My Loo, My Paradise

Paradise, technically, is probably a place you would never want to leave. If this were true, then my paradise can lie in one and only one place.

The Bathroom.

In order to explain myself, I must start at the very beginning. The apartment I grew up in was a warm and cozy double-bedroom. It was just enough for a family of three - my parents and me. I loved that little home dearly, and I probably still do. The place is so synonymous with the word 'home' for me, that even today my dreams are filled with that apartment, and not my current place of residence. I had a nice room all to myself, but the bathroom was where I got all the real privacy I needed.

Our bathroom was neat and simple; it had a tub, a toilet, a basin and a washing machine. I can still imagine being in it vividly, as though I were there only yesterday.  As an avid reader, imaginer, mirror-actor and day dreamer, it was the one place where all my antics would go completely unnoticed. And so I remained there for long periods of time. It was common knowledge in my family that once I went in, I rarely ever came out. People wondered what I could possible be doing in there for so long. Oh, if only they knew how the place came alive for me in more ways than one.  

Img Credit: nanny snowflake

Most of all, I liked to read in the loo. Especially during exam-time, when I wasn't allowed to read any story books. I would stuff a book under my shirt and dash inside. Once the door was locked, people were hardly likely to bother me because, well, I was in the loo, doing my business! That's legal, right? So I read and I read, and then I read some more. Coming out with the book wasn't always as easy, especially if someone was waiting to use the bathroom next. So I came up with hiding places - outside the window on the sill, behind the washing machine, the bottom of the laundry basket. Soon, I stopped being bothered to retrieve the books at all, so I always had my stash waiting for me when I sneaked in. This went on for long, until my mother one day discovered a high stack of books sitting on the sill. It was not a good day for me.

While there are several other things I did in there (refer to this post for more info), I find reading in the loo to be the most relaxing and stress-busting activity ever. In fact, I will now sheepishly let you in on a little secret of mine. I have read so much in the loo that now I cannot spend more than 15 minutes in a book store. Because if I do, I will have to go! Seriously, every single time. M says I'm psychologically wired that way for life.

So as you can see, I have had a long-standing relationship with my beloved bathroom. It is the place I go when I am happy or sad, when I must think and ponder, when I must read, or simply to get away. No I really do not need an expensive vacation to get away from the stresses of life, a few hours in the loo will work out just fine. The bathroom is such an important place to me that it is the first thing I look at when we're looking for an apartment to rent, or even in a hotel room. If the loo is good, I am good too.

Img Credit: rockinfree

But I must tell you that I have a dream as far as bathrooms are concerned. A dream bathroom, if you will. That is, if I ever write a book that will make me as rich as J K Rowling, the one thing I know for sure is the kind of bathroom I will build myself. I don't really care about the rest of the house or anything, it could be in ruins for all I care, as long as I get this room right. And I will now tell you exactly what I have in mind (rubs hands together gleefully :D ).

• A minimum area of 400 sq.ft.
• Two toilet stalls, each with their own door and separate exhaust. 
• Two wash basins complete with mirrors and appropriate lighting.
• Noiseless exhaust systems.
• A shower room with glass doors, that also works as a steam room.
• A bathtub.
• A lounge area, consisting of but not limited to - a soft couch, a fully-stocked bookshelf, a massage table, LCD TV, laptop, WiFi connectivity, a bowl of exotic chocolates, a collection of aromatic oils.
• A dressing area that has the softest of silken robes, the fluffiest of towels and the warmest of slippers. 
• Super-ventilation with sunlight and fresh air pouring in from all sides. 

If you cannot possibly imagine the kind of room I'm talking about, please search Google Images for 'Luxury Bathrooms'. I assure you that you will still have no idea as to what I'm talking about. I have myself never set eyes on a bathroom like this except for in my imagination. If you do stumble upon a picture close to what I've described then pliss, pliss to be sharing with me, kindly :)

So now you know why my loo is my paradise. Do you share a special relationship with any of the rooms in your home? Do let me know!

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Useless Confessions - III

I have to start this confession with a confession. I got nothing!

When I planned out this series in my head, I had three separate incidents in mind. But somehow, over the past three weeks, the third one has managed to slip out of my woozy brain. I can't remember it, no matter what. I spent the whole day yesterday racking my upstairs, but it just wouldn't come back to me. I can remember other stories, but they're just not as interesting. I know I should have written this down when I remembered, but I was lazy and now I don't have it. I'm so sorry to disappoint.

