Date a girl who reads.
Pratiksha Mainkar
She will be at the airport with her Kindle and a magazine in one hand, rushing from store to store, looking for a bag of jelly beans. Look past her spectacles and notice the twinkle in her eyes and the freshness of her smile. Don’t interrupt her when she is reading, she’ll get annoyed. Fall in love with how she twirls her hair and bites her nails as she reads. Offer her the Wi-Fi password because she’ll always be in the middle of downloading a book. Don’t be disheartened if the book gets more consideration than you. Discuss your reading wish list if you want to get her attention. Watch her animatedly describe her loveable exasperation of never finding time to read more books.

Date a girl who reads, she’ll believe in you no matter what the odds are.

Take her on long walks and to big bookstores. Don’t get tired of waiting when she takes hours to select books. Buy her a book store card instead of fancy dresses and hats. She’ll find it difficult to differentiate between reality and stories. Teach her to do so with examples on idle afternoons. When she cries at the end of a tragic book or if a character dies, console her. Don’t tell her it is not real. For her the story is real, at least in her mind. Make her coffee and give her the warmth of your affection. Don’t be jealous of her male friends. Your competition is not them but the array of male characters in her favourite books.

Date a girl who reads, she is like a wild fire on a snowy winter night.

She’s going to try to make her life like her favourite book. Take her to the old cobbled streets of the city where her favourite thriller was set. Don’t appear bored when she wants to visit obscure shops and forgotten streets she read about somewhere. She’ll know about many cities from stories she might have read as a kid. Let her plan the trip and offer to drive around to visit country cottages and houses of famous writers. Write her short love letters and hide them in her purse and in her books. She’ll whisper Keats and Whitman into your ears when you dance slowly at a wedding. Make her smile with anecdotes of famous monuments and arrange for trips to secret tunnels under old churches. 

Date a girl who reads, she’ll accept you as you are.

She’ll appreciate that all great characters have flaws and that no love story is perfect. She’ll understand your self-doubt as she does of Aragon, your inability to express feelings like Mr. Darcy and your cynicism as she does of Rhett Butler. She’ll be patient with you as she is with a lengthy book. Buying her presents will not be easy. She’ll want particular first editions, the Oriental silver jewellery box she read about, maybe pearl earrings like the protagonist of a novel. She’ll keep stubs of movies tickets she liked watching with you, soft issues with your name on it and other souvenirs. She is creating her story remember. Give her your grandma’s old emerald locket and buy her a vintage blue bag.
Date a girl who reads, she’ll open up your mind to a world of endless possibilities.

Get her healthy snacks to munch on and warm socks while she reads. She’ll have a perspective on politics, slavery and even cannibalism perhaps. Dates with her will be full of random anecdotes and lengthy discussions on everything under the sun. Feel free to discuss grey areas and your ethical conundrums to get her unbiased opinion. Hold her hand when she gets bored in shallow discussions and unnecessary parties. Stand by her when she defends a villainous character. Her understanding of people is far more complex just as she understands the characters in books. She’ll remember the minute statistics of your football team, will set up treasure hunts for your birthday gifts and will bake muffins from a recipe she read in a magazine.

Date a girl who reads, for a life full of wonderful tiny stories. She will make you a part of her adventure and will always keep you on your toes. And when all the magic is long gone, she’ll know how to start the story again.  
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The (mis)guide to growing up.
Pratiksha Mainkar


To me 'growing up' meant having things figured out. Knowing what I want and how to get it. No more creative accounting to explain your college expenses. No more exams and boring books but drinking the best wines, dining at those glitzy restaurants. Getting a job that makes you happy and being in love with a person who understands you.Weren't we all eager to get out of those grad schools to start such a wonderful, free and perfect life? 

Now that I am there, things don't seem as exciting as I thought they would be. We don't fall in love like Carrie Bradshaw neither do we own a closet like her.  You end up in a love-hate relationship with your body weight. Our day starts with a struggle to coax our hair to act the way we want it to. Trying to avoid those fries so that you fit into the dress for your friend's wedding. Oh yes your friends start getting married one by one. Say adios to the midnight trips to the beach and getting drunk for no reason whatsoever. You don't get a shoe purchase allowance you thought you would so at the month end you are in a pair of Louboutins sobbing over phone bills. Your post-graduation is helping you draw up fancy spread sheets and presentations when you thought you would be changing the world. And you can't chat up the cute guy at the bar because he is still in college. Your family is constantly at your neck for 'settling down'. Reading ‘Things to do before 30’ makes you feel sorry for all the hours wasted lazing around on Sundays in front of the TV. 

Then I realized, maybe I had this figured out all wrong. Maybe growing up is not about being absolutely sure about each and every thing. So what you still call your mom at 3 am complaining about preposterous food pangs? Or if you relentlessly read Vogue when you should be going over those stock prices? Falling in love after a one night stand is completely understandable. And so is spending money on that Vera Wang coat. Being an adult is to know that some things won't work out your way. But then it shouldn't stop you from trying to turn around things anyway. Your friends will be in far off corners of the world, busy handling their jobs and sorting their affairs. It is about knowing that they'll catch you every time you fall no matter what. Takeout meals on the roof alone can be better than chasing ordinary relationships for everlasting love. Relationships need not be grand and great. It can be about simple home cooked meals with laughter and Monopoly. Your first job need not have a greater purpose nor should it be part of your ultimate dream. So what your boss doesn't like you already? He'll come along or there are always those icy margaritas to share your troubles with.

Growing up is about being strong in unusual circumstances and learning to accept that you might not be everyone's idea of a normal person. And it ok to not know where your life is heading or what you'll have for lunch tomorrow. Growing up is not about winning the war. It is about survival. One credit card bill at a time.


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Confessions of a Free Bird.
Pratiksha Mainkar

“Where would you like to be in the next 10 years?” the interviewer quizzed her.

