But Not Thrilled About It)

After hours of mulling over the topic (hours that could've been spent reading an absorbing novel had yours truly not forgotten to carry one along on a recent train journey from Coimbatore to Chennai), I have come to the conclusion that I much prefer travelling by train to flying. I realize that there are many advantages to flying, like reaching your destination quickly, cleanliness and ... well, I can't think of any other significant ones, but you get the picture. Flying is generally considered a more convenient way to travel (if you're young and healthy, that is) than taking a train.

But, having journeyed using both modes of travel several times, I must admit that I enjoy trains much more than I do flights. One might think this is merely because I've travelled by trains much more than I have by planes, but every time I've flown between Singapore and India in the past four years (and this was often), I've had it reinforced that I don't really enjoy flying the way most people (who aren't businessmen and women) seem to.

One sure reason for this is that I frequently fall prey to runny noses. (I'm going somewhere with this, trust me.) And when you fly with a cold, your ears tend to get blocked. And blocked ears can get very painful. Not to mention uncomfortable, considering they can last for days after you've landed. I've suffered through quite a few of these painful ear blockages, so I'm very thankful for the fact that no such problem can arise when you're travelling by train.

But that's just one reason. The main reason, I think, is that I have very fond memories of train journeys. I've taken so many over the duration of my life, and for so many reasons, that I obviously cannot remember every single one. But I do remember specific ones, and that's more than I can say for the flights I've taken, of which I don't remember any with particular affection or emotion (except probably the Jet Airways one in which I found that they were offering entertainment - on par with or even better than, one might say, Singapore Airlines - when I was least expecting it and had prepared myself for nothing at all, but that's superficial).

The train journeys, however, have special memories attached to them. Like the monthly weekend trips I used to make from Coimbatore to Chennai for a whole year to keep my monthly appointments with the dentist. (She had to tighten my braces.) I used to travel alone (mostly) in day trains, sitting by the window for 8 hours each way. My parents would drop me off, often asking some nice-looking fellow passenger to take care of me, and my uncle and aunt would pick me up at the other end, thanking said passenger for taking care of me.

And there was always some kindly passenger who'd take on that daunty task of watching out for the 14 year old kid travelling alone. Not that I was a difficult child, mind you. I minded my own business, never gave anyone trouble. But my guardians for the day would often go out of their way to ensure that they were doing their job right, offering me food, drinks and entertainment. I remember this one girl (she must have been in her early 20s then) who gave me her copy of Sidney Sheldon's "Rage of Angels" to read during the journey and told me to keep it because I hadn't finished it by the time we reached our destination. (Never mind the fact that the book contributed to my prejudiced dislike of Sheldon in general - it's the thought that counts.) These people always took care of me and made me feel like I was less alone for those 8 hours.

Then there were the fun, family outings that required big bunches of us to travel by train. My extended family and I (11 in total, 5 of whom were kids) once travelled all the way from Chennai to Jaipur by train and it was one of the most enjoyable journeys I ever remember making. We had a day and more on the train, and two compartments all to ourselves, so we made full use of it. We kids moved around in whatever space we could find inside those two compartmets, the elders chatted away to glory and we all occasionally came together to play card games, which almost always resulted in us kids winning spectacularly. We were on that trip for at least 2 weeks, but whenever I think about it, the thing I remember most is that first train journey we took together. I'm not even in frequent touch with those cousins anymore, but I don't think I'll ever forget the journey itself.

And of course, who can forget those school excursions? Having missed one in 8th standard to Chennai, I was determined not to let the big 10th standard excursion to Bombay and Goa go. Again, I can say assuredly that I had more fun on the train journeys to and back from that excursion than I did sight-seeing. You just don't have that kind of fun anywhere else, you know? Singing loudly at the top of your voices, deciding on who gets to sleep in which berth, waking everyone up at the crack of dawn just for fun, sharing gossip, complaining about having to wear the school uniform on the platform but rejoicing upon being allowed to change into casuals upon leaving, getting told off by the teachers or even just sitting silently with each other on the journey back after having drained yourselves out during the trip itself ... it's all part of that cherished experience of travelling by train.

