Whee

I can't believe I've been in London for four whole months! It feels like time has just flown by, and at the same time it feels like I've always lived here and my past life is just a blurry recollection. It's like there's a screen dividing my life into a before-London and since-London phase. I feel like I've changed so much and yet I'm still who I was. I'm always surprised at how easy it's been for me to adjust to a new place, a new country, a new life. The day I came here, the day I first stepped into my room, the day I first stepped into uni, I knew it was going to be great. A part of me was afraid that these first days would be disappointing, things could be worse than I expected, and I knew that my heart would sink but I would still do my best to make the most of it.

But I'm rather glad that instead of sinking, my heart just raced and my mind couldn't stop repeating the word "perfect" over and over. It still hasn't. There have been good days and bad, and last week was a bit crappy overall, but through all of the experiences and goof ups I've only been thankful for how much I've learned and received. The people whose paths have crossed mine, even if briefly, have all inspired me and changed me in ways that I probably haven't even realised.

I've always wanted this and and I'm so, so lucky to be finally living it.

Singapore 2011

One Year

Planning a future
ups and downs
precarious apprehension, baby steps
and a dream.

Splashes of color
night time wanderings on the last bus
running free, tiffs and smiles
an hour at an airport
and a book.

I have no regrets, no hate
since the day my tears changed into laughter
while reading our messages
we had some good times
and time can't take those away.
I'll probably spend my whole life
wondering why
but then maybe it was me
maybe I did something wrong
or maybe he was just meant to be
a chapter in my story
and I in his.

A new world
of neon cyclists and cobbled streets
and lampposts and freedom
precarious apprehension, surer steps
and a dream came true.

My friend, she wrote me a letter
that brought a smile to my face
and I read and re-read
live stories, she said
and try something new each day.

I took a train down to
a sleepy little town
I took myself to a concert
and sat there in a daze
sometimes it just takes
a familiar song in a shop
to make my heart sing
and I dance.

I'm alone but not lonely
solitude can be sweet
sometimes all I need are pyjamas
and tea.

Then there were nights when
we laughed and skipped
and ran across roads
though we couldn't see
the green man
and took buses glistening with rain drops
and streets shone.

If you met me at a station
and asked me where I was from,
I'd furrow my face and say,
"Well, I'm here."
And with that, I leave you,
readers and friends,
Oh it's been one hell of a year!

Thanks for the memories.

Holiday Season

= essay time.


I finally hit the library issue limit.
That's all.

An Evening of Strauss and Mozart

A chilly breeze ruffled through our hair as we walked down to King's Cross, more dressed up than usual, boots included. There was laughter already, and we knew it was going to be a good night. That was despite the tube's moodiness; it decided to stop for a break and jerk for about 20 minutes. We hurried on from Waterloo station, a bit lost, with no time to admire the gorgeous sapphire-ness of the London Eye that night. The Hall soon came into view, and we raced up the steps, fifteen minutes late. Panted at the ticket desk, only to be sent to opposite ends of the hall to sit amongst strangers. Which isn't so bad when you're really there to be captivated by the show. I felt a bit like a defaulter, forced to stand outside during Don Juan, with a few others including a young couple that seemed shy yet happy, probably on a first date. The doors then opened themselves to me, plush red carpet and all. Rows and rows of seats, in front of the stage, behind the stage, a balcony, and boxes up high for those who could afford them. Black lace and tailcoats. Violins and cellos and drums and cymbals and flutes and clarinets and horns and trombones. A soprano and her silver skirt melting to the floor. The dance of the violin bows. The orchestrated coughs every time the music stopped. A bouquet of red roses and one for the first violinist. A girl and a boy leaning contentedly against each other, entranced. Music in my veins. Applause. Applause. Applause.

Some meetings with friends. Some wandering under aisles of trees adorned with blue lights. And a big blue Christmas bauble.

It was a magical evening.

www.philharmonia.co.uk

The Journey from Platform 11

I have so much to tell you from the past few weeks. About

swans and concerts and old friends
and an exhibition in a crypt
and my favorite author's script
and Halloween and dead ends

But these are stories for another day.

