I Fell In Love In the Rain

Quiet nights: a stillness flowing,

Golden lights faintly glowing,

A dance of dreams, wind gently blowing,

Raindrops fall, one, two, three.

Silence breaks, dazzling laughter,

Comfort song, a master crafter

(lies and stories), words lost after,

Teardrops break, one, two, three.

Warm embrace – unusually pleasing,

Flirty banter, playful teasing,

Hands brush, tension easing,

Waves and sun melt into the sea.

Stars hum by in the crisp air,

Mist collects on the food they share,

Talking in circles but getting nowhere,

Soul cries – “away from me!”

I fell in love in the rain, she says,

Where music and magic lit up decrepit days;

I fell in love, but it had to go,

For it hurt more than he would ever know.

Author's Note: This poem is purely based on fiction and books the author has read. Any resemblance to real events is purely coincidental and should not be treated with any connection to known and unknown incidents. 

- Sincerely, the Nerdy Snickerdoodle.

Sentimental Track

Mine is the wind from the bay that blows

Mine is the starry sky that flows

Mine is the cobblestoned pathway sore

Mine is the time we had before.

Mine are the waves crashing into my heart

Mine is the lilt of a fire that starts

Mine is a tinderbox brushed o’er with soot

Mine is the shine of a polished boot.

Mine are the smiles that surround me on days

When all of life is a dark purple haze

Mine is the groan of a lecture hall

Mine is the waltz at a wintry ball

Dream, dearest, dream, for the world’s a lost cause

And only to your own harshest comment give pause

Walk through walls to reach your goals

Mine your mind to seek your soul

And if you’ve reached the end, despair

For a new quest finds you there.

Charisma over Coffee

Sherlyne did not like coffee. In fact, she strived to avoid it when possible: a profoundly difficult task, seeing as she was constantly surrounded by peers who fueled their homework sessions with bitter concoctions unlike any other. It even seemed to be a competition as to whose coffee was more acrid, like a fest of strength or a test of endurance.

In any case, Sherlyne wanted no part of it. Not even the coffeeshop romances she had read about in fanfiction. Not the Instagram-worthy lattes with fancy milk designs on them. Not the thrill of being called an absurdly incorrect name by the Starbucks barista who was clearly trained to appear incompetent at transcribing speech to text (much worse than modern technology could, even), despite clearly being an intelligent, sociable, warm person.

It was with this thought in mind that she entered the first class of the semester – “Dreams and the Psyche”. It was an experimental class, one that few had signed up for, and it was apparently being taken by a new lecturer. How fascinating and incredibly sad, she thought. Did the university have to fulfill some prerequisite number of courses taught that they had to make up ridiculous ones and put them in the hands of wannabe lecturers fresh out of college, who probably had no passion for the subject at all?

Yet, she thought she would prove herself in this course. It was only worth a credit, after all. The workload would probably be low. She could stand participating in some heated debates against sexist Freudian theories and nonsensical interpretations of the sleeping mind.

She scanned the hall. It was not quite full, but the turnout was much more impressive than she had imagined. Had she missed something? Perhaps these students were only here just to fit in some esoteric requirement in their outdated handbook. But no, only a few had that glazed look common to those who had all but given up on the educational system. The rest were in animated discussion, flashes of curiosity sparking between eyes and information just rolling out in waves. Sherlyne frowned. This was too positive a response for a class that was brand new.

Perhaps it was the lecturer. She quickly skimmed the course descriptions on her phone. Oddly, no name or identifiable feature of their professor was mentioned. The university was usually quite meticulous about these matters, she thought, wondering why they had allowed such an important piece of information to go amiss. Maybe that’s why these students were here : they wanted a good look at the mystery professor. Typical marketing tactic.

She rose from her seat in a bid to approach one of the more conversational students in class. The smell of coffee permeated the air. She wrinkled her face in distaste. Who had brought that revolting beverage into the classroom? Outside food and drink were not allowed. She shook her head, trying to divert her attention elsewhere. But this only seemed to make the aroma of dark roasted coffee beans grown stronger. A pulsing beat sounded in her ears.

“I’m not hungry,” she rationalised. “Just drank water, too. And it’s not that hot… And I got enough sleep. So why… Why do I feel so… Weird?”

One step.

Another step.

Her feet felt like wool stuffed with lead.

No red spots in sight, so she wasn’t about to faint. No dizziness either.

Third step. The people at the next table laughed, a dull ringing echo masked by pulsing. And then it hit again, a strong, forceful wave of coffee, like she was in the middle of a production lot in Brazil with machines grinding the beans one chunk at a time.

