Mute Commute: Introduction

This summer I've been working. Interning, actually. At your standard, run-of-the-mill office. Therefore, each and every morning and evening I hop, alone, into a bus or an auto and join fellow office goers on a Mute Commute.

MC Stammer

Ya. I have a stammer.

Some of you know, some of you haven't noticed. It's not a particularly bad stammer, but its there. It rears its ugly head every hour or so. My mum thinks she hates it more than me, but I hate it more than anyone.

So she got me to see this hypno-therapist whom she knows, to try and get to the root of it in the hopes that we find a way to get it out of my system. I was skeptical, like I always am before I try anything that I don't consider cold hard science (though my mum and her will obviously say it is cold hard science. What is cold hard science? Western medicine? I don't know. I had grouped hypnosis in the same field as nonsense like Astrology and Star Signs and all that. Anyways, these brackets have gone on for long enough, bye).

I was pleasantly surprised as Ahalya Shetty (my hypno therapist) was more like a counsellor than a magician. She was someone I could talk things out with - an adult, I could talk things out with. I think the talking was more therapeutic than anything. We spent a few sessions discussing stuff that stressed me and memories that irked me and the most memorable times I'd stammered and all of that.

Anyways, you're impatiently asking in your head, "screw all this, what was it like to be hypnotised???". Well, it's quite cool. It came as a shock to a doubting Thomas like myself but hey, I guess it worked. Basically, I was having trouble remembering certain memories and Ahalya told me to lay down on the recliner, close my eyes and breathe deeply. So I did. I must confess, after about 3 deep inhalations I began day dreaming. I don't remember too much about the incident other than her saying, "Shravan, when I snap my finger, you will go into a deep sleep". And how!

As soon as she clicked her fingers, something was different. My eyes were fused shut. I could open them, but I didn't want to. The patterns being made on the black nothingness of the inside of my eye lids were too captivating. I couldn't take my eyes of them! You know when you close your eyes and really stare at the abyss, you see these wispy colours floating around, like tadpoles in a psychedelic pond? These tadpoles were operating disco lights. It was very, very cool. Ahalya's words then gently entered my consciousness, telling me what to remember. And I remembered! I was surprised as how well I could recollect memories that were locked away in a dusty covered chest in my mind's attic. One could draw parallels to Dumbledore's Pensieve, in the Harry Potter books. I won't go into details as to the exact nature of the memories - else He Who Must Not Be Named may get ahold of them. The process was called an 'Age Regression' which sounds ominous, but don't worry, I'm not an 8 year old version of myself. Suffice to say, that session was a break through. We were able to pin point and discuss one or two crucial points in my life that could have induced/affected my stammering.

So anyways, that session ended. We'd discussed techniques to get myself to relax and remember that there is no need to stammer. "Great, this is going to work", I thought. I got into an auto and headed for MG Road Bus Stand. It was crowded and busy. Rush hour on Friday evening.

A Volvo bus pulled up to the stand, I had only a thousand ruppee note - the fare would be just 30. What to do? I ask the conductor of the bus if he has change for a thousand, as he hangs out the open door. He looks at me, irritated and curious. He didn't hear me the first time. I ask again. I am speaking Hindi of course - maybe his hindi isn't too good. Again, he gestures that he didn't hear me. Now his face sports a grimace. The bus has spent about 10 seconds at the stop, I am the only thing holding it up. I freeze up. My mind is a maelstrom of words - my mouth just the opposite. I'm a statue. No, a caricature. The conductor has lost his patience with me and barks, "where do you want to go?" The driver now looks at me, too. People on the stand are looking at me, people in the bus are looking at me, wondering what's causing this delay. The pressure is on, Shravan. I can see the word I want to say in the distance and I can see that I'm not going to be able to say it. The pressure is well and truly on. What are you waiting for, Shravan? Just say it. It's so easy. Kundalahalli Gate - two words, six syllables. Just say it. But it doesn't come. I can see the words in my head. They are painted out in my mind's eye. I can see the words, I can smell them, I can taste them. But I cannot speak them. My mouth will not say 'k'. It refuses. Time is ticking away. I stall. I don't stammer much in the conventional 's-s-s-sense'. Rather, I stall. I stall with 'uhhh's and 'ermmm's and 'aaaah's, until the cogs in my mind have clicked into place and I can say the word. It's pathetic. Alternatives begin popping up in my brain. I say "Marathalli Bridge" instead. The alternatives to the word always come out fine. The driver nods. I have lied - to him and to myself. The conductor laughs and mumbles something about me not knowing where I'm going.

