I should stop writing traveling posts.
But they're just happening to me these days. Even on what was supposed to be the most theistic and annoying trip of years, I managed to find something that moves me.
We saw a touch-me-not plant, which is the first of the amazing things that happened. It still surprises me that they actually shrivel away from your touch; reminds me of a certain friend I have :D I finally got to see something that my mom's always told me first hand stories from her childhood about.
And then we saw windmills- no, not far off in the distance on some mountain like we normally do, we saw the parts being carried on trucks. A single vane was longer than the longest truck I ever remember to have seen. We drove past it at around 100 kmph while it was stationery, and still took us a good three or four seconds to reach the end, where the vane was sticking out a few metres longer than the truck. How amusing that I used to make tiny paper windmills when I was a kid and think they were magnificent creation; if only I'd known the magnificence of they were depicting.
We even happened to see a Primary Health Centre and a Centre of Excellence. I hate reading Community Medicine, but I honestly wanted to get off the car and check out those places, and see more of what I'd been reading about all along. In postings we do the same thing, but this was different; it was a real Primary Health Centre in a real village! I felt so Julia Roberts-y from Eat, Pray, Love in my own country.
Stepping right into fog after a homam at six a.m. was pretty surprising too. We shivered as the cold hit us right down to beneath our skin, but didn't leave because we couldn't believe how unexpectedly beautiful it was. Who would've thought I'd get amazing pics in this trip? My little cousin turned into quite the photographer.
Sitting in the backseat of an Innova alone with the rest of my family asleep, taking pictures of random mountains and houses and motorcyles along the highway- this feels like a small preview into how my much awaited big-girl trip all alone is going to feel.  My friends say that a trip alone would only make you think and then overthink, making you depressed. Au contraire, I'm having the best time of my life alone; it's how I've always liked to be.

Looking out, with the sun in my eye
At the wide roads that fly by,
Oh, these sceneries that make me sigh
Right now, this is where I could just die.

Stuck between science and what's not.

Being a medical student in a family that doesn't know the difference between cytoplasm and conjunctiva, there's one dilemma I often find myself in; which works better? Science or belief? Superstition or logic?
Of course the answer is obvious, but is it really? Medicine has only one constant, and that is that there's really nothing constant. What works for a person doesn't work for another, and what works some is nothing short of medical miracle. There are always exceptions to every rule and explanations to why things don't work the way they're supposed to. As a mediocre third year student just stuck at the bottom of the ladder, dreading the possibility each day that I might simply fall off of it instead of going up, I didn't have a right over it to make definite statements, but from where I stand, medicine isn't math. It's really smack in the middle of science, logic, art, common sense, variation, psychology and the unknown.
To make matters more perplexed than ever, my mother practices alternative medicine. Nothing's confused me more than to watch it work; HOW DOES IT HAPPEN? It makes no sense! The confidence is stunning, as is the finality with which such assertive statements are made about something that is criticised by so many officials.
I've read about it; nothing about it feels based on concrete evidence. There's proof that homeopathy doesn't work. There've been hundreds of trials and systematic studies that have resulted in official evidence to say so; I've countless stories of the uselessness and even dangers of it, heard countless people take a jab at those who believe in it.
If only I could claim heartfully that it doesn't work. There's no denying that I am a tiny bit ashamed of myself every time I wonder if maybe, just maybe, it does? How can a doctor believe in what seems to be the opposite of her own subject?
But, no one bothers to explain the things I've seen, with my own eyes. A first hand experience always means more to you than papers which say your experiences are false. My experiences are false? What does that even mean?
How many success stories can you dismiss as "just by chance" or "a miracle"?
Of course there are explanations- the placebo effect, the effect of psychology on health that's constituted a whole new branch of study called "Health Psychology", the role of beliefs; all these things definitely do have a part in medicine. But really, do those things explain every case that's been treated by faith, by superstition or by alternative medicine?
"I believe there's place for prayer, but it's outside the OR." I was always one to believe that, but what do you say when you've seen it work alone, without an OR? And honestly, when it comes down to a choice, how many of us wouldn't try the easier way out, even if we don't believe in it, just to take a shot in the dark and see if by some miracle, it really does work? Especially when the standard, tested and formulated way is proven to be clearly less than 100% effective with quite a few undesirable after effects, very few would jump into it readily when there's a possibility of an alternative.
It took me being a theist, then an atheist to finally turn agnostic; there's so much satisfaction in just being able to say "I don't know. These things are much beyond the human race and no one has a right to claim they're one hundred percent correct, because there will always be someone else to prove them wrong in some or the other way. These are the debates which always seem to reach an end but are like an asymptote."
And maybe that will forever be my final verdict on this as well.