Sleepiness rushed in and invaded every crevice of her brain, eliminating vision and sound, leaving only the bitter, burning scent of a despicable beverage. Falling through a void, only darkness enveloping her like a warm, suffocating blanket, she heard a voice.

“Welcome to the Experiment.”

The New Radio Show with Omoz and Margon : Revival of Classics, Episode 2

Margon : Welcome to zee 6 o’ clock New Radio! We are at zee fifth quarter.

Omoz : Today we have a sterilized visitor to sanitized us today. She/he will be bringing us 800 bottles of Deluxe Starplus Sparkly Sanitizer.

Margon : But Omoz, remember, we must be dirty or else we cannot get the wonderful privilege of being disinfected and sanitized.

Omoz : Yes, of course. Here is our unknown gender, unknown identity, unknown person, invisible guest! Let us have a mudbath.

Margon : But we must be clean! How can we welcome Mr. / Ms. / Mrs. X in dirty wear?

Invisible guest : Hello! I unfortunately ran out of stocks for the sparkly sanitizer so I brought my secret product.

Margon : Ooh! What is it?

Invisible guest : It’s an all new worm and butter facial! It gives a golden glow and keeps skin bulletproof. It also comes in a variety of colours and scents.

Omoz : I love Pepsi Lime.

Invisible guest : Sure, you may have it. But I probably would want to mention the side effects.

Omoz and Margon : Shush!

Invisible guest : If anything happens, then the only way to cure it is…

Omoz and Margon : Shush! Nothing can happen to us!

Invisible guest : Probably must go…

Omoz : This facial shall revitalize my green skin…it shall freshen me up, make me nice and light, buttery soft and leathery tough. Ooh, I can’t wait!

Margon : I want to be resistant to bullet and physical injury. Wow! How exciting…can’t wait! I’ll buy 80g of it with added rose and herb, and use it all up on the same day.

Omoz : I’m going to try it out right now! See you!

Author's Note : This piece of writing was made almost seven years ago when the author a.k.a. The Nerdy Snickerdoodle was still in school and had unrestricted imaginative power. The use of improper grammar and unnatural speech patterns and references is intentional for comedic effect. Additionally, the author has chosen to skil the release of the very first Omoz and Margon classic episode owing to what is perhaps best termed as semi-embarrassment over the kind of writing happening there. Perhaps once The Nerdy Snickerdoodle is more comfortable sharing that side of themselves, they will release the same. Or not. 

A Girl From a Movie

Sometimes I wish I could be

a girl from a movie

Fairy lights and carelessly tossed throw pillows

Endless talktime

Golden retrievers and labrador galore

Rooms with chalkboards and stages and closets the size of mall showrooms

Friends who stay

Friends who are tight

And nice, and like taking photos

Who come over the second you’re upset

With ice-cream and bad movies

Pyjama parties and sleepovers

Pizza deliveries and days out at a promenade

At a pier, or a mall, or a cute cafe down the corner where everyone meets all the time

Like it’s been chosen for greatness

Or perhaps for drama.

A girl from a movie, walking the streets alone at night

Not worried about scary stalkers and vehicles with blacked-out windows

Not worried about worried parents or siblings

A girl from a movie for whom every door is open

Endless possibilities to follow her dream

She can code, she can race cars, she can design avant-garde clothing

She can travel to Paris on a whim

Or get into the college of her dreams

Attend exclusive events, galas, parties

Live the glamazon life

Or she can have her own apartment

Perhaps a countryside condo

Small library, functional kitchen, town square close by with a fountain or some lampposts

She’s good friends with the Baker, the Seamstress, the Fruit Seller, the Artist, the Dance Teacher

People like her

And she likes people.

Outfits that barely repeat

Food deliveries that seem to fit within some unlimited invisible budget

Showers that never run out of water

Adventures of the big kind

Or the small

And yet the girl in the movie

Rises above it all.

She is unafraid to be who she is

Or perhaps she discovers it later on, in the second half, all of two days later

I don’t want to be the girl who changes

The girl from the movie that takes nerds and transforms them into socialites that never touch books again

I want to be the girl who can make her own choices.

The girl who finds a way to fit in

And stand out.

I want to be a girl worth writing a story about.

P. S. Even if I’m the one writing the story.

The New Radio Show With Omoz and Margon : Now Available Digitally

(Cue static and cracking sounds, somewhat white-noisey)

Omoz: Good morgenstern to ye people of the Earth! It is I, Omoz of the 8th Sapphire Planet, come to you with radio show that is not betwixt compressed leaves and smothered in black dyes.

Margon: And if you have been following us for many years now, welcome, welcome all, to this new…heel? Boot? Stage, maybe?

