LIII. A Catalog of Thoughts -

Recently, scrap-booking, post-it notes, arts and crafts, written letters, and making notes in the margins of one’s own books, have become novelties.

When I have time on my hands, something within me, perhaps the “kid” that lurks somewhere along my center of mass, propels me to go to my ‘stationery closet’ at home and make a collage or a mural or sorts, to put on my wall or admire as a boho-chic artifact for keepsakes’ purposes.

Inevitably, whatever I make I always throw in the garbage and regret having made it in the first place. What a waste of time and stupidity on my part.

Thus far I have been successful in my resistance of making such products of the creative lobe of my brain and as a result, less paper has been disposed of by my non-bio-friendly self.

That is to say, those journals and scrapbooks that go on sale in Barnes and Noble have now successfully been made equivalent to jumbo size packs of chocolate at wholesale stores such as Costco.

Just because you get more for less, or can buy a leather bound hand-made book of blank ruled pages for 80% less than its original price, does not justify the need for one to purchase an unhealthy amount of chocolate, or an unused beautifully-crafted and bound blank canvas that exists only to house the rapidly disappearing discipline of penmanship.

Take the risk and buy the small amount of chocolates at the supermarket and not the warehouse-turned store; believe you me, you will not regret your non-flabby reflection in the mirror.

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My immediate family is preparing to move out of our current home and yesterday I had met the builder my parents have been working with while I was away at college.

The builder was discussing another house he had just constructed and how it had cost the home-owner hundreds of thousands of dollars more than any other house he had ever made.

Could it have been because this guy, single and without dependents, wanted a mansion?

No -

Apparently the man did have dependents: More than seventy thousand of them… books that is.

According to my dad, this home-owner is “married to his books”.

The man, a future neighborhood cronie of ours, is a writer and of old age. He had his entire house made into a library solely for his dwelling. The constructor was instructed to build bookshelves along the walls from the basement up.

I was in awe and suddenly my desires to write, as opposed to type, and to write in-depth on a single subject, emerged.

The written word does not have to be frivolous. Pages do not have to be ripped out if the handwriting seems inconsistent and writing that was mulled over within the mind before placed on paper should not cause you to blush out of embarrassment when you read it to yourself after writing it.

Whenever I used to keep written prose or even poetry only to be read by myself at some later time, an undeniable feverish wave would travel from my toes and crest at my facial muscles.

My elbows would remain at my sides but my lower arms would be provoked to tear out the page(s) and dispose of the “entries” similar to entries I would make in truly frivolous diaries as a small girl: perhaps noting how handsome a crush I had, looked one day.

To prevent uncalled for ripping out of pages of writing, (with the exception of those diaries I had kept while in grade school which were absolutely called for), I had decided to publish my writings online in the genre of blog or xanga, which I refer to in Post II.

Honestly, I cannot bear to write that which will not be read by anyone but myself.

I think this characteristic of mine stems from the same source that makes me not bear to be alone, (refer to Post LII).

However, we’re all taught in English, or any writing-associated course, that our readers must be “hooked”. Our readers must be spoken to. They must have a reason to read what you have written.

I have a strong desire to document my oddball path to medical school to showcase a truth and because not even the Ivy League academic advisers have any idea about the non-linear path I am taking.

In documenting my path, from organic chemistry lab to cell biology, to MCAT, to applications, for the next two to three years of my life, I will be:

1. Reassuring myself about the path that I am making for myself;

2. Encouraging myself to continue on the path;

3. and in turn, writing for not only myself but for peers who were “weeded out” of the medical school running despite every fiber of their being reverberating to be an eternal disciple of humanity.

Manuscripts, writing by hand, do not have to be individual pieces of paper thrown together.

Manuscripts do not have to be prize-winning, research-driven, and heavily footnoted volumes.

Manuscripts do not have to be your run of the mill diary or journal.

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My manuscript is now a small, compact bound set of ruled paper, not too artificially thick and not nearly as thin as loose-leaf paper, with a bright orange front and back cover and spine that I will carry with me everyday beginning the first day of my post-baccalaureate studies.

My manuscript is what I like to call my Catalog of Thoughts.

Here’s to self-imposed extra homework documenting for the people -

LII. The Introverted Socialite -

For I am the Introverted Socialite.

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Preface:

I decided to take the plunge and stay on campus one summer. I was in a lab and taking the Philosophy of Bioethics- one of the most amazing classes I had ever taken at UPenn during the absolute worst summer I have ever experienced as of yet.

(*Remember: In reference to the last post: “Summer” is referring to the period between the end of one academic year and the beginning of the next one as pertains to your own life. )

My birthday falls within the second week of June, well past the culmination of the college spring semester, and so I had to celebrate the day of my birth at Penn of all places.

My friends and I went out to eat for the occasion and afterwards chilled out at a grill place frequented solely for the purpose of drinking - believe you me, this context was far from my much-awaited birthdays at home growing up: going to Punjabi Kebab and enjoying every moment of the company of my three brothers (one biological brother and two cousins).

So I’m at this place where I feel highly uncomfortable but not so much since I was with people who I consider to be some of my closest friends, though they may not regard me in the same light since I never part-took in the cult-like-insider-status gained with chatting online, or drank, which apparently solidifies friendships at UPenn, but I digress.

My birthday celebrations that summer made the otherwise blessed June day into a dull one, and our chilling was the equivalent to what I imagine to be a horribly awkward interaction between crush and unsuspecting crushee.

Suddenly a boyfriend of one of the attendees of this horrid outing had texted her asking if she was drunk because her texts were tidbits of illogical nonsense, in other words, a cry for help to reflect just how horrible a time we were all having sitting there.

How did I know he asked her this in his text? Well, she of course vocalized said text, you know, just to add to the already awkward ambiance. I suppose it filled the silence and so any of her and her boyfriend’s irrelevant communications was welcomed with sighs of relief.

She continued by vocalizing her text back: “Unfortunately no, none of us are drinking.”

Furious New-Yorker, Sikh, Punjabi, Puerto Rican, I wanted to slap her across the face. Instead, I chimed in with the college-campus-appropriate “intellectual”-passive-aggressive quip: “You guys can drink if you want. I’m not stopping you.”

Oh no she didn’t- she did not just say “unfortunately” they are not drinking.

Fortunately: You’re finally not killing your internal organs so you should be thanking me for my fortunate non-alcoholic presence.

It’s my birthday damn it. How dare you -

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Regardless of my answer to the dichotomy presented in an interrogative tone, ‘Day with friends or day for yourself’, being the second option, I cannot be alone.

I want to travel and think to myself, perhaps I could make traveling happen. What if I happened to have found an opportunity to go a place I wanted and had the finances set-up to go off? I wouldn’t be able to go alone. I cannot go alone.

My day-dreaming of traveling, while sitting in the passenger seat during an all too common week-night-short- road-trip from Macy’s to home, had become derailed.

From future travels to past prophecies…

….almost home, I remembered telling my parents repeatedly, from age five to sometime in high school, that I would not get married.

Here was the plan: I would become the successful physician and I would live alone in Manhattan, NYC with large windows that would overlook a busy city street that was mostly a flood of yellow- taxis, that is.

Now, I want to get married. I cannot imagine not growing alongside someone. I cannot imagine never having loved or been loved, avid Bollywood viewer that I am and Punjabi that I am, inheriting the tales of the famous lovers, known as a jointed and hyphenated identity: Heer-Ranjha.

The above is in addition to my parents who are a real-life story of love that I never get tired of narrating to anyone who wants to hear. Witness of my parents growing up I came to the realization that God really made them for each other.

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ਮ: ੩ ॥

ਧਨ ਝਹਿ ਨ ਆਖੀਅਨਿ ਬਹਨਿ ਇਕਠੇ ਹੋਇ ॥
ਝਕ ਜੋਤਿ ਦਇ ਮੂਰਤੀ ਧਨ ਪਿਰ ਕਹੀਝ ਸੋਇ ॥੩॥

Third Mehl:

They are not said to be husband and wife, who merely sit together.
They alone are called husband and wife, who have one light in two bodies. ((3))

                                            -Sri Guru Granth Sahib Ji, (Sikh Scripture), 788

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Just yesterday I was eating my Kashi Blueberry Cluster Cereal, dry as per the usual, since soggy cereal was never something I embraced.