I hand him the thousand ruppee note. He looks at it in disgust. Now that I've got the maha-stammer out of my system, I can speak clearly in Hindi. I tell him that I'd told him right from the get-go, that I had no change. He says he has none. I tell him to stop at the next stop and I hop off, in search for someone's who'll break my 1000. Sigh.

A fat lot of use that was then. Hypno therapy? Counselling? For what? I can't talk to a fucking bus driver.

You know what? I'm happy with my stammer. I know people born with massive hairy moles on their face or with a weak heart or with a deformed limb. I've got it alright, I reckon. I mean, it's not that bad. Everyone needs something to balance themselves out. I'm MC s-s-s-Stammer and, well, you can't touch this.

Stereotypes.

Here goes nothing.

City: Bombay
Gender: Male
Name: Rohan, Rahul, Vikram or Aditya
Skin: Brown, nice tan.
Top: T-Shirt. Nautica. Tight.
Collar: Popped... biatch.
Bottoms: Billabong/corduroy/khaki shorts
Footwear: flip-flops
Hair: Gelled up in front/silly mohawk
Music: T-Pain, Lil Wayne, Akon.
Facial Expression: Let the haters hate.

Bombay guys are truly fascinating creatures. They spend afternoons and weekends driving past Cafe Coffee Day on Carter Road in daddy's Honda, pointing out to you which pedestrians they know and which they've dated. They spend 5 minutes at an eatery before wasting fuel driving to another. The mind-numbing pain of the car ride is intensified by the 'music'. Some of them are even Chelsea fans. Your average Bombay guy is 17 but acts 13.

City: Bombay
Gender: Female
Name: Reena, Meena, Teena or something filmy like Vridyanka.
Skin: Brown, nice tan.
Top: Pretentious 'message on my boobs' T-shirt. Usual messages go something like: Tell your pants its rude to point.
Shades: (fake) Versace
Bottoms: 'Message on my ass' shorts. Message along the lines of: Stop staring.
Footwear: whatever page 3 tells them.
Hair: Myeh, girls hair.
Music: Rihanna, PCD, Beyonce - basically commercial hiphop drivel.
Facial Expression: Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot, like, me?

Bombay Girls are even less interesting than Bombay guys - yes, that is possible. They talk in this ridiculous whiny accent that is a mixture of Alvin and the Chipmunks and a gay hair dresser - again, possible. Bombay girls are street smart, to make up for the guys. They are also pretty fit and take pride in displaying their 4 four word world views on their shirts and shorts. You can find them staggering out of night clubs saying things like "I'm so hungry, chal lets get a Chinese". She is 15 and acts 15.

I think Lil Wayne's eloquent chorus sums them up: Shorty want a thug, bottles in the club. Enough said.

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City: Delhi
Gender: Male
Name: Some hi-fi Hindi name like Ghatotkuch or Neelkanth or Abimanyu or Dronachariya.
Skin: White.
Top: Armani (Exchange)
Shades: Prada
Bottoms: Hilfiger jeans
Footwear: Diesel
Hair: Gelled up, but bearable.
Music: Himesh Reshamiyaaaaaaaaaaaooooooooooooooaaaaaaaaaaaaoooooooooooohhhh.
Facial Expression: Hoye!

Delhi guys. Ah, where to start. Daddy is a rich Marvadi industrialist, mummy is a rich Sindhi industrialist's daughter. The whole family is puuuuure bhej. Their dress sense is very ishtylish. Their clothes cost a lot of money so they must be good. The same applies to the unis they go to. The same applies to the cars they drive. The same applies to their girls they hang out with. The same....I'll stop. Delhi guys can easily be mistaken for foreigners, until they open their mouths. he is 18 and acts like a aristocrat.