Omoz: I believe it is called a platform, my dear Margon. Many apologies to you, my dear people of the Earth. We are still very new to this digital business. My goodness, what a shock it was when we initially started this endeavour!

Margon: I’m sure you all must be wondering, what is it that these aliens speak of? Well, fear not. We will rejuvenate-

Omoz: Retaliate?

Margon: No, no, recount – that’s the word – our stories to you. Today, we shall tell you about this encounter we had when crossing the star system. My, my, the Sun, is that what you call it?

Omoz: Yes, they call it the Sun. Big gas ball. Very flambe. Nice place, my cousin had a wedding there a few moons ago, I think? So yes. We had planned for a tour of the Earth – a fan tour, I would call it, seeing as most of our fanbase lies on Earth. It has been many years, and quite rightly, for we have been dormant. And thus, we set off on our space-cycle.

Margon: Ah yes, the space bus was unavailable. Too many comets had caused great damage, very big dentables. The size of plumballs, I say. Oh, how I miss plumballs…

Omoz: There, there, Margon, it is all right to miss the food of the planet when on vacation…

Margon: But do you not see, Omoz? We are not on vacation. We are trapped! We are fish! We are swim fish in a bucket and we cannot get out and they will salt us and fry us and eat us at dawn!

Omoz (blinking in confusion) : What mean you by that? Who will eat us?

Margon: But we are fish!

Omoz: We are most certainly not fish – I tell you, this Margon, she/he gets things so mixed up sometimes – we are exoplanetariums!

Margon: Do you mean exoplanetarians? A planetarium is a building, no? The one where they store planets?

Omoz: Ho ho, you might be right about that, Margon, excuse my language. But I still don’t understand – what fish?

Margon: I have heard it being said – fish in a bucket! No way out! And these humans, they stab the fish and roast it and eat it!

Omoz: You misunderstand; surely you must be thinking of the phrase ‘fish in a Braille’. It is simply a shape of speech, which means ‘no hope in sight’.

Margon: But how is that any better than being salted? You know how we need to moisturize, do you not? And is Braille not the means by which the De-lighted Ones communicate?

Omoz: …..

Margon: I am certain you must be mistaken, but for once, I do not have the inclination to right your wrongs! We are trapped!

Omoz (exasperatedly): Margon, first of all, we are not trapped, we are simply confined to this room without food and water for the next month or so because we have travelled from afar and did not predict the invasion of the 19th species. Drum those calendrical systems, they must have swindled us.

Second of all …. (refers phrasebook) ….. ah yes, apologies, I meant to say ‘fish in a barrel’. It is but a means of expressing a difficult situation, which we are most certainly not in.

Margon: Are we not?

Omoz: Thankfully, no. There is a crevice here than seems to be covered by a plank…and we can walk outside? Odd, I would think these humans’ idea of hospitality was to keep us in here for at least a year; they must be inhospitable hosts indeed. The better for us, I say.

Margon: What about the invading species?

Omoz: I’d personally like to meet it. It’s always nice to learn about new cultures, do you not think, Margon?

Margon: I suppose….Well, yippeegayoo then, let’s be off!

Omoz: And with that, we shall see you on the next episode of The New Radio Show! Stay tuna for more!

Margon: Tuna? It should be ‘toon’, I think? Stay toon for more! We will see you on a cultural rendezvous next! Arrivederci!

Dream a Dream

Good afternoon, dear reader! I hope you have a blanket and food and water and that you’re safe and protected and around people who care. I know the world we live in right now is scary. Every single day, there is some issue that needs resolution, some life-changing event that disrupts the monotony of routine and turns worlds upside down.

I am grateful to have a stable Internet connection, access to virtual classrooms and some Netflix to keep me company. It’s a far from ideal situation; however, the best part of the quarantined life has been that I’ve been able to get in touch with some cooking skills. I managed to cook honey chilli potatoes a couple of months ago, and they turned out fabulously, if after a lot of tears and head-cracking. More recently, I watched the entire series of ‘Gilmore Girls’ with my Mum. It was an interesting experience, and for many different reasons .

Without telling you too much about the story, the show centers on a mother and a daughter who live in the fictional town of Stars Hollow. The town’s community is largely supportive, crime is almost nonexistent, and all the amenities required for survival and entertainment exist – from pharmacies and markets to bookstores, at least 3 different cuisines to choose from for a dine-out, a video store, a bookstore, and close proximity to larger cities. In fact, I don’t believe a town as idyllic and peaceful as this exists in the real world.

