Peculiar Passport Office

Renewing one’s passport is really mundane. It takes up an afternoon. One drives to their city's passport office, gets pictures clicked, fills out a form and waits. It is really uneventful and boring. This was not the case with my last renewal.

I live in a small town, and I generally have to be driven three hours to the nearest 'city'. When my family applied for it last time, we were happy to find out  that a new passport-office was opened ‘only’ an hour away. 

Being used to normal passport offices, and their metal chairs, glass counters and ticket coupons, we were surprised, to say the least, when we pulled up at this passport office. The ‘office’ was a shed in a pretty post office’s compound. We were convinced that this was the wrong place. It was a quarter of an hour before a ‘post office employee’ confirmed that we were indeed in the right place and ushered us into the waiting area.

The ‘waiting area’ was enormous. It was the inside of a go-down, literally. A few desks and old folders occupied a corner, giving the whole place a ‘daftar’ (old 80s office) kind of vibe. A few shelves of ‘old documents’ (or what looked like old documents and binders) were present. There were no chairs, or sitting areas, except for an rickety brown wooden chair, which looked like it would break as soon as someone sat. (We left that alone, no one was going to touch that.) And, the main attraction, which stood out like a (not) sore thumb, was a pile of hay - A proper hay-stack. While, we had spotted cows in the post office compound, we had not expected the waiting area of the passport office to double up as a hay-storing facility. I’m not complaining though, it was comical. On the bright side, It did have a lot more space than a ‘modern waiting area’. Sunlight came in, and I and my sister could ‘explore’. I spent the whole ‘wait’ describing this place to my fellow 15 year old friends on phone, who were equally interested in it for some reason (or just put up with my rambling).   

It was brand new. I mean, it was opened DAYS ago. We were some of the first people to be issued a passport here. Our appointment was for late morning (11 or so), but we had shown up with a few minutes to spare. The whole building was desolate. No officials or other applicants were in sight.

The locals started entering the go-down at a bit past 11. A dozen people gathered and were waiting, when two officials walked in. They seemed friendly, carried a bunch of papers and cups of chai (for themselves, obviously). They opened a side door, and asked us to file in.

Peeping into the door they opened, I could see a small room, with a couple of ‘teacher’s desks’. Instead of glass partitions and separate rooms for biometrics and a coupon system, the two ‘blokes’ did the whole sha-bang. This accelerated the process a lot though. We avoided waiting in any queues (especially the one where we have to wait to get a coupon. Smh, that's so extra). One quickly went over our documents while the other clicked our photos. They made small talk, and discussed local politics with dad, as they swiftly cancelled the old passports. We were done within 20 minutes of entering the room, and ensured that our passports would be posted within 30 days.

We were out of the shed by 11:45. We had estimated it would be atleast 2:30 by the time we were done, and this was such a pleasant surprise. Instead of being stuck in a boring building for hours, we got to spend an hour in a cow-roaming, hay-storing, convertible daftar. I would take that trade any day.

I really needed glasses to see

It was a lazy Sunday. All I had done since morning was to force my father to take me to get a haircut (and spoil his afternoon plans). After watching his 14 year old daughter ‘get a makeover’ for 45 minutes, my father (understandably) got bored and started thinking of ‘innovative ways’ to entertain himself. He came up to me, and dared me to decipher what an advertisement said by looking at its mirror image.  I was about to try to read it, when I realised my father was just pulling my leg. The advertisement was almost 3 feet away, and the 72 size font was too small to be read from my chair. 

When I told dad I couldn’t read it, and that it was obviously too far, he was taken aback. At first he thought I was joking and making excuses as I was unable to decode the mirror image into sensible English. But when I stressed again and again that I couldn’t read, he and the hair stylist were both scratching their heads. He easily read the ad to show me that a normal person could ‘see that far’, and decided to take me to an eyewear store straight after the haircut.

I was hyped about by new hairstyle, but glasses weren’t a part of my envisioned makeover. On our way across the mall, to the eye-s(t)ore, my dad pointed out various ‘sales’ banner and surprisingly I could read nothing. (You would think a 14 year old would understand that ads were meant to be readable and not being able to read them would make her understand that something was off, right? Somehow I didn’t)

In the eye store, I completely flunked the ‘read from a distance’ tests, and the ‘doctor’ took me away to get it properly tested. I was made to try various lenses, of increasing power, and to everyone’s surprise the first few lens were of no use. While I was sure to be discovered with some power, the actual magnitude of how bad my eyes were shocking. It wasn’t until I was given a -3.0 D power lens that I could read anything properly

While being diagnosed as a myopic person wasn’t a big deal, having this high power before noticing something was wrong was a sign of a dumb kid. Everyone in the store was shocked at how I hadn’t noticed. These remarks fell to deaf ears as I was marvelling over how ‘clearly’ I could see. 