What is this world, like a two faced Professor Quirrel, the one that's usually visible, timid and at our mercy always, only to turn around and unmask the evils that it's ridden with, hunger, poverty, and inequality? What is this world, pleasant as long as you make it to be, yet also unsettling as you let it be?
What is this world, where people readily lend you a hand and give you their all, even without reciprocation, yet people can be abodes of jealousy, anger, hatredand vindictiveness? What is this world, where sometimes, both these kinds of people are found in the same person?
What is this world, where nothing stays constant; everything is dynamic. It's gone before you blink, and when you open your eyes again it's irrevocable- though only till you next blink again.
What is this world where there's no good or bad, only better or worse, though it changes based on where you're looking at it from?
How do people manage to find even a smidgen of constancy in such a world? And is that at all something to strive to achieve? 

The fear that's within.

There's something unsettling on my mind and I just can't figure out exactly what it is. Nowadays it feels like I've lost my knack for writing; it was my first impulsive go-to before, but it isn't the same anymore. I'm scared that I'm not good at it, which is rather sad, because that's never what I meant to be. Why am I afraid of not being good at it when that never was the point anyway? Maybe because I suddenly find that it should have been, that there should have been a bit more direction to it than for it to always stay a useless ability? That maybe there's no place for you in this big, bad world if you have nothing amazing to contribute to it?
There's so many things to be afraid of around us, and that scares me. It's suddenly hit me that the magnitude of danger that chance could land us in, at any point of time is far more than I could ever fathom; how can anyone ever be happy (unless by distraction) when there's always the fear of something huge, something sudden that can change everything? How do we manage to enjoy each day while we're surrounded by such dark things that are so much bigger than us? Of course there's always the fear of not being loved or accepted, the fear of failure and the fear of rejection but those are the smallest fears now; or are they? How do you measure the size of something without anything bigger to measure it with? If I were to become paralysed, would I trade being lovable and accepted for limbs that would work again? The answer seems obvious. But then again, it doesn't.
Worse than anything before, there's the fear of the unknown. Looks like I've been hurled out of my teens two years too late, because until recently, I was sure I knew everything. I really don't; I don't even know the different ways I could be messing up, if every waking moment I spend, if every random conversation I have with every random person is a step closer to digging my own grave- If all I'm doing out here, all the time, is just making my own future worse for myself. Even every moment spent in absolute silence and dormancy could be regretted for having been whiled away, and every moment of action and unrest could be regretted for having been carried out wrong. Do I lie back and let myself sail in the direction of least resistance? Or have I already been led astray enough; do I take a stance to make a difference, even though I'm not sure of the right way to go?
What do you do about all the things you hate about yourself? The simple answer is "change yourself" but of course that's not as easily done as said; stepping out of comfort zones is something that really puts you out in the open, open to be struck by lighting or to be scorched in the sun or simply to implode from within. Every time I step out, I run back in because I've either failed or I'm scared of it.
I adore the people who go through life with ease; ninety-five percent of me believes that they're pretending, that it's an act and they're just better at presenting themselves neatly, but even if it's just that, my admiration for their poise has no limits. How do you live among such fears without paying attention to them and worrying, thinking of a million different possibilities and turning into a visibly disorganised mess? How do you form opinions that won't drastically change when you see something that contradicts your previously carefully formulated suppositions? How do you manage to stay silent until you're sure you're right; how do you know when to be sure you're right? How do you manage to tame all your personalities to look like a single one?
As clichéd as it may seem, maybe sometimes all we need is distraction. Maybe we need some affection, a hug, or just a smile that puts you at ease. Maybe all we ever need is to be constantly distracted so we don't have to look at what we're up against, at how lucky we are every moment that we're spared, and how those moments are probably numbered, maybe ending sooner than we hope for...

This post is something that's very close to my heart; something that I think everyday, all the time. Something that I have a tendency to live by, even if it gets me nowhere.
Why don't we sing loudly, mindless of how we sound? Why can't we just sing because it feels good to let out what's in the heart? Why don't apply nailpolish for the love of painting, watching the colours smoothen out on a nail, spread evenly into perfection? Why can't we dance because our body yearns to be free, rather than for  performance and appreciation? Why don't we paint what our mind leads us to, why do we always get so caught up in making a masterpiece? Why does the finish line of everything always have to be in mind while on the journey? I wish I could learn only the parts of medicine that interest me and let the rest go. I wish i didn't have to learn things by heart and make an effort to remember them; I wish I didn't worry about the exam when I study. I wish I didn't have to make excuses for my exam scores, like they're a measure of my intelligence. I wish I could visit a beautiful place and bask in the glory of it's scenic charm, without being troubled by ideas of how I could pose to get a perfect picture. I wish we did things for ourselves.
I wish what mattered more than the result was intent and interest.

