Still I Rise

Today I had my classical dance (Bharatanatyam Salangai Pooja). It’s the first symptom of a deep seated passion.

I started learning at the age of 22. I have been ridiculed from the beginning, why do you need to strain yourself, you’re not getting it. You already have a successful career, why do you need to pursue something you are mediocre? Passion doesn’t listen to reason. And in the course of my studies, I actually did fail after three years and quite rightly so at that point in time. I picked myself up again and trained harder.

The beginning of this year has been the worst of everything. I honestly believed at one point my life was meaningless and worthless and I was simply going through the motions of plain existence. I threw myself into dance — I started going for classes 4 times a week. It was my sanctuary. In that one hour, I was free from mental trauma. It was a wonderful meditation, for body, mind and soul.

My teacher then suggested I do a salangai pooja. I was highly skeptical. I slowly agreed. I started saving up for it. I blocked everything else that made me happy because I didn’t trust my mind with what it perceived as happiness any more. And the peace that dance gave me was too sacred to ignore.

I went on stage and danced my life out. In 2013, I casually prayed to Lord Nataraja at Chidambaram that I’d love to learn Bharatanatyam. In 2018, unexpectedly, I offered this small token performance in a temple. As an agnostic, Bharatanatyam has been free enough to let me explore my faith.

I am sadly a perfectionist. And I fought my stage fear when I know I’m far from perfect. I know my Natyarambha became lopsided after half hour. I knew my adavus became heavier and heavier. But my one constant was my smile. Because the one fundamental thing that dance taught me is that I am enough. When my body couldn’t digest food in depression, my mind couldn’t hold onto hope, dance gave me a purpose to cling on to that permanent non-damageable soul.

Aham Brahmasmi

TL;DR

I rose like a phoenix,
From the ashes of doom,
In fiery tones of orange and red.

 

 

What I got wrong about self-love

If you are a regular visitor to my blog, you will know that self-love has been an oft-visited theme for the past two or three years. I have under numerous occasions extolled the values of self love in various contexts. After a certain part in time, there crept a smugness into my character that I have indeed mastered the ability of self-love.

To my utter horror I realised, that was far from the truth.

The recent complete collapse of the world I am familiar with served as a rude wake up call. I had been experiencing various pressures on various fronts. One fine day the teapot finally blew the lid off.

I was supposed to be the logical guru. My anxiety had ensured layers and layers of contingency plans Yet, the tsunami of terrible events had broken every dam, wall and shield I built across my heart.

It's easy to profess self-love when you are winning accolades, getting ranks and publishing short stories. Self-love is easy when you are surrounded by sycophants. Self-love is easy when you are recovering from a bruised ego.

Self-love isn't just that. Self-love is being kind to yourself when you know you break down completely. Self-love is accepting yourself when you are writhing in the throes of rejection. Self-love is believing in yourself when every other person thinks you are wasting your time. Self-love is simply being there when the thunderstorms of tears crash through your soul. Self-love is accepting your guilt as you recoil in horror at how you sabotaged a beautiful friendship.

When I was drowning in pain, meditation was a life-raft I clung on to.  I was shocked at how cruel the voices in my head were. The major sources of mental pain were from within. Somewhere down the line, my perfectionism had become dangerous, my obsession with results downright deadly. The whispers of taunt that recalled every failure since childhood, the sneers of ineptitude echoing in my brain and the flashbacks of every mean thing ever said to me ricocheted in my skull. I would never be so cruel to my worst enemy and yet I was unforgiving and merciless to my own self.

I have started picking up the pieces where I left off. Whenever a sneaky cruel thought creeps in, I try to imagine if this were to happen to a friend what would I say. One of my friends told me, 'It is ok to make mistakes, why do you spiral into oblivion for doing so'. And that is what I tell my voices.

For all the pressures and ill words that exist in the environment, the most vindictive are the ones within. I am trying to develop a healthy relationship with myself. I am significantly calmer. In the end, it takes both practice and time, just like any other relationship.

In short, self-love is unconditional. It is with you in the best of times and the worst of times.

Zero

In honour of the recently announced national mathematics day, I thought I'll write a blog post on the sheer poetry of zero.

When I was growing up, Shakuntala Devi was a fascination. I bought every book of hers. She had a large repertoire of calculating algorithms from numerous sources. In one of her books, she said that zero was invented by Indians.

I was surprised at that piece of information. By then, the number system had been etched in my mind as a matter of fact. To think that someone would've had to invent something like zero astounded my teenage brain. And yet we did! Recorded by Aryabhatta and Brahmagupta, we don't know exactly how the decimal system evolved. But we do know that it was in contemporary use at that time in history around 500-700 AD. Anyone who recollects the Roman numeral system will understand how cumbersome addition and subtraction was in that representation. In fact, the English word 'zero' was derived across centuries and miles from the Sanskrit word 'shunya'.

Indian mathematicians have a unique quality and that is creativity. From the poetic talents of Pingala, Brahmagupta through the genius of Ramanujam, whose short career was illuminated by brilliant proofs, till our contemporary Fields Medallist Manjul Bhargava, our mathematicians possess an innate creativity. I am sure the beauty of mathematics will remain firm in India. After all, it's universal and just beautiful :) 

When Life throws you out of your Comfort Zone

First things first, I'm blogging this from my phone. So discomfort has been set pretty much in every sense.

In the past month, I've fallen ill twice. I can only describe the experience as being physically thrust out of my comfort zone and left to fend for myself in the deserts of pain and discomfort. When I am in physical pain, I will do anything to make it stop. I will believe two and two makes five. To bake me more thoroughly in the solar furnace, I was also plagued by flames of self doubt, anxiety and other nasty things.

But I survived.

In the end, that's all that rings in my head. I survived. I had amazing friends who were there for me. I had wonderful family support. I have million things to be grateful for. But most importantly, I survived.

We are just a ripple in space-time, witnessing life. I'm grateful for these experiences. For it is not age that has taught me bravery or given me strength. Rather it is exactly these testing moments that make me stronger and give me hope that no matter what life throws at me or what I screw up, there is hope to move forward.

The Necessary Evil of Validation

We are fundamentally social creatures. It is one of the reasons social media sites have exploded in the last decade. We love to air our opinions, have conversations, know what everyone is up to and what not.

Our education system, our friends, our jobs all revolve in a realm of competition where you are consciously or unconsciously compared. Our work, our actions, our very thoughts are deeply impacted by what others perceive us to be, whether those perceptions are voiced or not.