City: Delhi
Gender: Female
Name: Pinky, Sweaty (pronounced Sweety), Damoney...I mean Damini. (no hard feelings :D )
Skin: Whiter than white peoples'.
Top: Gucci
Shades: Versace
Bottoms: Zara skirt
Footwear: Jimmy Choo
Hair: Filmy
Music: 50 cent.
Facial Expression: Hoye!

Delhi Girls are characters from the OC. Not much more really needs to be said (although it will be). A lot of them are punjabi which makes for bizarre accents while speaking Hindi. Even though they speak Hindi better than anyone, they try to put on a 'western' accent. This mixed with the Jalandar that courses through their veins makes for hilarity. They can't say 'th', they say 't'. They talk like the heroins in the 60's black and white Hindi movies. I wish I could put an audio on here but I can't. You'll just have to imagine it. They are hard-Kaur non veg, which is nice. I don't know where they hang out but I'm sure it costs a lot. In a few years they'll compare their son's universities. For now they compare iPhones. She is 18 but thinks she's 21.

Their world view can be succinctly summed up by the key operating phrase used in Dhilli: HOYE!?! It's a glorious word. It resembles the horn on Indian cars: a sound, a message, an idealogy. "Hoye" can express hatred, shock, disgust, love and improper fractions. Sound Horn OK Please?

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City: Bangalore
Gender: Male
Name: Varied south Indian names - Krishna, Kartik, Nandu, etc...
Skin: Daaaark.
Top: Black. loose fitting band-shirt of Lamb of God, Necrophagist, Behemoth or some such horrible death metal group.
Shades: fake Oakley sports shades
Bottoms: baggy. baggy jeans.
Footwear: Low-end nike trainers.
Hair: Long and pony-tailed OR short and curly.
Music: Death Metal, Black Metal, Atmospheric Black Metal, Stratospheric Vampire Metal, Sulphur Is a non-Metal, etc...
Facial Expression: Look how evil I am. Just look. Eyy, what are you looking at?

Bangalore guys are very hard to understand. Their slang has broken most axioms of the English language and has pretty much destroyed the concept of 'grammar'. Bangalore guys will stand outside a pub, smoking, leaning against the hoods of their cars and eyeing up other Bangalore guys who are also there doing the same thing. Bangalore guys pass time by telling stories. Let's pick a story up half way through:

....
Reddy: Macha owww I was clipping, in my new caah!
Kartik: Yes-uh?
Reddy: Yaaa, I was on Myyyysore eye-way....I was in my new Skoda, bob. Pasting and going da!
Kartik: Cops came, uh?
Reddy: Then what!
Kartik: Ehh bugger, what you said?
Reddy: I said I was with your mom (*lols ensue*). Paid the fucker a grand and ripped.
Kartik: Machaaa!
Reddy: Put the hand bob.
Kartik: *puts the hand*
....

Bangalore guys will eat at Empire every night, no matter what. Bangalore guys go to rock pubs, not dance clubs. Your average Bangalore guy is 26 but think he's 18.



City: Bangalore
Gender: Female
Name: Riya, Diya, Priya.... or Soundarya.
Skin: Unknown
Top: Unknown
Shades: Unknown
Bottoms: Unknown
Footwear: Unknown
Hair: Girl's hair, da, all the same.
Music: Unknown.
Facial Expression: Ew, he's so shady.

It is a widely accepted fact that Bangalore girls do not exist. I dispute this, as I have seen a few with my very eyes! They moves in packs, so as not to be seen by Krishna, Manju or Raju (the villagers who stand outside local bars drinking Koday's). Bangalore girls do not say the letter 'r' at the ends of words:
Sure - Shaw
Pure - Pyaww
Floor - Flaw.
Roar - Raw.
Pour - Paw
etc...
They are never allowed outside their houses past 9pm. They pass their time sitting in their rooms, with their 4 other girl friends, talking about how shady Bangalore is. No one knows how old they are or how old they act/think they are. They are ghosts in the system.