This is a tale about the first of my travels in a new land - hopefully the first of many more to come. So there I was, hurrying along to King's Cross on a windy Saturday afternoon with Shobhana (our destinations were different though). An open return ticket later, we checked the board for the next outbound train, and raced along to platform 11 with minutes to spare. There was no running through barriers here, and the train itself looked rather ordinary if more colorful than the Indian ones. After triple checking to make sure that it was indeed a train to Cambridge, we said our goodbyes and I settled myself in a seat across from a nice young woman. (Yes, I'm aware that made me sound about 45.) We were soon joined by an elderly man wearing a weird sort of jacket. Seemed the talkative type. He was. Every few minutes he would start telling a story, mostly talking to the nice young woman who happened to be sitting next to him, reading (because I refused to catch his eye) and after each anecdote he would tell her to "anyway, enjoy your book" before starting all over again. For 45 whole minutes. I read my book and ate my unhealthy McDonald's burger and stared out the window at the pretty fields, and she eventually gave up trying to read and even laughed at his jokes. I thought maybe she didn't mind him much, but when we got out she said "don't listen to that old man, Cambridge is actually quite nice". A good start, I should think.

Cambridge was nice. I saw, accompanied by Harsh (or rather, following with my suitcase and camera), churches from the outside and inside, many of the colleges, bridges and canoes, and a man playing the guitar from inside a trash can on my way from the station to the destination.


He was good too.

It was Guy Fawkes night and most of Cambridge was supposedly at Jesus Greens for the fireworks and fair. But Moyna and I were too busy tucking into a huge dinner (roast chicken with chips and onion rings and salad for me, lasagna for her with other things that I didn't notice because I was too busy with my plate) at a quiet pub thanks to her discount-card-procuring superpowers. We actually thought we'd make it in time for the fireworks, but the long train of people coming back was a clue. Nonetheless we tarried on despite the cold and the damp, in hopes of toasting ourselves near the big bonfire. But it was not to be. The bonfire was big alright, but onlookers were fenced out about 50 feet from it because, I suppose, they might catch fire and then what would they do. Oh and there were crazy rides and food, none of which we partook of, being rather full. We did wander around in quaint streets, stepped into the Maypole (the busiest pub in the area) and passed the Eagle, the pub where DNA was "discovered", culminating with a stop at Sainsbury's for cookies to go with the hot chocolate at home.

On Sunday, I wandered around a bit by myself, stared at the river and wound up outside the Round Church, the second oldest building in Cambridge. We also went to the Fitzwilliam Museum, where Harsh wouldn't let me look at Matisse's paintings because they were boring and he wanted to go in pursuit of a mummy named Hermione (we never found her but there were plenty of others to make up for it). That night there was another bonfire - accessible this time - and toasted marshmallows and sausages and mulled apple juice/wine and for some reason, sparklers.

The Round Church

Monday was a meticulous following of our "itinerary", before classes beckoned Moyna and London called me back. A long climb up the very narrow spiral staircase of the tower at the Great St. Mary's Church - passing the bell room and a room where someone was playing the piano - and all of Cambridge was before our eyes. A walk through the manicured lawns of Trinity college (there's a secret behind those lawns, aye. Apparently you only get to walk on the grass if you're a senior fellow. I really regret not trying it to find out what would happen.) - I was going to comment about its Hogwartsy-ness when a group of people in robes walked out and I got very distracted indeed. Then a quick stop at the university library which is huger than anything you can ever imagine - I honestly think being a member of staff there would be utterly depressing - and it was time to pick up my suitcase and walk to the station. The journey back was quite similar; same book, a Snickers bar and a girl from my own college this time. I just sat there in quiet happiness, and then I was home.

Trinity

I like calling London home. Even if all I have is a room. Sometimes, all one needs is a room of one's own.