On another level, it is sad we have evolved thus. In ancient hunter gatherer days, isolation from society meant certain death. Hence, the lack of validation from peers instantiate the same fear mechanisms that we have for physical obstacles.

When I was younger, it was much easier to receive that validation. Thus, without my knowledge, I became addicted to that sense of smugness that validation brought. As I grew older, the sources of validation became scarcer. Naturally, like any addict, I sought it more aggressively. Then, the voices became feebler and slowly tapered down to nothing.

I had made validation a metric of my progress in life and that ruined me. Then something in my head clicked. It was like a tiny twinkling of a star on a new moon night. I did not like myself. To escape that feeling, I yearned to hear someone else say that they appreciate my existence. The root of my problem, was that I did not fulfill the expectations of myself, not anyone else's.

I need validation. Because, after food, clothing and shelter, I entered into another tier of needs. A sense of purpose. That purpose was partially fuelled by validation. I just changed the source where I went to seek for it. The only effective method to achieve peace from validation is self-validation. No one, not the ones closest to me, not the ones who've been the longest with me, know my vision, know my story. I do not have the luxury of hating myself, because I have just the one soul. So I resolved to work with what I have, and celebrate it. Because I found, it's not that bad after all :)

The Horror that was 9/11

I was nearly 10 years old when I noticed the hushed tones of my parents and grandparents. They were glued to the televised news. A plane had crashed into one of the Twin Towers.

My grandmother was frantically calling my uncle to inquire whether he was fine. Relatives were telling that they were safe. One of them had a meeting scheduled for later, a meeting that never took place. The towering structures were no more by that time.

By some childish curiosity and horror, I was watching the news silently. When the second plane hit the other tower, I yelped in surprise. It was a dark, obsessive compulsion to keep watching. As the flames spread, there was something in me praying for a miracle. At that age, I didn't have a notion of countries or any division. They were people trapped in a collapsing fiery nightmare. And that unsettled me immensely. When the first tower crashed, I was hoping, praying, somehow that the other one would be miraculously saved.

News started pouring in, of innumerable brave stories, of near escapes and tragic encounters. The story of Flight 93 was so touching, so brave and so unfathomable. Just like the story of Neerja, so many real people sacrificed themselves to save others.It was the first time I had heard the word "terrorism". At that moment, it had succeeded. It filled the ten year old, hundreds of miles away, with fear. I devoured any information related to it.  One distinct memory I have is the haunting image of steel scraps bent beyond measure.

We live in a world which is under siege by many natural disasters - and we seem to be creating more devastating ones by our apathy to climate change. In spite of all this, human beings are deadly. Any form of hatred or violence stems from resentment. Resentment from inequality, resentment from mistreatment - both real and perceived. If we spent less time filling heads with facts and figures and more time in empathy, friendship, love, compassion, humility and the ability to differ and still respect people genuinely - perhaps we'd have better peers, parents, teachers, society and governance. The world is so rich that there should be no poverty and we have enough food that there ought not to be hunger. Yet, power and privilege rule today's capitalist society.

This was just a general comment. What can I personally do? Try and be a little more empathetic and add to the love in the world. All is not lost. There are countless compassionate souls working for the betterment of society. News, unfortunately, is associated with things that went wrong that we do not know the good deeds done by others. Yet we know the latest controversy, suicide, murder, attack and all other macabre things happening.

With Gandhiji's birthday coming up, I am reminded of what he said - the heart that can be taught to hate, can be taught to love much more readily. I've paraphrased it. If I Googled it, it would become yet another "statement of purpose" I helped write ;)

All About Teachers

Today is 5th September - traditionally celebrated as Teacher's Day in India. We cut a cake in our lab and that pushed me off the precipice and plunged me into pleasant memories.

Our first teachers are our parents. It's from them we learn language, life skills and even learning. I'm blessed to have had parents who never tired of my curiosity nor did they snuff it out.

I was also extremely fortunate to have wonderful teachers throughout my school life. It would be a grave injustice to any of them if I started naming them, because there were so many. For me, marks were a consequence of my thirst for knowledge. It was much later that I realized the flaws of the education system and how much of rote learning existed. My style of learning is such that I take a very long time to understand a particular concept but once I do, I do not forget the basis of it. Every student has a particular bias towards learning - some are visual learners, some are auditory, some are kinaesthetic, some are a combination of all the three and the best teachers have something for everyone.

Flashes of few memories do beg for my attention. There was a teacher in my fifth grade who assigned me to take tuition for a boy. She would let me not pay attention in class and prepare notes and questions for him. When he got full marks, I was the happiest sun beam on this planet. My mother would applaud my will power when I wrote exams through asthma attacks. It taught me a certain amount of grit. A cheeky disproving of my parents' understanding of eclipses are caused by shadows also resurfaces. I loved every subject from history to physics. That was only possible because I studied under teachers who taught us as stories and not as things we had to remember. In some sense, the story teller emerged as an amalgam of my experiences with my teachers. A teacher helped me overcome my stage fear by pushing me on stage at every conceivable opportunity. Ironically, a teacher's insult of my English catapulted my language skills into another realm and I thank her from the bottom of my heart as well. A teacher really close to my heart dragged me from the depth of depression and made me achieve my dreams.

Ever since I was a child, I wanted to be a teacher. Initially it was because I knew only three careers - engineer, doctor, teacher. A doctor seemed too demanding. An engineer seemed too boring. A teacher seemed exciting. As I grew up, I became more convinced I wanted to be a teacher. For me, it began with clearing doubts. I have seen some glimpses of hope that I may be a good teacher - I won a 'be a prof' event in college, I have dabbled in a few YouTube videos, I have been a teaching assistant with so much of soul satisfaction. I come from a family of teachers on both my mother's and my father's side, so I hope there is some genetic help as well. At the outset I did not realise it, but a teacher's job is as responsibly and morally demanding as that of a doctor. A doctor may save your life but a teacher teaches you to live it.

The Price of Perfection

It's no big secret that I am a perfectionist. I'm driven by results and I'm stubborn until I get it. I get complimented many a times for being a dedicated and hard-working person.

But is perfectionism good?

To answer this question, I felt it is pertinent to analyse the reasons that watered this certain characteristic in me. I feel our education system has made me ruthlessly competitive. Over the years, the social approval that came associated with academic success fueled my desire to study hard. I enjoyed the process and everything was rosy and nice.

However this came with its drawbacks that I have been noticing only lately. This attitude came with subtle messages that I did not realize even existed. It has sowed tendrils of doubt and a deep fear of failure. I treated failure as an obstacle that is to be quickly crossed by redoubling effort. It had strongly bound my happiness to quantifiable success. If not quantifiable, at least by the approval of others.