One fairly large cereal flake rushed to the back of my mouth.

I felt like I could not bring up the hard flake to the forefront of my tongue.

I panicked and quickly downed a water bottle, all the while, feeling the flake’s edges along the soft tissue of my throat.

Panicky and bladder filled to saturation, I ran to my mom who was mid-yoga and told her what had occurred.

My mom, known for tough love, broke her yogic stance.

Her eyes softened and she stared at me when I asked, “Can you come to the other room with me?”

I had said enough, she not only came but went to the kitchen and made the strawberry shake she had refused to make only hours before.

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I hated being alone: What if something had happened?

The introverted socialite status is something I only realized recently.

I am no longer that girl who would never marry. I am this young adult now, and according to my dad, “of marriageable age”, and I accept that statement.

In fact, I just came from a dinner in honor of realizing a new alliance between families and it was so pure and so right -

It may have also been the view I had from our restaurant table on the West side.

The view was of a NYC street: a flood of yellow- taxis, that is.

LI. Summer Lovin’ Whinin’ -

Me: I cannot wait for Fall!

Mom: Well that’s because you haven’t seen it in a while.

Me: What?

Mom: At home- You haven’t been here in the Fall since you begun college four years ago.

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You’re right mom. Now my anticipation for fall has just been magnified by twenty.

Fall at home: There is this one main two-way, but really should be one-way, street that is always leaf-strewn with the crunchy kind of leaves that make the perfect noise under your fearless and guilt-ridden foot.

Halloween over here takes you back to the medieval Halloween era, even though since I turned fourteen, my house door has been locked shut and the lights have been dimmed and blinds closed to deter kids from coming to our house.

It helps that our doorbell no longer works and where there was once a button, only a hole exists.

There is no alcoholic flamboyancy as there is on campus, and there is no vulgar costumes on people of age to whom trick-or-treating no longer applies.

Diwali in late October/November is welcomed by gusty winds that almost sacredly fails to exterminate the wax-lit diyas, earthen lamps, and other candles lit by myself on the house’s stoop, covered in an embroidered dupatta, shawl, under the gaze of my parents, on our way to Gurudwara, temple. 

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However, even if this were not the case and I had experienced fall at home all along, I know myself and I would never have been satisfied in the moment. At that moment I was in a vehicle with black leather seats that were absorbing the June sun’s rays.

This attribute of never being satisfied has dwindled considerably though, and nowadays, really only rings true in the context of seasons.

Many of us have these seasonal associations.

In March, we cannot wait for summer to arrive so that we can shed the coat that is necessary since it is 40 degrees Fahrenheit, but in shielding our torso from the chills, the collar only succeeds in baking our necks, targeted as they were by the sun.

In the summer, we cannot wait for the hustle and bustle of the backpack-conceived-hunch-back children amongst the working adults (pronounced “Ahh-dults”, with an emphasis on the first syllable), clogging up the morning and mid-afternoon/ early evening traffic.

In the summer, we cannot wait for the NYC winter holiday tourists who cause throughout-the-day traffic delays: Traffic on the road and on YouTube since their nonsensical stopping on the otherwise seemingly, from a bird eye’s view, mobile sidewalks, causes the locals to record and upload these tourists’ shenanigans as payback for making the lives of locals’ more difficult.

I know it is technically not summer yet, but for the academic crowd, ironically, (since we thrive on being technically correct -always), we refer to the time between the end of one academic school year and the beginning of the next one in a single clear and concise term that gets the point across: “Summer”.

I have taken advantage of the mango season and had many a long walk to take advantage of the weather.

I know it’s not my birthday yet, but getting older at a faster pace, (in my head at least since time cannot truly go “faster” and/or “slower”), is no longer welcoming.

My parents are not planting the basil leaves this year and since I always, without fail, binge on the resulting pesto pasta from said basil leaves, no basil and therefore no pesto pasta, is not a bad thing. My metabolism isn’t getting any faster.

Summer, it’s been great so far but I think it’s time for me to set up camp in the library again.

Fast forward or rewind to you, me, sitting at a desk with work in front of us and it is week one of the not technically referred to Fall season - the season of the academic year’s return.

We know we’re not pregnant, unless we are, and we know we’re not so ego-centric as to not give a care that we are contradicting ourselves purposefully when we change our mind about wanting Fall the day after it arrived, unless of course we are ego-centric and illogical creeps.

We’re not though - So we sit at our desk and give ourselves a pep talk. I can’t speak for you but here’s a sample of my yearly pep-talk:

“It’s Fall Reshmi! It is finally that time of year. I am ready to work- oh yes. I just have to get adjusted to the newness of it all and rejoice in the oldness of it all. Been there, done that - I know how to study! I got this yo. I got this. It’s not like I won’t sleep; not tonight at least, it’s the beginning of the [academic] year…all-nighters are later.”

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“Summers are devoid of holidays and cheer.”

Yes, post pep-talk, we start justifying our desire for Fall to make its way…

“Ever heard of the "dog-days of summer”? I mean, hello?“

"Isn’t layering awesome? Oh I just love hats and scarves and gloves and mittens and furry slippers. Oh, I hate snow though. I don’t want snow, I just want brisk air.”

“I mean, I don’t want to sound like an ingrate and all. I’m grateful for the break, but I just want to be busy again, you know? It’s addictive…”

“That Ice Cream Truck song is getting annoying yo -”

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The hoodlums middle school and high school students in NYC didn’t even finish their school years yet.

Do you feel like you want Fall to come now too?

The summer really only just begun.

Summer loving is still there but the summer whining in anticipation for Fall is inevitable.

Who knows, if I whine about wanting Fall enough I may just walk out with this ensemble: Winter hat and spaghetti strap tank.

Holler at your homefry-

L. Me, Myself, and You -

I realize this is a public platform but since feedback is non-existent, I believe it is safe to assume that in the act of always writing for an audience I am still writing for myself.

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“You’re not Indian.”

“You’re half Spanish so I don’t know why […] should affect you.”

I never thought that the first statement would provoke me the way it did and yet it did - again.

Rage-

I swear the liquid blood circulating was palpable and then some other liquid surfaced on my face.

I just walked away from the speaker and sat facing the house’s main-street facing window with a laptop in my hands.

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You know how when you sit with an unplugged laptop the screen’s back-light inevitably becomes dim?

Well, obviously my walk away was jolted and in the moment, dragging the charger would have detracted from the momentous reaction.

The sun is out and the tree is billowing - it seems like a pleasant day.

You know how when you use your laptop outside and it is sunny, your laptop screen becomes a black dearth of not nothing, (because you may very well be reflected by the screen and thereby see yourself, which is far from nothing), but you cannot see any computing activity?

Well, that is happening right now.

I can still see what I am typing however, because I am not sitting outside but on a worn-black leather couch facing a closed window.

The dramatics of life are so completely unnecessary and yet people still desire it.

You see, the darkened screen, that acts to obstruct my view of this post, does not cause me to wail.

No - this is an expected part of this machinery’s mechanics and if it bothered me so, endowed with life that I am, I can choose to determine where my legs will take me next, away from the couch and to the nearest outlet-cum-chair and table- situation.

If you are so bored to be entertained by what you call an “argument” because you know that it will fulfill your life for three days at least, and then get bored by the once entertaining “argument” that you bore, and then to choose to end it when you will, you must remember that I am not an “argument” but a human, and as such, as stated before, I can choose to determine where my legs take me and I choose not to mutually end this when you so desire.

Yesterday I was walking outside. It was so pleasant - not too hot, gusts of wind sporadically appeared just when perspiration seemed a side-effect of the sun’s welcoming rays. Birds were actually chirping…

I figured out how to delete the old songs from my BlackBerry and add new incredible songs all belonging to a place that I apparently cannot call my own.