The room went silent and the ceiling fan whirred in the nippy morning air. The interviewers, seated behind the wooden desk, were twirling their sharp pencils. It was six in the morning and sleep still lingered in their eyes. They muffled the yawns and smiled, trying hard to keep their eyes open. Her crisp suit smelled of fabric softener and Chanel. Whilst sitting on the lone chair, she fiddled with her fingers nervously. Then, with purpose in her eyes she began her answer…

“I want to work hard, slog day and night, to earn enough to stop working as a corporate machine. I want to take all my savings, pack my bags and grab my passport. I wish to travel to as many countries as I can and soak in the sunrises of distant lands. To keep an elaborate diary of the baffling people I would meet on these journeys. Fill its pages with the life experiences I would have. In the outback of Australia, under the clear night sky, I wish to dance with local tribes till my feet hurt and eat food cooked on fire in the company of bright constellations. I want to experience fleeting love in the picturesque cities I visit. To have tumultuous affairs in small towns and to experience overpowering nights full of lust and desire. I want to stay in a postcard-like European town and write a splendid book which children would read on a summer day long after I am gone. To work in an old woman's bakery and be light headed by the smell of fresh doughy bread and take up other small odd jobs. To care for and love a man who might speak a language I don’t understand.  Under the rusty lamppost on the bridge, I want to passionately kiss him and tell him that I love him.  And then never meet him again.  In this world of poverty and helplessness, I want to adopt children instead of burdening the earth with my own. Give them a safe future and help them achieve their dreams. I want to feel the anger and harassment of the mother who gave birth to a female child in a distant village in India and had to murder her own blood and flesh. I want to share her tears and beat up her perpetrators. I want to meet a hungry orphan in the slums of Senegal. I want to feel his agony. I want to feed him so I appreciate every morsel I am blessed with. I want to share the sorrow of an Afghan mother who lost her son to valley bombings. Under the pomegranate tree in her courtyard, I want to pray for her safety. I want to befriend a prostitute in a South American city and understand the dissonance of her feelings. Not to marry out of societal pressure but attend weddings of strangers and be drunk with merriment and wine. And learn to paint landscapes and play the piano in an Icelandic town. I want to experience the serenity of Beethoven's sonata in the cold night air of the Egyptian desert. I want to learn to cook exotic meat and be fluent in forgotten languages. In a geisha house, I want to drink sake and enjoy the waft of cheap perfume and feast my eyes on their elaborate make up & kimonos. To feel the rush and fear of visiting a new city and to cry my heart out while having to leave them behind. Life is short and I want to be a bird, to fly to strange wide lands and to soak in all fabulous escapades from around the world. If I die during this time, I want to die with a smile on my face and be buried near the sea to hear the gentle murmur of the waves. 

In the next 10 years, I want my life to be a breath taking story. “

The beep of the air conditioner brought her back to the room. She smiled slightly and recited the answer she had practiced the day before in front of the mirror. 

She got the job, the dream job, but she lost her adventure. 



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The great Indian election tamasha.
Pratiksha Mainkar

In the 2014 Lok Sabha elections, it is estimated that around 81.4 cr citizens would vote. Media is raving about  how the largest democracy in the world is exercising its right to vote. Amidst all the hoopla and drama, have you ever wondered if India is really a democracy in the true sense? Is the ability to vote a real indicator of a democratic country?  Unfortunately it is not. It is about making an informed choice on who should represent your constituency. It is about being informed about the intentions and attitude of the contestants and then casting your vote. However, even after 60 plus years since independence, Indian politics and the election will continue to be a caste based racquet game. All politicians volley to dodge important questions and aim for sensationalism through controversies. 

A senior party member of Samajwadi party went on air to mention about the caste and religion of soldiers who died in Kaargil. It would surprise an educated citizen on how medieval our politicians sound and how the political debates being showcased on news channels are utterly disappointing. We merely know the grand plans of big political parties and the list of things they have promised. Doesn’t it matter to know how exactly they plan to achieve these promised plans? India has sadly transgressed into a Machiavellian society where we only care about results not the process. Great governance is equally important and needed rather than promises of passing new bills. Does it matter that a political party will distribute free laptops to the youth in a highly populated state? It wouldn't cover the apathy the same people showed to the riot victims. Democracy is not only about casting votes, it is not about fair counting of these votes too. Democracy is the freedom to ask the right questions. It is about asking pinching and stern questions. The political debate in India sadly is a fish market at its best. It is a cacophony of accusations and counter allegations and character judgements. The ancient politicians use equally ancient tricks in the book to lure the voters. My house help’s entire housing society would vote for a party that has arranged travel and lunch on voting day. This is what it has come down to. The Indian election though impressive in numbers and scale is a sham.  One can go on and on about how the whole system is shameful for lack of a better word but that is not the crucial question at hand. The real deal is about informed choice and the importance of your vote in this election.

There is a large section of the populace who have decided not to vote this year. Their reasons are quite simple. They have no hope in the candidates of their constituency and would rather wait for a messiah who would do something substantial. Would this help India now? Actually not. Casting your vote is not about electing the ‘right’ candidate; it is also about keeping the demons away from power. Voting is also about electing a person who will not abuse the position of power. It is about electing the lesser devil of the lot. In India, where the larger section of society is brain washed or misinformed , most will support caste based/region based politics. As an educated citizen, it is our moral responsibility to stop this. Instead of waiting for the saviour, go and vote to keep the devil away from power. Go Vote! 

P.S: Kindly overlook the poor editing.

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Date a guy who dreams.
Pratiksha Mainkar

He will be at a cozy little local cafĂ© sipping coffee and enjoying biscotti. Mesmerize him with a summer dress and return his smile. Don't assume his awkwardness for lack of confidence.  He will come to you to ask you about the book you are reading. Don't shoo him away, he is genuinely interested in the book and you. Ask him his opinion and how he enjoyed the book. Enjoy the drama of his story telling as he explains how the book made him feel. He will tell how he felt to be a part of the adventure. Admire his child like experiences and gestures. He won't buy you expensive bouquets for Valentines. His love is laced with thoughtfulness. Take the dried rose he gifts you. It would probably be his favorite. Don't throw it away carelessly. Enjoy the story he tells you about the rose. Be part of his dreams, his nostalgia and his fears. Gift him an old first edition you found in a little shop in Paris. He will love the smell of old paper and would soak in the adventure the book has been through. 

