Unwild Rumpus

I am a vegetarian. By birth. Not by choice. Ask my parents and they might tell you that vegetarianism was never imposed on me. Eating meat was always an option, though strongly discouraged. Growing up in a hill station, we were usually the only vegetarians in our social circles and parties always meant looking for that one vegetarian dish on buffet tables piled high with meat dishes of every kind. When my parents went to enrol me in boarding school, I was to be the only vegetarian in the entire hostel. After much deliberation, my parents enrolled me as a meat eater with an assurance from the boarding mistress that a vegetarian option be provided to me, if I desire. I am embarrassed to admit here that I never once tried meat during my entire hostel life. Every time I was asked "would you like a vegetarian option?" I responded in the affirmative. Now I realize that this wasn't purely by choice. The anti-meat conditioning all through my formative years was so strong that I h

"Mommy" she calls me softly, and I take my eyes away from the kindle page I've been trying to unsuccessfully read for the past 30 minutes. "Why am I not normal?" My eyes well up instantly, and I blink rapidly before putting on a fake smile and reaching out to push the hair back from her face. "What do you mean, sweetie? You are perfectly normal" I say. But the sentences ring hollow even to my own ears. I know exactly what she means. "My friends don't have to go to the hospital this often" she persists. She's angry that she missed her favorite chorus class this morning. And that she'll be missing a math test that she's studied hard for. She's mad that she'll be missing "fun friday" at school and a chance to pick a totally useless trinket from the class treasure chest for her hard earned behavior points this week. Instead, she's lying in a darkened room, on a hard hospital bed, tubes attached to her,

I have never paused to consider what I like, or why I like them. Some of the most difficult questions I face are about my preferences in food, books and life choices. Because I just seem to have drifted through life without paying attention to my own preferences. I’m not a foodie. I eat to satiate hunger or boredom. And then forget about it. I am one of those people that forget to eat. I consume food mindlessly and hence, my issues with my weight. Sometimes I wish I actually enjoyed the calories I consume. Might make it easier to deal with the idea of the rolls I accumulate as a result. As a direct consequence of my lack of enthusiasm for eating, I display equal apathy when it comes to cooking. I cook well (I’ve heard it enough times to actually believe it myself). But I know my cooking lacks the magic touch a foodie has. The extra oomph. I am reminded of a day I spent in the Cotswolds in England. A day spent soaking in the sun in the charming English countryside.. the rolling hi

I want to write about Natsume Soseki. I want to write about Kokoro. But how can I possibly write anything about the book without giving away spoilers? How can I say what I loved about it without robbing you of the experience that I had while reading it without knowing a thing? I don't know when Kokoro stopped being a fictional narrative and started becoming an intensely personal one; when the characters in the book started jumping out to steal faces of acquaintances from my past. Soseki bravely ventures into the murky areas of different relationships, the emotions we sometimes feel but prefer to not address - the secrets we hide from spouses, the feelings of resentment towards best friends, disappointment in the actions or words of those we look up to, hidden feelings of love, distrust in those that mean no harm.. the list is long. But it's a list that makes me uneasy. Only because I've felt them all. I don't want to talk about envying/resenting one of my closest

Reading a novel in Tamil is a completely different reading experience. For one, I am forced to read much much slower than I do in English. I read most sections twice, once to get the words right and the second time for the flow of the story. And I take breaks between chapters. Because I am tired by the time I finish the 5 or 6 pages that comprises a chapter. But this has just meant that I invest more deeply in the story. I think more about it. I mull over the characters, their interactions, their actions more. I observe language, structure, and the beauty of descriptions. It's such a contrast to my typical reading. When reading a book in English, I breeze through it. I consume as much as I can in one sitting. Usually, multiple chapters. Occasionally, an entire book. And then I spend some time chewing on it. A quick post about it. Next book. Now I want to slow my English reading as well. Read less, mull more. I kinda like that. My head is bursting with things I want to dissect and

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off  course, once he had plundered the hallowed heights of Troy.  Many cities of men he saw and learned their minds, many pains he suffered, heartsick on the open sea, fighting to save his life and bring his comrades home. The man of twists and turns - The polytropos one, as Homer supposedly refers to him. Fondly, I am sure because Odysseus seems to be a beloved hero. Polytropos - a word that hints at a man meandering, both, in his travels as well as in his mind. And it is this meandering of the mind that caught my attention (as it always seems to do). A restless mind that thinks of the most ingenious schemes to attack/escape from an enemy and the most fascinating tales to mask real identities. A mind that is torn between the need to indulge in new experiences and the urge to return home. I find nothing more endearing than the conflicted mind. It shows a propensity for rumination. A mind tha