Nothing is mine -

In that moment, in the flux of the “argumentative” context, but walking by myself, I smiled.

Life was beautiful. It was so simple a context: The outside, the weather, the music - Life was incredible.

People choose to cause despair.

As mentioned before, (and what seems to be a thematic part of this post), these people are human and can choose to foot the path that they wish, even if it is at odds with mine.

This being at odds, I swear -

Opposites attract and because they do we are stuck here, in a stalemate because of the laws of science, and this forever-polarizing magnetic force.

Physics is truly a tortuous field of study, no?

XLIX. The Modern Day Tease -

You have all these options -

You are sitting in front of a computer screen and you are born into income-

                or not.

You are a candidate,

                 for being one of the persons who came up with,

                “money does not grow on trees.”

                 Really, who knew?

You are watching,

                  House Hunters International, and then it hits you -

                  not the price tag, but reality.

More specifically,

                  your own reality because what you are watching is reality television.

A modern concept,

                  watched by a modern person living in the modern world,

And like a proportion about to be cross-multiplied,

                  the “modern” cancels out,

                  and you’re left with your reality and the other reality.

New happenings are occurring and you are determined,

                  but the wrath wreaks havoc once more.

                  The cycle continues and may well have worsened.

And I am so appreciative,

                  of myself,

                  to have documented what I have,

                  to remember the truth of it all.

“Truth is High, Higher Still is Truthful Living”                        -Guru Nanak Dev Ji

XLVIII. Notes from a non-vegetarian- mixed-message-sending-pacifist-cynic.

Preface:
In past posts I have wrote about differences - from Post “III. The Human Paradox” up until 40 posts later, Post “XLIII. Possession, Application, and Quirkiness”, in which inherent individuality was elaborated upon.

I think some of us stray away from the mainstream more than others.

I myself think I am pretty mainstream in terms of what music I listen to.

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Mom, while we were shopping: “This is you. This is so you! Look at these pants!”

Reshmi: “They’re nice. (Trying to not smile). I have been shopping way too much nowadays. (Truth).”

Mom: “I’m getting it for you and I don’t care how much it is. It is so you -”

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So me and so out of any concept of a normal price range for a pair of pants. Determined to save for future consumerism on a less consistent schedule of buying, they were rejected; But tis’ fine because just as oddly beautiful a pair of pants, high-waisted with a white background to a green and yellow floral print, was bought on sale, for less than half the price of the other pant.

My fashion sense is pretty different from most people I come into contact with as has been validated by recent interactions with relatives who refer to my outfits as “how Reshmi styles”, or as my father says, “you know how to carry yourself”, referring to what to the odd ensemble I literally threw on yesterday: Genie pants and an oversized printed shirt, with bangles running down one arm.

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My family is also largely made of meat-eaters on both the Punjabi and Puerto Rican sides.

This is why myself prior to college, me- shying away from, but always coerced into eating meat, to myself post-college, me -full-fledged avoidance and rebuttal of aforementioned coercions, always leads to a never-ending played out topic of discussion in my kitchen: “Why is Reshmi not eating chicken/turkey/pork?” (my family doesn’t eat beef).

Self-considered “full” Punjabi, I knew that the whole Indian identity and common vegetarianism wouldn’t fly as a reason for my recent meals not consisting of meat.

India, as we all (you all) should know, is not a monolithic identity. Rather, “Indian” is a unifying identity. Within India there are twenty-eight different states and over 1500 different languages spoken.

Punjabi Sikhs tend not to be vegetarians.

I still do not call myself vegetarian but I have consciously not eaten meat in maybe a month; perhaps just short of a month.

Clearly I have not been keeping tabs on the number of days I have not eaten meat because meat is not some kind of evil, addictive, noxious substance that after having been consumed one must be de-toxed from.

My name is Reshmi, and I do not have any spiritual, religious, and/or philosophical reasons for not eating meat.

It makes sense that animals, us humans, eat other animals for nutrition. For that is biology and there is no foul play within the realms of logic.

Why have I chosen not to eat meat then?

1. Meat is hard to chew no matter how well it’s cooked. Honestly, my jaw feels like it is going to fall off every time I chew it.

2. The possibility of pieces of bone lodged in my throat is not appetizing.

3. Even if chicken was tasty, it is always because the marination and/or sauce and not the actual chicken. The meat, like “0”, acts as the place holder for tastiness to be dumped upon and therefore has no significance in my meal - in terms of taste. I am aware of the nutrients bequeathed by the skinned dude/dudette.

4. Whenever I eat meat I feel more lethargic and weighed down. However, when I refrain from eating meat, still consuming proteins in the form of lentils and beans instead, I feel more lively and light in a non-pounds-seen-on-the-scale sense.

So: I still do not call myself a vegetarian. I still eat the sauce from a meat dish. I still eat eggs. I do not mind if a spoon used to serve chicken is used to serve another non-meat dish, as long as said spoon was not inserted in anyone’s mouth and is used for the sole purpose of serving.

I am not a vegetarian and I am not trying to be rebellious, my concerned parents.

The above four reasons are cumulatively the sole explanation for why vegetables, (not raw), are now the contents of would-be-caricatured thought bubbles over my head if I were hungry.

What about other vegetarians?

Most regard poultry and beef as they would the abortion debate: It is a living thing that has died and therefore, it was living, but humans also die and it would be “inhumane” for a human carcass to be eaten- right?

I do not know, but I would answer no; not right; wrong; false.

Plants are living too because they are cell-based and breathe, no? (Rhetorical).

How do you explain the flower in full bloom in comparison to the flower(s) you have ripped from the ground in an attempt to symbolize your pacifist self?

Those dandelions in your hair are now dead, and you killed them. (It’s OK though, you didn’t eat them.)

Take that to court -

XLVII. Gym'n Like a Villain -

Post-graduation I knew I wanted to join a gym and be that young adult in her early twenties that I always pictured myself to be: Living in New York City (the five boroughs), going to school in Manhattan (Columbia - not medical school but I’m working on it), and working out -

Please refer to (1:56 - 2:56) of this video:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tz672LBW2JE

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As mentioned in previous posts, it was relatively easy to keep in shape, albeit - unhealthily, while I was away at college: I never wanted to stay in my room and I hardly ever ate.

My two weeks at home before graduation I was quite literally a balloon - my deflated body was filling up and muscle was non-existent.

After the first two days at the gym, nausea and then hardcore cardio, my bones suddenly began to surface once more. Only this time it was as if the multicolored Flinstones vitamins I used to ingest as a kid was also resurfacing.

That is to say, my face was pigmented, no longer pale, my body no longer malnourished. This time the act of eating food was at the forefront. Food: That which has the magical prowess of allotting those tangible units of measurement, namely ‘calories’.

The idea of my parents spending money was the enabler that forced me to go to the gym every weekday and make that trek by bus and walking, through the rain if need be, to the gym.

Now, it seems like the enabler is myself.

I come home, feeling aches and pains in the seemingly most random of places, (my neck). Coming home to this feeling makes me never want to step into that gym again. Despite this truism, after that much effort is expended at the gym, I cannot imagine eating some unnecessarily unhealthy and tasty snack undoing all of the work put in.And so, my day passes by healthily and after a week of such days I feel like I’m thriving.

This is not the thriving equivalent Olympic athlete status.

This is the thriving equivalent of someone shedding past burdens and moving forward fruitfully.

As much as I detest work-out paraphernalia, (racerback tanks made of 90% spandex and 10% nylon, headbands, crazy sneakers), they do help make a work-out far more conducive.

Unlike like dance where costume is part of the art, wearing something to emphasize the techniques of spinning and leggings to help emphasize the extension of the leg that is so integral to the choreography, such work-out wear is more psychological.

Work-out wear allows you to strut around the gym’s perimeter without a care because you are officially legit.

For me the above is quite simply, weak, and so my recent epiphany does not serve any purpose in changing my past hatred for said clothes.