There came a moment in my life where the Universe I carefully constructed with hard work came crashing down like a pack of cards. The societal approval disappeared, the results evaporated and all my efforts were in vain. I could feel the haunting fear in the pit of my tummy that failure was imminent. I increased my efforts so much that it bordered on desperation. I learned later that there is some wisdom in the phrase "haste makes waste".

Soon, in every facet of my life I was facing failure, be it personal or professional. As far as the eye could see, there was only darkness. Who am I, if not for my results? What do I believe in?

I was struck by an identity crisis so clear that I felt like a bleak helpless baby once again.

Thankfully, in the 21st century, every individual has a lot of tools to help themselves. I'm grateful to my friends, family and the Internet for pulling me through. I don't see the light yet but I feel I'm getting there.

Part of the healing comes with the acceptance. This blog post is my way of accepting my flaws and working with them.

Perfectionism is not bad as such. Without it, I would not be where I am today. However, when it developed low self-esteem and the craving for validation due to external mismatches of expectation, it became a monster that devoured me.

So next time I see failure approaching me, I will not bulldoze it with hard work. I will face it, bite the bullet and learn from it. My life is not a statistic. When life is firing cannon balls at me, it's better to build an armour of self love than let it batter my soul.

Dedicated to every lip biting perfectionist out there - you are enough :)

For the Love of Me

"What is emotional branding?", the voice of the instructor thundered across the class. The glint of her immaculately starched saree in the brightly lit room caught Lavanya's eye. "What an oxymoron", she thought. How could marketing ever be emotional? There is no ethics in business. A business exists to sell itself. A detached voice describing something "emotional" in an austere manner did nothing to impress her about the topic.

As this seemed to be the buzz in marketing, she thought she should take her training seriously. But her scepticism got the better of her. How can one be forced to be emotional to cater to making money? This form of marketing seemed to rely on poetry that cannot be commanded.

Lavanya's position in the company wasn't great and she knew it. She had to pull off the hair-oil commercial as soon and as effectively as possible. What could make her pitch stand out?

There are few typical ads that the brand already had - the dramatic visualisation of hair and the promise of spectacular results(with appropriate disclaimers in fine text as well). What could she possibly do to impress them? What would make their brand linger?

She contemplated stressing on the the minimal use of chemicals. Perhaps that would appeal to a wider audience.

As these thoughts had strayed into Lavanya's mind, the instructor was sternly looking at her, though she was oblivious to it. After a few goosebumps, Lavanya jumped out of her reverie and pretended to take notes.

After the session, she stepped out of her glass prison for a break. She hated her work. She was tired of failing every pitch. As she walked into the canteen, she was flooded with offers for Valentine's day. As if she needed anything else to ruin her day! Married to a job she did not love, she had no time for relationships.

She moodily bought her food and sat alone in a corner. In this consumerist era, how could she pitch an ad that connected with someone? She herself was so irritable that it seemed impossible that she had the capacity to make any other person happy, let alone millions of viewers.

A curl of hair fell on the table. No matter how disconnected she was with fashion, hair was her weakness. If at all anyone can pitch an ad for hair oil, it had to be her. When she was a child, her biggest nightmare was to wake up with no hair.

Perhaps it was the nourishment that was firing her brain cells. She thought about how superficial society had made her feel about hair. The fact that the loss of hair was something mortifying seemed laughable logically.

She finished her solitary meal and walked to the wash-basins. As she caught herself in the mirror, she couldn't help sighing at the sight of her new hair-cut. It was supposed to give her confidence but it changed nothing about how she felt about herself.

Confidence. There is so much of beauty in confidence and self-love. She had grown old with fear and disappointment. What would she not do to be the happy and cheerful person she was a few months ago?

Confidence. For centuries, women have been sold upon the idea that looks equal confidence. Lavanya knew that wasn't true. How could she use her ad to make someone feel confident?

And suddenly, the story line for the ad came in one glorious moment of inspiration. What if she confronted her fears, took away the superficial and came up with an idea that oozed with confidence? What if someone could feel good and hopeful seeing her ad? She was nervous about the idea but she felt some inkling of hope. She started liking herself more for coming up with the idea.

Thus, she came up with an ad about a cancer survivor who returns to work, bald and proud. Her own insecurities helped her come up with an endearing screenplay that helped her win the pitch. It helped her regain her confidence little by little and love what she does to the best of her conscience. So this Valentine's day, she realised she has begun falling in love again - with herself!

***

This post was written for Chennai Bloggers Club February Contest in association with woodooz and Indian Superheroes. I was paired with marketing tech professional - Subhashini who wrote the technical details of marketing here. Go watch the ads there! 

I am Engaged to Myself First

Today my blog turns 7 years old :)

I was 18 when I started blogging. I cannot believe how much I have transformed over these years. But I am learning every day and I thought the best way to look forward is to make a few resolutions and hope my constant companion, writing, is at my side and helps me fulfil them.

#1 Know that I am enough

Though my anxiety and over-thinking has helped me strive towards perfection, it has also magnified my failures out of proportion and has caused my self-confidence and self-esteem to plummet. I have been raised in a world where competition, results, numbers and conformance make sense and failing to achieve these seem to make my existence meaningless. This year I promise to breathe deeply, work hard and not be attached to the result as the scriptures say.

#2 Be Happy

I am not a happy person. Content, yes, happy, no. Who knows how long I am going to be on this planet? I vow to be happy every single day, sing, dance, write and shout off roof tops that I am alive. Of course, I'm going to be sad, angry, hurt, disgusted, pitiful but I will not let my eyelids close without reaching peace on my own terms.

#3 Hope

When despair, doubt and darkness permeate every inch of your surroundings, the survival of hope is endangered. In my true obsessive, possessive style, I shall hold on to it.

#4 Accept Myself

The previous year I was committed to being myself, to not be as docile as I was before. However I forgot that with that, acceptance of who I am is also required. I have messed up and the perfectionist in me loathes those parts of my life. While I thought that forgiving others would be the biggest battle, I was wrong. The biggest battle is forgiving myself.

#5 Be Engaged to Myself

I promise to talk to myself everyday, analyse what I've learned and grow a little bit. Everyday. I promise to listen to my fears and inhibitions. I promise to rejoice the small victories. I promise to not seek validation for my existence because in reality, we are all alone first and then we share society. Because I cannot truly complete society until I am complete on my own.