(The first thing I noticed were he blemishes on my face. My mom would always point them out, but I never saw them until I was really close and ignored it. With my new HD vision, my pimpled-riddled, Rudolph nose stood out.) 

I chose some glasses, accepted that a piece of plastic would be forever displayed over my face and was on my way. And this was the story of how I got my glasses.     

You Can't Get Rid of TextBooks

We all assume that all the stress and torture attributed to one school year gets over when we write the last final exam? We think we can just sit back and relax, enjoy the summer, hang out with our friends and never look at the monstrous books ever again, right? But, in my (insignificant ) opinion, the real chore starts now – when we have to get rid of the piles of textbooks.

Throughout the year, our load of textbooks keeps increasing. They make a bigger mess in our room, and a bigger hole in our (parent’s) pockets. As our exams get over, we start dumping them in a corner, emptying the ‘study-cupboard’, meaning to get them donated at some point of our lives.

If you are anything liked me, I would procrastinate sorting these books till my mother goes berserk. They would be an eyesore all throughout summer but the idea of going through the books (and seeing stupid physics formulae or chemical equations) made me push this chore right to the bottom of the to-do list.

Some of you are lucky enough to have a sibling, who is a year or two younger than you, and all you need to do is transfer your truckload of books to their room, and you are done. The books are their problem now. But for most of us, who have no younger siblings (or siblings who are a lot younger), we actually need to find other people to give the books to.

My first instinct was to ask all the juniors I know to take the books, but if one procrastinates for long enough, most people already get hold of books from external sources. When all the connections of our ‘far-reaching’ Whatsapp groups extinguishes, we attempt to find people who really need these books in real life. We approach school-libraries to ask whether they (or anyone they know) need our ‘almost untouched’ books, and we get a sheepish no. We contemplate donating them to a book bank, but between reading books for four year olds and dark fiction, our heavy, black-and-white, bleak textbooks look out of place.

These books contained ‘useless’ information that school forced us to learn for no apparent reason. They were an inconvenience when school was in term, and now we have to spend our precious summer days trying to find them a new home. If the job of the books were to infuriate me, they have succeeded.

After a week of failing to find anyone to get the books and messaging more people than I was comfortable to, I gave up. I fully accepted that these piles upon piles of books would be a constant showpiece in my room (a showpiece that would grow each year). Who would have guessed that getting rid of these books was a bigger challenge than actually (not) studying it?

PS. For anyone wondering, I just returned them to the store I got them from. Don’t throw your expensive, heavy textbooks away.

Accident and A Bloody Nose

It was a gloomy winter day in 2014, but sixth grade me was surprisingly excited. It was our annual excursion.  We were driving to a heritage site, and were supposed to learn more about the ‘culture and stuff', but the day's agenda, according to us, compromised of clicking lots of pictures and flexing our mother's cooking. The outing went as planned, and it wasn't until the journey back that things got interesting.

A rather loud game of Antakshri was our chosen mode to pass the 90 minute bus ride. We were loud, out of tune and not ashamed - screaming Bollywood songs on the top of our lungs. As 11 year olds, our sense of things that were safe to do on a moving vehicle included swinging around between the aisles and tackling our friends. We were having a blast.

We were running late, and the roads were bad. With dusk underway, visibility started becoming an issue. A thunderstorm was predicted for the night and the teachers were anxious to reach the school as soon as possible. They kept ushering the driver to drive as fast as ‘safely’ possible and wanted to push the ETA of 7:30 pm as early as possible.

Somewhere around the halfway point, our driver took a sharp swerve to the left and brought the bus to a screeching halt. It was to avoid a deep pothole, we were told. This impact caused my friend, who was fooling around in the aisle to fall straight into my lap, her head smashing into my nose. I was in shock. I could sense a ‘clunk’ inside my nose. I was not in pain, but something was off. Just as I collected myself, the hand nursing my nose turned bloody.  Concerned teachers were by my side immediately. My nose was thoroughly examined, and despite constant bleeding, seemed ‘un-broken’.