The other day I was running and wanted to sprint the last half mile (maybe three minutes). I wanted to collapse and was about to stop when suddenly an Indian patriotic song came on my ITunes, which if you know me, isn’t that surprising a fact, and so psychologically speaking, I told myself not to get off that treadmill until the song was over, “Do it for India yo - you got this shiznizzle”.

In conclusion, the song served the same purpose as the clothes.

But tis’ true that running in bulky fleece sweatpants is detrimental to the very act of running - but I like ridiculously trivial self-proposed challenges and so I deal.

I no longer run in the gym though. No, I decided to attend the cardio-intensive dance classes instead and it’s been real so far, as I stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out onto the treadmills - so long and farewell.

Here’s to thriving -

XLVI A. Making Good on “Repetition Elimination”:

XLVI. Repetition Elimination -

Four months before I again embark on the journey I consider to be academic escapism is a God-sent…Well, more like six more days left of twenty that was and is the period between my last college exam and my last return to campus for graduation. The rest of my four months will be spent either in a book-shop, a hospital or private medical clinic, or a sky-scraper in the financial district - still waiting on replies.

Not everyone equates home with relaxation. For a majority of those people I met in college, they could not relate to my love for home. However, they could relate to what, for me, home translated to.

Home, for me, when you break it down to its core, translates into a type of relaxation.

For those others, said relaxation occurs in resorts and modes of transport that either take them to tropics, such as the airplane, or occur within the tropics, such as bungee cords, boogie boards and other small water-travel floatation mechanisms that include, but are not limited to, canoes and rafts.

The past two weeks I have been at home I have been consuming about 800 or so more calories/day than when I am in college.

I no doubt feel a new layer of flesh forming over my once somewhat scarily exposed rib-cage. I was too scared to explore my rib-cage with my hand to the point of feeling underneath the bones farthest away from the chest, also known as the “floating ribs”. My fear was feeling some internal anatomy that should best be left untouched.

I knew that this whole recreation of eating would present itself but I was under the assumption that I would steadily be working off the newly superfluous unwelcome calories with long walks around my hood and innumerable sets of crunches.

I do enjoy taking long walks at a New Yorker pace, a little less hyper than race-walking, and in spectator-attire, not polyester-nylon blended/regardless of whether or not you are a size 0-flab-exposing work-out-wear.

Walking is my under-cover exercise.

Walking is my inconspicuous way of feeling the burn and is partially why I choose not to re-learn driving which can become burdensome when say, pouring rain is unleashed from the Long-Island clouds, but then again such torment is indicative of the validity for walking being synonymous to a full work-out.

However, after taking a walk around the hood, I became disinterested by my surroundings and came back home to the realization that I really didn’t want to go on a long walk around here again - on any of the three nearby avenues and certainly not during the summer when I have to shed my outer-layers because despite wearing the baggiest of clothing, the landscapers will still ogle, the elderly will still try to categorize you, and the youth will still mistake you for being their age and perhaps think they know you.

I felt bad. I needed to work out and living in a two-family house, dancing around will only cause the bottom story to shake, further making me feel heavy, despite the fact that a forty-pound baby prancing around would cause the same seismic effect.

I was saved by the rain. After that day I went on a walk, the next seven or so days it was raining and so walking was naturally out of the question.I do not find getting wet to be pleasant and yes, it is OK for you to conclude that I am not the most carefree of persons.

But today has arrived six days left before I have to wear my size 0 graduation dress, and it is pleasant outside. Seems like a good day for walking though every fiber of my being is resisting having to see the same sights and listen to the same uploaded songs on my Blackberry from three years ago.

It is time to work-out and eliminate repetition by joining a gym and running on the treadmill of all things.

The gym presents a major form of focus for me - the idea of spending money means that I have to make every dollar be utilized.

Plus, I would still have to walk to get to the gym, passing by Gurudwara on the way - a perfect self-motivator, not to mention to that everyone else in the gym will be focused on their own work-out, making their money count, discounting the repetitive interactions I would otherwise have with people staring and what not.

Until I attain gym membership, the tenants will just have to deal with my my makeshift-dance-studio arrangements.

Here’s to repetition elimination -

XLV. Triggering a Memory is not Reliving an Experience-

I am so mentally unburdened, so extremely hungry for food and hungry for every second to pass by only after I have lived that second in its entirety. I no longer hope that the next day arrives quickly despite the fact that I would end up sleeping at 3 AM so that the days would blur into each other.

I just ate a square gold-foiled “choco-nut” sweet made only in Gopal’s, a continental-Indian cafe and sweet shoppe scattering Punjab, India. My dad brought them back after I had them for the first time two years ago, when I had traveled to India after sixteen years.

I opened the foil with my handy Epi-Pen by my side after my recent reactions to certain nut-products.

Suddenly memories of my sensationalized trip to the Punjab flooded back to me; how on my first day reaching Chandigarh I slept after not sleeping for over twenty-four hours, I wore a kurta and salwar, let down my dark curly tresses sit atop my shoulders, looked at myself in the Indian-artistry that was a mirror hanging in a wood-panneled alcove. I felt so in my element, in my place - I felt beautiful.

The crumbs are in the bowl in front of me, on the plastic covered - table-cloth covered- wooden dining table, and I feel disgusting.

I have been been binge-eating for the past three days, coming home after deprivation from nourishment and flavor, eating either a bland salad or veggie burger for the past four years.

I remembered something, but I did not relive it. How can I? The next foreseeable trip to India is before my marriage.

I move the bowl out of my line sight though I meant to pick it up dispose of the crumbs, and leave the bowl in the sink.

I move the laptop, one of two, both broken then, and revived now, in front of me.

I continue with the automatics: You know, check the Facebook in one tab and then then the e-mail in the other tab. Afterwards, you feel bad for checking Facebook first, and so you either close out of the internet so you can start afresh or switch the tabs so that your e-mail is the farthest left tab.

With my integrity in tact I have checked my e-mail and then thumb through the pictures recently uploaded from all the events I would not have gone to even if I were to have stayed on campus, these final days as a college student.

I see faces then. Faces who I know are my friends and who I plan on inviting to my wedding.

Suddenly my eyes were welling up with tears. I am sure that they were not completely derived from an emotional reaction.

It was strange though.

Part of the tears most certainly sprung from eye strain, staring endlessly at my monitor with only sparse blinking.

I knew that I would not miss anything from college - I know that I really do not miss the drastic loss in weight. I do not miss the dry scaly skin from lack of nourishment nor do I miss the feeling of my ribs touching the sorry excuse of a mattress.

I would not miss the pangs of guilt that my stomach felt when I had to pay $25 for ten PennCards - I don’t care if you still have your first one, it is still Penn’s fault. Why would I deliberately lose my PennCard? Get a freaken clue -

However, the other part of the tears welled up from knowing that despite me not venturing out with these persons who I consider my closest friends, we understand each other and we have understood each other beyond the socializing scene, and I am going to miss being in as frequent contact with them as I had been previously.

I was remembering, but I was not reliving.

I do not want to relive the aches and pains of a worn down body. I do not want to relive that day in Freshman year when I could not imagine staying in the place where I was physically deteriorating.

Pearls - I always thought pearls and not diamonds, gold, or silver, suited me. The only pearls I owned were studs and they broke earlier this year as the pearl rolled away from the golden scaffolding that held it in place.

Yet another Penn-related fall-out… literally.

I came back home to find newly returned pearls.

I had just arrived home- yes, the home-coming post-college. We were going to Gurudwara and since I was going to where the remnants and artifacts of spirituality are housed, I naturally went to get ready.

Applying a tinted lip gloss, pearls, and draping a simple Punjabi dupatta over my shoulders, partially exposing my Penn crew-neck and gray harem-inspired pants, I looked in the mirror -

Flashback: A Sunday morning and I am wearing Indian attire that transcends the dancing scene and makes its way into Gurudwara- the routine. It feels so natural, being in New York but wearing Salwar Kameez. 

Not anymore - It doesn’t feel natural. I look in the mirror and I see a mature face: A chiseled jaw line and somewhat hazy eyes. I see a side bun that rests atop my right shoulder elegantly. My hair is rolled along side my head creating a lady-like affect. My hair is incredibly thinner than before but somehow suits this mature Reshmi.

