Scene One:
Aim - To make little Sahana cry.
Apparatus - Some older children, Little Sahana's bad "boy-cut" hair
Procedure -
Older kids must tug at Little Sahana's hair and shout -"Sahana's got a WIIIIG! Sahana's got a WIIIIG!" until Little Sahana cries. And runs to Sahana's mother. Upon which Older Kids must taunt her for being a wimp.
Repeat for 5 years.

Scene Two:
Aim - To cruelly teach Little Sahana about fitness, and properties of Solids.
Procedure -
Take the fastest runner of the children that Little Sahana plays with, make sure Little Sahana does not know that she is being pitted against the fastest kid on the block. Now, make both runners run till a large black, solid metal door. Fast-Runner-Kid wins, (and stops just in time.) Little Sahana loses, AND learns that it is not impossible for humans to bounce off metal doors.

Scene Three:
Aim - Little Sahana learns about April Fool's Day.
Procedure -
On 1st of April, make all the mean kids hide out in different houses. Kid One calls up Little Sahana and asks her to come to their house and play. Little Sahana goes, but the maid who answers the door lies. She goes back home. Another call from another number. Same principle.
Little Sahana did not play with anyone that day. In case you were still wondering.

All are true stories.

Why So Serious?

Because he's dead.

R.I.P. Heath.

I have a recurring dream. I dream that one day, the world declares me as the world's best debater. I dream that I am the supreme lord and mistress of all things debate-related, and that whenever I walk into a debate, the aisles go silent as the audience is awestruck, and all the judges unanimously decide that there is really no point in holding the competition, because the best debater in the world has arrived, and so giving me the trophy and moving on with their lives is the smartest thing to do, because there is really no point challenging me.

But it's just a recurring dream.
And there are debates that you just cannot win.

Sometimes I like living with only one of my parents. It means that when I have exorbitant demands, I only have to hear one resounding "No!" instead of two. Living with only my mother around means it gives me a clean chit when I want to watch Grey's Anatomy AND Desperate Housewives back to back because I want to watch it, and so does she. It means a lot of things. It means that you can eat whatever you want on weekends and promise the other that you will begin cutting down on Monday, which you won't, but it's something you have to say to assuage your conscience. But it also means that I cannot win a verbal fight, because my mother fights like a girl with experience, as opposed to me being an inexperienced girl-fighter.
Fighting verbally with a female is much tougher than fighting with a male. If you fight with a male, you can begin to try and gouge their eyes out at any point in the argument, and therefore, very soon, you can just abandon logic and rain blows upon them. However, if you fight a female, the same rules cease to apply. At no point can you want to hit them very hard. You can clench your fist and imagine it, but you cannot do it. And the first person to deliver the emotional blow is generally the winner. And seeing as how my mother is very good at this, it is easy to understand why and how I lose spectacularly.

More importantly, if you happen to be a debater and you are fighting with a parent, sooner or later in the argument, the parent will yell at you saying, "Don't try and use your debating skills on me!". Which will, usually, make you use bigger words to try and explain your predicament - it's not really your fault you know so many words. Which will then anger the parent because it may seem like you are implying that they are stupid. Upon which they will tell you how they educated you and now you are an ungrateful *insert colourful vernacular abuse here* and do not deserve much of what you have been given. Any retaliation beyond this point is futile. You are advised to desist and go and do some Math. That is the closest you can get to showing that you are, in fact, repentant.

And therefore, I hope I have proved to you beyond a shadow of doubt, that even good debaters can never win something against their parents.
Because the progeny is almost always never right.

A load of debris left on the rooftop, because no one bothered to clean up once the painting was done.

This is a very soggy bird that looked rather disgruntled with Monday's rains.

This is the starting point of the flyover that is somewhat close to our street. Quite waterlogged, quite picturesque, eh?

If you stand on the rooftop of our apartment, this is what you would see.

This is the street where I live.

These are the rail-tracks underneath the flyover. Very rural. Very other-worldly.

