Tick tock.

Recently I received a piece of terrible news- one of my distant relatives passed away because his car caught fire and he couldn't get out. Countless people have written about how we take life and the people we love for granted, but how can we not? People I'm close to are like my inner universe, and the fish never thinks the pond will dry up.

One thought led to another, and I thought of how terrible it would be if I was victim to such an accident. The sheer horror of it is maddening(I whine when I get a minuscule burn), but what's worse is the thought that I would never see my people again. I don't even want to imagine what they'll go through, but I've always thought of it like they'll lose one person but I'll lose so many.
But that's okay, I'm pretty sure I'm going to live to be a hundred years old, and a kick-ass grandma, so I don't want to dwell on the macabre too much.

'What's the moral of the story?' I can hear my own mind asking me. But maybe sometimes it's alright to not know the answer to that.

Time heals all wounds. Time waits for no one. We've heard this over and over again. I hope my uncle's family and friends, as well as the near and dear ones of the people whose lives are tragically ended everyday find some solace in that fact. Maybe with time it'll hurt less. One can only hope.

Maybe that's all we ever really need in life. Time to fall in love. Time to live. Time to say goodbye. Time to move on. Time to make someone happy. Time to correct that which is not. Time.

When you're happy and you know it.

I had BIG plans for the summer-- going someplace great for the holidays, bake brownies, get a tan, lose weight, go running every day(haha), and it goes on. What I actually ended up doing was not go anywhere, wake up late, sit around, meet a few friends most days, home, a movie, then sleep.

I still managed to have a good time, but in the back of my mind, I was frustrated at not being able to do all that I wanted to. It was pretty much your regular whining: "But, but..EVERYONE went somewhere!" I'd tell my brain to shut up, but that tiny little voice inside me has a pretty solid set of lungs on it.

The summer got over and the slight nip in the air brought with it the impending doom of college reopening. The prospect of a new academic year is exhilarating, but the stringent hours, assignments, getting stuck into a routine...not so much. Sure, you get to meet friends, but I'd rather meet them at a healthier time than 8:30am, thankyouverymuch.

Then it was back to the usual. I was dreading it every day. You never quite get used to a whole different set of teachers and subjects for sometime.

But being back to the place where I'd spent so much time in the past two years made me realize that I'd missed it, despite everything. Familiar corridors, friendly faces, the collective groan when a professor decides they won't leave until they absolutely have to. I felt alive, like I'd been breathing the same air for a long time and I was suddenly free to be the person I was; the me I loved, hated, admired, laughed at--it was the best feeling in the world.

That made me realize that even though I wouldn't want to miss out on the chance of going somewhere next summer, and that I would hate being in college most days, I was mistaking being adventurous and wishful with being happy.

Once again today, I woke up at 7am feeling cranky, went to college, parked in the midst of a thousand other bikes, climbed up the familiar staircases I had innumerable times before, complained about everything under the sun, laughed at stupid jokes, ate a Wada Pav and drank tea for lunch, sat in a stuffy classroom, braved lectures, and came back to the comforting smell of home only to laze around. It was like any other day.

I always thought if I got to do something worth writing about everyday, that would mean I was happy. But happiness is seeing the same people everyday and feeling glad you did. Seeing someone's expression mirror how bored you feel. That face in the crowd that you know will lift your mood in an instant.

Happiness is not getting to go to a faraway land and escaping. It's not about trying so hard to feel good, you don't know who you are anymore.

Happiness is about tying your hair in a messy bun and looking around once in a while. It's not in our dreams and wishes, but in the known, the comfortable, the familiar.

Chickening out.

I was a wee nine year old when i first ate a chicken burger(by mistake), marched up to my mom, and announced that I had enjoyed it immensely. Ten years later, almost to the day, I tasted chicken again and liked it, again. Blame a bad second experience for the huge time gap.