I feel aged, I feel like I am going to Gurudwara not as a routine task but as a necessary task - to soul search, to give thanks, to connect and converse with something that is wrongfully characterized as intangible and/or abstract.`

Remembering is not reliving -

XLIV. Smart Is Beautiful -

“Beauty doesn’t live forever. It dies with everything that dies.”

                                                           - The Collaborator, by Mirza Waheed

“Genius without education is like silver in the mine.”

                                                          - Quotation on the wall of Claudia Cohen Hall - Home of the College of Arts & Sciences at the University of Pennsylvania and home of my major field of study, Health & Societies.

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To be smart and/or genius with regards to academia, knowledge of fields of study that people are educated in at institutions of study, is incredibly attractive - indeed smart is beautiful.

Just imagine those overwhelmingly tall and leggy females with windblown hair who amble around in patloon-styled voluminous shorts with a long-sleeved, over sized sweater when it is merely forty degrees Fahrenheit outside and despite being sunny, there is a windchill temperature of thirty-something.

Look at how stupid they are… My mom and I think, (and then my mom verbalizes), as we both walk on the same New York city sidewalk pass those women, clad in our black pea-coats. We are walking at an adrenaline - triggered pace, purposefully so as to pass the stupidity that masks any beauty that could have otherwise existed.

Pushed by the wind into the highrise, I open my dorm suite door and shed my always lint adhesive, once black, now seemingly dark gray, pea-coat.

My roommates and I, senior undergraduates and all of Indian heritage, discuss our futures post-graduation. Inevitably we turn to marriage.

After countless evaluations, quasi-confrontations, and mutual analysis, we came to realize that the one component of our prince that we were not willing to compromise on, was the intellect he needed to have - and I suppose religion, and age.

We would cite males who had almost made the cut.

What did they all have in common? They all could carry out witty, significant, and effortless conversation. References in all disciplines did not go unnoticed.

Smart is indeed beautiful -

Natural stone, like silver, is no doubt beautiful. But if that beauty is not exposed under any gaze, the beauty remains  unnoticed. Genius without education is genius unnoticed.

Perhaps I agree with Penn about something.

Perhaps, but I doubt it.

This quotation is incredibly abridged if not censored and political correctness is hanging over this wall panel just as the brown/purple and anything but white clouds hang low over campus, the weather forever cast-over, worse than Iceland’s half year of darkness.

Genius without a reputation, a name, and prestige is of no use and I agree. Unfortunate for some, maybe for myself even, but there it is.

Is it possible to no longer be beautiful after one’s beauty has, at some point in time, been realized?

According to Mirza Waheed, Kashmiri journalist and writer, beauty can die.

If beauty is to be smart, then smartness can also die.

Waheed has certainly made beauty equivalent to life - logically, no one can disagree with him.

But then I remember what my parents told me: No matter what, being beautiful, dressing well and maintaining one’s appearance, will make your life infinitely smoother than if you do not, regardless of how accomplished your resume is.

I was in a flux during high school when they told me this - I remember, focusing so intently on my studies that I purposely neglected my attire. One weekend, not surprisingly, my mother and I went shopping.

This time my forever-chic and classic New Yorker - style exuding aunt would be joining us; And so I let down my hair from the tightly wound bun into an oxygen-porous side pony tail, and wore one of the precious dresses I owned at the time.

Every shop we went into every single employee - from the adolescent cum Hollister model to the twenty-something trendy students to the hipster/boho-chic dwellers of oblivion - asked me if I needed help and commented on the Long Island weather.

The amount of smartness in the above scenario was close to non-existent - it was, for all intensive purposes, dead, but beauty was thriving.

Conclusion:

1. Smart is beautiful.

2. Brand name (per se), smartness is precious (stone). (*Reference: UPenn wall panel)

3.(A non-physical) Beauty (that can die) is life. (*Reference: Mirza Waheed’s writing.)

Life is beautiful, so let’s live life smartly: To the end of my undergraduate career! - Cheers! -

XLIII. Posession, Application, and Quirkiness-

Just because you have fingers does not mean that you have dexterity.

Just because you have dexterity does not make you a surgeon.

Just because you have quirks, doesn’t make you quirky.

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The second clause in the above three statements is conditional.

I choose to exert my finger muscles by forming defined gestures in dance.

I also chose to form a synapse which houses dexterity by playing piano scales in sharp, flat, and harmonic.

After said synapses deteriorated due to lack of piano practice, I still had developed dexterity.

Though not because of this development, I still want to, and know that I can, become a surgeon.

What about possessing quirks though?

Quirks, by definition, are oddities,  strange likes and/or dislikes, practices, hobbies, or perhaps abilities.

Having quirks does not necessarily mean that one is quirky, or does it?

Opening a container of vegetables only to find fuzz on some, but not all the old once red now turned green, bell peppers, and slicing the fuzzy pieces off the rest of the salvageable mood-ring-like peppers, changing colors almost as if it were at once sad and then nauseatingly happy, is not a quirk that you can call quirky.

It is just wrong, not to mention weird and if you do this you are an oddball; you’re not quirky.

Definitions of quirky are all written with an accusatory tone.

To be quirky is a good thing. Being quirky is the equivalent of someone wearing the most tacky of outfits but still looking awesome because they themselves are effortlessly carrying it off.

Key word: effortlessly - Having quirks  are not something that you intentionally cause to exist. They just do.

Perhaps that is why being quirky became translated from being something desired to something that is just much “too good” to be true. It does not mean that you’re not mainstream in that you obnoxiously attempt to avoid what other people do at all costs,  although most quirks are completely individualistic, but it does mean that you are your own being.

All humans can be quirky, it just a matter of applying it and how you apply your possession of quirks is by knowing yourself, your complete being, and being real.

This is all very abstract, so here are some of my quirks:

1. I cannot bring myself to listen to the Gilmore Girls title song when I am not at home otherwise a pit forms in my stomach and so I quickly fast-forward the streaming despite the tenfold increased chance of the video freezing.

2. (Similar context to 1.) I cannot bring myself to listen to Mohammad Rafi songs if I know I won’t see my dad for weeks.

3. I can only eat moongi dal (Indian lentil – yellow-colored) with rice.

4. I can only eat chana dal (Indian lentil – orange/yellow-colored) with some type of bread and/or cracker if my mom is tired– (God knows I don’t cook).

5. I don’t like eating ice cream on a cone, eating yogurt, eating pudding, or consuming a lollipop because all involve the repeated act of licking. I don’t care if it’s my own mouth, it’s disgusting, nuff’ said -

We all posses these quirks, it’s just a matter of not conforming to the point of purposely doing the exact opposite of what you want; like if I were to force myself to eat yogurt.

Applying the quirks you posses, in essence, being quirky, is to know yourself completely and in totality.

I cannot imagine not knowing everything about myself -

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- and that is why I know I am ready to leave Penn in nineteen days because I would rather spend twenty days in a healthy environment where I can once again flourish and not silently suffer here any longer - there is the answer to the question I so hate to hear: “but why?” .

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The more people that know themselves will result in more people that can apply themselves in at least some form, which results in more quirky people.

Imagine a world full of us - perhaps not applying ourselves in every discipline and at every turn of life, but at least applying our quirks.

To be quirky, (for me: being silky), is one more way of making life a little less hard to navigate.

XLII. Famous vs. Infamous - The Possible Intersection B/N Being Positive and Making a (Positive) Difference

“Famous” and “infamous” are essentially one and the same.

To be described as either is to be known, dually noted — to not be unknown nor obscure.

These adjectives differ in their connotation, however.

POSITIVE: When you are “famous”, you are celebrated, illustrious; you are commemorated and conferred  with acclaim.

NEGATIVE: When you’re “infamous”, you are disreputable, notorious, and scandalized.

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*Note that being famous and/or infamous cannot be neutral.

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NEUTRAL: To Make a Difference - Never Reflexive and absolutely no self-gain.