PS - And here's a ginormous thank you to Moyna and Harsh for taking out huge chunks of time to show me around and for generally putting up with me and my camera. You rock.
PPS - Look out for more (and better!) photos on the photoblog :)

Of Food

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I don't really cook. Indeed, this was the main cause of anxiety for family and friends alike when they learned that I would soon be off to foreign shores and my only means of survival would be my own cooking. Of course, that isn't really true. London has excessive variety when it comes to any kind of cuisine, with bakeries, bistros, cafes, vendors, restaurants, fast food chains and ice cream and yogurt parlours galore. But when you're a poor student, an Atlas ever conscious of the loan on your shoulders, you can't really afford to buy every meal. So you go grocery shopping, basket and all, and take each day as it comes, hoping you haven't run out of salt only to discover it when the potatoes are burning themselves on the gas hot-plate-thing.

The hot-plate-thing is one of the really annoying/ridiculous/impractical/irritating things about this place. The other being the bathrooms, but don't even get me started. What is the point of having a separate hot and cold water tap at each end of the basin, really? What the hell do you do with them? Open both and take turns to freeze or burn your hands? Not that they stay open - they're smart-taps, except not really, because if they were really smart they'd shoot water when they sensed your hands but these ones require a hearty push, which suffices as my daily exercise. They also stop spouting water of their own accord, which would be cool except it isn't when your hands are all soapy and you haven't friggin' finished washing up.

But I digress.

So the first time I cooked (cooking here defined as anything that requires heat and changes color/shape/texture/taste after being exposed to it), I was just attempting to fry an egg for breakfast. So there I was, having put oil in the frying pan and broken the egg into it, and nothing happened. The egg just sat there gloppily in a pool of oil, while I stared at it, losing weight and wondering whether I'd done something wrong. After many many long minutes of coagulation, it finally began to make weird but welcome sizzly noises, and I set about making toasts. The world was sunny again. Which is really rare in London.

First forlorn egg

Since then, I've got used to the burner tantrums, and I just circumvent them by studiously ignoring it while it heats up angrily, giving it my undivided attention when I know it's going to be submissive. Mostly I cook simple things like vegetables, omelettes (my flatmates think I only cook eggs, which is a bit unfair because I don't even cook them every day, but somehow always happen to be when they're around. It's a conspiracy.), cheese toast thingies, and I managed to find paneer which was a moment of triumph, really. The microwave is my best friend, for everything from tea to heating up the canned chicken-in-white-sauce, to 'cooking' buttered veggies and biryani (read: dumping a bunch of ingredients into a microwave dish and letting it do its thing). Not half bad.

Biryani

Chicken and cheese toasts

I'm not a huge fan of sandwiches here but uni does have some nice pasta and Cornish pasties and samosas (though they're really quite different) and cake. I also had the most delish falafel wrap which I'd planned on making a weekly ritual but I now realise that didn't happen. I'm on it. I also tried some free cheese at the Bloomsbury Farmers' Market. I never want to have cheese again. We also had a flatmates' dinner comprising of frozen pizzas and a big salad. As in we bought them frozen and baked them. But you knew that already.

My cereal is still Chocos that come all the way from India (I brought some with me and bullied a friend into bringing more. They're nearly over now as is life as I know it.) and I'm almost out of junk food. Maybe I'll buy some of the weird looking onion bhajis and samosas (whatever that is) from Tesco. I already tried their 'pilao' rice and chicken tikka masala (heh) without dire consequences. But why do you care?

Overview

Picnics, walks, markets, Platform 9 and 3/4, orientations, meetings, receptions, coffee, new friends, old friends, sunshine, fritters, sausage bagels, food crises, bucket hunts, Tower Bridge, a boat cruise for postgraduates, a sparkling Thames, new friends, poetry, midnight chats, autumn leaves, elegant women puffing cigars, architecture, music, drums, people in love, crossroads, giant escalators, double deckers, fayres, washing dishes, waffles, intimate parties with cake and quiche and barbecues, new friends, lectures, lecturers, movies, new friends, heavenly libraries, READING LISTS. Goodbye.