Why do things have to change?
When I was younger, I'd take hours to fall asleep. I had so many things to think about. And I rather enjoyed that time to myself, wide awake, alone but entertained by my own thoughts, the pictures I created myself and situations I wished for. There were so many scary things to be found out every day, and I really wanted some security. All I wanted was to know that I was in a position to deal with every horrible thing that I could fathom would happen to me, and I managed to give myself that in those hours alone. I knew what to do if kidnappers came my way, pirates crossed my path, and even if a devil entered my house in the disguise of my mother. Deep down, I knew these plans would never really work. They were just ideas to give me solace; my imagination trying to comfort me in the face of my own fears, and yet, strangely, it always worked. It amused me at times, but it also worked.
This doesn't work anymore though. As an adult, I dread staying awake alone at night. I hope to fall asleep as soon as my head hits the pillow, because the same hours that were therapeutic before are now plain torture. My own thoughts don't calm me anymore.
Maybe that's just the natural course that every person's mind goes through; beyond an age, logic is the only thing which gives us relief, unless it's provided by someone else - like religion. I wonder when I stopped being enough for myself. But it shan't stay this way. I will turn this back around!

Down in a well, tunnel of some sorts
Where is help? Is it on the way?
But they say you have to rescue yourself-
I'm not capable enough. Where do I start,
When do I know that I've reached ground level?
Been in here too long.
Which way is up; I've lost all perception
What is the point!
Each morning is harder than the old one
Each day a bigger obstacle.
Each night is louder and louder. The noise won't stop
Shutting my ears makes it louder;
I think it's from within
How do you make it stop?
Cut through to it? No; that's not allowed.
A person- another one?
They make me feel more alone
They are just a reminder of the glass wall
The one around me, that can't be broken
I can see them but I can't feel
I can hear them but I can't understand
I can simulate but I can't join
I want to jump in and become one of them
But my heart lurches back
And there's no other choice
I have to stay with it.
I scream from within; they hear it but faintly
My senses have heightened
My threshold has lowered
My intellect has dimmed
While sleep gently evades me
And then I wonder-
Did any of those ever really exist?
I have so many questions, but one floats on the surface
Why does it have to go on?
There used to be an answer, it used to be enough.
Now there's newfound distance
Between where I stand and where it does
In the middle is where all reality is lost
That answer is but theoretical now.
There is an alleviant left
The one that's been there throughout- now,
The harder I grasp, the faster it slips
From within my clutches.

I dream of a world where everyone exists only for themselves. Where everyone takes care of themselves when first aware of how to do so, when no one sacrifices important things for others' tiny pleasures. Where people are true to themselves, where that's all that matters. I dream of a world where sympathy and admiration aren't confused. Where complex things that are uncalled for are given no credit. Where drama isn't accentuated by people to pay attention to it. Where it's believed that sharing joy multiplies it, and sharing sadness divides it. Where reprimand stands for nothing but pointing out possible areas of improvement. Where every human can respect the other, irrespective of their age, titles, or achievements. I dream of a world where friendship is kept separate from hierarchies and where love is kept separate from ego.
I dream of a world where irrational emotions exist, but everyone does their best to control them. No one gives out merit for succumbing to senseless emotions. Where books aren't judged by their covers. I dream of a world where no one takes pride in giving their heart precedence over their brain. Where true immaculacy means not innocence and superficial goodwill, but having knowledge of all aspects everything, yet being able to take the most sensible decisions.

The Story of a Suicide

Everyone has bad times, and it's wrong to consider yourself less capable when you aren't able to handle them. Hari, Mani, Charu and Sam all have problems of their own; each doesn't understand that the other is just as helpless as themselves.
It's wrong to blame yourself for your weaknesses just as wrong as it is to victimize yourself and drown in self pity.

Mani was spot-on when he realised that the truth is, when you hurt yourself, the people who care about you are the ones who always did; the ones who didn't never shall. And as much as that sounds like a disappointment, it's quite a relief, because it means you can relax. You can let go of the idea of trying to avenge another person by making yourself suffer, there's no way you can grab anyone's attention by beating yourself up. So don't; simply opt for the happiness that was always your right.