Making a difference neutrally is by practicing philanthropy, giving monetary donations, and getting your hair trimmed, (that is to say, less than an inch of hair is cut, such that the hairdresser does not make a profit since a more drastic and costlier haircut cannot occur seeing as you are getting your hair trimmed.)

POSITIVE: You can make a difference positively by either: 1. Preventing OR 2. Advancing.

Preventing an inhumane act from occurring and advancing a discipline of study through work ethic, commitment, discovery and advancing the day or life of someone else by comforting someone, offering moral support, opening the door for someone holding the average American amount of grocery (a lot), are all positive ways in which a difference is made.

NEGATIVE:

When you are attempting to make a difference but instead are serving no one but yourself, acting on a micro-scale, and are successful only in attracting attention, stirring emotion, and causing temporary controversy; temporary because your claimed cause for which you are acting is completely out of context.

(I didn’t realize that my university, situated in the Northeast of the United States of America suddenly shifted to the fulcrum between what historically is regarded as East and West.)

Don’t you want to make a difference?

A penny cannot make a difference and traveling to the most underprivileged of places and afterwards making a Facebook album of you surrounded by little kids in raggedy attire and matted hair cannot make a difference. Instead, you’re paving a path for a self-fulfilling prophecy: Time to update the Resume!

Sometimes Every second of everyday I wonder how I can make a difference and contribute to society.

The long-term and most profoundly fulfilling answer for me, is to practice medicine.

Visits to the hospital growing up were plenty but nowhere else did I have the peace of mind to know that I would be good as new just as soon as the person, hanger to the white coat and adorned with the stethoscope, would exam me.

Though this is not how everyone who falls ill feels, it is certainly what everyone who falls ill knows.

Regardless, how else can a positive difference be made if one did not want to become a physician, did not become a physician despite possibly wanting to be one (at first), and those like myself, who will not state the Hippocratic Oath for some time?

There are indeed plenty of other ways to make a positive difference.

The valid question is: Is making a positive difference preceded by the pre-requisite to be positive?

Even as far as medicine is concerned, being positive is considered a healthy mental state.

Constantly feeling unhappy is certainly not conducive to anything but making time seem prolonged so that the days seem to drag, causing headaches and irritability.

Laughter relieves stress, causes our musculature, especially our facial muscles to become elastic, relaxed, and consequently stretch, and causes us to breathe heavier thereby increasing our pulse that in turns circulates oxygen more efficiently than before.

I ask this question because I feel that in the past four years of college I have not made a positive difference and seeing as I am not going straight to medical school nor do I have the finances to travel and congregate the necessary resources that are required in making a positive difference, I feel I have arrived at a stalemate.

I have only acted within these four years in order to advance my intellect as well as establish a place in the realm of academia.

As I continued to dwell upon my inability to make a positive difference since being at Penn I realized another consistent theme since my dwelling became a box-like dormitory room:

I have been/am not very positive.

Is there a connection? Does society not respond to a lack of positivity?

It is true that when a stranger smiles at you while walking on the sidewalk, you smile back at them, despite two seconds earlier supporting a palpable grimace.

I think that, and this(below), are the answer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L5ya8J-jyK4

Holler at your homefry-

XLI A. The Inspiration Wall -

“In my early years as a fashion editor, I worked with Norman Parkinson; who was a really big photographer and he taught me to ‘always keep your eyes open’. You know, never go to sleep in the car or anything like that. Keep watching because whatever you see out of the window, or wherever, it can inspire you.”

                         - Grace Coddington, VOGUE (American) Creative Director

Quotation taken from:

The September Issue: Anna Wintour and The Making of VOGUE

– A film by R.J. Cutler

XLI. The Inspiration Wall -

We all know what “The College Wall” looks like. It is a designated space in a room that is covered with school paraphernalia, print-outs of Google images that came up from the search “Insert University Name here Logo”, and mail that was either sent to you because the school finds you incredibly appealing (or so you think), and mail that you requested yourself.

Usually, this conglomerate of paper is not actually superimposed onto a wall. No, the “wall” usually is a bulletin board that is hanging on a wall, or in my case : a now perforated closet door.

We want to go to a particular university. In Post XXIV. I mentioned how I had obsessed over a school.

I had an epiphany yesterday.

I was quite literally wallowing in grief. I felt myself whirling around endlessly; Imagine looking into a toilet that won’t stop flushing.

Every so often a whimper bubbles up. Why am I taking this oddball path to medical school?

Negative energy forces my facial muscles to support a grimace and occupies my mind.

I went from being lost while walking to the library, to being lost on stage, and being lost while walking back the linear path to my dorm room.

I realize -

that those people who are being showered with congratulations for their linear path are incredibly interesting at the moment, until they once again disappear from sight only to emerge four years later with an expected acceptance elsewhere. Why? Because they are who they are. Despite being expected, their acceptance is still surprising because well, they who they are.

However, forever interesting are those who travel in a wayward fashion on a linear track - those who are able to transform a line traced in pavement, even while people are walking.

The linear, (aforementioned), forever-congratulated, spectator, observes the recreating of the linear path and it seems to them like the mobile staircases in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

They are skeptical of this magical prowess, and ask how?

Ironically, much the way those who recreate linear paths when observing those  who travel the linear paths ask - how is it that…?

Then there are the other spectators who observe the recreation of the linear path much the way those in the audience of talent shows watch the scary man bend a metal pole with his bare hands.

They regard you, forever-interesting, non-linear person that you are, with interest.

I guess this is what I meant when I told my mom that it’s a competitive world and I wanted to stir fear lest I am out of the running. No, I do not want to invoke bad karma.

What I do want to do is provoke the spectators much like the scary man who can bend the metal pole does; I want to make an otherwise linear path bend according to the footsteps I take.

I want to color outside the lines in such a way so that the lines become the internal content of a larger, more encompassing shape that provides new external lines, created by myself.

I realize now that the college wall is linear.

The college wall is what I want and nothing more.

The college wall is the equivalent of the high school student tour groups. How are you so sure that you will gain admittance here? How can you deign to visit the most selective institutions of study in the world without thinking to apply first, see if you gain admittance, and then pick and choose?

Perhaps they are part of the linear bunch - it is expected that they will get what they want.

Ambition and desires remain, but you have to break a part the linearity - be the resistor to the “Paint” program in Windows that always favors straight edges.

What is more applicable then, is the “Inspiration Wall”.

What do you have to do to get where you want to be? - what motivates you…

…and enables you to remain true to yourself;

Living life with a personality, laughing when something is funny, reducing the chance of permanent lines etched across your still unmarried, unengaged, unsuited upon face, and forces you to stay POSITIVE.

The Inspiration Wall accomplishes this.

That which inspires you is coming to a wall near you. -

XL. Wait, So Sarcasm Doesn't Exist Here.............. I'm Speechless -

That was my reaction when I traveled to another country a year and a half ago.

My finely-tuned anecdotal-like responses, thought up of on the fly and ready to be verbalized…

… could not be stated.

____________________________________________________________________

It was as if I were a pilot in a fighter plane with my thumb firmly planted on the red (media-influenced) button that once I pressed down would release the ammo out into the air, but instead I had to bring myself to lift my thumb off the button and make sure my elbow and any other extraneous pilot gear did not accidentally press the button down.

____________________________________________________________________

And by accidental I mean both the literal meaning of the word “accidental”, to happen without purpose or not deliberately, as well as the passive-aggressive “accidental”, describing something that one deliberately makes happen (without any witnesses of what happened having been your doing), that could have otherwise happened accidentally regardless.

It’s crazy to think that snide remarks said in American English cannot be translated in another language - the impossibility of exposing a culture to the ability to cause someone else to think, “How appropriate!” or “He/She did not just say that to my face!”, is ridiculous.

Throughout life we’re taught, and rightfully so, that we should be direct, honest, and respectful.

As children, most of us abide by the above. Perhaps, up until we’re seniors in high school.

____________________________________________________________________

I clearly remember being part of a group assignment in seventh-grade science class.