Date a guy who dreams, he will appreciate your kindness.

At the old cinema hall he will take you to, hold his hand as you enjoy classics. Offer to buy popcorn and don't interrupt during the movie. Genuinely enjoy the movie because he will want to discuss it at a park later. He will be hurt by inattentiveness but would listen intently to your opinion on the movie. He will slightly pull you by your hand and kiss you softly later. Enjoy tossing flower petals in the stream with him afterwards. The bridge on the stream is his favorite spot. Don't get restless and enjoy the serenity of the place. He doesn't share the place with everyone. Learn to slow dance with him and enjoy long walks in the old city. Be happy to spend days at city museums and art galleries. 

Date a guy who dreams, his love is like a ray of bright sunshine on a foggy day.

Make his preferred egg sandwich on a low day and spend time gently stroking his hair. Listen to his ranting about disappointments and broken dreams. Respond with kindness. Reality will hurt him often; soothe his pain with your attention.  Don't fret on the list of things he would want to try out in a new city. Enjoy the expensive wines and exotic food items he wants to experience. Be part of the stories he tells his friends over dinner later. Teach him practical aspects of life but with baby steps. Hop in the car for surprise trips to new cities and enjoy gazing at stars with him on the beach. He might take time to say he loves you but wait for the gesture. Don't rush him to tell you straight away as he might find it mundane. He will remember your favorite flowers and will quote from your favorite poems. Write short notes for him to express your love. He will save them in a box and remember each word you wrote in it. 

Date a guy who dreams, he will love you like you are his princess.

Let him make plans for a romantic dinner. The restaurant will have a great story and he would know the owner and his story too. Enjoy the warmth of candle light and old wine. Tell him that you would love to cook a meal for him. Bask in his smiles and shy glances. Don't overwhelm him with jewelery and makeup. Put on your grandmother's emerald hair pin. He will buy you a ring that resembles royal jewelery perhaps. Say yes and ask him the story of the Duchess who owns a similar one. Hold his hand in the rain and tell him stories of living in a foreign city. Don't crush his dreams of world peace and revival of renaissance art. Be a part of it. Humor his odd hobbies of collecting memorabilia and autumn leaves. 

Date a guy who dreams and love him in spite of his unworldly dreaminess . Treat him like he means the world to you and he would reciprocate the love. And much more. 

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Spectacular Chaos.
Pratiksha Mainkar

When I was ten, she pushed a boy off a swing. He hurt his forehead badly. There was blood and screams all around. “He deserved it”, she whispered in my ears, “He teased you because you stammer”. I looked into her beautifully assuring eyes as she nodded slightly, held my hand and took me home. Her deep brown eyes have followed me since then.

She would help me to copy in exams, lie to my parents for late night escapades and cheat on my boyfriend. She taught me to smoke cigarettes when we drank vodka on the college terrace. We shared our first marijuana joint; our first apartment when I left my parents' home and the pain of our first tattoo. I would clean the blood and vomit she would leave on the floor in the night after a party. She would tease her hair and roll her eyes when I performed at cheap concerts. 

Then I met Saurabh and she couldn't stand our happiness. She would sulk at home all day, waking up in odd places and not remembering most of the night she spent out. Saurabh took great care of me; I sobered up and took my music seriously. I was happy with him so I forgot about her and she pretended to neglect me. I couldn't remember seeing her or talking to her for days at a stretch. 

One day when I returned from the store, I found the door unlocked. In caution and preparedness, I grabbed the umbrella and tip toed to the sitting area. Saurabh’s dead body was lying on the floor in the pool of his own blood. She was smoking on the stool, a bloodied knife was thrown close by and her clothes were torn at places. Her hair was disheveled and I guessed what would have happened. She cried in my arms apologizing a million times but I had to call the police. I narrated the whole episode piece by piece to them yet they didn't believe a word I said. They declared I was in a “different” mental state. 

Six months of solitary confinement have gone by. Every day I stare at the window of the room and she sits in a corner staring at me. Her eyes never leave my face as she puffs away cigarettes gloriously. 

Mr. Dasgupta, my attorney came to visit today. He said he had some great news for me. “Due to lack of substantial evidence and quizzical circumstances of the untimely death of Saurabh, the court has granted you bail. There is one condition though.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead and continued, ”You need to sign these papers which say you'll complete one year in a rehabilitation center. We will plead the case in Supreme Court now. Looking at…well, the circumstances…proving attempted rape won't be difficult”. He took off the glasses and I could see the fine lines of age and stress on his face. He smiled from across the table “No more of this solitary confinement dear, you wont be alone in this… this godforsaken room”.

A maniacal smile spread across my face. I leaned in from across the table and whispered in his ears “I am not alone. My devil walks with me.”  Thoroughly bewildered, he quietly left the room, as he turned to latch the door I winked at him with my deep brown eyes.


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One crazy morning.
Pratiksha Mainkar

Most of us experience excessively boring lives as adults. Except scuba divers maybe or at least I like to believe that they are thoroughly enjoying theirs. This is because we fail to see the beauty of small happiness. We all hope for great opportunities, experiences and love to come our way. We all hope to gloat over that one big story to tell others. But do we really let go of society's expectations and just go silly? Well hardly. One such day when I decided to add a little zest before breakfast was 14 July.  

14 July 2013, the last day India sent a telegram, a forgetful ode to the 163 year old service. It was a spectacularly mundane Sunday morning for me. I woke up to the cheerful chirp of my cell phone and as I browsed through the twitter feed, one particular event caught my eye. The telegram service in India was coming to an end. I breathe in the time of unromantic instant messaging.I had never received a telegram before. Not even a post card. And there it was disappearing before my eyes like horse carriages on English boulevards. I had to do something to get one. Anything. 