Don't undermine the effort of all the people that helped you to reach the point you're at today by rendering their hard work futile.
Keep it simple and keep going. Don't try to probe deeper than what's necessary; action is greater than thought and it'll always be so, so why not immerse ourselves in productive action than to sit around and indulge in our destructive own mind? Of course, as simple as these instructions may seem, they're quite the contrary for an unlucky few.

The mind isn't always an organ that we can control; there are many instances where it manages to overpower us. It wrecks us and grabs away our common sense, forcing us to be reckless in order to escape it's torture.

How many faces around us that we see everyday have a deeper story behind them? How many cheerful people are actually so all the way through? How many of the people that we poke fun at take it deeper than the surface? Even someone as hard-faced as Sam can be emotionally vulnerable on the inside; not everyone expresses their hurt in the same ways.

The book has been written in such a way that everyone can relate to it. The way unrelated events can remind us of the things we're ashamed to have done; that is exactly how our conscience takes it's own personality and haunts us. The way we see judgemental eyes staring at us everywhere we go is nothing but a manifestation of how insecure we are about being the way that we are.

This book has opened my eyes to the possible depth of a person; the remarks we make or things we do without a second thought could be insinuations to something completely unintended, and it could lead to profound consequences. There's no way you can see what the world looks like from somebody else's eyes, so the best you can do is try voluntarily to take a peek.

Empathize, don't strike back. Understand, don't make an effort to misinterpret. It's easier to be angry than to be sad, but we're better off not taking the easy way out, because the easy way is actually much harder. In fact it's one of never-ending turmoil to have and keep the upper hand. It's a dangerous game, playing with people's feelings; you never know how hard your strike will actually come down, and if it'll even land on the person meant for it.

Many of us speak up against suicide; we're quick to judge, quick to say that suicide is the easy way out. But all those ideals are easy to say for someone whose demons are small enough battle. It's of paramount necessity to admit to yourself when you need help; to make the decision to work your way up the hill with support, resisting the powerful gravity that strives to drag you down, rather than succumbing to it and letting yourself roll away. Those in need must be encouraged to calmly fight, to never lose themselves to the destructive forces that act on them.

Suicide is spreading your griefs multifold to others that love you. It's said that suicide is cowardice, but suicide requires oodles of courage. Sadly the bravery is misdirected; it should be collectively fired towards moving on.

It ends where the rest is implicit, where there's no need to narrate further events. The rest is only for those that remain, the ones who'll suffer more than the one that decided to end it; the ones who loved him and can't bear a world without him.

I can say positively that this is a book that has changed my life. It's a relief to know that I'm not alone in this; that there are many that go through the same thing and it's because of no fault of my own. This is a great book, and I'd recommend it to everyone!

You can read it here:
http://www.storyofasuicide.com/

I was never much of a nature person. I just formally appreciated it with stranger-like respect. As I grew up, the canyons of Arizona and mountains of Europe didn't amaze me as much as the thrilling stories I was always reading in the bus as my mom tirelessly urged me to look outside.
Maybe it's the long break I've had from nature, or maybe it's just that I've finally come of age to understand, but now, as we're driving up the mountain to Amboli, I realise how pathetic the state of the place that I call home is. I've always only lived in the city, but I'm wondering how many things I'd have to sacrifice to move here permanently. Maybe I'm ready to turn into a jungle woman and swing from the branch of one tree to another just to have this clean air and cool breeze to myself forever. Maybe it's worth it, to be present every time the skies send down a pleasant spray of mist to cool all of what's down below. Maybe it's worth shivering till I'm cyanosed, only to have the feeling of being wrapped warm right after.
About twenty hours left to get back to the jammed roads, scorching sun and dusty sky, and for the first time, a big part of my heart is resisting my usual urge to engulf myself in the comfort of familiarity. Damn, I wish I could stay here.

Have you ever seen anyone suffering? Not anyone that you know, but just any other person? What do you do when it's not enough to surround yourself with clean, polished furniture in a cool room when the temperature outside is scorching? When it's not enough to put yourself at ease by pointing to all the other people who do the same: shove away all that's uncomfortable to think about and forget that there's another world?
There's another world out there; of people who suffer without any importance.
Their smallest problems are more than what we could deal with for a lifetime, things that we would have put up with and boast about for the rest of our lives. Their world isn't like ours, laden with melancholia or anything that our mind threatens our happiness with. Everything out there is physical, so real, like our worst nightmare. Our ideas of right and wrong are so twisted, our priorities so messed up.
The sad truth is that their lives don't matter to anyone, though their feelings and problems are just as real to them as ours are to us, yet they're insignificant. It's always been that way for them, and they're so used to it that they've learnt not to ask for more, even if what could solve their problems takes less than the turmoil we go through for the tiniest of pleasures in our own lives.
They say the entire human consciousness is one; then why aren't we connected at heart? Why don't we all work together for one another, instead of stepping on each other to get further than the rest?