When I take the train these days, I remember the good times. It doesn't matter if I don't have anything to occupy myself with, or if the most interesting thing I can think of doing is reading the paper from cover to cover. I still feel happy because I remember how many happy journeys I've undertaken, and I wish for many more like those.

Tomorrow, I leave for Singapore after three weeks of fun with the family. I wish there was a way one could take a train across the ocean, but since there isn't, I'll have to make-do with another mediocre flight journey. I can only hope that my nose decides to stay clear and healthy, at least till I reach my destination. I don't think I can stand another pesky ear block.

You live, you learn.

I'm done with university. Well, I still have to get my results, but assuming I pass all my subjects (all limbs crossed), that's it. The end of four years of education. And if someone asked me to describe these four years in one word, I'd probably go with "educational". But I'd be talking about a completely different kind of education, the kind that doesn't come from lectures or books or even teachers. The kind that you learn yourself, as a consequence of things that happen around you.

When I left for Singapore four years ago, I was a bright-eyed young gal looking forward to a life of freedom. Freedom from restrictions, from the monotony of school life, from authority. It gave me an enormous thrill to think that I'd be able to live my life without anybody telling me how to live it. No more getting told what to do, what to eat, when to sleep, how to study. I could do everything as I wanted to, and it was a freedom I cherished.

I've spent a wonderful four years at college. I've done what I wanted to do, eaten what I wanted to eat, slept as I pleased (pulled all-nighters that would never have been possible at home), studied the way I chose to. But looking back, I can say without a doubt that none of those things are the things I'm most happy about at the end of four years away from home. Sure, they're things I couldn't have done at home, and sure, they brought me and my friends countless hours of pleasure.

But the thing I'm most pleased and satisfied with is how much I've learned over this duration. And I don't mean bookish knowledge by any means. I've studied many subjects in my time at university, and many of them have had overlapping information, but I'm pretty sure that a few months down the line, I won't remember most of it. In fact, my poor brain has to take a few minutes to even remember what subjects I did in my first year. I did well in school, and I did reasonably well in university too, but my retention level is pathetic.

So what I've "learned" has nothing to do with studies. No, it's life lessons. And I know it sounds corny, but I feel like I've grown so much in these years. I've learned about other people, yes, but I've learned the most about myself. It all sounds abstract and vague, but I mean it when I say that I know myself much better now than I did four years ago. And I don't mean trivial stuff like what movies I like or what kind of music I enjoy. That sort of stuff is subject to change. In my case, it changes so often, there's never a right answer.

What I do mean is that I've learned to stop and think. About everything. To make the best of a situation, to consciously focus on the positive side of things, to let things go. To not judge, to give people the benefit of the doubt, to keep myself happy. I've learned to learn. From events in my life, from events in others'. I've learned that a little bit of introspection does a great deal of help. I've learned that it never hurts to take some time off to think about something and reach a logical conclusion. I've learned that it always pays to take the higher road. That being the bigger person doesn't mean you're letting yourself get pushed around. That you can stand your ground and still be selfless. That it's always possible to find the good in someone. Most people prefer the tortured, angsty superhero to the one with a heart of gold, but what makes Superman so much more appealing to me than Batman is that he always chooses to see the best in people. (Way to make a point with a comic book example, huh? *facepalm*)

I know how it sounds. What's new about all this? This is the kind of stuff you know instinctively, right? Maybe. Maybe some people are born with this knowledge. Maybe they know how to make all the right decisions automatically, to act the right way, to do the right thing. I thought I knew this stuff. I realized through these four years that I didn't. But I also learned that you can learn this stuff. You learn from experience. The things that happen in your life happen for a reason. And I don't mean that in a "destiny"/"fate" kind of thing, just that the things that happen to you, good or bad, teach you. You always learn. You don't have to be in school or college to learn something. You learn things simply by virtue of living life.

"You live, you learn." Ms Morissette clearly knew her stuff, but it took me these four years to figure out what exactly she was talking about.

Yehi Hai Right Choice Baby ... Aha?

So I went to write my English Proficiency Test today, in order to qualify for entrance to the National Institute of Education where I will train to become a teacher. I wasn't particularly worried. I mean, I wrote a qualifying test before entering university, I've been studying for the past 4 years here and I'm pursuing a minor in English Studies. An English test should be no biggie, right?