This is the day when I missed Sunday breakfast, tracked the telegram offices in Pune and their contact numbers and made frantic phone calls to all of them. Tiny spatters of disappointed began to dampen my enthusiasm. Pune telegram had shut its services a day before. After loud curses followed by a dozen more phone calls, a decision was reached. It had to be done from Mumbai. But the question still remained unanswered. How on earth do I get one of the last telegrams sent in India? Few more hysterical phone calls later to family and friends, I was pacing down the hallway, biting my nails and engrossed in thoughts. I had to weigh my options. Wait for a friend to send the telegram or travel around 350 km to just do it myself. It sounded crazy, pathetically desperate, even borderline insane in my head. There is this certain nervous obsession that grips you that completely negates any logic whatsoever. I was exactly in that place, an energized fixated heaven. My pace picked up and waiting for the phone call seemed like an eternity. 

The phone buzzed. My friend confirmed that the telegram was sent. A sense of relief spread over me. Although it was a false sense of achievement, it was immensely satisfying. The next 10 hours were spent thinking about the telegram and how it would feel to own one. A tiny piece of cheap paper with text in faint ink somehow evoked childlike glee and amazement. Would it make me happy or my heart skip a beat? Would it be a major disappointment? All such anxious questions floated in my head. The post board in the hostel was religiously checked for the next few days, hoping for the telegram to arrive. Days passed, weeks flew by but it never arrived. The thought of enquiring at the post office about it did cross my mind a zillion number of times but the enthusiasm fizzled out. As weeks turned into a month, the enthusiasm died as it spiraled into a vortex of ordinary conformity and dullness. A faint disappointment lingered like a ghost. 

Almost a month later, when I had given up on receiving a telegram, it arrived. The feeling of the weightless parcel in my hands did not evoke any emotions I had foreseen. They were amplified to the extent of a child receiving its favorite candy. Through foolish smiles and half droopy eyes, the envelope was carefully torn and the message was read. A warm smile lit my face as if Christmas arrived five months early. The telegram is now a gentle reminder of a frantic yet satisfying morning of absolute silliness. 

Few years down the line, I would like to open up the wooden box that holds it. Gently I would open it up, read the printed message and smell the ink if I can. Probably I will laugh on my foolishness or perhaps smile whilst remembering the absurdity of it. Maybe I would show it to my little kid and share the story over breakfast. Nevertheless, thanks to a dear friend, this piece of history will invariably light up my eyes and remind me that you are never too old to be curious and silly.

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The six day love story.
Pratiksha Mainkar

Statistics. She casually glances at him again but in vain. He seems to be listening to the professor with rapt attention and a slight disappointment settles in her mind. All the effort to look prettier than usual seems like an utter waste of time now. As she glances at him again hoping to meet his dreamy eyes, she sighs. “Maybe it is wiser to give up and concentrate in class” she thinks as the class progresses to multivariate analysis.

 International Finance. “And that was a very valid point miss! “, the professor comments on Kaajal’s answer and faces the white board to explain US fiscal policies. Her phone buzzes, the text reads “Show off!“.  She looks at him, surprised, as he grins toothily and shakes his head.

“No, not even once did he ask if I found the book engaging. Are you sure this is his favorite book?” quizzes Kaajal. She had carried the book to the class ceremoniously for a week now. This should have been a good conversation starter but he didn't seem to have noticed it. She dumps the book in her closet later.

It's 3 in the afternoon and the library is almost empty except for a few students. Most are either enjoying the weekend or sleeping in the hostel. Kaajal turns the pages of her new book noisily and a throaty whisper makes her jump slightly. “Didn't know you were into political thrillers” he comments and casually walks past to the newspaper stand. 

It is a regular day in the sports bar with a few friends. He is chatting with the pretty girl next to him. “It is a lost cause I am telling you. For God's sake, she doesn't even understand real cricket. This IPL is just show biz.”  She complains to her best bud as they gulp down another beer.

Twirling her hair, she winks at her friend. Read the text you dimwit she silently whispers through her teeth. The girls giggle at the private joke they seemed to have shared. The professor warns them and they straighten up in the seats. Kaajal has the amused, suppressed laughter look on her face. Through the giggles, she tries desperately to put up a straight face. She looks around only to find him nervously staring back at her. Check your phone he mouths silently. The text reads, “You know you are damn cute when you smile like that. I kind of like you :) ”


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Beyond the syntax.
Pratiksha Mainkar

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too… (Rudyard Kipling)

There is something unnerving about poetry. If you don't understand it, it is just words. But if you are of those few who enjoy metaphors, it has the power to tickle your mind and enrich your soul. A fine specimen of such words is If by Rudyard Kipling. All you need is the mind to read beyond the syntax and the words will tear down the walls of your heart.

Does this looking beyond syntax happen in mundane and non-poetic situations too? Do we ever read the feelings behind the words that spout out of our mouths? Mostly no. We are beings of syntax; we dwell in the words and mere words alone. You'd believe this if you count the number of times you've felt sad or reacted immediately on a comment made by a friend or family. Though you realized the true meaning and the feelings behind the words later, for that moment you lived in the words. A harsh comment by your friend makes you cry, a snide remark by your lover makes you sulk. A politician's casual comment will get all the angry men howling while a celebrity author's loose words are condemned as blasphemy. Yes, we indeed live in a world of only words.

 Most of the time, it is increasingly difficult to think beyond the wreath of words. We attach our emotions, our fears and our anxiety to the words we hear. They are dipped in the colors of our own perceptions before they reach our ears. Anything and everything we listen to is a connotation of our deepest underlying apprehensions. We fret, sulk and ponder over imaginary meanings we attach to the words over and over again when all it takes is thinking straight. Thinking beyond the syntax is not an easy task to do. When the words seem like cold daggers or ice picks, emotions are bound to flow. As humans we accept sarcastic compliments far better than genuine criticism. Criticism takes courage to acknowledge and overwhelming strength to accept. Most of us have natural filters for hurtful comments and it is way easier to be mad at a person than to be reasonable and not take the words at face value.  