I was instructed to lie on a set of bus seats, and keep my head elevated. First aid was administered, and after keeping me ‘under watch’ for 15 minutes, I was sent back to chatter with my friends. Armed with a cotton swab, I came back to my ‘place’ and saw a series of eager faces who asked me to narrate the ‘incident’ at length. My bruised nose made me a lot more popular than my un-bruised nose did.

Everyone seemed excited, and talked about the ‘accident’ at length. Apparently my face after being punched was ‘comical’, and my bloody nose ‘gory’. I was enjoying my new found glory.

The bus started trudging along on the half-made roads. The generally deserted road, had a surge of vehicles, and a traffic jam formed. Network signals were bad, and no one could inform their parents of the delay. My injury was so mild that I didn’t think of informing my mother immediately. I could see a classmate trying to frantically call up her parents out of the corner of my eye. She seemed to barely get hold of her mother, and utter the words ‘Arushi, accident, blood’ before the call was disconnected. It was a weird choice of words, but I didn’t think anything of it.

Our teachers were concerned about informing our ‘anxious parents’ about the delay, but we were overjoyed to get to spend more time being menaces. None of our phones had more than one bar of signal- we must be passing through a patch of bad connection. As soon as our phones regained connection, they started buzzing, multiple calls were coming in.

My mom was among the first to call. Her voice was distorted, but I could sense her nerves. She asked me, ‘Are you hurt? Are you okay?’ before the call was replaced by a static. Why wouldn’t I be okay? What even was up?

The teacher’s phone buzzed. It was surely an over-paranoid parent. While we were definitely a bit late, having your parent freak out so can be a bit embarrassing, especially in middle school. The teacher answered the phone, and it turned out to be my mom – in tears. ‘How is Arushi? Is she hurt badly? How bad is the accident? Tell me!’ This is what I’m assuming mom reacted.

My teacher was taken aback, but quickly reassured my mother that I was perfectly fine, and the bus was never involved in an accident. There must have been a lack of communication. She was quick to put an end to all the speculations, and informed my mom that we would arrive at the school soon.

As more and more parents could call up their children, it became apparent that a rumour stating the crash of our bus had circulated amongst the parents. Even more surprisingly, everyone seemed to be worried about me. While I did have a bloody nose, this amount of concern was unwarranted for.

It was past 8 when we pulled up at the school. A huge herd of parents had gathered in front of the school. They all seemed overly relieved to see us all safe and sound, and my mother consumed me in a tight hug. She had streaks of tears in her eyes, and seemed to have aged a few years that day.

She said that the past 30 minutes or so had been the longest and the most stressed thirty minutes of her life. With the bus running late, she had been waiting for us at the school for a while, like most other parents. The mother of a classmate had managed to get hold of her daughter, who had simply told her ‘Arushi, accident, blood’ before disconnecting. That parent, without trying to get hold of more information, had conveyed ‘the message’ to my mother. My mother and all the other parents had hence frantically tried calling up and get hold of more news. Each passing moment made her more and more anxious, with her head picturing the worst. My father had been out of town, and she tried all her ‘sources’ to be able to talk with me. Bad weather, knowledge of a traffic jam and rumours that her daughter had a ’bloody accident’, made her dizzy, and she couldn’t regain her calmness till my teacher reassured her that I was fine.

That long ‘eventful’ day was meant to be tiring for us, but it mentally exhausted my mom. She still remembers and talks about this day- more than six years later.

One thing we can’t understand was why would my classmate use such an unfortunate choice of words, or even describe such an irrelevant incident when signals were really bad? And why would her mother, a full grown adult, to take these three words to heart, and spread ‘the word of an accident’ to create panic? While, their intentions were certainly good, this was a classic case of a ‘story’ being re-told and re-interpreted to such an extent that it becomes untrue.

Don't Nab me with a Needle

The biggest worry which plagued my early childhood was an intense, insane and innate fear of syringes. Ever since I was three, I would shudder anytime a doctor would be near me. I would pray that my mother would forget about an approaching appointment, and called vaccines ‘third-grade torture’. I refused to travel to the neighbourhood our doctor lived, in fear that we would be popped in for a ‘surprise visit’ and would spend sleepless nights worrying. Once, I worked myself into a state of fever and the doctor had to postpone the date.

In the doctor’s office, I would sit on my father’s lap, sobbing, while reaching my arm out to be pierced. I would close my eyes and refuse to communicate with the doctor. Both my doctor and father would jokingly call me the ‘toughest patient ever’, and would administer the injection. Before I would know it, the whole process would be over, and I would sigh with relief.