This post was inspired by a lot of things, but mainly an article I read on why women are wearing an engagement ring on their pinky finger to signify that they are engaged to themselves. While the sentiment is admirable, I do think it's a marketing ploy to ensnare single women :P

Advance happy new year, let's rejoice and grow together. :)

The Journey of a 100 blogposts begins with a Single Word

When Chennai Bloggers Club (CBC) announced a blogging competition on the topic how blogging has transformed me, I couldn’t help but smile.

I started blogging in 2009. I cannot believe that seven years have passed since I typed the very first word. I’ve already written about how I took the baby steps into the realm of blogging.

In this story, I shall dive into my ocean of memories and present to you the jewels I have gained in this wonderful journey.

I joined college in 2009. As an engineering student, I realised my days of writing are numbered and my thoughts were itching to be cast into the written form. Fortunately for me, I was introduced to the convenient mode of blogging.

When I began, I didn’t expect it to be read by anyone. I expected my blog to be a literal translation of “web log”, a public diary that will be perused by me and perhaps a few others at most.

Over the years, the storyteller in me became quite ambitious. My keyboard has hummed across a growing range of topics. Today, I was surprised to see a 102 blog posts. I am not a regular blogger. In a typical Libran fashion, sometimes I blog every week to perhaps once in every four months. In spite of that irregularity, I felt happy and blessed to have created this digital content that has forever marked my evolution as a writer and more importantly as a person.

Emotional Stability

When I write, there is no judgement. There is no fear of someone cutting your thoughts in short. Emotions empty easily into text. There may be comments, but that comes later on. A blog post that is completed is a medium for release and an exercise of tranquillity.

An Archive of Memories

While I may be blessed with photographic memory, I am going to age and memory does fade with time. A blog post behaves as a duster that removes the cobwebs from a glass door that is an entrance to a particular incident.

A Window to Who I Am

No matter how articulate I am in person, my blog posts tell the reader of an entire journey. While a person who just met me might know who I am today, a person who has read my blog will know why I am who I am.

An Opportunity to Share

Sometimes my blog posts have motivated discussions on social media and brought about different perspectives that have taught me about the world and how people think.

A Box of Chocolates

My blog is really a box of chocolates. You will love some posts. You will not agree with some. You will fondly recollect some. (I have added a “Search” feature to aid that purpose :) ). I’m confident that it will leave any reader with an impression, be it good and or bad and that gives me immense satisfaction.

In conclusion, blogging has made me content, honest and happy. It has made me eligible to participate in a forum like The Chennai Bloggers Club. It is such a fulfilling task to look back at what I have gained and what I have become. Even if it is in the nick of time, I’m happy to participate in this collaboration between Sweek and CBC. #chennaibloggers #autobiography

And yes, this post won the competition ;)

How an Introvert behaves with Guests

Happy Deepavali to one and all :)

As much as I enjoy good food and positive vibes, dealing with people on festivals is not my cup of Horlicks.

Now I know there will be some people going how ungrateful I am as a human being to make fun of my family. Time for a defence that such people are not going to accept anyway. You can only make fun of the people you love :)

#1 The Awkward Smile

Here's the thing. Just because I don't talk doesn't mean I don't observe. Also, because I'm not talking, it means I have over-analysed every detail. So if you're going to say something smart/cheeky/cunning, I will know it and I will have a super sarcastic answer for it. But the fear of falling into disgrace checks my tongue and lo and behold - the awkward smile.

"You washed you hair?"
The clearly wet hair that the owner gave up de-tangling which looks like a cuckoo's nest curls in further fright.

"You're already 25"?
Yes my eternally 16 aunt.

#2 Lowering Expectation

Sometimes I'm not careful enough. Sometimes I make eye contact with fellow human beings who cannot comprehend the state of my existence. I learned this trick from my sister that when you feel backed into a corner and in pressure - always lower expectations.

"You won't study after this?"
I don't even have one journal paper. If I want to be a good professor, I need more publications so I am thinking of doing a post-doc.

*Total Silence*

#3 The Genuine Fake Smile

This is very different from the awkward smile. The genuine fake smile occurs when you are smiling at a completely different scenario but the listener thinks you're smiling because you accepted their unsolicited advice.

For example, a person keeps complaining about the lack of freedom by her elders. She then proceeds to advice me on something. And says she would never allow her son's wife to behave the way I did.

I smile at the hypocrisy, she smiles at her liberal doling of punyam.

#4 The Disappearing Act

Suddenly adults and children will begin to congregate into groups. As I am neither old enough to be an adult because I'm single and not young enough to be a kid because I've finished college, I stealthily creep into a room and sleep.

Once again, this was all for fun. Who knows how judgemental I will be when I am old! Let's hope we remember these annoyances and try to make life easier for the next generation ;)

The Day Kabali Released

July 22 2016 was a much awaited day for the the Tamil film fandom. However, that date is etched in my memory because it was when my maternal grandfather passed away.

He had been battling cancer for the past one year showing enormous willpower, through two surgeries. He had been living with us for the past few months. Echoes of his footsteps across the house, the image of him seeing TV, the smile that floated across his eyes even after a portion of his jaw was restructured keep swirling in a mixed haze.

He had been rushed into emergency quite a few times. I thought that Friday was just the same. By evening six thirty, I learned he was no more. Even though I knew he was in the fourth stage of cancer and I knew this was inevitable, the situation was a shock. It was not in the middle of a surgery or something so grave, I feel like his cancer spread instantly and suddenly.

The first feeling I felt was guilt. Should we have gone to hospital earlier? Should we have been more mindful of his needs? It was slowly replaced by a deep sense of loss. Were there anything else I would've said? I usually go home on weekends. On a whim, I went home on a Thursday. I feel as if it was to talk to him one last time.

I then started feeling anger. The day before, the doctor had informed my grandfather he was critically ill. Until then, he always had hope. I blamed the doctor initially and especially because all his other parameters were normal. It took some time for my sense of fairness to kick in that even if the mental factor is there, the illness was bad too.

My mother was inconsolable as she was holding his hand and literally felt his breath fade away.

In this chaotic turmoil, I felt three emotions surge - love, pride and a bit of equanimity. The love was because apart from the pain of the loss, I felt such acute pain for the people who were crying, the people I cared deeply, my mom and my grandmother especially.

I felt pride as I saw the positive aspects of my grandfather's life shine.

The equanimity stepped in when the reality of death solidified.

My tears refused to leave my eyes. To me, an honest inspection of emotions comes naturally through writing than tears.

It hasn't always been like this. For the past two years, I've been flying off the handle, crying every other day for some reason or the other. Yet, something as grave as this left me in shock. And instilled a bit of courage also I guess.