The football grounds through a lot of foliage. Last picture before my battery ran out.

And there you have it. These are my bearings. This is my city through raindrops.

Rainy Day

Because, I love rain, and I love my crazy, colourful city.

You’re vain, you’re pompous and I hate the way you parade

I hate the way you walk into the room and relegate everything else to shade

I hate how you talk, with excessive pace

I hate how your words, with your thoughts they race.

I hate how the benchmarks I set for myself are the ones you’ve set

I hate how every trophy runs to you like it’s your pet

I hate how you win, how you win all the time

I hate how my losing makes me want to rhyme.

I hate that you’re there, I hate when you’re around,

I hate all your words; I hate all your sound.

I hate your presence; it irks me to no end

I hate how this hate is a thing I can’t mend.

I hate your face; I hate your voice,

The fact that you’re in pain makes me rejoice.

I hate how you swagger; I hate how you walk

But most of all, I hate how you talk.

I hate your impudence; I hate your skill,

I hate how we’re similar but you’re better than me still.

But then, “hate” is just such a strong word.

Take Me Out to the Debates

There is something wonderful about a debate that makes me all shivery, afraid, tense, anticipatory and joyful all at one go. It must the idea of verbal warfare, the idea of spoken skirmishes, the idea of vocal battle – the adrenaline in your system that makes you tense up, your mouth go dry and your limbs sluggish when the speaker just before you is finishing their speech and you know you’re next. The three-ish minutes of your speech that you will never remember once you’re done with, the three minutes on which everything depends, the three minutes where nothing makes sense, not even the words you say. In those minutes the audience becomes a sea of faces that all look the same – skin colored and unrecognizable. The cold in your fingertips, the numb toes. The flood of heat through your system when you’re done with your speech and the audience claps and snaps you out of the reverie that you were in while at the podium and instantly the world comes back into focus and you can process the faces again, remember the names and remember whether you hate them or like them, and whether they were better or worse than you.

Although, this whole debating thing is made even better because of my debate-buddy and general-buddy, Aanooshka Seyn. And as one of the advisors said – we’re very different, but we’re pretty much like peas in a pod. She is sober, I am not. She is sarcastic, I am over the top. She never forgets her speeches, and sometimes I do. She claps for me and I clap for her. Together we point and laugh at the people who flub up, and then she yells at me for being uncouth. She talks of poetry and calls me a macho science geek. I talk of almost everything nonsensical under the sun, and I call her Humanities. She makes references out of people and things I hate, and cock eyebrows at all the things I say, and register them for later blackmail. When a speaker talks of the audiences’ wives, all the girls in the audience go “Whaaa?”, but I turn to her and say – “Oh crap, they found out about us?” Yes, Tiny, thank you for being my debate partner. Your secrets are safe with me, although I don’t think that assurance is mutual, I still love you.

I’ve been missing classes and hanging around the LN Birla debates the last couple of days, and among other things, the debates made me realize how much I love debating (and missing school). Much thanks to the teams who sat behind us and had a tiny talking party – I think I might have died of boredom and/or eating my arm out of sheer ennui if it wasn’t for you. Thank you Girls One and Two, for not being vapid but pretty good conversation, and even though one of you kept talking poetry at a point in time, you were still pretty normal. (Shut up, Aanooshka Seyn. ) Both of you. Thank you also those other two in the back. One of you was pretty much err.. okay as always. The other was a <> as always. Which was expected. (Again, shut up, Aanooshka Seyn) Aaaand, we qualified for the next round. So, that went off pretty great for us, that first day.

The next day, me and Aanoshka Seyn acted like a couple of over-confident, underprepared b!t(#e$ and therefore we got pwned. Even so, she missed a test, and I missed Double Math, so all in all it was quite a fruitful day. Despite that odd girl who I still think does not look like me. Despite the fact that we didn’t win. Despite the fact that I was extremely bored on stage. Despite all the unnecessary sports and games. Despite all of that and more stuff, I still count my blessings.