The characters make a lot of references to bygone popular culture, a lot of which escapes me even now. However, I don’t mind. The setting makes me long for a life I never had, while at the same time making me reminisce about the friends and family I was fortunate to have throughout my childhood. The city where I live currently is not small. It isn’t a metropolis either. However, it is sufficiently large to justify parental restrictions on wandering about it alone. There are 3 malls, each with its own distinct personality – one popular hangout, one chic and high-end, one low-key and understated. We have numerous restaurants, including fast food chains and fancy 5-star hotels, speckling the landscape of the region. There’s some sort of laser tag arena, and a lot of bookstores that sell second-hand books, if you know where to look for them. And, naturally, Amazon delivery services exist – which is a blessing to those who have immigrated from bigger cities, or to those who enjoy shopping without actually going out and interacting with the very inquisitive outside world.

It wasn’t always like this, though. Our city used to be smaller, with a lot more playgrounds. The only swimming pool I was aware of at the time, besides the one at our apartment, was at a really fancy clubhouse in the middle of the city – a building that resembled one out of Greek mythology picture books, in some ways. My parents didn’t buy things from Domino’s or KFC. I mean, I don’t think these outlets even existed at the time. There was one single Pizza Hut, and it had a playpen for kids, so the few times we visited there in the span of three years were amazing. There were no malls – just a very large departmental store filled with buckets, as my memory registered it. I’m sure there were other things on sale, but my brain can only remember rows upon rows of stacks upon stacks of colourful buckets and steel plates.

We had two huge supermarkets – one of them had a whole section dedicated to books and magazines, where my parents would take me on the occasion I was nice and well-behaved during the actual supermarket trip. I still have stacks of those magazines around. There was one large star hotel – The Residency, it was called. A tall, forbidden building with fountains and a buffet – I wouldn’t experience a good buffet until years later. One of my favourite memories about the city is when they built a water park on its outskirts. It was themed like a kingdom, and had a lot of really cool rides. Some of my best childhood experiences revolve around its bouncy castles, pav bhaji and towering slides.

There was an arcade-like place near the central fruit shop in the city. Arcades were out of budget, usually, but I did get to go on rare occasions. It was fun. There were large metallic animals, spinnyalien spaceships, a metallic Hello Kitty hot air balloon, and a monkey that climbed a tiny palm tree as you sat on its back – I was tiny then, not the tangled mass of limbs writing this. I’d be a little shorter than the palm tree now, maybe. Oh, and I just remembered the rivalry of the ice-cream parlours. One of them was part of a franchise – it still is. We never went there. We frequented another establishment with, in my mind, tastier ice-cream. It was called Bon-Bon, and they served a special called Kiddy Treat. This special had chocochips, jellos, Gems, ice-creams, wafers, and so much more – a veritable Candyland treat.

The school I went to had enormous paintings on the walls. We were allowed to experience dance, music, art and cookery. We were given opportunities to speak, run, read and write. We had worksheets instead of homework assignments, four-lined notebooks to practice cursive in, and colourful textbooks filled with words and shapes and patterns. We lived for star stickers and those puffy smiley-faced stickers and the words of encouragement from our teachers marking our work as ‘Good’ or ‘Very Good’ or the most lauded ‘Excellent’.

Our city was safer than most. It wasn’t an epicentre of crime or vandalism. It wasn’t a boiling pit of lava either. Perhaps it’s a testament to my parents and teachers and the people at the shops where we bought cold glass bottles of mango juice, or tiny Cheetos packets, or those fluorescent slurpy jellies. It’s a testament to how much these people made me feel about the world around me. I never felt that the world was unsafe or scary.

I’d ramble on about the other beautiful and quirky aspects of my childhood, but since I aim to focus on the memories my city gave me, I will stop here. I can only reflect on how the city has changed after all these years, and how many things it has given, and how many it has taken away. There are more bus lines, highways, bridges and complexes. There are theatres and boutiques and entertainment options galore. There’s an annual marathon and an annual Food Fair. There are many things that constantly evolve about the city, and I can’t keep pace with how quickly it has left me behind.

As I sit in my room rewatching clips of ‘Gilmore Girls’, I am filled with a sense of happiness; it is a hope that the future will bring memories as pleasant as the past, and more excitable than the present – a future of hugs and dances and adventures and safety and comfort and being happy.

Thank you for being part of this corner of the Internet.

Ever around,

The Nerdy Snickerdoodle

Letters

Hey, good day and a big hurray to you, dear reader, who has, unimaginably, and once again, arrived at my little corner of the Internet. How have you been? I’m sure you must be exhausted after what was, shall I say, an eventful and excruciating year. Fear not, this year shall be wondrous! And joyful! And hopefully productive? Let’s not get our hopes up too high.