My grandfather read everything I wrote and published and complimented everything to my delight. I've always considered my near photographic memory a bane, but now as I can see the scene in 1080p, I feel blessed.

My grandfather was born on August 23, 1941. Like all Leos, he could be exemplified as a man who always did things his way.

He was born in Burma and was smuggled to Chennai when Japan invaded Burma during the Second World War. His life story could be right out of a movie. His grandfather was a barrister who studied in Cambridge, a story that many question. Anyway, he remembered a trip later on SS Rajula where he loved the taste of rasam and dry fish.

Confronted by poverty, he joined the Indian Air Force in the hope of square meals at the age of 19. His extraordinary physique helped him succeed there. He won several national level awards in swimming and had confronted many wild currents. He was first posted in Bangalore and then in several states of North India. My grandmother recalls several air raids in Chandigarh where houses would be covered in black out paper. My mother speaks Hindi fluently having had to struggle through Hindi medium schools at time. She recalls Tezpur in Assam and Chandigarh. My grandfather reminisced how there used to be quarters where there was only a single dry latrine and he'd take my mother a long distance every day for her to use the single functioning toilet. My mother and grandmother told me how proud they felt when they saw my grandfather marching with his comrades on Republic Day at Delhi.

He got his AMIE in electrical engineering and then retired at the age of 35 and settled in Chennai. He joined his brother in a business that floundered after a few years. At this age, he realised his skill set was woefully inadequate for the job market. Trying his luck he went to Singapore. He earned well and was active. Apart from being a manager, he did a lot of quirky things, a clerk, a newspaper man, what not!

His work also took him to a lot of Middle Eastern nations like Qatar and Saudi Arabia. My mother says their family used to eagerly await the postman for letters that would arrive 15 days late.

He was in Kuwait when Saddam Hussein's occupation occurred. Three months after my parents wedding, on Aug 2, all forms of communication were severed. My grandfather drove from Kuwait to Amman, Jordan on his Landcruiser, a journey of 1200kms. He then sold his car and took a flight to Bombay, then took a train to Chennai and finally a cab to our house. He landed at our house on August 23, exactly on his birthday.

My father remembers in awe when my grandfather once jumped onto a sunshade one storey high and then opened the door when he found it locked. This was when he was 50 years old. Patience was not his virtue.

Before the war, he was extremely rich. Relatives still say how lavishly he conducted the wedding and showered his first grandchild, me, with innumerable gifts. A year or two after the war, again he was left with nothing. This time he was in extreme depression. After that, military pensions were revised and he had an income from his Air Force career.

That was the peculiarity of his life, it always oscillated between extreme success and abject misery. He was definitely far from perfect. He was honest but highly impatient. Knowing him, he'd have wanted me to write about his flaws as well. He took his health for granted as he could never recollect falling sick. He loved to project himself as an important person. When I had a formality in admissions, he contemptuously claimed the college is gifted to have me and I wanted to just sink into the floor. Sometimes, he has been extremely rude because of his impatience when things don't go his way and has hurt many people, even within his family.

On the positive side, he had a huge group of diverse friends, could become friends with anyone. He was really generous. He loved him wife a lot. In his day and age, he said horoscopes are useless and proved that if you love someone, you'll stick by them. It was an arranged marriage but without any horoscope matching. Even in his last days, he used to remind my grandmother to put her eye drops and I used to tease him the sometimes I wonder who is the patient.

After that, he visited my uncle in US a couple of times and then sold his house in Thiruvanmiyur and built one in Velachery when I was 14 years old. I wore a half saree for the first time during the house warming and I had this thick curly long plait. Seeing that he used to call me இளவரசி, meaning princess. It was because of my grandparents, I've retained my messy hair for that sentiment.

That was the house we had the funeral.

I felt it was a good time to be single. For the first time, I yearned for a companion to rest my anguish. Apart from a few initial messages, I hadn't opened up entirely to anyone, waiting to be there for people in much more grief. I felt good knowing my grandfather never knew I was crying unstably, he only heard me giving him hope earnestly. I realised most of the reason I was crying was a sign of hopelessness. It was unsettling for me. I was not the type to cry that way. I don't think crying is weakness but chronic crying is definitely something to be looked into. Facing my loss on my own, has made me so strong overnight, that I feel I'm finally out of it.

I will miss you thatha, but I will cling onto the memories dearly. Your இளவரசி is back, stronger than ever before.

Coaching Classes : Boon or Bane?

Having attended a large number of coaching classes in high school, I feel qualified to write about this. Throughout my school life, it was a very touchy subject. Schools prided on being self-sufficient and looked down on students who went to coaching classes. Many peers did not respect me and assumed that whatever brilliance I exhibited was from prior knowledge from these classes. Relatives felt I was so stupid that I required coaching. Despite all this, why do students attend coaching classes and is it useful at all?

This is from my personal experience, my views cannot be generalised to any class. There is an ocean of difference between the quality of classes.

#1 Peer Pressure

This is the No.1 reason for me attending coaching classes in 9th grade. My parents felt I was losing out on an edge that some of my peers may have. Initially, I was disgruntled. I was not some idiot who required coaching. But when I joined there, I loved it. I made lasting friendships. I was a painfully shy and quiet kid. I doubt I learned anything useful but I enjoyed the company.

#2 The Difference in Syllabus

This I felt at the end of 10th grade. When I attempted to solve previous JEE papers, I was at a clear loss. There is a humongous leap from 10th syllabus to 11th. And the gap is even more prominent with entrance exams. So, I applied for many IIT-JEE coaching institutes. I could not afford half of them. Then, at a tradeoff between quality and cost, I settled at the best option available to me. Even the coaching classes had an entrance exam! Very soon, there'll be coaching classes for those entrances :P

#3 School vs. Coaching

This is where the crux of the issue lies I feel. Most school teachers concentrate on completing the syllabus and most coaching classes concentrate on clearing ranks. Amidst these crazy races, the central goal of learning, the concept, is lost. Again, this is a sweeping generalization as I am going to list a few exceptions below. It is not particularly anybody's fault. As a result oriented society, working in a limited time-frame, say 2-4 years, we are fanatic about achieving a goal and these are the paths available to them.

#4 Engaging Children

With working parents and distracted teenagers, coaching classes became puddles of guaranteed concenration. It has become a teenager creche if I may go as far as that. Like I mentioned before, I made a lot of meaningful friendships, sometimes with those professors themselves!

#5 Small Sizes

Since a lot of school teachers do not to take subjects to a required depth, many coaching classes thrive. I found this to be particularly true for Physics. I fell in love with the subject at coaching classes. Once again, I'm emphasizing that school teachers are not to blame. As they have a class of students with varying abilities and interest, more often than not, they have to pander to the lowest common denominator.