But of course, there are a few useless confessions I can still make. About my greatest useless fears. Now, I know there are people who think fears are useful because they help you do better in life, but believe me when I say that my fears are basically, utterly and absolutely useless. So today I'll talk about one of them.

This fear is so silly that I'm even ashamed to admit it. But yes, I'm afraid of Ghosts. I always have been and, I know always will be. Can't even remember when it started. I'll just go list out a few crazy fears I've had about ghosts over the years. Go ahead and laugh all you want, don't be shy now.

• My first nightmare was of a little girl - who was headless. A large part of my childhood I was pretty scared that girl was going to show up in my room in the middle of the night.

• I made up this thing about a phantom who rode a horse, broke in to kid's rooms through the window at night and stole them away. No idea where I got that from, but I spent many a sleepless night over him. Not your typical knight-in-shining-armour stuff, eh?

• Someone in school told the story of Bloody Mary. That if you go to the bathroom, switch off the lights, close your eyes, turn around three times saying Bloody Mary, a crazed woman would appear with an axe and chop off your head. Now after this, every time I went to the loo, nothing came to my mind except Bloody Mary. You know, like the song that gets stuck in your head and doesn't go away. I would just rush through my business and dash out as soon as I could.

• In my Grandma's house, I was usually allotted the diwan in the hall to sleep at night. And the hall window was right behind my bed. They kept it open at night during summers. So if I opened my eyes and turned around, I could see right outside the house. I was so dead scared that the bell would ring and I would turn around to see some chudail woman standing at the window, smiling her devilish smile. 

• The Ring. One of the scariest movies I've ever watched. I actually used to get scared that something would crawl out of the TV when I was up studying late at night.

Things have changed a bit, now that I'm older. Yes, I'm still scared but a little less and I've noticed a pattern. There are some houses/rooms where nothing happens at all, I'm never scared and I rarely get bad dreams. Then, there are a few places where I just cannot sleep once I'm left alone. It's just too involuntary to even know why. I just try to have someone with me in such places.

In spite of all this, I still do watch horror films. You know, like I'll be flipping channels and one of them would be playing a horror flick. And then I'll be too tempted. I know it'll scare the bejesus out of me and I won't sleep again for the next week or so, but I'll just have to watch it. 

Geez, this post makes me sound like such a nutcracker, doesn't it? Tell me you have some irrational fears too, won't you?

Read up on my other Useless Confessions, Part I and Part II

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Useless Confessions - II

This post is the second of a three-part series I'm doing on Confessions from my past. The thing about them is that they're utterly useless. It feels good to write about them, though! Check out Part I here.

***

I was about 8 or 9 years old. We hadn’t gone on our usual trip to India during summer break, we had stayed behind. After dad went to work, mum and I went to a local health club for a few hours every day. A summer kids camp was on that year at the club, so we kids were packed away while the ladies splashed around in the pool and did their aerobics.

It was a fun camp for the most part. The organizers were mostly American housewives who were pretty good at engaging children in various activities. The kids at the camp came from various backgrounds – there were British, American, Arab, Indian (of course) and even a few African kids I think. We all mixed well for the most part, although I do remember a few curious stares and strange questions from the white kids. Some of them were polite and well behaved, while others were downright rotten.

I remember visiting an Ice Cream factory that summer as a part of the camp. There was also a trip to an Insect Zoo. The American kids had brought jars to take pet insects home. The very idea seemed repulsive to me then. We had games in the pool and the gymnasium and several other activities. I played baseball for the first time in my life. I just couldn’t get the hang of it. J

We had a couple of art classes that summer. One of them is where the story of my confession unfolds.

All the kids had assembled in a conference room at the club. The ladies took out several art kits and opened them, explaining to us what each item was meant for. Metal wires were to be twisted into loops and dipped in paint to look like petals. Several petals would be put together to make a flower. The flower then had to be stuck onto a board that made the base. That was the project.

The ladies began distributing the material. Turns out they were a few boards short, and some of the kids didn’t get any, me being one of them. I was pretty pissed. I thought the lady deliberately hadn’t given me a board so the white kids could have enough. I’m not sure why I felt that way. Maybe I had witnessed something of that sort earlier. Or maybe it was just my imagination at work. I can’t remember now.