I like letters. Not just the fancy symbols that comprise the written language as we see it, but the long ones, the heartfelt ones, the loopy/scraggly handwritten ones. On a different note, there seem to be flour residues on my laptop keyboard. Must be a side effect of my eating freshly-baked bread add odd hours of the night whilst finishing programming assignments, but oh well. The bread was worth it. Mum baked it.

My earliest memories of writing to people involve Mum making me write to my grandparents. You see, we live many many miles away from them. Country-jumps, to give a scale of measurement. And back in the day, the most accepted way of writing to one’s grandparents was via snail mail. Slow and steady, the envelope says – as long as it doesn’t fall into the sea or gets mixed up and thrown away at the post office. Paper letters gave way to typing out Wordpad documents and sending them as email attachments.

When I was at boarding school, we were required to send out a weekly letter to our parents. Of course, these letters were highly supervised and edited for grammatical error, and as a kid, I had no sense of what to include in letters so I ended up writing the first paragraph asking my parents after the health and status of our many many dogs, mentioning them by name. My letters home were always accompanied by drawings. Boarding school was an entire time epoch away from the modern electronic world, even though these were the early 2010s.

Receiving letters was a different game altogether. I didn’t get too many letters, except for around my birthday, when my family would send birthday cards, and occasionally, a few long letters from back home. Mailing is an expensive operation, did you know? I was most excited when my best friend at the time, who had left the school after a year, sent letters or cards to me and our other best friend.

Stamps used to be fun. The mail I got from my grandparents would usually have stamps with images of vases or flowers or birds or butterflies. The mail from Mum and Dad would have Gandhi or Nehru or some other Indian persona. Sometimes Mum and I would sit on the floor cutting out stamps that had been glued on very firmly, and then she would preserve them in some treasured box whose whereabouts I am currently unaware of.

As we grew older, e-mails replaced letters, and then messages. I’d always been a fan of writing long e-mails and long messages, but soon realised that not everybody actually wanted to read them. Disappointment. To this day, it brings me great joy to receive a long , thoughtful message or an email or even a letter. My school juniors made me a few charts and a letter or so. Mum wrote me a letter for my 16th birthday( upon my suggestion, unfortunately *sheepish chuckle*). My best friends from school wrote me a few notes in this tiny notepad ( and I did the same for them). We bought greeting cards for each other, on Friendship Day and on birthdays, personalized to the person we were giving them to. It was a fun time.

Come college, letters are rarer. My grandparents still send letters occasionally, putting in the effort to transport this thin, small sheet of paper over the sea. They don’t contain doodles or fancy explanations. They contain trivialities – the weather, the vegetable harvest, how the political clime is affecting the commonfolk ( indirectly, of course, without any direct references), and how our other relatives are doing. Occasionally are enclosed photographs – the ones printed out on photographic paper, to be put into albums and preserved for posterity, so that I, when bored, can take them out and flip through them for hours and hours at a time ( that is a post for another day ).

The written word is beautiful. It shows heartfelt effort, thoughtfulness and creative power. Speech can be eloquent, showing off modulation in voice, spontaneity, perhaps with added gesticulation for dramatic effect. But writing – writing is calm. It is pouring your heart out into ink. It is organisation, but it is also madness. Words have the power to hurt; they have the power to heal, and to comfort. The last few years have shown me as much.

This brings me back to books, which possess a life of their own, and which gently tug you into their realms, until you’re not just walking along the page-lines, but tumbling, hurtling headfirst into a cosmic chaos, caught up in the currents of imagination and fatal, fatal dismemberment of your sane, rational functions ; until you lose yourself so much in the world you’re reading about, that you wish you never return, that the story never ends.

And when you read a letter from somebody, especially if it’s someone you know, someone you talk to, or have talked to before, you could, perhaps, see into their head, if they let you. You can trace out the penmarks and feel the tangibility of the paper between your fingertips. Coffee stains, tea spots, teardrops, ink blots – they’re there, and they’re proof of existence, written on diary pages, A4 sheets, notebook-leaf bits, fancy stationery.

And if the letter is from someone you love, or who loves you, in whatever way, I hope you find yourself enveloped in the words that they send, and that you see this warmth and earnestness reflected in their actions, a necessity to be in your life, like that letter now is. I hope the words they write serve as a reminder that you have people who care about you. And more importantly, I hope you write, whether in physical form, or just sending messages of air into the void, because writing is therapy, and writing is hope; it’s a beauty that you bring into the world, for you never know how much a simple note can elevate the mind of another.

Stay happy, humans, and don’t forget to think of yourself too, every once in a while.

Sincerely,

The Nerdy Snickerdoodle.