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So there you have it. You know I'm right, you know it.

What Makes This City-Slicker Tick?

There are those who say they want to "get away from it all" and spend their time growing old in the country, picking tea leaves, getting oil massages and writings books no one is going to read. I glance at them from the back seat of an auto rickshaw, skeptical. There is nothing more intoxicating than the energy of the big city. 

There is that smell of a mixture of red earth before imminent rain, hookah smoke and sambar that you get walking along Church Street in Bangalore. Music to my nose. You stride along chaotic streets, phone in one hand, cigarette/Shawarma in the other. Traffic is dodged with an Indian pedestrian's expression etched on one's face: a peculiar combination of apathy, arrogance and disdain. It's 7pm and twilight and the evening rains are almost here. The cool, moist, air, the cacophony of a sub-continental road and the fading light seemingly join forces to flick a switch that changes the mood in the big city. The week is over. Friday night is at the door and wants a place to leave its shoes. Lamp lit sheesha bars and cafe's flicker into life from the carcasses of office blocks, like fresh green shoots from a burnt out forest floor. Indeed, those who flee the middle of town from the 9-5 desk jobs are burnt out. A new sentry is here for a new shift. 

The big city has many faces. A bus stand at 8am captures one such mood. Freshly bathed, the city roars into life. Packed local buses wreak havoc on already congested streets, yet the city slicker manages to slip between these blue-white behemoths to the shiny red Volvo bus. The posh man's bus. The bus for those who can pay Rs 20 extra for air conditioning, a place to sit and a rung up on the social ladder. The few women on the bus sit comfortably at the front. The men, hair oiled, awkwardly slide into seats at the back. The morning's air is still cool, as yet unharmed by the sun, as it rushes through the city. 

Lunch time on Cunningham road is another of the big city's personalities. Workers of all social strata and coffee consumption levels need refueling. There are the men, the women and the poor. The men strut. They pace through the now sweltering heat in search of some non-veg. Shirt sleeves folded up, sweat wiped from their foreheads, they find a table at Imperial and eat perhaps the best 'non-veg Thali' in town. At only Rs 100 per head, its the bread and butter of working lunches. The women slink. They move in herds. They are weary of the many male eyes that shamelessly scan any female body in this backward country. Some of them eat simple south-Indian food at Shanti Sagar. The more adventurous ones feed the Indian consumption juggernaut by spending Rs 200 per head at some classless rip-off franchised restaurant in an air conditioned mall. Though, paying a premium for AC in this heat is worth it, in this humble writer's opinion. And then you have the poor. The labourers who tar our 'roads' and the drivers who'll soon take their masters back to their 5 bedroom villas on the outskirts at 5:30. They eat hearty plates of rice and sambar costing a mere Rs 10 each. Food is cooked, served and consumed in a street corner sheltered from the evil sun only by torn tarpaulin. Customers arrive on bicycles or bare foot. Shoes for this scruffy lot, are optional. They are as vital an organ in the big city as any. They wash the dishes and sweep the streets and bring governments into power.

But now the city shows a different character. 7pm and us disillusioned youth are on the prowl. Bangalore's weather is back to being what its famous for; the drizzle that'll start any second chases the heat and stress out of the day. The rain here has such a profound effect, even before its fallen. Cinema's are full up with the young bourgeois....the new city slickers who inhale mall culture and exhale the dough. But that is not where we hang. We, the pretentious wealthy. The sons and daughters of CEOs, the urban royalty. The privileged few who'll go back to cushy foreign universities come September or international school on Monday morning. But Monday morning is a long way away. We hatch plans for the alcohol fueled night ahead as we slither through the big cities inside lanes. Cheap red wine is sipped, cheap local beer is gulped. The shadiness of the joint is inversely proportional to the prices - we don't want to be spending too much just yet. 