Anyway, I was pretty mad. I glanced around the table, and then I spotted it. There was a board left unattended. It was just lying there, with no one around to claim it. I couldn’t believe my eyes at first, but I slowly began inching towards it. When I finally reached it, my hands itched. I knew it belonged to someone, I knew it was wrong to take. But I so badly didn’t want to be left out. I didn’t want to be the one to show my mom a half-baked art piece at the end of the day when all my friends had good ones. So I gave in to the temptation. I grabbed it and ran.

Back in my seat, I glanced around the room again. My little act had gone unnoticed! Thereafter I kept very quiet, silently working away at the instructions. Only for a while, though. Soon, somebody had started bawling in the room. I looked up to see a girl standing at the very spot of my crime. It was evidently her board I had taken. She cried and cried and cried some more. People consoled her but she refused to be consoled. She actually threw a tantrum, stomping away in fury. A part of me wanted to give it back, but then I had gotten stared already and I didn’t really fancy approaching someone throwing such a hissy fit. So I let it go.

Eventually they found her a makeshift board made of thermocol. She was silent the rest of the day, sullen and moody. I remember feeling guilty about it, I’m not the sort who likes to make people cry. The art had lost all its joy for me. It was the last time I’d ever taken anything that wasn’t mine.

So there you have it, yet another useless confession off my chest. Nope, no one knew about this until now. One less thing to take to the grave!

***

Do you have useless confessions to make too? I'd love to hear about them. Stay tuned for part III, coming up same day, next week.

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Useless Confessions - I

This post is the first of a three-part series I'm doing on Confessions from my past. The thing about these confessions is that they are pretty much useless. But I'd like to have people know about them anyway!

***

I was little, very little. I don’t remember how old. I could walk and talk, but I was little. Keep that in mind, okay? Okay.

We were on a plane, me and mum. I don’t remember if we were coming or going. This is a very vague memory, almost like a dream. I was thirsty, I asked mum for water. She told me to go up to the stewardess and ask for it. Moms in the 80s had some new-fangled ideas about teaching their kids to be independent. Does this still happen?

So, I got out of my seat, went to that little place up front where all the stewardesses disappeared into. There were a group of them standing around, talking, laughing. I barely reached their knees. They looked very pretty in their silk blouses and short skirts and pantyhose and those smart caps they wore. I went up to one of them and tugged at her skirt.

The rest of the memory is sort of hazy, like in slow motion. She looked down at me and smiled. I said something that included the word ‘water’. She smiled even wider and nodded. Then she led me to this water dispensing thing, filled a small paper cup and handed it to me, before returning to her friends.

The cup was full and difficult to handle, I think. I took a sip. And then the unthinkable happened. I dropped it. One neat ‘splat’ and the cup was on the carpeted floor, water splashed all over. My heart was pounding, I was scared. The low hum of the aircraft was all I could hear, it was deafening.

I picked up the cup gingerly, walked slowly up to the stewardess and gave it back to her. She smiled yet again, took it from me and returned to her conversation.

And then I ran. Back to my seat and my mom, where I believed I was safe.

“Did you get your water?” asked mum.

“Mhmmm,” I nodded.

Every time I saw that stewardess come up the aisle, I was shit scared that she was coming to scold me, or rat on me to my mom. But she never did. I continued to feel pretty awful though, as though I had done something terrible. That was one flight I was very glad to get off.

I’ve never told anyone about this, until now. I had planned on taking my secret to the grave, but oh well, now I can go with a clear conscience. 

***

Do you have useless confessions to make too? I'd love to hear them! Share in the comments, or do a response to this post on your own blog. :) Stay tuned for part II, coming up same day, next week.

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Books || What I Talk About When I Talk About Running ~ Haruki Murakami

If you are a runner, or hope to take up running sometime in your life, you must read this book. If you are a writer, or hope to become one, you must read this book. If you plan to do neither, you must still, read this book.

What I Talk About When I Talk About Running is a memoir, by Haruki Murakami, a Japanese writer.

Photo Credit: Upton (Creative Commons)

Humble.