Treasure. You’re right, Dragon. There’s definitely some of that around my house.

A Tribute to Tea

Good day, readers of the world! You know, I do enjoy looking at the Stats screen of this site, mostly because I get to see the viewership of my content. Every year, new countries are added to the list and it fills me with glee and the need to laugh and bounce around the room when I note a different country. I’ve always dreamed of travelling the world and this is… a kind of step, I should say, to realising that.

I haven’t discussed beverages enough on this platform. I may have mentioned cranberry juice a couple of times, the occasional mug of rich cocoa, maybe even the citric punch of ice-cold lemonade. Coffee, I am sorry to say, has never caught my fancy. Yes, a student, that too, of computer science, is expressing her dislike towards a popular caffeinated beverage that stimulates and rejuvenates and carries the night owl through their sleepless night of work. My friends live on the dark mystical elixir. They drink it straight up bitter, sometimes with a bit of sugar, sometimes in the iced hazelnut version and very very often, with milk (brrr). I don’t begrudge them for this. Let them have their coffee – it works for them, doesn’t it? I have something even more magnificent.

Tea.

Chai.

The potion that conjures up images of a cold day where everything is going wrong. The atmosphere at work is stretched to breaking point. The mad professor is extra angsty today, assigning additional piles of homework just because somebody spoke out of turn in class. You missed your bus. There is a hole in your favourite white t-shirt. You lost your brand new pair of sneakers when you were sightseeing. You slipped in the mud and fell face first into a puddle, soiling your crisp interview outfit and making you the spectacle of your campus.

But then you come home. Put a pot of water on to boil. Shower. Change into soft and comfortable pyjamas. Take the water off. Add tea leaves or a tiny, cute little bag of tea. Watch as the colour if the water changes to a beautiful lilting golden and then deepens to a strong amber-honey. Add some sugar, if that’s up your alley ( and since today is a horrid day, yes. Most definitely add sugar. For a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down… Or something like that). Pick up a local spoon. Stir until the crystals of sugar have disappeared. Pour yourself a nice cup of chai.

And when you take that sip, the tea embraces you in a tight, warm, enveloping hug. The world slowly fades away, as only you and your tea remain. The throbbing in your head relaxes, releasing the muscles of tension and worry on your forehead one by one. The soreness in your arms and the stiffness in your legs dissolves. You sink back into your chair. Exhale. Hum. Breathe.

And the world is right again.

The best thing about chai is that there are so many ways to make it work.

For example, Indians know chai as this strong, milky, boiled concoction with sweetness and the occasional hit of spices – some cardamom, some cloves, sometimes a pinch of turmeric. It’s not my favourite way to consume tea, but it does provide the same relief and healing power to many, many human beings I have the fortune of knowing. Indian chai is community and family and athithi devo bhava ( the guest is god) signifying welcome and family and a sense of hospitality. Indian chai is friends in a roadside tea kadai, sipping from steel tumblers and chomping on oily potato-filled samosas as they curse the mad professor. Indian chai is an emotion.

For the curious, kadai refers to a shop.

Russian and Ukrainian chai is another example. The abundance of berries and seasonal fruit in the colder regions of the world, as well as the bounty of herbs and grasses available freely by the side of the road, allows for very creative and very warming experiments. In fact, a traditional symbol of teamaking in many of the earlier Soviet nations is the classic samovar, a globulous metallic contraption that allows you to brew fantastic herbal tea. From here are born glorious wonders like raspberry branch tea, cherry branch tea, mint tea ( beautiful, I say. An absolute miracle in tea innovation), tea from daisies, linden tea, thyme tea ( relaxing, aromatic and really helps with colds) and so many more. Most tea isn’t really tea, but rather a brew of various leaves and branches and herbs. A true potion if ever there was one.

And then there is the matcha from Japan. A bright green powder, obtained from finely ground green tea leaves, providing flavour to multiple signature dishes withing the country and in top restaurants and pâtisseries around the world. It imparts a subtle but memorable flavour to their Kitkats, can be combined with azuki red beans or sakura flowers to make a beautiful floral combination or just provide colouration to things like marzipan and cream.

Up in Britain, tea is considered the essence of high society, with elaborate tea parties and more importantly, the stereotypes of Britain drowning in tea, being the focal point. Here, tea must be consumed hot, and usually accompanied by a sandwich or small pastries. It is the soul of the system, the beverage that boils the blood and yet dissipates all aggressive behaviour from the drinker so all that is left is a calm human being. It is the sophistication in society, with traces of distinctive Earl Gray. It is the ceramic cup that sits on tables or in the local teashop, until it is snatched up by a ticktock busywalk.