It's now officially night. Night: the most seductive of the city's spirits. Girls have been called, plans have been made. The city slickers flock to their temple: some characterless nightclub throbbing away against the will of the police outside. 20-something year old executives, the crowning achievement of top-down industralising India, throw money at the bar tender. English is the only language spoken, although an interesting accent will get you an audience with the barbie dolls of this land of make believe. But only an audience, nothing more. The Gods of the city are worshiped through liver sacrifices and electronic dance.

Alas, Bangalore is not one of those cities that doesn't sleep. It doesn't pretend to be either. The hour before it hits the sack, is this city slicker's favourite. The air is cool like the evening, but much drier. Moonlit terraces harbour tired urban royalty. Quiet words are exchanged over the night's final glasses of rum. One by one, princes and princesses head off home - ferried back to their palaces by their sambar sampling drivers. It is a time of peace. A time where the city reflects. The energy of the city has toyed and toiled and now, needs time to recuperate. Why would anyone want to leave this? The sweet scent of exhaust fumes. The heart-warming sight of a limbless beggar? The empathy and humility of the urban aristocracy? It's what I live for. You can get the countryside's peace in the city too. All you need to know is where to look. And when.

I'm a city guy till I die.

Bus Driver Blues

Twilight and I'm on my way home. A decrepit, derelict BMTC (local) bus pulls up to the stop. It's completely empty. Tired eyes look down at me from the driver's seat. "Marathalli?", I ask. A grunt of affirmation somehow makes it way over the roar of the engine. I board and pay the driver who manages to change gears, tear me a ticket and give me change at the same time. Using one hand.

I take a seat right at the front so I can look out the front window. I'd never been on an empty bus before. A 9 rupee fare would take me a good 7-8km to my stop. No surprise that local buses in India are always full. The bus lurches forward as the driver accelerates. I've seen people age faster than that bus moved. 1st gear to 2nd, 2nd to 3rd. Auto-rickshaws fly past on both sides. Dogs trotted alongside, mocking. The driver looked like he wanted to die. He had absolutely no life force in him. No anger, no enthusiasm (well, he was a bus driver after all). A hint of desperation, but mostly apathy. Contagious apathy. The breeze from open windows carried his dreary mood over me.

He'd slow down at every stop. And every time, he'd be ruthlessly rejected by potential passengers. Why? For another bus, another route, another driver. Someone makes a bee line for the bus. For a second, his eyes light up. The person walks past the door and crosses the road. A sigh from the driver says it all. Better luck next stop. Stop after stop, no one gets on. No one wants to get on his bus. What is he doing wrong?

We cruise along the Ring Road. The bus reaches its top speed, which is akin to that at which grass grows. In the distance, at the next stop, a young lady stands, arm out-stretched. Someone is hailing his bus. His bus! He brakes and turns into the bus lane. He looks down at her from his seat. He is alive. "Varthur?", she asks. His face drops. He isn't going there. He has found a passenger - a willing passenger - but she doesn't want to go where he wants to go. He shakes his head and in doing so, shakes the life out of his eyes again. 1st gear to 2nd gear. The lonely bus drives on into polluted night. She wasn't going where he wanted to go.

What was he so down for? He had a passenger. A passenger who was going where he was going. A passenger who could pay the fare and wanted, needed to make the journey. But I wasn't good enough for him. I felt ignored. What was I doing wrong?

We reach my stop. As I alight, I pat him no the shoulder. He looks up, shocked. Shock changes to a smile he tries to hide. 1st gear to 2nd gear. This bus has life in it yet.

Change!

Just watched The Obama Deception on youtube. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eAaQNACwaLw

My thoughts on the movie:

-the starting was a lot of fire and brimstone where the main dude acted like James Bond. All his rubbish of 'infiltrating the Marriott' and stuff. Yeah right, show me your Aston Martin! Some of the rhetoric used at the start is....just rhetoric. Meaningless accusations. You've gotta look past that. (Bless them, they're American)

-Once they get past their threats and shouting, they make some very provocative points. What about all the promises that the movie says Obama has gone back on? These are the points I've gathered from the movie, I don't know how true they are or not:

Guantanamo - he in fact endorses torture and abduction/detention without trial

Patriot Act - he voted FOR authorisation after going against it on his campagin trail

Iraq/Afghanistan - he is adding more troops and going from "taking troops out immediately" to taking SOME out after 23 months.