I would never feel any pain, but the thought of an injection made me queasy. The days leading up to the ‘D-day’ were more difficult than the actual ‘act’. I genuinely believed that I would always be afraid of the syringe.

During a dental visit, my ‘worst’ nightmare came true. My orthodontist noticed a ‘lodged’ canine in my gums, and suggested a ‘multiple tooth extraction’ to help my teeth structure. He wanted me to go under local anaesthesia which would numb my gums (and require four injections) and extract two teeth the next day. He described the process as a ‘minor surgery’ – surgery was a word I never wanted to hear.

While I was quite terrified, I knew that trying to stall the unavoidable process and asking for a later date would only add to my anxiety. My father, the person I usually cling on to, wasn’t there, and I had to face the needles alone. Not having time to process it, and surviving on the adrenaline rush, I didn’t freak out before the extraction. I channelled my anxiety to prepare for the ‘torture’ and focused on the present moment.

The whole extraction seemed to end before it started, was painless and complication-free. The iota of discomfort or ache during those forty minutes was forgotten as I realised how calm I had been through the whole process.

For most people, this wouldn’t be a big deal, but for me, a panic-stricken, trypanophobe, it meant conquering a fear – something I thought was impossible. 

Don't Wake Me Up Early

Sharing a room with a ‘morning person’ is infuriating. They have made my day start on the perfect note. It is 5 am, and instead of being snug in my bed as a normal person, I am sitting in front of a window, a dark desolate window, mumbling under my breath, drinking instant coffee and contemplating life.

Having them open the window blinds at 5:15, in anticipation of the sunrise and consequently filling the whole room with eye-opening (literally, not metaphorically) light, is downright cruel. Being awakened with the chants of ’Om’, a by-product of the ridiculously motivated online yoga class, makes me want to punch. Hearing them stumble in darkness (because even sun realises that it is too early to get up), drop cutlery and create a loud chaos, which wakes up the whole floor, is not worth their breakfast of an egg benedict. Having them call me to get a towel for their early-morning shower (because they forgot) and disturb my sweet slumber makes them a little sadistic demon.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not against them living their best lives – let them get up at 5, be all cheerful and happy, take the dog for a walk, workout like an Olympic athlete, make a gourmet breakfast and finish half of their job by the time ‘normal people’ would reluctantly roll out of their beds . Kudos to them for being able to do all that, but when their extra-ordinary constraint and unwillingness to indulge in the small pleasures of life affects my life, it maddens me.

I had been up till 3 last night, feverishly finishing my latest assignment, stressed beyond belief. I had been quiet as a mouse, working away in the light of my desk lamp, burning away the midnight oil. When my head finally hit the pillow, all I was dreaming about is sleeping in till the last moment before my 11 am class (And may I add that this did not disturb the little devils sleep at all. He didn’t even move a whisker.).  Is the want to sleep in my bed, in my place, too much to ask?

And why does society hype up this erratic sleep schedule? How does getting up at ungodly hours make a person ‘hardworking’ or ‘punctual’? Why is doing the same work, which they do, late at night ‘irresponsible’? Why do you think your extreme schedule makes you better than me? Dear roommate, please shove your holier-than- thou attitude into your mouth.

Having my sleep disturbed multiple times, especially within two hours of actually sleeping, made me crankier than my already cranky morning self. The cup of coffee, which is now empty, is the only thing that is keeping me sane right now. Seeing the sun rise, and fill the sky with different shades of pink, did soothe my nerves. I kind of see the charm of getting up early. I wish I had the discipline to wake up early. All you morning people must be really nice, but my roommate is an inconsiderate doofus. I can’t wait to change rooms. J

Failing at Focaccia (and Life)

After watching MasterChef for hours, I had an overwhelming urge to eat tasty food. Our fridge was infested with ‘healthy’ (read tasteless) snacks and I craved for ‘heavenly’ junk. To soothe my taste buds (and to end my streak of non-motivation), I decided to tackle ‘Focaccia Bread’ – a monster in disguise. (If you don’t know what it is, don’t worry. I didn’t know either till 2 days ago.)

My prior cooking experience was limited to pre-made pasta, maggi and chai, but seeing 8 year olds bake up a storm (and hearing Ramsay shouting at everyone for their incompetence) made me think I could make a dish that I couldn’t pronounce. (Okay, it’s not really that hard….I’m just incompetent)

Like all professional chefs, I turned to my archive of cookbooks to find the recipe – Google. My mother’s favourite cooking blog, Yummy Tummy Aarthi, popped up and the quest of making my own bread from scratch was underway.