The Million Dollar Question: Did these classes help?

First, let me list the classes I went for. Ninth and Tenth standard, I went for coaching in Science and Math, It was mostly concept oriented. I remember he used to make fun of my teachers for making mistakes and I used to pounce on him and defend them. Simply because the complaints he picked up were from students who were not paying attention to my teachers in the first place :P I liked going there, it was light, funny and in words of another coaching prof, "Intellectual Entertainment". I felt like it was brain exercise. Plus, I was an insufferable know-it-all at that time, it was fun :P Both, to be made fun of and to be myself :D In 11th I went for IIT Coaching. That was when I fell in love with Physics. I could not cope with the strenuous hours. I quit mid-way but continued learning Organic Chemistry. Then, in 12th I went to three coaching classes, Math, Physics and Chemistry. I dropped out of chemistry in 2-3 months. My math mam became a very good friend, she used to  find mistakes in questions where my answers were correct, something I had not experienced before. She used to call them compensating errors. Last but definitely not the least, I am indebted lifelong to that Physics coaching sir. What was previously a love for Physics, he made me win her hand. He instilled so much confidence in me and sharpened my skills.

I do not know how much they contributed individually. If I had not gone for any of these coaching, I would not have got into a premier institute.  Collectively, for me, they worked. That is because I love to study. I think if you are invested in these classes and have a yearning to learn new things, it's a boon. If you go there because your parents or friends told you so, it's a bane. I could not gain this expertise in school. Why that is, is not completely clear to me. I have a hunch it is because we have large classrooms and less teachers that we cannot get as much individual attention as we deserve.

Any Drawbacks?

The first time I thought my life was meaningless, I was 16. The tremendous pressure to achieve is something no child should have to undergo. I do not think coaching classes are to blame per se. If the teaching methodologies come together, such that if you put effort in school, you can achieve the results you desire, nothing would be better than that. Many students coach weak students after school. If you coach students at the other end of the spectrum as well, that would be awesome. That was the irony of the situation. Most people think that the lives of students like me who enjoy studying are rosy and set. It is very difficult to fathom how rocky their roads are.

Musings

I didn't go for any coaching during college. College syllabus was quite self contained. I felt the difficulty level was 10% of what I needed to understand in school. I qualified in GATE as well without coaching. I didn't score a great rank but just qualified. I went for CAT coaching and that was a complete unexpected disaster, Thankfully. I think after that kind of effort at schhol, studying just became easy.

Would I put my kids in coaching classes?

I wouldn't because I'd be one hell of a teacher for them ;)

Also, this post is based on a conversation when me and my friend were discussing we should start a coaching class in case we don't graduate :P

Things I've done on Facebook That I'm not Particularly Proud of

Hi, I can't believe I'm writing this. I'm having a high fever and that might explain why I am being so reckless. My justification is I'm sure this is all relatable.

#1 Stalking
I have stalked plenty of profiles on Facebook. No, it's not a creepy way of stalking into a complete stranger's profile. Maybe it is, that's up to you to judge. My parents are trying to find a suitable match for me and when they give me someone's name and college, I'll be stalking his profile on Facebook, LinkedIn, Instagram and Quora. Most often than not, Quora gives you a picture of his character. But none of my detective skills have paid off as the horoscopes won't match and apparently if my parents do not get a match by this August, I'm not getting married for a long time!

#ForeverAlone #LoveYourCareer

#2 Trying to get 100 likes on a Profile Photo
I am so guilty of this obsession when I started using Facebook. There are some standards I hold dear. I won't directly ask anyone to like my photo. But I will dutifully like everyone's profile photo change. Believe me, girls have a long memory. We know when we see your profile photo change, whether you liked our previous profile photo or not :P Whether we use that information or not depends on how our mood is that particular day. First the photo will be visible to Friends except Acquaintances, then paranoia will drive me to restrict it to a Close Friends circle. I never crossed 100 on the photos I tried :P

#Karma

#3 Trying to get untagged from a photo

Yes, I do some questionable things with my friends that I definitely don't want some of my friends to see :P Before you go overboard with your imagination and think of shady places, it would mostly be a dinner I went out without informing my parents on the spur of the moment. Or some photo in which I look hideous and I do not want to get advice on how to look better. The scramble to get untagged from that photo is something Michael Phelps would be proud of!

#Run

#4 Over-reacting to Social Posts

If some post is anti-feminist, no matter how obscure the post, the fact that one of my friends shared it makes me explode like dynamite. This may or may not be a good thing. Sometimes I feel guilty, that the person is not to blame, they are also products of the society. Then I'll feel if we are to change the society, we need to call this out. To make up for it, I'll like all other posts by the said person to assure that it was that one post and not that person that affected me.

#ThinksI'mSuperWoman

#5 Judging People by their Online Status on Facebook

Yes I have done this :P Forget blue ticks on WhatsApp. If someone is online on Facebook and not answering me on WhatsApp, a call will be resounding soon :P

#Jaasoos

Conclusion?

All these things are absolutely useless as you'll realize when the years tumble down. It's been seven years since I started using Facebook. When I didn't try I got many likes for many ordinary, run-of-the-mill photos because they depicted me. The maximum likes I've got are for my academic achievements and I'm proud of that. My communication with my parents has improved by and large such that untagging isn't too much of a deal. I still do react to anti-feminist or sexist posts, I do think everyone benefits from feminism and there is a negative connotation behind it today. But I try not to over-react. It's a balance I still struggle to find. I've stopped seeing who's online on Facebook completely. People who care about you will talk to you, meet you, no matter what, You don't have to put the effort for it. We're adults, we've become busy, there is no need to feel lonely. Finally, yes, stalking in small doses is fine as long as it's not the only basis of your opinion of a new person.

Facebook has brought a lot of people distant and near together and given us exciting ways to share, learn and grow. Let's use it to celebrate our lives on this planet together!

This is my entry for the 'Tagged' contest by 'The Chennai Bloggers Club'. 'Tagged' is a new book releasing this May by debut author Kaarthika. Here is the link to pre order the book - http://www.amazon.in/gp/aw/d/9384315257/ref=mp_s_a_1_1… .

Speaking on Stage

About a month back, I gave a talk on women in technology. This is the blog edition where I pretty much describe how the day went.

First of all, I was very excited when I was approached to give a talk on something that I'm passionate about. I was also touched by the confidence the organizers had in me even though they had never heard me talk.

