A Love Affair With Thaiyyir Saadam.

I was seventeen years old, when I moved to a new city for the very first time. To study, and start a new adventure, all by myself. I still remember how exciting it was, the day my dad dropped me to college. Most kids were scared and sad that their parents were leaving, scared of being ragged by seniors, scared of things like having to do their own laundry. But me? I was thrilled.

I had always wanted to be independent. To live by my own terms, make my own living. And college was just the first step of that ladder. And I was lucky enough to start that journey in one of the most amazing cities ever – Chennai.

That’s right, you read that sentence correctly. I did, in fact, say Chennai.

Surprised? So was I.

When I first told my friends and family that I’d be going to Chennai to study, I heard what people usually hear – “It’s so hot there!”
“The people are horrible”
“Oh, you’re going to turn into a Madraasi now huh?”
“You don’t know Tamil? Dude you’re screwed.”
Yeah, all of that.

But I was too occupied with the adrenaline of starting a new adventure to pay heed to what anyone said. I decided to go to Chennai with an open mind, and in return, Chennai totally blew my mind away.
It wasn’t always easy though. Travelling was hard (and expensive, if you know what I mean), food was different, people were new, and all put together it was basically like someone had thrown me far away from my comfort zone.

And then I got sick.

For the first time in my life, no one was there to hold my hair up as I vomited. No one to clean up the mess after me. No one to get me water and no one to sleep beside. I missed my mom. I missed having her take care of me when I got sick in the middle of the night. I did call her, and tell her that I threw up but there wasn’t much she could do over the phone. It was my first horrible night in Chennai. One of many, I soon found out. I was so angry for choosing to stay away from home. I was terribly homesick and I just wanted to curl up in bed and sleep all day but the fear of losing attendance (which was quite real, in my first year) kept me going for my classes.
After visiting the doctor, I found out that I had an intestine infection and could only eat bland food for 2 weeks. I remember thinking to myself – bland food? Where the hell am I going to get that? I’m a hosteller; I have to eat whatever is made in the mess!
I thought that maybe I should ask the lady who managed the mess back then, if she could have some food made separately for me. I remember how nervous I was to ask for help, how silly of me to think that.
So right before dinner, I went up to her and explained my situation, and asked if she could help me. She didn’t say anything, she just smiled and nodded at me, and I wasn’t sure what it meant, so I just went back to my room.
That night when I went down for dinner, I was mentally prepared for eating half cooked chapattis, watered down dal and spicy poriyal. But that didn’t happen.
Just as I sat down, the lady who runs the mess came by my chair and put a bowlful of food in front of me.

It was curd rice.

I was instantly taken back to the times I’d get sick at home, and mom would make ‘dahi chawal’ to help soothe my tummy. I remembered how nice and cool my stomach felt after eating it. Suddenly, I remembered everything – I felt at home, even though home was hundreds of kilometres away.
And just in that moment, I didn’t hate Chennai anymore.

I’d be lying if I said that I never complained ofcourse I did. I still do. All the time. The heat really is unbearable, the auto-drivers do overcharge, almost always and the food is really spicy, for me. But all that seems so small compared to the good stuff.
Like the friends I’ve made, the people I’ve met, the experiences I’ve had – all of which was made possible, only because of this amazing place. Somehow, I managed to find a home away from home here.

I don’t know where or how though. Maybe it was in that plate of curd rice I got when I was sick. Maybe it was in the people who didn’t make me feel like an outsider. Maybe it was in the god damned most amazing idli that Malini’s mother would ever so kindly make for me, at my request. (Those idlis are bae, I shit you not it’s soft as pillows.) Maybe it was in Devi’s hug, which was always available on demand. Maybe it was in the comfort of Mansi’s room – where just for a moment my problems didn’t feel like problems and everything felt okay. Maybe it was in the gossip session with my girlies (if you’re reading this, just know that I love all 4 of you). Maybe it was those long and kinda repetitive but always fun Climber meetings (sorry, Mr President, please don’t kill me.)

I guess I can’t really point out one singular reason why I find this city absolutely mesmerising. I never will be able to, because it’s always giving me new reasons to love it more.
A few months back, I remember this conversation my mom and I had – we were laughing about how in the 17 years that I lived in Bangalore, I never saw a calamity or an outrage, but in the three years I’ve stayed in Chennai I saw a flood, a cyclone, riots, and protests. But the unity and kindness I witnessed in the midst of all this was simply breath-taking.