"How many of you answered that smoking causes all of the diseases in the options?
Well, the truth is that smoking causes all of those diseases! If any of you think that smoking a cigarette, or doing hookah is "cool", remember that you are only children right now. When you're 25, which is when is the peak of your youth, you won't be cool anymore, and neither will you be young, because you'll be huffing and puffing after climbing up a single floor. Also if you haven't already seen it happen to anyone, your lips and teeth turn dark brown and look pretty disgusting, it'll destroy your pretty and handsome faces. That's not cool. It isn't going to be very cool if you get oral cancer and look like Mukesh. You'll have a huge swollen neck with ulcers in your mouth, with a bad breath and you'll be drooling all the time. How many of u love chocolates? Pizza? You won't be able to taste em anymore if u get oral cancer!
Hookah is no less harmful than a cigarette, in fact, there's proof that it's just as bad, if not worse. If you think you'll do it just for a few years until you grow up, and then you'll stop, so the effects of the tobacco won't hit you, you should know that the damage done to your body is permanent. There's nothing you can do to reverse it. Also, tobacco is addictive, that means that beyond a point, you can't let go of it even if you had planned to. Everyone thinks they can get out of their addictions, but it's hardly ever possible without professional help. So the choice is yours, whether you'd like to keep clean of these habits to begin with, or if you want to put yourself into a big mess which you can't come out of easily.
And here's a surprise for those of you who think it's alright to hang out with your so called "cool" friends who smoke as long as you avoid it yourself- you're doing something called passive smoking, and this is extremely harmful as well. This also means that you should be asking your parents or uncles or older brothers or sisters that smoke around you to stop- they aren't just harming themselves, but you too. They'll listen to you if they can see that you educate them, if you tell them whatever you've heard today and what u can see on the papers we'll be giving u. The sad part is that SO many people don't know what they're doing to their body until it's too late, until they've already developed diseases. We are studying to be doctors and everyday we see patients who have horrible diseases that could have been avoided if they didn't smoke. So educate those around you, tell them what'll happen if they go down the wrong way. Do your part in spreading awareness, and make sure you don't fall prey to such things yourself."
Every time I walked out of a class of Kendriya Vidyalaya after having said this today, it made me feel a little more worthy as a person. It feels good to be doing your part of social service, no matter how small or how invisible it feels. It felt nice last year too, and this year is icing on the cake. I can't comprehend the brains of those who think that research of this kind is a pain or a waste of time and energy. It annoys me a little bit when it's spoken about degradingly.
Not a second of the time that I've spent on this is "waste"; it's counts for much more personality development than all the exams I've written put together. How else would a socially awkward person like me (whose smiles and furious waving of "hi" at people goes unnoticed more often than not) be comfortable with speaking to a class of forty five sets of eyes? I can't say how proud of myself I was when I voluntarily took the mike to address six hundred children. Cheers to the all round education that I was never given a chance to in school or intermediate!
Maybe this is how you're supposed to do it; keep pushing yourself to do things that you believe yourself to suck at, and one fine day, someone will appreciate you for it, and you'll realise that you've acquired a new skill. Never respect your fears, and never respect them enough to give them any weightage; that's the only way to banish them.

Where have I gotten myself?

Where people speak sentences when I don't know the alphabet and then complain that they're so lagging behind. Where I have to fight the urge to nod along and let go of my pride, admit that I don't know, and try to find out, because that's the only way any progress is made? Where I'm never proud of myself for getting through an exam, just grateful to the God-sent soul that had the mercy to let me on to the next semester. Where every page and every part of every book is a huge mountain to conquer, yet looks so simple when done, and more than anything, so, so interesting. Where I'm judged when I've run out of my battery fluid that's made of motivation, yet where I judge those who have none. Where I find some solace in telling myself that I'm just not intelligent enough, but deep inside, I know that's no excuse. Where solace means nothing, only progress does. Where I go on desperately hopping about on one foot while cleaning the other, and then switch legs to repeat, only realise that I'm standing in muck. Where everyone seems so infinitely better than me, yet I know that if I had slipped into a different world, I'd feel most brilliant. Where all emotions that are summoned are vehement, but they're the one thing that'll throw me off track. Where there's no point of writing this post, where it's only a waste of time. Where nothing helps but to just keep swimming; and where I have no other choice but to do exactly that. Where I reassure myself that one day, it'll all be worth it.