It takes certain strength of character to keep your calm and accept the words rationally. Then think about the real intention and figure out if the meaning we attached to the words resonates with the intention. In many instances, it won't because as humans we are creatures bound by our irrationality and emotions. But again as humans, we learn from our mistakes and we are blessed with a kind heart that can love infinitely. I believe our ability to love and have a heart is what differentiates us from others in the animal kingdom rather the brain's function of comprehending complexity. To look beyond the syntax is a tough promise to keep, but for some people in your life, I am sure, it is worth all the patience needed. 


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Bombay to Bangalore.
Pratiksha Mainkar

You open the balcony door to a May morning expecting bright sunshine and hot air blown in your face. Instead it's cool and breezy. This, you might experience only in Bangalore perhaps!

When I landed a month back in the city my only concern was the evident lack of everything ‘Bombay’. There are no local trains, no sea face, no mash up of Marathi and Hindi and the long list of amazing places to satiate your taste buds. I missed all this and more the moment I read the sign ‘Welcome to Bangalore’ written in Kannada.

At first it was mentally tiring. Not sweating in summer makes a Mumbaikar very uneasy. Bangalore is either pleasantly cool or sunny and dry in summer. The Mangoes taste like Frooti here and finding a samosa stall is like Finding Nemo in the big bad ocean. There are too many main roads to count and the concept of 17th cross road is hard to figure out. Knowing “Kannada gotille” roughly meaning “Don’t know Kannada” doesn’t get you anywhere either. Amidst unfamiliar faces then suddenly the feeling of home sickness dawns upon you. You are all alone in a new city. Your family is away, worried about your safety and health. Your friends are sending updates on where all they partied. You then end up spending most nights on the terrace looking out for familiar stars.

After spending three weeks though, the city kind of grows on you. The Masala Dosa in an Adiga is so much better than the average udipi in Bombay. Kannada is not a difficult language to learn. The weather is unbelievably good for summer. The first time it rained in the evening and as soft cool breeze blew, I had to remind myself that it's still summer season. Roads are very accurately named here and giving directions is the easiest job in the world once you get hang of things. The frustrating part is communicating the address in broken Kannada to the auto driver. He would want to be sure where exactly you want to go not before making fun of how you pronounce ‘Bilekahalli’ . That never happened to me in Bombay. You get into the auto and tell him “ Waterfield road chalo” and he will take you there even when he is blindfolded . Whether it is ‘some big white house’ or a restaurant in some corner of the city autowallas in Bombay have never failed me. It is like a doctor-patient relationship, I have learned to trust them. As the roads are accurately named and well maintained in Bangalore, I learned to walk distances instead of taking autos. This turned out to be a great thing. The lady in the flower shop smiles at me every morning as I pass her shop, the local supermarket lady doesn't insist for exact change and I know each lane and corner of the locality back in and out. 

New cities make you more aware and curious.For a person who never had Sambar, I am now an avid lover of Idli-Sambar. Those Manglorean recipes of fish curry are even more mouth watering. For some reason, the curd rice here is softer and lovelier. No more cravings for roti and parathas. The weekends used up for sulking in the room missing friends and family are now being utilized for exploring the city. Do I miss Bombay? Of course I do, with all my heart. Although now,  I have learnt to not hate Bangalore.

 P.S: Pardon the grammatical mistakes, will edit the post later.:)




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O I willingly stake all for you!
Pratiksha Mainkar

Anthropology is interesting for two reasons. One, it tells you so much about what you need to know about why we do what we do. Two, it tells you so much more than that.

An article by a leading anthropologist claims that we take not more than three minutes to size up a potential mate. This is something we have developed as part of our intuition over years. So the next time you meet that smooth talking, intelligent and deep voiced suit clad man, go ahead and trust your instincts. Scary isn’t it? Oh yes, love is scary. In fact it is also way more complicated than we thought it to be.

In a TEDTalk by Dr. Helen Fisher, she describes love as not an emotion but a drive. It is like a wanting, something we crave for. It is an elevated state of being where even the most mundane thing done by the person we love seems extraordinary. You want this person and you just can’t stop thinking about him/her. It is like the photo frame just stuck to the back of your brain with super glue. It is the most amazing feeling in the world and it is no wonder we all live to “be in love”. It is further explained that our brain is divided into three parts- lust, romantic love and attachment. As a result we are hard wired to love many people at the same time but in various degrees of intensity. She goes on to say that “I don't think, honestly, we're an animal that was built to be happy; we are an animal that was built to reproduce”

This is also the reason for our suffering. We associate love to being happy while the reality is just the opposite. Love is about pain, the incessant itch to be with this person. It is not being happy with the person; it is having the ability to tolerate him/her. Haven't we all wondered how easy it is to over look the mistake of that one person we love the most in the world? Love activates the part of the brain secreting dopamine. It gives you the same rush as cocaine. It is an obsession like someone is camping in your head. Love activates the reward system, the system responsible for our motivation in life. And as we all know, it gets stronger the difficult it is to achieve a task. This explains why the harder it is to get the person, the more you seem to want him/her. As you are trying to forget the person who rejected you, your scum bag brain is increasing your motivation to get him/her back. And then you listen to a song that reminds you of him/her and it all comes back like nothing ever happened.

We were thinking love is about walking hand in hand on a tree lined road or simply lying on a beach looking at the stars. Well, it is much more than that. Our need to love and be loved is what drives and decides what we do in our lives. Don't you worry too much; just enjoy the feeling of being in love. One day at a time. In spite of all the pain it delivers, love still creates the magic.

Knowing all this is it wiser to stay away from it? Possibly not. Biologically impossible in fact. A world without love is a deadly place that we all know. All I would say is that love is like a chocolate cake,  just enjoy it while it lasts. You can count the calories later.