Right. Well, almost. The paper was mostly fine, but there were a few tricky ones here and there. Questions that made me stop and think for a while ... the stuff that makes you doubt yourself. You know, like whether you should use "principal" or "principle" in a particular sentence or "discrete" or "discreet". These things should be a piece of cake, but they're the sort of words that suddenly crop up in the "I'm not so sure" list, even though deep down, you probably know the right answer.

But there was one question that had me stumped for a while. For you grammar aficionados out there (and wow, did not know that 'aficionado' had just one 'f' till just now ... thank you, Firefox dictionary!), this was the question:

"Either you or I [is/am/are] to blame." (Choose the right option.)

So there I was, trying to figure out just which one of these words was correct. I said the line in my head again and again, each time using a different option. You know how when you say something over and over again, a particular word/phrase/sentence starts to sound totally alien? Yeah, that happened. So I just went on to the other questions and came back to this one in the end, hoping that by some miracle, I would arrive at the answer if I looked at it with a fresh mind. No such luck. I must've looked like an idiot in the examination hall, because I screwed up my face in every possible way, hoping that using the right intonation in my head (which ended up showing on my face) would make it easier for me to hit upon the right answer. Again, no luck.

I was getting frustrated. Obviously, one of the options was the right answer, but none of them sounded correct to me. It didn't fit. When I said the sentence with any of the options given, I didn't feel that sense of satisfaction. I've almost always worked out grammar this way - if it doesn't sound right in your head, it probably isn't. I trust my instinct. And here I was, three options in front of me, none of them sounding even remotely like the correct answer. What was I supposed to do? What was the right choice? What do you do when your instinct doesn't tell you anything, or worse, keeps insisting that none of the options are the right answer? Ultimately, I just picked one based on some weird logic that I can't even remember now. All I know was that I wasn't satisfied with it.

It got me thinking. What happens when a question pops up in life, and there are only a few valid choices you can make, but nothing feels correct? You know that the answer lies in the options you have in front of you, but you don't feel like any of them is the ideal solution. None of them fit. You imagine your life with the solution fit in, and it doesn't feel right. What then? How do you choose? What helps you make the "right" decision?

Or is that the beauty of life? That there are no right or wrong decisions, just decisions and what you make of them? I do hope so. :)

(Hello, blogging world! *waves frantically*)

Friends Forever

I'm not addicted to Facebook. Unlike a lot of people I know, I seem to have avoided that particular bug quite successfully. I don't spend hours of my life looking through other people's photo albums, nor do I go around doing even more pointless things like poking people or throwing sheep at them, as fun as they may seem. I guess one of the reasons is that I don't really have the time (I can already hear the groans!), but mostly, I'm just not as fascinated by Facebook as most people seem to be. In fact, the sheer number of things you can do on it sort of overwhelms me.

Sure, it's a great way to keep in touch with friends. If you take the initiative, that is. I'm afraid I'm just one of those people terrible at communication when it's not face to face. I take ages to reply to mails, and I'm hopeless at instant stuff like Facebook or Orkut. I'd like to blame my genes (my brother suffers from the same condition, except he's not that great at the face-to-face stuff either, heh), but I guess if I want to be really honest, there's no one to blame but me. Everytime I get a notification in my mail about something happening on Facebook, I just make a mental note (that I promptly forget), delete the mail (I'm picky about keeping only the important stuff in my inbox) and move on. Then one fine day, my guilty subconscious will superpoke poke me, and I'll venture into the Facebook world so I can attend to my business and be done with it. Clean slate, and all that.

Today was one of those days. And while "attending to my business", I just happened to take a stroll around. Just killing time, I guess. And I say I don't have time to blog, pffft. I chanced upon the photo album of a friend I'd known from my school days. She had a black and white picture that she'd titled "the best times". I went and took a peek, and there they were. A dozen or so school friends, all smiling back at me. The photo was obviously taken at a reunion of some sort, because while some of them still looked the same, many of them had changed visibly from when we'd parted ways.

And just like that, it all came rushing back to me. Memories, tons of them. The grey school building. Maroon and white uniforms. The noisiest class on the third floor, unfortunately placed right next to the staff room. The awesome excursion to Bombay. The train journeys, the singing. The exam jitters. The tears, the nervous breakdowns. The celebrations, the jubiliation.