Why's it so hard to put my pen down tonight?
Wonder what'd help, if at all anything just might.
Wonder what's the thing that asks for help
The one that's been urging me to yelp.
The familiar feeling of failure
The one I know is to stay here
The guilt from the expectations I never lived up to
Just waited for others to rise, and waited till I was pulled up too
Or is the one kept surreptitiously obscure
The one I've always been reminded of, the thing of which I need more?
Or is it, once again, the age old desire
That still threatens to burn me with it, as does fire
What material purpose would it even serve,
The love I know I don't deserve?

It's so weird that I've landed up here, where I have, with the thoughts and values that I have. I think about people who have had the same friends all through school, teenage and still see them every time they get a chance. And then I think of the people who used to be my friends in school and wonder what happened.
No, actually I don't. I know precisely what happened. They're so different from me now; they're like something I'd have related to seven years ago, maybe, but not now. Not at all now.
I don't know what it is that changed me the most; was it the new set of friends in school itself? Was it the combination of fake and true friends in inter? Is it the college that makes me so much more traditional? I think it's all of them, and more importantly than anything else, it's the extra year that went waste.
They're different; they're a part of the world that I could imagine that I belonged to before, but now, it's so, so far from my small world, where everyone speaks my mother tongue. It's far from my small circle of real friends that I never want to let go of, ones that I know are my constants, who will push me harder when they know I'm about to give up, and whose kids will call me pinni.
It's far from the songs I now enjoy, and the idea that I now have of fun. It's far from all my small innocent controversies that don't involve alcohol or drugs. It's far from the dreams I now have. It's far from where I lie, which is at the the point of balance, of extreme normalcy, where no extreme prevails and all I see is simplicity and humbleness.

People always say that one is the most beautiful when they're speaking passionately about something. I've seen people speak that way, about dance, football and music. I always wondered if I would ever love anything as much as to make my heart lurch towards it and my eyes sparkle when I spoke about it. Of course I'd figured that it would never happen. I'd already had twenty one years of no strong passion for anything. Twenty one is too old! How could I develop something new now?
But maybe, just maybe. If something was that big, so as to sweep me off my feet and make me fall in love like how men describe their feelings for a lady, or much better than even that. Maybe if something was so interesting so as to be new everyday, like diversity in monotony. Maybe if there was something intriguing enough to make me physically push ahead of others to get a chance; something that would make me jealous if others are better at it than me. Something that would have me out of bed in the morning in eager anticipation to be at it again. Maybe if something like that was uncovered after twenty one years of nothing, I still had a chance at being as beautiful as any of those who felt passionately about something.
And then maybe I've found it.
Medicine. I was never an amazing student, and MBBS makes me feel like it's okay not to be, because no one ever can be. You can't get on top of such a subject and call yourself the master; it's too magnificent. It conquers us all, and that's why it's beautiful.
It's my perfect love story. A kid's dream come true, a teenager's castles in the air slowly gaining ground.
It makes me hold my breath, when I meet someone new, hoping to hear the question, "what are you doing?" It makes me swell with hardly concealed pride when their eyes widen in awe. My grandfather's eyes still well up when he catches me in my apron. I don't need to be most pretty or the most popular person, because I know that nothing gives me more dignity than that white coat.
You can never grow tired of it. First you learn the boring rules, and then you spend the rest of your life figuring out mysteries while playing by those rules. It's a puzzle with a human, sometimes even a very personal touch.
Every patient is a new story, of the exact genre that I like to read or write. Not adventure, mystery or fantasy, but just a story of a person with his own quirks despite being one of the crowd. Yet again, it's the story of how even when he stands out, he is just one of us.
The hopelessness of our country makes me think how much I can do for it, and even after I do, it'll just be a drop of chlorine added in attempt to clean the entire ocean. But just the satisfaction of adding my own drop instead of a spoon of dirt like all the rest, I think that's enough. I've never imagined being able to love a person in all his aspects or thinking he might be worth all the effort despite his flaws, but I can see myself doing that for this subject.
I don't know if i feel "passion" when I think of it, because I've never been passionate about anything. But if there ever is anything I'm going to feel that way for, I hope it's for being a doctor.