This one girl, who I’m still friends with on Facebook ten years later, was annoying the crap out of me.

I don’t know the details of my biological reaction that caused me to do the following: I had yelled, “Shut up!”

All of us were slightly shaken but were well-grounded enough to carry out the instinctive response of turning over our shoulder to see if the teacher had heard me.

He didn’t - Phew -

After that day we respected each other and became good friends - akin to Rory and Paris’s odd friendship on the no longer aired Gilmore Girls.

____________________________________________________________________

However, having entered the college-world and the career lifestyle post-graduation, being up-front and direct is frowned upon.

You cannot bubble up “Shut up!” at anyone and everyone, otherwise you’re fired.

You must be passive-aggressive- You’re forced into being so and if you accept this fact, then you can be a master of the art…

….which I believe myself to be, unfortunately.

My eyes will bore into yours and I will squint, but not blink, to emphasize how much I hate you right now and all the other times this once-a-week three hour class meets.

You have understood.

You have understood that I detest you’re non-stop talking without contributing, racking up undeserved participation points like no other.

You have understood that the one professor I have respected in my almost four years in college, I have now lost respect for because she cannot see through your obnoxious chatter and un-classy retaliation in the seminar room that you have turned into a summit in the Middle East.

- - VOLTA - -

The ironic truth is that us adults can still live according to the tenets of being direct, respectful, and honest.

It is understood that we cannot go up to a person and tell them that we hate them, especially in a professional setting.

It is understood that can we can never physically harm anyone, even if its to shove them on the arm - It’s not like violence would be permitted when we were children either.

Being direct doesn’t mean direct physical contact (unless you’re in a battle-field, are in a military force and serving against the opposition, and/or in the context of self-defense.)

And suddenly I believe I have regained respect for that professor who reminded me that passive-aggressiveness is not natural.

The professor, last week, e-mailed the seminar a Microsoft Word document with three questions concerning the current structure of the class. Despite having to remain anonymous, we could directly state our opinions - the whole and honest truth.

In turn, she was direct with us - why would any of us take time out of our day to write up responses to this survey if it was not going to be graded?

Two extra credit points on the next assignment -

Oh yes - And so I wrote out, in my classic diction without trying to conceal my identity to the point of maneuvering my language and writing style, the full truth - One person “dominates” the class discussion and feels the need to morph the classroom into a debate. Said person seems to retaliate…

You get the gist of my complaints evaluations on the class thus far.

It is true, this world is not a utopia and I am anything but the optimist.

Passive-aggressiveness seems to become habitual at times when it is unnecessary.

As a result, we have to be passive-aggressive - #survivalofthefittestyo, but at the same time, if the opportunity for direct, honest, and respectful communication arises, utilize it.

The world can become a better place, really -

XXXIX. Symptoms Like to Mock -

You know those fish bowl - like contraptions that sit on top of astronaut’s shoulders and that encloses their head as though the head will occupy a space on some sort of mantle-like surface in the near future?

Don’t you feel like that when you’re sick?

I feel like that right now - as if every breath exerts a gargantuan amount of Krebs’ cycles. 

The nasal congestion, the runny nose, the vacant feeling in the stomach, the raspy voice, the heavy lids, and the weakness at the tips of my fingers that ache with each letter being thus typed -I’m sick.

If I go to the doctor nurse practitioner at Student Health Services, they’ll send me to CVS to buy cold medicine.

Here’s to running the course of this sickness - flying solo - hopefully to wake up tomorrow with a dried out nose and…

… Two days later -

Two days ago I woke up from a five-minute slumber only to find my astronaut-characteristic fish-bowl enclosed head on the non-sterilized keyboard of the computer in the campus’s main library.

I’m still sick - worse than the prior days in some ways and not in others. 

What?

________________________________________________________________

I saw a doctor for the first time after almost four completed years in college and left with the information that some water went into my lungs-

but, it’s not serious!

No antibiotics for you!

Oh, did you know that you heart makes a funny sound?

No… I didn’t know that. Are you sure?

Nothing serious though!

_________________________________________________________________

I trust medicine. Really, I do - that is why I left the physician’s office feeling more than satisfied.

_________________________________________________________________

He emphasized that I was on the tail-end of this sickness and had a virus.

Mom: Did he take blood work? No right? How could he know that you don’t have an infection!

That’s true….

Still, mom, the heartbeat thing- not serious - apparently a large percentage of the population has it- totally normal.

 Mom: If it’s not serious why did he mention it! He said all these things but didn’t prescribe you anything!

No, no he didn’t prescribe me anything.

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How is it that when we finally decide to go to the doctor, our symptoms subside and/or disappear?

We walk into the clinical arena, ready to fight - we’re armed with information, questions, and a decided-upon description of our symptoms - as accurately as possible: We have tailored the diction to precisely map out our feeling-

It was a tingling; a fizzing of sorts…. Yes, all along here (furiously glides the air in front of the axis from the chest to the stomach). Right -

Wrong- all wrong. Why? The doctor smirks now.

He’s never heard of that one and he’s pretty sure that all your effort filtered into the finely tailored-description of how you’re feeling was a waste on your part.

In fact, he’s oblivious to the fact that you put any effort into articulating your suffering at all.

This is not the fault of medicine but the fault of our self-inflicted doubt, constant analysis, and normal dislike of being sick -

Mom: Go to the Emergency Room and get a blood test and x-rays of your chest.

Concluding point:

College – Being away from your kin is not as Ernest Gellner had described in Nations and Nationalism: equivalent to modernization and the benefit of mankind’s place in the future and intellectual development.

When in this temporary zone of nocturnal beings, we have no primary care physicians and are subjugated to spending a day in an Emergency Room to get adequate care.

Student Health Services was just a placebo - a compensation for our inability to feng shui our own dorm rooms, (what with candles being a fire hazard and all).

Here’s to 2 months, two weeks, and three days -

XXXVIII. Ready & Willing -

How do you measure enthusiasm?

Exclamation marks are slowly being phased out save for “English-as-a-second language” books that aim to provide the soon to be Anglicized readers with an understanding of how to express one’s self  - your voice rises an octave at the end of a question and so forth.

Exclamation marks are not looked upon favorably- they are understood to be an obnoxious and juvenile hieroglyphic.

I just applied to a summer internship. How would they understand my enthusiasm for this position? Right - my availability: subtle but telling, no?

All days of the week; Full-time (*8 hours or more/ day), May - August 2012.

“All days of the week?” This sounds a little too eager.

Monday-Friday; Full-time (*8 hours or more/ day), May - August 2012.

My confirmation e-mail of their office having received my anthropomorphized e-mail, stated that I would only receive further, non-computerized contact, if chosen for an interview that apparently was highly unlikely seeing as how the volume of applicants was excessive.

Earlier this year, I had applied to post-graduation programs that would help propel me into medical school. These programs are prestigious and competitive to gain admittance to because they are so successful in getting their students admitted into medical school. However, these programs are not a necessary step for getting into medical school - there are other ways.

Again I had to express my enthusiasm. To practice medicine is a passion I have possessed since my first memory of being in a clinical setting - I was getting vaccinated.

My personal statement was starting to read as though someone had administered an injection into my brain matter where thoughts are housed, and extracted the contents onto the paper that I had printed with cerebrospinal fluid for ink, and now held in my hands.

What if the admissions officers took this level of intimacy and passion as a sign that someone needs the seat in their program more than myself?

That is to say, what if they say:

This girl is so motivated and wants to be a physician so much that she will no doubt find a way to be a doctor and gain a seat in medical school. She doesn’t need this program to get where she wants to be. From the sound of her personal statement, it seems that she will not let anything hinder her from becoming the surgeon she wants to be.

No-

I may be strong and stubborn - resistant to anyone who dares to deny me a future in which I am something other than a physician, a surgeon - but I need this.

I am ready and willing to disrupt my peace of mind and my life-plan.

I am ready and willing to relinquish my fervor and need to attack when confronted - confronted with questions tainted with skepticism, concerning my oddball path to that white room adorned with two diplomas and a bowl of mithai in place of the lollipop/chocolate concoction that all the other American physicians keep as an offering to their patients.