Bailing out banks - he says he understands people frustration with CEO's and 'rewarding failure' and he passes misleading legislation. The legislation he's passed only affects NEW deals and excludes BankOfAmerica, Citigroup, etc...

Hiring lobbyists and financial donors to places in his administration - look at who has has appointed. All have wall street connections

-The ending takes away a lot of credibility from the movie. They say global warming is a lie, they say Obama is building up a private army and will abolish gun rights in the US (like that's ever going to happen). Still, I think the film makes you think and question the Saviour! Obama has got a (unjustified, in my opinion) cult following.
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He seems to have defaulted on all most of not all of his promises.  Like every other politician in existence then? What do you make of it? I think this movie is partly true, in the the Federal Reserve and the other wall street oligarchs have America (and in turn, the world) by the balls but is Obama really as evil as they depict him? He's too nice to be evil. I'm hypnotised, sorry. I urge you to watch the movie with an open mind and tell me what you think. Everyone is a conspiracy theorist these days!

On a related note, you all HAVE to watch Zeitgeist Addendum. With an open mind, of course.

Things in America look grim, whichever way you look at it. I just hope India doesn't sell its soul to the devil, *cough private banks cough* like America did in the 30s. "The Federal Reserve is as federal as FedEx" as they say so many times in the movie. I'd hate for India to get suckered into such an idea - to let a private institution control the money supply. Especially one that is above the law and controlled by wall street moguls. Have I been swept along with the conspiracy propaganda? Let me know. I think the evidence is pretty damning (as I say, watch Zeitgeist Addendum).

So where does this leave me, the young idealist out of touch with reality and the big bad world? I'll tell you where. As far as saving America from itself, I have a selfish goal. The only thing I really care about, the only goal I want to achieve in my life time is to make a difference to the lives of as many underprivileged people as I can in India. That's all I care about. India. I want to do is see my country produce a good football team. I want to see us control population (like, but not using the exact same methods as China). I want to see us industrialise from the ground up, rather than from the top, up. As I said, I'm an idealist out of touch with reality. Still, improving living standards for people, stopping female infanticide and all those other impossible things are the thing I want to spend my life doing. 

Isn't there a government to do all this stuff? Not in India there isn't. The private sector - evil and profit orientated as they may be, the youth and the idealists are the ones who'll make the change. I only hope I can be part of this. Look how this has gone from a movie review to a soppy, patriotic ballad. Typical.

What university really teaches you...

My last exam is tomorrow, well technically, today. I need to sleep. Anyways, I've just done some relfection as to what university has really taught me. What are my parents paying $30,000 a year for? Do I know more about world politics? Definitely. Have I become better at maths? Not really. Am I better at drawing up financial documents? Sort of. Then I realised that leaving home and going to university is as much about learning about yourself as it is about learning the subjects you're being taught. So what have I learnt about myself? Alors...

I am the most patriotic person I know. I am so proud of anything India achieves. I always think 'in terms' of India. I think it arises out of having lived out of India for so long. I love telling people about the lovely things back home like having a maid and a driver and conveniently skipping over the power cuts, terrible police and larger social atrocities. We're rich so they don't affect us, right? I am quick to distinguish myself from the 'brit-Indians' here: the disillusioned, 2nd generation bunch of chav-dressing morons this city is filled with. Some of them are nice though. I'm far too passionate about where I come from.

This brings me swimmingly on to my next observation about myself. What started out as harmless humour has actually gotten ingrained in to my head and I find myself judging every single person I meet based on their skin colour and accent. I make assumptions about them 5 seconds after saying hi to them. It scares me. I love how different everyone is here, but then why do I always associate the worst qualities with someone of an ethnicity just based on their skin colour or accent? If someone is brown they're going to be boring and speak bad english, if someone is black they're going to be loud and talk in slang, if someone is chinese they'll be quiet and not talk at all and if someone is white they don't have time for me. Where have these weird reactions all come from? I don't know. I have some complexes I need to deal with.