Growing up, I often felt like a chameleon. I always changed with my surroundings, true to the saying "When in Rome, be a Roman." I thought that was a necessity, and I was proud of myself for trying to conceal my irregularities in a new place, rather than holding them up with pride and using them to shine out from the crowd. My pride lay in the fact that I wasn't a show-off, that I didn't stick to things that made me noticeable and popular. Or maybe this was the excuse I gave myself for desperately trying to fit in, being so uncomfortable when noticed too much. I was never strikingly different from the others, and I found peace in the privacy that that gave me.
This camouflage led to a mid-teenage crisis though; one that lasted quite a while. I had no idea of who I was. I wondered who I'd be if all the influencing factors were taken away from me. I was always so flexible, so open-minded. Ready to be anything to be one of the crowd. I had my nationality, religion, mother tongue and family, but all these things never served as big enough a barrier to stop me from being anything. A bit further into my life, as a young lady, I've got a few answers. I have my morals, my ideals that set me apart from the rest. There's a certain kind of annoying I'll never be, and a certain kind of strong I'll always be. Of late, when I'm placed in diversity, my heart lurches to a particular end of it; something that I haven't felt as strongly, ever before. Maybe I was nothing to begin with, but words and acts of inspiration made me who I am today. All my dreams and plans; the idea to dream and to plan-  they are based on things that have all hit me deeply, making me realise how much I feel for something. Of all the times I've changed, anything that was profound enough left an everlasting piece of me that would stay changed forever, unchanged for anything. And I'm going to live the rest of my life collecting the rest of such pieces, yet to fall in my path. And if not before, in the end, I'll know who I was always meant to be.

Train

This new lifestyle's really beginning to grow on me. There's a certain amount of satisfaction you derive from monotony; the ability to tick things off your list in time. It makes you feel like you're doing something useful, even if all you're doing are menial jobs. The exercise has been great, and more than anything at all, the gift of not having to drive is the best I could ever get.
Local trains give the feel of travelling, unlike cars, which only feel like a means of "transportation". Sitting next to a train window, looking out at the trees and rocks makes you think about life. Of course, I really don't need a trigger to make me do that (lol). Somehow, it's calming; the wind in your hair, knowing there's no need to stress over other vehicles on the road, and looking at the scenery behind your city. One would be surprised to see it; in fact there are some bushes that lie just behind a horribly familiar main road, so high and deceiving that if you were drugged and left there, you would imagine you were somewhere near a forest on the outskirts of the city. It's surprising to find such a calm piece of land and such underdeveloped huts right behind a wall separating it from one of the most well known streets around. It's almost like a break; a step towards a relaxing holiday. But of course, that's only half an hour of my day. The best half an hour, I'd say.

"I should shut up more often"
Words that have been etched
Into the back of my hand
The scars will stay there forever
For the number of times
They've been cut through my skin
Leaves them a memory forever
But what's the point?
Scars don't help you put things in effect
They only remind you
Once you've messed up another time
And look down at them
That you have done it again
I've never had a second opinion
About the fact that I do better alone
In the comfort of privacy
Than with someone to watch
Or to be there with me.
I've always known it to be
A fault; a weakness.
Something I've been working on
Ever since I can remember
But maybe that should stop
If working on being social
Every step I take in that direction
Every inch I move closer
To the seemingly fictional finish line
Always supposedly beyond the horizon
Is hurting those exact ones
That I am trying to care more for.

New.

As we tossed all our belongings into cardboard boxes and left behind ones which would take too much space, I felt nothing but overwhelmed. There was so much work to do! So much to clean, to sort out, to instruct and to decide. When it was all emptied out, it surprised me that my voice echoed throughout the house whenever I spoke! It hadn't been that way in eight and a half years. I took a few pictures of the empty halls and the place I used to call my spot.
Before we left, others' tears surprised me; who knew so many neighbours were attached to us? I didn't understand all the apprehension. My mom almost cried too. I didn't understand what the big deal was. A house is just walls; walls can be built anywhere. I've moved so often that I've never had much attachment with walls. I had no childhood memories or such to make me nostalgic when I was away.
We got into the cab with the last bits of our luggage, and reached the new house. It's splendid; there's everything I could ask for. My grandfather loves the new place; there's so much that's accessible to explore. The staircase is a pain. I wish I could apparate. I had to go up and down the stairs countless times, to get all the boxes in the right place, and now I'm pooped.
After all the chaos, when I finally got to sit down, I stared at the walls of this house and realized how much walls do matter. I realized how different this was going to be. New people, a new schedule, a new ceiling to wake up to, a new way of life entirely. No familiar smiling faces and no red cornice. I realized that I really, really wanted to go home. I looked through the pictures I'd taken before leaving, maybe to see if it'd make me feel better. But no; my home's been uprooted from that empty house, and now I have no place to call home.