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Notes to self.
Pratiksha Mainkar
  1.      Eat what makes you happy. Weight is temporary but satisfaction of a perfect Alfredo sauce is forever.
  2. If you think you deserve something, then you do deserve it. Don't let anyone make you feel otherwise. 
  3.  Don't ever take anyone's shit. Ever.
  4. Always take out time for hobbies in life. They keep you sane.
  5. The solution to a crappy day is always a call to your mom.
  6. It's ok to be in love with more than one person. 'One great true love' is over rated.
  7. No matter how busy you are find time to read the newspaper.
  8. Keeping everyone happy is the toughest job in the world.
  9.   Whoever said winning doesn't matter was lying.
  10. Having a short attention span should be a identified as a medical condition. People suffering from the same should be exempted from attending lectures.
  11. Age is not just a number if you are a girl.
  12. Shopping is not a sin as long as you are spending your own money.
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The Unimaginative Opposition.
Pratiksha Mainkar

The Land Acquisition, Rehabilitation and Resettlement Bill is due to be discussed in the union cabinet. The ongoing rut of the parliamentary stalemate should ideally come to an end with this bill. But then that is just wishful thinking.

Where is the Indian democracy going? No where really. We take one step ahead with the Lokpal discussions and two steps backwards with the FDI tug-of-war. The parliamentary discussions are stalled and are counter-productive to the growth of the country. The Congress led Government is not to be blamed alone, the opposition led by an ineffective BJP is equally responsible.

In the Coal allocation scandal, BJP could have leveraged the allotments and convinced the country that it is a responsible group that can govern the country better. Instead it chose to paralyse the parliamentary procedures. This is not a one off case, BJP has opposed only because it is the Opposition. This has greatly harmed political debate in the Parliament. The only success story of BJP is the rise and rise of Narendra Modi. He seems to know what he is doing when the party doesn’t really know where it is heading. There is no confidence amongst the top leadership which consists of political veterans. These are minds that have seen Government change like seasons yet lack the ability to give a strong mandate to the party. In a bid to oust the Congress led government, BJP has roped in the Left. It is a wise political move to have them as an ally. But to endorse their views as BJP’s own is taking it too far. When the worry should be about the loss of rational thought, the opposition seems to enjoy suggesting regressive steps for investment in India. Let alone lure foreign investments, we seem to have lost the faith of Indian investors too. Jaitley seems to be in a right frame of mind coming up with valid arguments against FDI in retail but then for some reasons messes up with a lame argument to close the deal. The Congress led Government has done enough goof ups with the Common wealth games, spectrum auctions and Coal scandals. In all these opportunities the opposition has missed to capitalise on, BJP sounds like a spoilt kid throwing tantrums.

All is not lost yet. The BJP can recover with a strong mandate, clear focus and effective management. It needs to work on not just being a good opposition but showing the Indian public that it can be a good leader too. Some major steps need to be taken to reform its image, be more popular amongst the youth and make careful allies. The golden era of BJP during the Vajpayee led coalition seems distant. The confident chant of ‘ Aab ki baari, Atal Bihari’ echoes feebly in the background of the diffident outfit. There is no central authority and a serious lack of a strong mandate for the party. From what seems like a failure of a strong opposition, BJP is now only waiting for the coveted PMO position.

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Dreamy Reality.
Pratiksha Mainkar
The LED panel read 10….The fan whirred noisily in the roof…TING…11…
The elevator lifted up in the shaft. The attempt was deliberate and slow. Time was ticking away. Kaajal fussed with the collar of her business suit. She twirled her hair like a nervous woman. Her long fingers were slightly trembling.  It was 1 in the morning. Her only companion was the noisy fan. It gushed in hot air into the elevator. The sweating made her more claustrophobic.
Her Blackberry beeped. One new BBM. “Kaajal, Please pick up the call.”  A drop of sweat rolled down from her brow. “Not now Ayaan. Not now”. The elevator shuddered near the 13th floor.Then it came to a jolting halt. The fan broke down. She steadied herself, dropping the files and papers from the meeting. Her clammy palms left marks on the steel walls.She looked around. There was no sound, no scratching of metal. None at all.

She had to bend to pick the phone and then it happened. THUMP. Something bulky landed on the roof. It was heavy enough to shake the elevator. Her throat dried up. Her brows knitted in fear and concentration. The mass which landed on the roof struggled a bit. Its cry muffled and its body helpless. Kaajal reached for her gun. The movement stopped. The .45 ACP clicked and cackled in the eerie silence. The roof panel started turning red. Blood dripped from the crack and landed on her shoes. Strength replaced fear and she was ready to take it down. As the beast plunged into the shaft, the metal box thundered. She could feel death running towards her. She fixed her eyes on the roof in concentration and courage. To strike sharp and strike correct.

“Kaajal!! Kaajal from section C.”  The announcement got her back to reality. She stood up to acknowledge the achievement. The entire room resonated in applause. The claps were for her so she humbly smiled. In their world she was a survivor, in her dream she was about to die.
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The Chronicles of B413.
Pratiksha Mainkar
 
1. Unlike popular belief hostel life is not unnerving. It makes you more receptive to needs of people around you and helps you communicate and adjust better.

2. The electric washing machine is a boon to mankind because washing soiled clothes with your hands is a major pain.

3. The food doesn’t come at your table nor is there the familiar coax of your mother to leave the computer and join for dinner. You need to move your ass to the dining hall and feel grateful for the food being served.

4. There will come a time when you are unable to sleep and your roomies are blissfully drifting to dream land. This is when you feel the necessity to let them sleep as you enjoy a book on the stairs with a cool breeze for company. It doesn’t work though. You might end up scaring a poor soul near the water cooler thanks to your white shirt and long hair.True story.

5. Love it or hate it but here is no escape from Maggi noodles.

6. Everybody eventually gets a nickname.

7. You are truly grateful to the floor cleaner for making sure you don’t lead a pig’s life.Cleaning is a big deal because there is always stuff lying around all the time.

8. Sleep is directly proportional to the assignments you have to submit. It’s either 11 before a test or 4 in the morning before a holiday. There is no clear sleep cycle.

9. In a hostel, exam nerves spread fast. Really fast.

10. In case you are in a girls’ hostel, every room has atleast half a dozen pairs of shoes.

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She is YOU.
Pratiksha Mainkar
In the womb of hope and fear, her unborn fingers beckon you near
A whisper in your ears,” Let me live”, she pleads
She is a part of you, Let her breathe.