Every time I'd go out with friends or cousins, they'd stare at my 'measly' plate, look admiringly at their own plate stuffed with meat and scoff at me for not trying the obvious. And being a Punjabi and a vegetarian is the equivalent of bringing a six pack to an AA meeting-- people look at you like you're defying your life's calling.

But old habits die hard. You can't suddenly decide to stop biting your nails, so switching over to being a 'non-vegetarian' was going to take some time and mental preparation.

Then one day, I was ready. I knew I was. It was just a matter of when.

Hello, July 4th, 2010.

The waiter brought my Chicken Tikka Masala. I took a long look at it, thinking to myself that I had DEFINITELY not thought this through. You can't change nineteen years worth of eating culture in a second. Can you? I was comforted by the very wise words of the person sitting across me- 'Relax. You don't have to eat it if you don't want to.'..'Well', I thought, I'll just wait some more then.'

But the problem with waiting is you never know what you're missing.

I took one look at that beatific smile and dug right in. And I'm so glad I did! And I realized all that apprehension was for nothing. That's the beautiful and terrible part about being human. You adapt to anything very quickly.

'Aapko aur kuch chahiye?'

I gave a quick nod, and the menu card was thrust into my hands. After much deliberation and passing around, Butter Chicken was ordered. By now I was feeling like quite the pro. Not to mention a little uncertain. Paradox much, I know. But I knew all I needed was the quiet assurance of those perfectly familiar eyes. 'Don't worry, I've got you', they seemed to say. 'You're doing fine.'

As it turns out, I WAS doing fine. I managed to have a wonderful time, and exponentially increase my eating options. 'And finally managed to gain purpose in life' were the words said to me. Jesus, we all love to exaggerate =P

All in all, it was a lot less dramatic than I'd expected. And I'm glad I went ahead with it-- I didn't want to wait ten more years you see.

But what I'm most happy about is that the next time I go out to eat, and someone says- 'You're a Punjabi right? You can't be a VEGETARIAN', I don't have to smile and shrug anymore.

That's right, folks. Bring on the meat, I promise I'll try not to chicken out.

Idiot box? I think not.

'The pen is mightier than the sword', they say. Words have power which is often underestimated. The most honest thoughts stem when you feel real passion towards the subject. This very opinion gave birth to this blog.

Since we were little, all of us have been warned of the evils of television. "Do you want to ruin your eyesight? Why don't you go downstairs and play instead?"

They call it the idiot box. I've always wondered why. And the word 'idiot' has always been negative. At least until a recent Bollywood movie which suddenly made being an idiot a good thing. Scores of actors trying to provide entertainment of every existent genre through a medium which is in OUR control is suddenly idiotic.

Now I watched cartoons exclusively up until I was 13. I'd stand in front of the telly, all of seven, immersed in how Jerry would con Tom again. Thomas the cat taught me never to give up on what I want. To never lose hope but to keep trying(The childhood stories with the same moral never appealed to me). Those were the golden years.

I grew older, and my interest in Popeye and his spinach-induced super strength dwindled, and I began falling in love with the lives of six friends living in the Big Apple. Because who doesn't have a little bit of Rachel, Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Chandler and Ross in them?

Then it was Bye-bye Friends, hello Grey's Anatomy. And a slew of other brilliant shows, each of which felt like it was tailor-made for me in one way or the other. I felt dark and twisted inside like Meredith Grey, I could relate with having been blessed with an overactive imagination like John Dorian, I know what it felt to be empirical like Temperance Brennan, I'd faced trouble with peers like, well, all the kids in 90210,...the list is endless.

What I'm trying to say is, this is fiction imitating life, and for the one hour that I'm watching my favorite show, I can forget my day and try to help them solve a murder, or feel the anxiety of cutting someone open on an operating table. I can feel what it's like to live in rainy Seattle, or sunny L.A. And that's a feeling like no other.

How many things in life can evoke such a wide spectrum of emotions in 22 minutes? It's admirable, if anything. The television is my cure for a bad day, a broken heart, or simply something that allows my imagination to soar, and idiot or not, I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world.

This is me. Couch potato. And very proud of it.