I started preparing for it, in true Indian student style, two days before the day. I had spent more time sharing pics than I had in actually preparing for the talk. That guilt surged in me and I worked hard to produce the best talk I can.

I enjoy talking on stage. I have a stage accent, that may be borderline annoying to people who aren't used to it, but to me, it sounds of dignity and assertion. I had thought-provoking questions, an element of comedy and a few slides. My theme was to point out that there is a requirement to reach out to women, give out true stories and present alternate societies in a compelling way.

With all these intentions, I arrived at the venue and predictably got lost. By the time I found my way, the lift wasn't working. Welcomed auspiciously thus, I walked into the venue. I was one of the first people to arrive.

Nobody is going to come. At this stage, I became nervous. No matter what the situation was going to be in front of me, a packed audience or a desert without a fly or a crow, I was nervous.

Finally, the event started to about a 120-member strong audience. The first speaker spoke so casually about her life and I was astounded by many similarities. But much to my chagrin, this was not a formal talk! There she was jumping on heels and pretty much connecting with the audience. I started taking mental notes. I realized my formal self is not going to fly with this audience.

However, I'm somebody who plans out every detail in my mind's eye. To change my approach completely in the last moment made my blood pressure shoot up! I delved into the chaotic mass of memories and pulled out bits of stand-up comedy, initial attempts at English and school and a bit of a gossipy voice I heard somewhere and strung together an accent. I think it made me more relatable.

Well, I started off without a mike and nobody could hear me at the back. Years of being appointed leader in school has given me a loud voice albeit it is often mellowed down due to a lack of confidence. With a silent exhalation where I imagined my fears disappearing, I started once again.

The rest is history. I was talking about me, things that matter to me. The words came effortlessly. Yes, the audience was laughing, they were catching my eye, they were paying attention, with every passing slide my confidence soared. Before this experience, any attempt at me being funny would be an abysmal fail because the intersection of the things I find funny and what others find funny is usually the null set.

At the end of it all, I enjoyed the questions. They brought out facets of my character that I had hitherto not explored.

I'm really happy to have had this experience. I had a lot of positive feedback after the talk. As a person, I also feel like I'm steadily improving my emotional stability with personal altering experiences like this.

Kudos to Swathi and Karthik from Skcript who invited me for the Google Women Tech Maker's event. Everybody was a winner that day!

To sum up, I am grateful to my parents and teachers who refused to give up on my painful shyness and pushed me on to the stage. It is on stage that I learned to face my fears and it is there that I learned that I can help conquer others' fears as well.

The Love Letter

This has to be the most poignant love letter I've received till date and thought I'd share it.

Sweetheart,

You are the most wonderful person I've met. I know you get defensive whenever someone compliments you but I also know that you secretly enjoy it. So I'm not going to hold back anything I feel.

You are so committed to your work, you're doing a PhD. You love to teach, to help. You want to serve people. You're so patriotic. You're multi-faceted, you cook, you dance, you compere, you write, you play the keyboard and you do all of them so diligently. I've never seen anyone else so persistent in their goals nor so dedicated.

That's what I love about you. It's not that I'm impressed only when you praise me or converse with me, your existence itself is an inspiration to me. Your attitude pushes me further, to better myself.

As a person, you're loyal, humble and just. You never put any of your friends down and you could have 1001 meetings, you'll somehow manage to help people. You make my conscience sharper.

I love the way you look at people in the eye and speak. What beautiful eyes, just like a doe with those curly eyelashes. You make me feel confident.

And you never get angry, how do you not get angry. Sure, things upset you, irritate you, but you never get angry. You do get rude sometimes when you're cornered, but anger doesn't engulf you and I've never heard you shout. You make me check my temper.

Passion is what drives you. It is the core of your existence. The heat from it is so palpable, that it ignites the hearts of its neighbours as well.

But I am not like you. Though you enrich my life and make it so much better, I get angry. I get angry when you feel sad with the same intensity as your passion. I get angry that you let people take you for granted. I feel angry you put yourself for the last. I feel angry when you don't stand up for yourself.

I know you would just want me to let it go. I know you'd say that this is just your karma.

No one as beautiful as you should suffer so much. Pain is inevitable, suffering is not. Love heals all wounds. Why do you not allow our honeyed rays of love soothe the rough sores on your heart?

Oh you're not perfect, you know I've to be honest. You have a tough exterior and a super soft personality ensconced inside. It misleads people. You are extremely absent minded, and no it is not a compliment. While you are brilliant in academics, you are clueless about things everybody know.

That is also so lovable though. You exist in dichotomies, suspended between euphoric happiness and abject misery, sparkling brilliance and absolute stupidity.

Never forget I'm always there for you, a cushion for your fall, a shoulder for your tears, a ear for your fears and a pillow for your dreams. My greatest happiness lies in you soaring above the clouds with your famous Mona Lisa smile.

I love you, just how you are.

With Love,
Your Soul

No matter whether someone is in a relationship or is single, self-love is so important. I thought this was a quirky way to explore that where I wrote a love letter to myself.

This was written as a part of "Write a love letter campaign by Chennai Bloggers Club"

The Invisible Gender

This post is dedicated to people who identify themselves with the third gender. In India, transgenders have often been regarded holy. However, that has not protected them from discrimination at work or even inclusion in our society. While discrimination is a fundamental problem in India along the lines of gender, economy, caste and religion, we interact with all these sections of society. We're friends with people from different religions and economies but how many of us have ever had the opportunity to talk normally with a transgender?

In my experience, I've awkwardly thrust money into their hands at traffic lights, intimidated and afraid.

In this gloomy scenario, I was pleased to find that the Bharatanatyam teacher at my college is a transgender. She was fresh and amazing. She was very passionate about the dance form and had trained rigorously for years.

There wasn't an iota of awkwardness. All my initial inhibitions had just melted. I felt proud of my institution for not discriminating against her.

It opened up a platform for discussion on this pressing issue and gave hope for the winds of change. Everybody has a bit of femininity and masculinity in them. Biologically, we have both hormones - testosterone and estrogen. Some of us like to express ourselves in different ways. While the society today doesn't bat an eyelid at a woman who dons a suit, it looks down upon men who outwardly exhibit feminine characteristics. I think there is a subtext here which implies manliness is more superior, but that is just my view. After doing some cursory Wikipedia based research, I was happy to see that Tamil Nadu had a lot of schemes for the improvement of their welfare.

I think things are looking better. Recently, I saw a band perform which comprised completely of transgenders. I envision a day in the future when a man can wear feminine clothes and receive the same supreme unconcern as a woman in masculine clothes.