She might play with dolls, yet worship Whitman
And dream of ruling The Wall Street
She is the glorious twinkle of your eye; she is a daughter, a sister
Love her equal, no less.

Like movie and popcorn, beer and football,
She is the lighthouse in your thunderstorm.
She laughs, she cries, she feels
From the depths she pulls you, she will heal
She is a dear friend, value her.

Stands like a rock when you’re are low, yet
Melts like a candle in your arms aglow
She’ll love, she’ll care, give it back double
She is a wife, a girlfriend. Appreciate her.

She will listen to it all with a smile,
As you yell at and tell her lies.
Gentle, forgiving as a flower, yet
Fierce as Durga to teach you what’s right.
She is a mother. Acknowledge her.

She is invincible yet vulnerable.
Beautiful and sensitive yet so determined.
Her heart filled with love and stars in her eyes.
Many forms she might take, yet she is one
She is a woman. She is YOU.

Dedicated to all the amazing women out there.Feel special everyday,because you are!
Cheers!
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Cricket,Carbohydrates and Curves.
Pratiksha Mainkar
It happened yet again. A billion and more eyes were glued to the TV set to witness the 100th century of Sachin Tendulkar but he missed the mark by a mere six runs and an entire nation sighed in disbelief. Even by missing the century he stole the Slap-gate thunder from Mr.Pawar. There seemed to be a slight competition between the two as to which event would collect the maximum status updates. In the end, we all know who won. The peoples’ God beats self proclaimed God anytime right and the news guys shifted to Big Boss. Idiots. Fortunately, not everything on the idiot box turns out to be idiotic.

The finale of Masterchef Australia aired on Indian Television this Monday. Only two days have passed since then and I miss it already. Probably just Hayden and Ellie but yeah it was a very interesting show unlike the Indian rip-off. Seriously,basmati sushi?! But overall the challenges were appealing and the techniques refined. The high light of the show was the UN challenge, where the participants had to do canopies for a reception in the UN. Don’t even get me started on the Nigella Lawson challenge episode. But like all other good things (read: Kate’s immunity challenge dessert.Yum!!!)The show had to end. Sigh.

I accept the fact that I never moved my lazy bum to try out any of the preparations and most of the ingredients used are not found in the local Indian market. In fact, the techniques and equipment used in the show are probably all used in some restaurant somewhere and not in our kitchens. So what made the show tick? The part which intrigued the ordinary viewer, who oohed and aahed at the 69 degree egg, was that all the participants were bloody amateurs. And we all love to witness genius surpass talent aye! They all had left back their lustrous careers and dived into uncertainty to pursue their passions. This is all fairy tale stuff, what we like to read and witness but we rarely gather the guts to just jump off the cliff .To chase our dreams and fulfil our passions. To know our true calling is a privilege very few of us have and to let go of it before even trying is utter foolishness. Stand on a wintery morning at the edge of the swimming pool and if you dip your toe to check the temperature of the water you can never really take the plunge. I sincerely hope we all do find that one thing that truly ignites the fire in our hearts and we have the courage to go after it.

On a lighter note, a big thanks to Chamak Challo and Vidya ‘Silky’ Balan for getting the curves and the red lipstick back. We can all now look forward to something other than the skimpy bikinis. Ooh lala ooh lala...Ooh lala lala...tu he meri fantasy..
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The Unfaithful.
Pratiksha Mainkar
Aarush looked at his mother as she carefully tucked him in his blanket. Her eyes were red and puffy yet she had tried to put up a cheerful front. He knew she had been crying in the bedroom since evening and he knew better to leave her alone for now. She kissed him on his cheek and watched her son close his eyes and float away into the land of dreams.

“He looks exactly like you Anu”, this was the first thing her mother had told her when she had regained her consciousness. She was 23 when she gave birth to Aarush, named after his father.

She turned off the lights and closed the door behind her. But no matter how hard you try some doors cannot be closed, the dark memories carefully hidden in the layers of our past come back to haunt us .And she knew that she had to face him, it was inevitable. With heavy breaths, and a torn heart she headed towards the kitchen. He was there, sitting at the table. His tiny hand nervously wrapped around the spoon as he stared down into the ice cream bowl. He was terrified, unsure of why he was in a stranger’s house and wondering when his mother would come and take him back home. Their home.

Anu had spotted the similarity the moment the devil had entered the house. Her husband was clutching a note and carried the boy’s blue back pack. The kid was around 8 yrs old, older than Aarush, and was tired and scared and for a moment Anu thought she was dreaming. It was too painful to be real but the obviousness of his similarity to his father was harsh.

They argued for hours. He tried to explain. She was crying incessantly. It was the last thing she wanted in her life-a reminder of the infidelity. He tried to convince her that the affair was a mistake, a drunken mistake.”I was young, stupid and drunk. Think as a mother Anu, the kid has nowhere to go. I love you and our son, and you know that. All this happened before we even met. Please forgive me”. He looked hopefully at his wife; as she was trying to read the letter through her moist eyes. “I need to be alone for a while”, her cold voice cut through the silence.”I will be...we will be in the kitchen...” his voiced trembled. She read the letter again, each word carefully. The woman was dying when she wrote this and she had apologized for keeping the kid’s father in the dark for all these years. The predicament was tedious but a decision had to be made.

He saw her wait in the hallway tentatively and rushed to his wife. She held his arms and slightly nodded.” I will love him like our own son, Shekhar”...Tears rolled down his eyes and he hugged the woman he loved more than anyone. He vowed never to come this close to losing her and breathed a sigh of relief ,thanking her for her forgiveness and she prayed that he would forgive her someday too.
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The Roti maker.
Pratiksha Mainkar
The greatest,most confounding question a man can ever face is "Who is a better cook,your mother or your wife?".The answer is always the mother,or atleast in advertisements it is.Else how would they sell ready-to-eat yummy food that would make him forget the maa ke haath ka khaana.So when a recent wheat flour advertisement has the hubby say that his wife cooks really well(and mind you the mother doesn't make a face.quite refreshing) it instantly catches my eye.The diligent bahu modestly claims that the freshly milled wheat flour is the secret and I can't help but shake my head.