And the faces themselves. Boy, what memories! The look-alike. The girl I always competed with for the highest marks in Hindi. The pretty and popular one, from whom I learned a great many things. Ahem. The nerd who was fair and pretty and had freckles, but wore thick glasses that masked a lot of the prettiness. But who now looks so different and babe-like, that it took me a few minutes to recognize her.

And then there were others. Faces I remembered distinctly, people I could still picture in school uniforms, sitting in the classroom, laughing, playing, but whose names, for the life of me, I couldn't remember. And in place of their names, random odd memories flooded my head. The Gujju girl whose massive house I'd once been to and been in awe of. The girl whose father died a day before my birthday. The tall, pretty Christian girl with a name I know I liked. The plump girl, of whom I couldn't even conjure up a decent memory, even though I know I spent 5 years in the same class as her. I'd known these people for a good chunk of my life, spent some of my most memorable years with them. And now, six years later, I couldn't even put a name to the faces.

I don't really blame myself. Or anything, for that matter. People lose touch, memories fade away. It's sort of sad, in a way, because it all seems a bit pointless. A few good years, and then you move on to something else. New places, new faces. What happens to all those friends you make? If, after a few years, all you remember of these friends are a few fond memories and nothing else, is it really worth making friends in the first place?

Well, of course it is. When you think about it, change is the only constant thing in life. MG and I have talked about this so many times in our years together at university, I've lost count. You go through these different stages in your life - school, college, work, so on and so forth - and at every stage, you make new friends. Some you remember for longer than others, some are surprisingly forgettable. But that doesn't make the time you spend with these people any less special or meaningful. Memories might fade and you might forget the specifics, but you'll always remember the happiness you derived from their company. They might not be in your life for long, but in a way, they'll be "friends forever".

I guess that's why it's so important to enjoy the present. So that when you're going down memory lane in the future, you remember the good stuff. The fun times, the happy memories. So that when you suddenly come across a picture of your friends from long, long ago, you don't feel depressed or regretful - instead, you feel grateful that you had the chance to spend a few lovely years with some awesome people. So that after fondly remembering the past, you can look optimistically at the future and know, instinctively, that everything's going to be alright.

Much Ado About Nothing

It's funny how unexpected free time comes when you least anticipate it. Well, I guess that's why they call it "unexpected". I've been using "too busy" as an excuse for not updating this blog (among several other things) and now here I am, sitting in lab in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week, typing out a post about ... well, nothing. Irony seems to be a consistent theme in my life, huh?

So what exactly am I doing here? Well, I was supposed to be in lecture, but the kindly professor decided not to show up. I could've just taken the two hours off and gone and done something else, but like a good child, I thought, "I'm sure there's work for me to do in lab - I better not waste this time doing something pointless" and promptly strolled on over to lab. Only to find that pretty much everyone has gone out (to lunch, to do work on some other floor, who knows?) and that my supervisor isn't around to give me work either. Again, much to my own surprise, I refused to be deterred by the apparent lack of work and scavenged around, looking for a textbook I'd been reading last night so as to continue my studies. Surprise, surprise - I couldn't find it anywhere in lab. Seems like if you're really intent on doing some useful work, it will do its best to hide itself from you. Oh, well. Can't complain.

It's surprising how little time it takes to get out of touch with blogging. Just a few months ago, I was sitting at home, words pouring out of my mouth hands, thoughts flowing like a raging river in my head. And now here I am, unable to think of anything to write. It's not like I lead an uneventful life. And that's not even the problem - I can think of a lot of posts that I've written based on completely ordinary, uneventful things. The problem, I think, lies in the fact that once you've lost touch, nothing seems "blog-worthy" anymore. You start losing the ability to look at the world around you from a blogger's perspective, and that, in turn, makes it less appealing to write about anything. It takes a supreme effort to get yourself to write that one pointless post, that one post that serves the sole purpose of getting you to open up that blog page and type something, and then, before you know it, you're back in the groove and writing as though you haven't written in ages (which, technically, is true).

This pointless post had better achieve that goal, or all my thinky thoughts would've amounted to nothing.