The ingredients were simple enough – flour, sugar, salt, pasta seasoning, olive oil and yeast. We even had yeast. We had ordered it over 4 months ago, and they were just about to go bad. See, I was meant to bake this bread.

“Take the yeast and sugar and add this to the warm water..Mix well and let it sit for 5 mins..”

I can do that. I plopped a bunch of yeast in microwaved water, added sugar and continued watching my youtube video. (I can’t do anything without an unnecessary source of audio-visual input, okay? Give me a break.)

Take flour and salt in the mixing bowl and pour this yeast water over this..

Okay. I grabbed the jar of flour, dumped half of it into a seemingly clean bowl, and poured the yeast-mud into it. I grabbed a huge spoon, and started mixing the mixture like a cake-batter. Engrossed in my phone, lost track of time and probably stood there, stirring, for 15 minutes.

Form a smooth and soft dough out of this..Apply oil over this and set aside for a moment..

I do know how to knead dough- that’s one of the only life skills my 18 year old self has. My muscle-memory took over, and a beautiful piece of dough was rolled; while I gave all my conscious attention to the video.

Oil a tray or baking tin…Put this dough in that and press it till it spread out evenly..

Cover it with a damp cloth and set aside for 1 – 1 ½ hours or until the dough has rised..

Easy-peasy, I can do this. I took my dough away from the countertop, and it was really really sticky. I must have missed to add something! After a quick ‘cross-check’ of the recipe, I realised I overlooked adding oil. Oil. OIL. (How did I even knead dough without oil is beyond me.) I sprinkled olive oil over my dough, gave it a quick knead and placed it on the cake-baking tin. (That’s all I had, who keeps bread-loaf tins?)

Finally I could take a break, an hour long break. As i was snoozing in my room, my mom barged in and escorted me into a flee-infested kitchen. My dumb brain had forgotten to cover my flour-mixture with a damp cloth. The tea-towel, which I carefully prepared, lay beside the baking tin, and not on it. Anyways, my dough had risen (or so it seemed to my untrained eye) - and that’s all that matters.

Preheat the oven to 220°C(450°F)..

With your fingers make some impressions on the dough(see picture)..

Pour olive oil in that impressions…Top it with onions,olives,rosemary,cilantro…

I was not going to go through the ‘right way to give texture to focaccia bread’. I simply poked my fingers into the dough at various places and gave it a rugged look. It looked good. I wasn’t going to chop onions or go get olives for this dish, it wasn’t worth it. I defrosted frozen baby corn, added a variety of dried micro-herbs. (Anything drenched in basil looks good, doesn’t it?) Rosemary? Cilantro? Domino’s oregano and Chili flakes make a great substitute.

Put this in the oven and bake it for 20 mins..

Oven? Huh? What temperature? 220 degrees? Oh no, I was supposed to preheat the oven, wasn’t I? Nevermind, I just shoved the salt-drenched, oil-deprived mess in the oven and started baking. I had seen so many people make bread on TV, it would be fine, I could wing it.

I had taken a good amount of pictures of the unbaked focaccia and the pictures looked really good. Now, all I had to do was to wait.

 

After 20 mins, the focaccia-mess seemed as flat as earth (flat-earthers, where art thou?)  and the crust looked pale white instead off golden brown. It was severely undercooked, or so I thought. I re-baked if for another 5 minutes, then another 10 minutes and kept monitoring it for over 40 minutes. It had been in the oven for three times as long as it should have, and still looked raw. What was the bread’s problem? Why couldn’t it just rise and look pretty?

Over-baking made the toppings look charred. Focaccia looked sad.  

And the appearance was million times better than the taste. The ‘bread’ was rock-solid. Multiple rounds of re-heating, and any attempt to soften and salvage the focaccia failed. I don’t know where I messed up. I followed the recipe to a T.

I ‘ate’ four bites of it, and my family just looked at it and laughed. The only creatures who got the opportunity to taste a piece of my lovely creation were the unfortunate birds who came to our balcony.

My cooking seems to be a recipe for disaster.    

(A huge shout out to Yummy Tummy Aarthi. Check out her recipe of Focaccia (https://www.yummytummyaarthi.com/focaccia-bread-flavoured-wi/). It Will actually turn out a lot better than mine did.)