What I Learned During Chennai Floods

The Chennai Floods have been so devastating. It affected everybody in a geographical expanse regardless of who one was. Money was rendered useless, communication channels were snapped. Here are some of the lessons I learned.

#1 Being Calm

It is extremely difficult to be calm in a hostile situation. We were surrounded by 5 feet of water with no power or cell-phone coverage. We had no idea what was happening in the outside world because we threw out the old-fashioned radios a very long time ago. While the day light gave some hope, nightfall was eerie. With the streets dark as far as you can see, with water sloshing around the lift as though it was a scene from Titanic, my family which was after all on the fourth floor, was pretty unnerved. At that moment, it was essential to be calm and think about your options logically. We eventually decided to stay put and we were stuck at home for four consecutive days in this condition.

#2  Humanity

In a time of crisis, people I barely knew came to help us. We divided our resources. Everyone on the street, from the person who ironed our clothes at the corner of the street to the actress who lived across, offered to share what little they had stored with them. We had to disconnect car batteries, disconnect power supply as the panels went underwater and share drinking water among us.

#3 Disaster Management is a Joke!

So many phone numbers were shared on social platforms, none of which were accessible at a moment of crisis. People could not expect such a disaster, that's true. The few people we reached out to, were afraid that they would be affected. There were a few helicopter rounds. We thought they would provide food, but they did not.For my particular case, that was fine because we were well-stocked. The official teams did not reach us. However, I heard that the youth of Chennai jumped into relief work immediately but I knew all that good work around 5 days later when both power and internet was restored.

#4 People care about you!

I am an introverted person. I was so surprised at the number of people who enquired in to my well-being once my phone sprung to life.

#5 Humans are massive consumers!

The floods made us realize how much power, water, internet and food we consume. We had to ration our food and more importantly adjust our recipes so that they don't involve grinding or too many dishes as we tried to curtail how much we had to wash. Plus, we cooked 'on-demand' as the refrigerator was no longer operational for storage. We had run out of greens by the end of two days, again adjusted recipes that depend on onions and potatoes that could be stored for long. By the fourth day, the water tanks were drying out and massive storage of water began.

#6 Economic Advantage for very very few

There were two people on my street who enjoyed massive profits. One - a milkman who came by boat and sold milk at three times the regular price. Another, was a boatman who offered to ferry us for a fortune but we declined when he asked us to swim towards him.

#7 I am not an owl!

I used to think I'm a night owl, I usually sleep at 1pm, etc. No! When there is no power and no internet, I slept at 9 pm sharp. I felt really concerned whether I'm abusing my body. Those three days, my habits were so regular. I woke up at the crack of dawn and slept within half an hour after dinner.

#8 Music saves us all

Every night, my sister played her veena. The tunes that wafted from it soothed our weary minds. It was a really beautiful experience, candlelit rooms with melodious notes.

#9 One for All and All for One

Our family spent most of the time together, in one room. All of us are so busy, chasing after our dreams, that we barely speak to each other together. The love that emanated from us kept us warm in the dread of gloom and uncertainty.

#10 Necessity is the mother of invention

At one point we run out of candles. My mom suddenly remembered that we could use oil lamps that we had just placed back in the shelves after Karthikai Deepam. It was a tiny idea but such innovations kept us going.

The Chennai floods showed us what nature can unleash. Most of us feel the effects would not have been so devastating if it had been managed in a better manner. Who knows? All I know is it was a lifetime experience, something that I will be quoting to everyone. If you're from Chennai, I hope you and your family have recovered from this ordeal.

Coming to Terms with being perceived Average Looking

There are lot of fancy terms for such things, how to deal with "negative body image" and how to promote "healthy real role models". All these are polite terms that basically say how to deal with being told you look average.

Personally, I thought outer beauty would never bother me. I had ranted about the utter waste of the cosmetic industry when I was 19. When I left school, I was a supremely confident girl, bordering on arrogance.

However, college truly tested me in this regard. While for most of my part, I was not bothered and was concentrating on maintaining my academic rank, there were some statements that would prick me. Guys rating girls on a numerical scale would leave me repugnant. A part of my soul rankled as to how can some people who would themselves score poorly if they were assessed in a similar manner, judge others.

It took me some time to realise while this an issue that seems more relevant to women, is actually gender-neutral. The stigma of being dark, fat and other perceived unattractiveness is prevalent in both and is swept under the rug by both.

Outer beauty is celebrated, what with best looking girl awards, likes on Facebook, what not. And I failed miserably in all these parameters. Being dark, oily skinned, curly haired isn't exactly the recipe for extravagant looks. When I started shopping for make up, I ended up choosing costly ones because the cheap ones don't even come in my skin tone. Those experiences made me feel like, even make up can't help me.

All this did not matter when I had high self esteem. But when a few setbacks lowered my self esteem, looking average hurt. This was something I cannot change no matter how hard I work or practise, I am born with this face and body and I am in love with it. At the core of my soul, I don't want to change it. Yet, to say that I did not wish for some recognition in this department would be a blatant lie. Sometimes I even wondered perhaps the reason I had not experienced a single case of harassment thank God, was not because I was lucky but perhaps because I am not worth looking.

I slowly built my confidence back again. Yes, I messed up the silk saree I wore for my symposium, but people didn't forget the voice when I compeered. Yes, I have got average likes for my profile photos when I was in college but nearly all of my friends liked the status where I described I am doing a PhD at IIT.

When I showed my mother my farewell photos, she was downright indignant I didn't get a prize for looks. And she went on to compare me with every single girl in my class and described in which exact feature I looked better. That was when I truly understood that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. My mother's love for me made it impossible for her to see me as anything but beautiful. It also made me realize I should not need for somebody else to validate my looks, I only need to love myself and the person I see in the mirror will transform into someone beautiful. But to put this knowledge into practice, it nearly took me two years and even now I do succumb to the weakness of expecting praise. Today I get twice the number of likes I used to get, partly because statistically I have more friends and partly because I really feel beautiful on the inside and it shows :)

Part of this pressure to look stunning all the time is due to the media for unrealistic standards. I'd be happy to see a female actor who decides to be simple like Rajnikanth and decides to come to an award show sans make up. And my humble request, please don't openly talk of giving points for beauty like the infamous Kareena Kapoor in K3G. You have no idea how detrimental it may be for a person's confidence.

Lastly, if you have at any point delved into self-doubt about your looks, remember that every birth on this planet is for a reason. It really does not matter, find what makes you beautiful and strive towards that.

Because in the end, the 19 year old me had much better common sense. Girl, with your smile, you are beautiful.