The reason is simple.The flat indian bread is the trickiest bit to master.No matter if you use the best flour,the food processor to turn it into soft dough in the end it all comes down to your relationship with the rolling pin.The rolling pin apparently has a mind of its own and the first time you try to get a hold of things disasters are not far away.Part of this tragic feeling of hopelessness and having your face covered in flour comes from my own personal experience.

The roti,according to me is the single most beautiful creation on a daily Indian food plate.The aroma of the hot dough as the roti lands on the frying pan ,its beautiful roundness as it fills up with air on the burner and the softness when it lands laden with home made ghee on your plate,all these make the roti the most essential element on the plate.The art of rolling out round soft rotis is the sign of a good cook.More than anything grandmothers persistently try to get their granddaughters to befriend the rolling pin.Even as we try to reach the moon,I suppose all grannies know that a woman should essentially know how to cook good food.The men wouldn't disagree,neither would I.

The great admirer that I 'm of the humble roti,the fine art of making one has so far eluded me.It started off really rough,the first few tasted like papad even.In roti making unfortunately there is nothing as beginner's luck.After some tiring attempts the shape gradually progressed from the African continent to a Washington apple,the softness getting better every time.The eternal believer that I'm my quest for perfection began,it was about conquering the world one shape at a time.The efforts paid off.Finally the day arrived,the light shone off my flour smeared face and the rolling pin seemed like an extension of my hand.Not only was the shape a desired round,the softness and the smell made me slightly dizzy with happiness.It was pure joy,the feeling of being able to achieve the perfect lightness of your dream roti.Absurd yes,but priceless nonetheless.After the first victory, I have tasted success after regular intervals.The probability of which I cannot gauge since I apparently suck at mathematics.But take it from me,the feeling of knowing you can create something that beautiful from only flour ,water and oil is one of the the most fulfilling things to experience.

As for my grandmother,she insists that a beautiful roti is a testimony of a loving husband.Well,I guess that remains to see.
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Rahul calling Rahul.
Pratiksha Mainkar
India were 245/5 and trailing by 29 runs when Shane Warne,one of the greatest players in the history of the game,delivered a short one.The batsman on strike,Rahul Dravid,hammered the ball on his backfoot for a boundary.The concerned look on Steve Waugh's face, after the boundary was hit ,perfectly encapsulated the Aussie exasperation.Dravid went on to score 180.Those who witnessed in 2001,the Dravid-Laxman innings in the second match at Kolkata, will agree that it will always be one of the greatest comeback victory by any Indian side.This is not the first time Dravid saved the team's neck.Though always criticised for having a boring,defensive batting approach,he has stood when the God,the legend and the talented have fallen.No,'The Wall' is not a fitting name for this man,his true fans still like him to be referred as 'Jammy'.

A classical Test match batsman is a rare sight nowadays.And Rahul Dravid is of the last few who have managed to survive the pace of the faster version of the game.Early in his career he was stereotyped as a one-dimensional batsman who could occasionally stroke a loose ball around. His adaptation to the smaller version of the game was methodical rather than meteoric or dashing to say the least, but once there, Dravid never looked back.Of the many opening pairs the Indian ODI team has had, the Ganguly-Dravid pair remains a favorite and after Mark Waugh he is the most successful slip catcher till date.Unfortunately,post 2000 his career was not all colorful.The accidental ball tampering incident, the controversial Multan declaration(Sachin was at 194) and the early World cup exit under his captaincy did mess a little with his gentleman-ly image.However,those who know better always understand the fact that even the great have some flimsy moments.It must have been difficult to rise under the shadow of the legendary Tendulkar and the flamboyant Ganguly but Dravid never complained.He batted when the team was struggling,bowled when the team needed to fill in few overs,and even kept behind the wickets-all for the team's sake.And now when the BCCI one fine day suddenly (read in crisis) decided to include him in the ODI team ,he announced his ODI retirement.The media cried foul,the critics labeled him a fool but to his loyal fans he has earned some more respect.

There is also a thin thread that binds this Rahul with the other Rahul,Rahul Gandhi.In a major embarrassment, CNN-IBN had released a statement that its earlier salient ‘State of the Nation’ poll finding that ‘most Indians want Rahul Dravid to succeed Dr. Manmohan Singh as the PM'.The channel in an attempt to cover up the blooper quickly announced the erroneously printing and commented that they were referring to the Gandhi scion instead.When Rahul Dravid was told about the corrected findings, he laughed it off sportingly.Though,Dravid who is sensible,intellectual and charming by a cricketing yardstick, is according to few Indians better suited to be the PM than the dimpled Rahul.

Rahul Gandhi is touted to be the next in line from the first family of Indian politics but he still lacks the charisma of his grandmother and might succumb to his father's fate.The Congress party today has nothing close to a mandate, and it is leading inarguably the country's most corrupt coalition government.His novelty as the handsome,educated politician has now worn off and he has failed to show any interest in becoming the single powerful force to save the party from the shackles of utter helplessness.He remains by Indian standards a novice in the grimy pool of politics and is difficult to perceive him as a leader.More so, he has always been shielded by the senior Congressmen and for some reason he hardly voices out his opinions on some of the very critical issues. Now that the oldest party in Indian politics is in serious crisis he has the ideal opportunity to display his mettle and cast his charm on all of us. He could have emerged as next big thing but it did not happen. As a result, we are still unaware of his personal opinions on subjects concerning our nation.All is not lost though,he can continue with his socialist attempts, making way for a seasoned party member to take the reigns and wait for a suitable time to rise as the man for the top job.

P.S:Digvijay Singh said at 41,Rahul now is a mature person with sound political instincts and can become the Prime Minister.We all know the senior Congressman knows better and is acting along...also since when did India start listening to him.



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