I hereby offer my prayers -

XXXVII. Sharing is Caring -

My journalism professor brought to my attention that when we write, we are fundamentally communicating something.

Communicare -

He wrote the above, apparently a verb in Latin, on the blackboard in the bedroom-turned classroom located within an actual house on campus-turned Ivy university building -

Yes, they were even hipster back then… or just plain hippie.

The professor proceeded to ask who had taken Latin.

I had raised my hand because I had indeed taken Latin for two years about four years ago. The dude professor is scatter-brained and absent-minded, though a genius journalist and passionate writer. As a result, he disregarded me saying that I had forgotten what I had learned and do not claim to know the widely regarded but misleadingly wrong, dead language by any means.

And so the silence that ensues during a pause in speech only ended according to the tenets of the homeopathic theory of medicine. That is to say, an awkward pause could only end/be cured/be resolved, by something else that is awkward.

That something else was my awkward response of a nervous quasi-giggle followed by, “I don’t know.”

To no avail, someone else had to immediately chirp in during the time the last of my breath was being expelled post-final syllable “know” and before I could again inhale.

“To share! Communicare means to share something.”

Sayee hai!   — That is right!

I still think I waver and yet co-exist in the medium plane that exists between the uni-lingual and bilingual, as well as the medium plane between the bilingual and trilingual. I can understand more than one language for sure; The speaking and writing however, (naturally I cannot write something down if I cannot first express it verbally), are severely lacking.

I need a book in front of me at all times, (in the case that I do decide to sit down and write from right to left in a script I have somewhat mastered), assuring me of when to use the subjunctive mood and what the future tense is.

However, even then, more than some intricacies of language - sarcasm, otherwise insignificant two-syllable post-positions, and necessary filler words - only come to the natural speaker.

English - my vernacular- the language of my first spoken and written word, and arguably the most complicated of languages - ever-evolving: cursive script, print, block letters, graffiti, jargon, punctuation-saturated, hyphen-aware, and technologically competent, encompassing symbols such as the “at” symbol - a modern-day hieroglyphics of sorts.

The English language is my home-frizzle - it is something I can call my own.

I find refuge in the all-inclusive exclusivity that it possesses. That is to say, synonyms galore had created the need for thesauruses and had even provoked a competition among dictionaries: Webster’s, The Oxford English Dictionary,  dictionary.com, etc.

I find refuge in the ability to manipulate words, to indulge in my knowledge of “ck” = “c” = k".

I find refuge in the fact that I can assess the underlying tone redolent in the diction and sentence structure of oratory or scribed language…

…all the while observing the international students, richly endowed with the education their families paid for, falling short of understanding the back-handed comments and the sly and sleuth of my homie, the English language.

That is not to say that any language is inferior.

I think the English language is unsophisticated- raw, direct, rude and ugly-sounding. This is in stark contrast to the majestic nasalized and aspirated South and Central Asian languages that have Indic-Arabic roots.

I believe you, me, and others whose first and only language of fluency is American English, feel the same way - at least in reference to the English language.

However, esteemed physician-Author, Khaled Hosseini, in an introduction for fellow writer and Afghan, Atiq Rahimi quoted Rahimi having stated:

“…a kind of involuntary self-censorship has come into play when I’ve written in Persian. My acquired language [French] , the one I have chosen, gives me a kind of freedom to express myself, away from this self-censorship and an unconsciousness shame that dwells in us since childhood.”

I cannot attest to sharing this sentiment - wielder of the English language that I and many others who are born-Americans (though I consider myself Indian - citizenship or not), are.

However, me not being able to relate to Rahimi’s idea of only being able to uninhibitedly express ones’ self in a language other than one’s first language also attests to my dislike of the English language - there is no relevant Eastern tradition in it- no cultural norms- no censorship according to said cultural norms - no moods that can be taken to mean one thing and not another according to how the words sound when vocalized;  direct rudeness is non-existent.

And so I am that American born, self-considered Indian, technically half-Spanish, dual English language wielder and lover -

that is, until I have mastered another language -

a language that happens to reside in the same cultural scope that Rahimi had alluded to -

XXXVI. What Qualifies as Hypocritical?

I see you.

I see you inhaling your entire being inside of you; so that the built up pressure of air that was internalized causes your eyes to bulge and dilate.

This is what you were going for.

You want your pupils to be dilated, creating a pseudo-concern, a concern to stall - to keep avoiding me for as long as you can before you pass out from lack of air.

Your brain, concerned with the self-inflicted lack of oxygen, causes your pupils to be directed so that your line of sight is straight in front of you…

…defying the concept of periphery…

… and denying the fact that someone you have known, to the extent that is just shy of friendship but cumulatively much more than an acquaintanceship, is not there.

I am not there.

But she is there.

I am there, I was right in front of you and you will forever be irrelevant to anyone else who you play this little game with - forever to blame for making life more complicated than it should be.

__________________________________________________________________

I understand that one can be oblivious to someone they should acknowledge by means of greeting or at least making eye contact and shaping one’s mouth into a slightly upturned vestige of a smile.

There are many a time when I may not see someone until the very moment that our profiles are almost exactly parallel to each other - that is to say, the moment before we pass each other.

Sure such last-minute eye contact will result in an awkward turning of the head over the shoulder and a scream-like “hi, how are you” from both persons. Both will continue to walk, most likely in opposite directions, and both parties will not expect an audible answer akin to, “I’m fine”, from the other…

…but, it’s a mutual awkward obligation that also satisfies the primordial human need for non-combative human contact.

I also understand those times when you consciously try to avoid someone.

More times than not, I have avoided people; I was aware of their presence nearing my own self.

Sorry, but I was not in the mood to communicate.

Hypocritical much?

No -

I’m not in any mood to communicate a blatant lie about not feeling as I truly feel - whether that be upset, helpless, homesick, unsure, contemplative, or more positively- giddy and/or dreamy.

I do not wish to communicate with you in a way that would cause you to believe that I am reacting to your being, when in fact, I am predisposed to the circumstances that were-

prior to me coming into contact with you…

… but I don’t blatantly, in front of your face, under your gaze, or in your periphery, ignore you.

__________________________________________________________________

I dislike socializing and small talk, but I also do not wish to make life more complicated by creating an awkwardness.

In this situation, you would probably indulge in the idea of taking the initiative to adhere to what is accepted as correct social propriety, and so you acknowledge him/her - that irrelevant person who you really could care less about-

You give him a simple nodding of the head, a semi- smile, or a blink that successfully satisfies their need to be noticed -

In their defense, to be noticed is a universal human need that has to be satisfied. (The degree to which it must be satisfied is what differs from person - to - person.)

So you acknowledge that person who is someone you neither love nor is in anyway related to you = he/she is irrelevant.

All the while this irrelevant person, with the dilated eyes, is exerting energy into firing brain-derived synaptic signals for the sole purpose of deciding how to deal with you -

You - that unwelcome an/or unexpected passerby-er.

__________________________________________________________________

That person who had held his/her breath - you know who you are.

Yes, I am talking about people like you, (maybe like myself too but since I am aware of the likes of you I no longer find mysef in your company), and maybe you thought I wouldn’t.

Don’t feel special though- you’re irrelevant.

Yes, I allowed my red, streak-strewn face TO take the initiative to acknowledge you.

In all honesty, it was a mistake.

I will NOT acknowledge anyone anymore. Why?

Because I am a disciple and follower only of One.

And so, I willed myself, successfully until yesterday, not to acknowledge your presence, much how you did when you held your breath and pretended not have a peripheral vision.

Maybe you should get some help for that carpal tunnel problem you have -

Was I ‘hypocritical much’ for willing myself to not acknowledge you as you had not acknowledged me?

Yes -

- and yet I did acknowledge you.

It was a reflex for me to look up, make eye contact, and acknowledge the likes of irrelevant people like yourself.

__________________________________________________________________

How telling such a reflex is, the reflex to wave…

  ….such that even my hypocrisy has abandoned itself -