Tea is a calming force. It is an embodiment of Zen. It can bring people together. It can also be enjoyed alone, as you stare out the window, rain pelting onto the pavement. It is your companion as you curl up and flip through the worn pages of a long-unread novel. It is a cool, refreshing drink that can be enjoyed with an infusion of lemon or iced, on a hot day.

Green tea, black tea, white tea, chocolate tea, herbal tea, floral tea, passion fruit tea, any fruit tea.

These days, it’s a health statement to drink these fancy blends of tea. There is caffeine in the beverage, by the way ; it just isn’t as pronounced as in coffee. You see these Instagram posts of boba tea with those frittery little bubbles, or rainbow tea in high-end cafés, or artisanal chai lattes, or even iced tea blends. There’s much to experiment with the flavour profile provided by these leaves. Every place you source the leaves from, be it Darjeeling or Ooty or China or English tea plantations has its own unique touch that it adds to the flavour. And that is how the connoisseur identifies between Ceylon tea and the sophisticated Earl Grey.

As for what to enjoy with tea, it is again a matter of personal preference. I’ve noticed that most Indians prefer an accompaniment of spice and crunch to the contrasting sweetness of the tea. So, plates of onion bajji and samosas and chaat and chips often accompany the cuppa. Most European countries lean towards the sweet preferring biscuits and pastries and cake with scrumptious frosting. Still others tend to incorporate tea into their mealtimes, making it a complement to their sandwiches, pancakes, French toast or like me, any breakfast or dinner that doesn’t involve straight-up milk.

I shall conclude my discourse by being exceptionally grateful for the privilege to have this amazing beverage in my life, and for having been introduced to it at an early age. Mint tea has helped me through stress during exam season. Ginger tea has been my supportive blanket through cramps and headaches and coughs and colds. Thyme tea, though rare, has untwisted my convoluted thoughts and brought me out of stupor. Tulsi tea has sparked activity and rejuvenated after a long day. Weak black tea provided that shot of caffeine. Lemon tea added a bit of pop to life. In any case, chai is firmly entwined in the lifeline of my family and I will not give it up for anything. Thank you, my favourite warm beverage.

And thank you, dear reader, for being a part of this ramble.

Sincerely,

The Nerdy Snickerdoodle

Identity

The whole concept of having a unique identity is a strangely comforting, yet terrifying thing to comprehend. In some ways, it is a way to show the world that you do not conform to their stereotypes and ideals. In other ways, it makes you a target – an archery post of sorts, for those wishing to lash out with their arrows of steel-tipped mercilessness. And still in other ways, it is a shroud of responsibility, one that tells you that you need to uphold this very notion of self.

Hello, reader.

This is a fairly unconventional way for me to start a post.

The truth is, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking into the concept of the self. What is it? How does one define it? Why does an idea such as this even exist? And how is this supposed “self” formed?

I hear the rabble-rousing of dogs outside my window, somewhere in the streets below, in these dark and eerie hours of night. The humidity is deplorable; the sky taunts with promise of rain that won’t appear for a few weeks at the least. An Algorithms notebook lies open beside me, telling me to stop writing and solve some more problems about bombing the roads of enemy cities and helping shoemakers create the ultimate business plan without incurring large fines. And yet, as much as these problems may be of importance in reality, both in theory and in practicality, I finally feel like myself again, this word-stream pouring out of my head and through my fingertips, down on these rather annoyed laptop keys, and this is the most that I’ve written in ages, and I’m writing for me, and it’s the best feeling in the Universe.

See what I mean when I talk about Identity? Am I the person behind these words? Am I the person I’m striving to be, in my professional domain? Am I a hopelessly confused chaotic mixture of procrastination and pessimism and the occasional optimistic streak that surfaces in the worst of situations?

It is odd how people can shape how you view yourself.

Sometimes, revelations come your way that affect you in ways that you couldn’t have possibly expected. Sometimes, things you hope for have ways of turning demonic and sinking their fangs into you, leeching your sense of self-esteem and your trust in your own intuition. And at other times, you surprise yourself. The world surprises you. Instead of a creepy clown in a box, you discover a piñata filled with candy and toys, and you begin to feel like Dora the Explorer at the final checkpoint, singing “We Did It!”. But these instances are rare and few, and in order to get the most out of these moments, you learn to always keep your expectations despicably low. That, my dear humans, is just saddening.