Moving away from all this serious stuff, I realised how out of place I feel in a bookstore. I was never a reader. I read only what I have to, as a chore. In my LIFE I've read the following books: the harry potter series, Life of Pi, the Artemis Fowl series, The world is flat, a few Dan Browns, and Mr Nice. That's really it. Sure I've read loads more but they were for school. The other day I went to a bookstore with Thomas. He was browsing away for something he wanted....I was like my granddad in the Vodafone showroom. I walked in circles, looking for the few books I'd heard people talk about. I found some about various wars, told in Dan brown style. They looked alright but I'd wait for the movie. The movie is always better, you and I both know it. You sit there for 2 hours, completely engrossed in it. The stars, the action, the sets, the direction....it's magic. So why waste 3 months reading something? Anyways, whatever, I was in a bookstore, I had to fulfill my obligation to consume. I bought a book by Noam Chomsky about America in the middle east, a book about the Bid Laden family and a book by an American writer talking about how society in India is coping with the the changing face of the country. I think that sums a lot up.

Now for some myth busting. From what I'd seen in movies (!) and heard from people, university was all about sex, drugs and rock'n'roll. But mostly about the first two. I came here and realised how little I care about either. It astounded me, but I am/was happy with myself. Society has vilified drugs and glorified sex. The government has vilified both, whilst pop culture have glorifies both. I was not going out of my way to find either - and I was content. Sure, I could have scored some pills and gotten laid but I thought about how I'd feel the next morning. And sure enough, the pessimistic side of me (who has been working out) won. I imagined my mums face if I died a cocaine overdose or gotten AIDS or something. That kept me on a steady keel. The image of my mums face. Gosh, I really am a kid.

On a somewhat similar point, I found out that I'm happier spending an evening alone at home, with heavenly internet speeds and sushi, than staggering around a pulsating nightclub eyeing girls I'm never going to get with, alongside guys I've gotten drunk with too many times. Yeah.

You don't appreciate people till you leave them. As my earlier post will show, I only really understood how cool my parents were once I left home. They do stuff on time, they plan things out, they know how to handle people and navigate situations....I have some way to go. When you go to a new country (albeit one you've previously lived in) you realise the value of home and people who will be there no matter what. It's that unconditional love I crave.

On a more humble note (or humourous, depending on which way you see it), I realised how average I am at football. Anyone who's been on this blog for more than a few seconds will know how much I love the sport and that I live, breathe and make love to it. However, after coming to England and to university, I was truly humbled by how much better the other lads are. In India, I used to play on the school team. I was one of the better players among the group of boys I played with in the compound on weekends. I was never quick or strong but skill and control got me by. Not so here. Oh no. I came here and got shoved off the ball by massive black guys, and then hilariously out-paced by some German guys and then nut-megged (where someone plays the ball through your legs - the ultimate humiliation. For any video-gamers reading this, its like getting knifed) by an Egyptian guy. And all on the same day! I had skill so I just about managed to escape ridicule but I have a long summer of gyming (haha, yeah right) and diet (more chance of North Korea disarming...) ahead of me.

I guess above all, university teaches you what life alone is like. How to do laundry. How to wash dishes. How to 'cook'. How to befriends strangers. How to talk to girls. How to plan one's day and more importantly, one's work. How to choose friends and know when someone is playing you. How to realise when you're playing someone. How to spend wisely and how to drink wisely - and how to face the consequences of not doing both. It's about creating a second home, somewhere else. I seemed to have made good ground in learning all those things. 

This post is too long, I know. I have an exam soon in which I'll be tested on how well I've learnt the things I was supposed to learn. Sigh. What my next few years of college will be like, I don't know. All I do know, is that I can't wait to get out into the REAL real world and start working and buying a motorcycle and all the other challenges that come with the next step of the way.