Each person is so different. No two like are ever alike; maybe everyone is eccentric at some level. Maybe there's no "centric" at all. Everyone deals with things so differently. It's too hard to be too close to someone, close enough to know everything about them and still think that nothing about them could be altered to make a better person. Even when you love a person with flaws, it's only because the flaws bring back memories - like the feeling of the smell of an old book; a book that you know through and through, even if it isn't particularly fragrant. It's just like you're being pointed to a familiar direction - that's how you love a person's flaws.
It's so wrong to want everyone to be like you, and to speak your own language. As cold and stone hearted as it sounds, the right thing to do is find their buttons, push them to bring what you want from them (even if what you want is just for them to be happy). It works for mutual benefit - everyone is happier this way, being used by you and being allowed to use you. And more important than anything, once you're done playing with them, before you go home, don't forget to detach.

Why do we complain so much
And run our finger over war wounds
With a heavy feeling
When in reality we take pride in them,
Flaunt them off to the world
Like an achievement, like
Opportunities dropped on our doorsteps
To overcome and rise above?
Of all the opposite forces in our lives
That keep us in balance
Of all the influences
That keep us from swaying
Where do we find the notion
That we deserve all the credit
Which we reward ourselves with
For every small achievement?

Why do people take pride in being able to live with suffering?
Why do unhappy couples take pride in their fiftieth anniversary? Why do mothers take pride in doing unnecessary favours for their children at the cost of their precious health?
India is supposed to be a land rich in culture and heritage, where everything is made of pure love and sacrifice is the epitome of nobility. Have we pushed it to the point where we now perform sacrifice just for the sake of nobility, where it's hardly even directed at anyone? Have we begun to desecrate sacrifice, by removing it's actual sacrificial nature from it? Nothing is noble about giving up someone's happiness at the cost of others' happiness; that leaves nothing to be proud of at all.
Tradition and culture really aren't meant to be followed unless in entirety. It's all or nothing; dedication to humanity makes you a better person than those who dedicate themselves to only a fraction of the holy books.

Yesterday made me doubt my ideas of righteousness; why should anyone refrain from exploring? Does every girl really have to hold herself back just to be a better prospective marriage choice than the others on shaadi.com? 

Maybe what's better than being a textbook angel is really knowing yourself; letting yourself go and seeing what happens. To know how far out of your supposed comfort zone you have to go to be comfortable, in a world with no boundaries to confine you. To see who you'd be with no judgemental sneers being offered to you at every corner. 

When I got a mental picture of everything that can possibly happen out there, I felt like I belonged in my tiny world, where everything is innocent, traditional, and familiar; just the way it's always been. But once I got back to my own world, I realised that I don't belong here. This world, too, is just a phase, just like the rest of them. I don't know myself. I belong in a place with no boundaries to confine me, because if I had no boundaries, this isn't where I'd end up choosing to be. I belong in a place where there's more than just right or wrong; I belong in the grey area. And I've never realised before that this is something to be proud of. :)

It's funny how often you find someone that shows you a little piece of yourself through a tiny mirror in themselves. It's weird how these people, who are so much like you in a particular way, are yet so different from you in every other way. It's the most remarkable is when you find these glazed reflecting pieces of yourself in people that you've always considered pure evil.
It makes you wonder, is it really possible to have pure evil, or goodwill? I doubt it. Even the most saintly face can hide a mind full of the darkest thoughts, and even the exterior that resembles a devil may house a heart full of compassion. It just depends on who's looking, and from where. You'd probably be surprised to see how many people consider you an evil character in your life, especially if you're one of those people who consider themselves a bundle full of joy, spilling bits of happiness to everyone that comes across your path.
Path. That reminds me, I've got SO much to study.
Sometimes I'm really proud of myself for choosing to do the hardest things, and never giving up on my dreams. And sometimes, I wonder why I hate myself enough to do that. Maybe the only pure evil in my life is myself. :/
Exam time is odd. Everyone around you is busy, and busy people always come with an increased tolerance to other people's opinions and feelings; something which I haven't yet been able to be busy enough to be tolerant to.
Having said the most twisted thing that's been on my mind, now I have to sign off and find the strength in me to go read something that's twisted much beyond even my scope.