It is also saddening that quite a bit of the time, we rely on other people to support us and motivate us. That’s not a bad thing at all, to be honest, but it does become disappointing when you do not hold this essential self-support and self-motivation within yourself at least 60% of the time. There is a lot that goes into shaping how our brain responds and reacts to situations. As much as one might think that one is surrounded by supportive beings for most of their life, that is not the case always. Situations of rather unexpected sorts pop up when you least expect it, and force you to tackle them head-on, on your own, without your trusty circle of support. Depending on how your brain has been moulded and conditioned over the years, your response here would either be remarkably strong and organized, or vulnerable, partly chaotic, a muddled mess of thoughts.

See, while I would like to say that I have a very calm and composed demeanor when faced with such occurrences, very often the first feeling that enters the mind would be one of disorientation. I realize I rely on people a bit too much for my own good, and it’s hampering the kind of creative progress I can make. It can be painful to realize it sometimes, but there do exist times when you need to let certain people go, to keep moving forward in life. It’s never good to be engulfed in toxic relationships, whatever kind they may be, or social circles that dominate and suppress, rather than setting your potential afloat.

Semi-helpful side note :

You, as an individual, must prioritize yourself over the conveniences of other people, if what they demand of you , either directly or indirectly, inconveniences you, or requires that you stomp down every little trace of your identity. No good social circle should require you to pretend to be someone you are not, just to be a part of it. 

Cautionary Warning:

However, dear reader, if it is in your best interests of safety and security that you need to stay incognito, by all means, take a deep breath, assess the difficulty and intensity of the situation, and assume a different identity, like a disguise or armor of sorts, that temporarily shields you from the potential danger that you might encounter, should you find yourself in a situation where your identity may not be well-accepted. I know it may not be possible for you to immediately change your environmental variables to a more conducive and accepting set, but hold out a bit more, and maintain that circle of support.

Yes, yes, I contradict myself way too much for my own good. Unfortunately, that is the funny and not-so-funny thing about identities. They have a habit of contradicting each other. They also have a habit of morphing, which is rather annoying, but also provides a sort of evolutionary advantage. It’s also kind of like a software release cycle with a whole bunch of commits and version control inserted into it, where version control isn’t so much control as it is trying to figure out when you were yourself last.**

Now, when I talk about identity here, I usually mean something relevant to personality. I do not necessarily mean gender identity, national identity, religious identity and the like. However, that does not mean that these are any less important, should you choose to believe that they are. And regardless of how you perceive the concept of identity, it is exactly what it sounds like – you perceive identity in a way that is different from the way others do. Therefore, it would be wise to assimilate your notions within oneself and maintain a healthy appreciation for how others perceive their identity.

I understand that for most people, the very word that titles this post brings to mind a sense of belonging, a communal gathering that acts like an extended family. All the more power to you. Because, as I’ve mentioned before, identity is shaped by those that surround us. And yet, at the same time, please remember that you are who you identify as, and not how others identify you.

In conclusion, I’d like to make one last point, at risk of sounding like a psychotherapist, preacher or annoying know-it-all-pretender. A person’s actions or thoughts can be a good indicator of their identity, a good descriptor, in fact. But this does not necessarily mean that their actual identity has any sort of influence on how they act or behave. This may not make sense the way you may read it now, but I’ll try to explain it.

Consider a human being. Volunteers at local shelter, loves animals, has the childlike spirit of an eight-year old, a fascination for chocochip cookies, neuroscience and badminton. Atypical member of society, honor roll student, perhaps, or maybe not. A bunch of personality traits are attributed to this human based on his/her/their actions, and essentially consolidate into forming an identity. However, this is all just an external view of the situation. This human may perhaps be someone with severe sociopathic tendencies. Or a person who actually puts on a facade for other people to see, whereupon, on the inside, they are just old souls who prefer visiting natural history museums, read Ancient Greek and play chess at the local community center once every two months.

Simply put, I believe my train of thought has led me into writing this monstrously long paragraph just for the sake of saying ” Do not judge people to be what they are based on what you observe, because that, dear human, may be highly misleading”.

Essentially, what you see on the surface would not necessarily reflect the true character. Good novels tend to have this element. Good for gray characters. And protagonists. And antagonists. Much like Valette Renoux and Vin , from the Mistborn saga.

I speak from experience.

There’s not a lot of it, but it’s there.

And it’s not just in the context of fictional universes and characters, although I can say my experience with those far outruns the experience I have with real-world situations.

I’d prefer the rain and the wind and the 16-degree weather of the North at the moment.

This is, perhaps, one of my longest posts. And I’m still writing. I do not know why. Sleep is essential. I must do that. And so must you, if you are stuck awake in the middle of the night reading this. My corner of the Internet is always open.

Illuminate the world with your Identity, and you shall be a person worth remembering. Have fun and stay safe!

Sincerely,

The Nerdy Snickerdoodle

**Pardon the horrific reference, computer humans. Side-effects.