This is the word that best describes Murakami. The manner in which he describes how he sold his jazz bar to take up writing, and eventually running, makes you feel like he did nothing big or great, and yet he did. The book made me feel thankful and hopeful that there are still such people in this world.

The man is in his 60s now, he was in his late 50s when he wrote the book. He took up marathon running in the later part of his life, middle-age. The way he’s trained his body to adapt to such a rigourous lifestyle is simply amazing. 

The book could inspire you to run. Write too, perhaps. But more importantly, it opens you to a certain way of life, a certain attitude towards it. Like this, for instance:

My time, the rank I attain, my outward appearance - all of these are secondary. For a runner like me, what's really important is reaching the goal I set myself, under my own power. I give it everything I have, endure what needs enduring, and am able, in my own way, to be satisfied. From out of the failures and joys I always try to come away having grasped a concrete lesson. (It's got to be concrete, no matter how small it is.) And I hope that, over time, as one race follows another, in the end I'll reach a place I'm content with. Or maybe just catch a glimpse of it. (Yes, that's a more appropriate way of putting it.)

He talks at length about his experiences with running, participating in different marathons, losing the passion to run, and then gaining it all back again. Of his reasons for taking up running, he writes:

People sometimes sneer at those who run every day, claiming they'll go to any length to live longer. But don't think that's the reason most people run. Most runners run not because they want to live longer, but because they want to live life to the fullest. If you're going to while away the years, it's far better to live them with clear goals and fully alive than in a fog, and I believe running helps you do that. Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life - and for me, for writing as a whole. I believe many runners would agree. 

He also talks a lot about his writing.

Writing novels, to me, is basically a kind of manual labor. Writing itself is mental labor, but finishing an entire book is closer to manual labor. It doesn't involve heavy lifting, running fast or leaping high. Most people, though, only see the surface reality of writing and think of writers as involved in quiet, intellectual work done in their study. If you have the strength to lift a coffee cup, they figure, you can write a novel. But once you try your hand at it, you soon find that it isn't as peaceful a job as it seems.

Murakami says that he writes one word at a time. Like he runs, one step at a time. And that’s all it takes.

The beauty of the book is that there is something quotable in almost every page. But this is the one that stuck with me the most:

Pain is inevitable, suffering is optional.

Try it!

Purchase from Flipkart: here

Purchase from Amazon: here

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Books || Stephen King ~ On Writing

A few months ago, I made a list of the things I enjoy doing, deciding to spend time doing each of these. Writing was on that list.

In an effort to understand writing better, I attended a Sunday workshop on creative writing. As it turned out, I didn't end up learning anything great over there. What did happen however, was that as I was participating in the various writing exercises, I realized how easily words came to me. And how they never stopped.

I decided to spend more time pursuing the art of writing. I got regular on my blog. I opened up Word docs at random and started to type. Suddenly, I was surrounded by diaries and notepads, scribbling away furiously. Read-able or not, writing is the one thing that absorbs me completely, holds my attention, as long as it pleases. My muse can have me, take me away, anytime, anywhere. Its wish is my command.

Anyway, there are two books I read that further inspired me to take my writing seriously. And, I'd like to talk about one of them today. It's written by Stephen King, and it's called ON WRITING.

The best thing that happened to me after I read this book was that I started to believe that I could write too. Earlier, when I read great and wonderful books, I used to wish I could write like that too, but I thought I never could. Mr. King reconfirmed that for me. Through his book he told me, of course, I could never write like that. But I could write like only I could. I could tell the stories that only I could tell, through my perceptions, that are unique to me. It was encouraging. I began to write more.

King puts forth his theory about the different kinds writers there are. This has stayed with me, and I think about it almost everyday. He says the four different kinds of writers are: Bad Writer, Competent Writer, Good Writer and Great Writer.

The interesting part is this: according to King, a bad writer can never become a competent one, and a good writer can never become a great one. But a competent writer can certainly hope, aspire and work towards becoming a good one. I have somehow taken the liberty to assume myself a competent writer, and spend every day of my life trying to become a good one. I hope I shall succeed some day.

I would say that this book is a must-read for anyone hoping to take up writing at some point in their lives. Even if you don't, the book is still an interesting read. Try it!

You can purchase the book here, or here.

I'll leave you with a quote from the book:

"Stopping a piece of work just because it's hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position."

Do you know of any inspiring books on writing? Please do share!

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