There’s something about this place that just captures my heart. The coffee, the beaches, the tarot card readers that are determined to get couples chilling on the beach to feel awkward, the temples, the sweat inducing weather, the Bovonto soda that tastes like cough syrup – all these little things have so many memories attached to it. So many moments of happiness that have been etched onto my skin that sometimes I forget that I’m not from here.

You know, every city has its own charm – no matter what other people say about it. If you only keep an open mind, and try and love the place, you will get love in return.
And no, things will never get easier. Problems will never disappear. Life will never be a straight road uphill. There will be sad days, there will be fear, and there will be turmoil.

But you know what?

There’s nothing a plate of thaiyyir saadam can’t fix.

The day I started bleeding blue.

Lately, I haven't been posting on the blog. So when I was asked to write something new, I spent hours trying to think of what to write about. And then it hit me- why not write about writing?

Confused? Let me explain-

It all started 11 years ago. I was in third grade and back then life basically consisted of minimal academics and more of play time. I was hyper active as a child (quite contrary to the lazy bum I've become now.) and mom would often find it hard to keep me occupied.
I was always an avid reader. The only way for me to fall asleep was by reading a story. Only my parents can tell you how hard it was to separate me from my beloved books. I read whatever I could, whenever I could.
It so happened that one evening, I was particularly bored and idle. Like every other kid, I asked my mother what to do. Might I add that at this point, she also had to take care of my three year old younger brother. So when I kept bugging her that evening, she abruptly said "Go to your room and write something!".

Write something? Hmmmm....

Accepting her challenge, I went to my room and sat on my favourite spot- the upper right corner of my bunk bed. (Yes, I had one of those.) As I began thinking what to write about, one thought predominantly occupied my head- my mother wouldn't play with me because she was busy with my brother. So I wrote a poem about my brother.
I went back to my mother to show her what I wrote and she was so surprised. I guess not every person would expect an 8 year old to be able to write poetry. (Granted, it was the most silly little thing I ever wrote.)

I was 8 years old then, I'm 20 years old now. And my love for writing has only grown. My mom got me a journal to write my poetry in. For 11 years I've guarded that notebook like it's my life. If you ever looked at it, you would clearly notice the change in my handwriting, my style of writing, my train of thought. When I flip through the pages now, I can't help but laugh at all the things I wrote as a child. I've had my kiddy phase where I wrote about butterflies, rainbows and cartoons. I've had a teenage phase where I wrote about school, friendship and crushes. And today, I write about whatever speaks to me, whatever inspires me.

Writing has saved my life, quite literally. Whether I was happy or sad, everything felt just a little bit better after I wrote something about it. It's my addiction, and my cure.
There are at least a 100 scraps of spare paper and tissue with my emotions penned down on them that got lost somewhere along the way. So many poems that I scribbled on the back of my school notebooks, never to be found again.

And then, 11th grade happened. Somewhere in between tuition, coaching classes and a never ending syllabus, I stopped writing. Not out of choice, but because there was simply too much going on in my head and I didn't know how to untangle that kind of a mess. And that reflected in my life too. I got angry more often, had mood swings and lost focus. In retrospect, bleeding ink instead of shedding tears was probably a better idea.

It was my father who pulled me back to my notebook and pen. He was always my first critic and the first person I shared everything with. And when I stopped writing, it was he who encouraged me to keep trying. Every once in a while he'd ask me if I wrote anything new. And no one was happier than him when I started writing again.
In fact, just a few weeks back, he called me out of the blue just to tell me that he loved what I had been writing and that he was proud of me. And that one call just made my day.
For an average child with limited talents, having someone tell you that is like accomplishing something great.

Today, it gives me so much happiness when people come up to me and say "Hey, I loved what you wrote". Especially when I don't even know the person. The fact that someone read something that came out of my head and somehow related to it, made me feel like I'm not alone. Like there are other who think and feel just like me.

I'm not a great writer. I don't have a fancy vocabulary and I sure as hell am not going to be the next J.K. Rowling or whatever. I may never get published and I'll probably never make a career out of this. But I love what I write. It's honest, it's raw and it's me.

So that's the story of how I started writing. I sincerely hope whoever reads this gives it a try too. It's not that hard, just pen down whatever you're thinking. Trust me, it feels liberating! Whether its a journal, micro-tales, poetry, essays or even articles, believe me, it'll feel like a weight being lifted off our shoulders.

Go on, pick up that pen.
And bleed.