Yet another day, yet another endless book of graphs and figures, and of course time wasted (cough cough.. i mean, studying) in the library. The CBS Library at Solbjerg Plads is a fascinating place. With such striking architecture, it is a wonder that people are able to concentrate.
Today, I had the luck to acquire a prime seat in the library, with a fantastic view of the whole place. It was a seat on the ground floor facing the heart of the library. From it, one could stare at all floors at once. While I was sitting there, it occured to me that this fitted the image I had of the imperial pavilion at one of the Circus Maximus (Maximii ?!?) of Ancient Rome. Only I wasn't the Emperor. I was more like the Emperor's flunkie who stood to the side and ran errands for 'His Imperial Majesty.'
I don't how the entertainment I had compares today with the Circus Maximus of yore, but I have to say that this was pretty fun as well. The most amusing sight has got to be the people who I like to call the 'Seat Snatchers'. They are the people who enter the library and beginning scanning the place for an empty table to sit and study at. For those who already occupy tables, it feels like they are unsuspecting gazelles at the local watering hole being watched by a tiger who has just come off a vegan diet. You feel watched. Unsafe. And though you may stare back defiantly, the Seat Snatchers continue to circle like hawks, unperturbed by the discomfort they may be causing you. And then, just as they are about to give up the hunt, someone crumbles under the pressure (well, not really... possibly that someone just has a class to attend, but that doesn't sound half as dramatic, does it now? ) and gets up to leave. Then, the hawks swoop down together. It is a race to see who gets there first. The winner sits down, exhausted from the hunt, but trimuphant nonetheless and stares back at his competitors in a most humble manner, so as not to provoke them further. And the rest continue the hunt.
The other form of amusement at Circus Librarius is the Mobile Dash. It is fiery competition of determination and sheer speed between man and mobile phone. When everyone has finally settled into their seats, and is getting down to work, someone's mobile phone will ring loudly and unexpectedly. Most mobile phones nowadays have that feature where their ringtone gets louder gradually. Like a petulant child tugging at your trouser leg, it demands your attention, "Listen to me! NOW!!" And so they cry (or in this case, ring) , softly at first - so soft that only your neighbours can hear you, then louder and louder. The whole point of the Mobile Dash is to get out of the Library limits before the ringtone is loud enough to be heard by everyone on all 4 floors. It is indeed, a hilarious sight to see someone immersed in sheaves and sheaves of paper, suddenly turn red and purple with embarassment as the first strains of their embarassing ringtone choice float across the library. Then it is a mad dash leaving paper trails behind, tripping on computer cords all in a desperate attempt to get out of the library before everyone in CBS know that everytime you have a call from home, you hear La Cucaracha.
So what are you waiting for? Come to Circus Librarius today. You won't get much studying done, but who wants that anyway? Right? wink...
Tuesday 20 March 2007
Wednesday 14 March 2007
A Bad Case of Examotitis
Symptoms: Dark circles under the eyes, insomnia, extreme caffeine dependency, memory of a goldfish and tea strainer combined, jitteriness, lack of appetite (or in some cases, extreme hunger), and a bad temper.
Yep. The past few weeks, we have been down with a bad case of examotitis...
Don't you miss those days when you could pelt the boy sitting in front of you in the examination hall with a tiny rolled up millimetre of paper torn from the corner of you question sheet to mouth exaggeratedly to ask for the answer to question 1, part 2)b): What is the difference between the free cash flow model and the something equities model?
Or all the times when you have contemplated writing some key formulae on your hand so you wouldn't forget them?
Or the good old "oops-I-dropped-my-pencil-I-need-to-pick-it-up" trick and then while you are down there might as well ask your neighbour for the answer anyway?
Technically my exams aren't over yet but soon... Soon... This time around our exams were case exams were we had 72 hours and 48 hours to solve them. Piece of cake I thought. We will plenty of time to finish and we can research the answers on that storehouse of useless information - the Internet...It is almost sad how disillusioned I was by the end of it.
The problem with open book exams like these is that the pressure is enormous. You can never tell anyone that you didn't know what the answer was, or that you had a temporary lapse of memory or that you got so nervous you made a careless mistake, or even that you wrote the wrong answer for the wrong question. You have to be perfect and you know it. The thought that comes to your head when you are struggling with it is, "Well, I have all the sources I could possibly want. If I miss anything, it will just be do to my laziness to look for it."
Many things can go wrong in such an exam. There is an immense potential for distraction in such a long period of concentration. After spending 10 hours in a day trying to solve a certain problem of bonus calculation, your attention wanders hopelessly fascinated by any small thing like a gold fish in a new aquarium...Picture yourself sitting there thinking of a goldfish and making funky fish faces with only 4 hours till deadline.
A fun thing that can happen as a result of such intense work is that you feel bonded with your team and a culture emerges with its own symbols and rhetoric. I experienced this for real in our group for our MCS exam. We were stuck trying to think of a solution for a particular aspect of our case. Finally, after 2 hours we had a breakthrough. Group member 1 got so excited that she threw her hands up joyously and exclaimed that group member 2 (the girl who came up with the solution) was the "King". After that epic moment of exultation, it became official that the highest praise we could each other was that of "King"liness.
In the end, all the arguments, pounding fists on the table during arguments, constant nitpicking were all forgotten in favour of proud moments of shining teamwork. And of course, we can't forget the sense of wonderful satisfaction and accomplishment that is part of the package. All in all, a very "King"ly feeling indeed...
Yep. The past few weeks, we have been down with a bad case of examotitis...
Don't you miss those days when you could pelt the boy sitting in front of you in the examination hall with a tiny rolled up millimetre of paper torn from the corner of you question sheet to mouth exaggeratedly to ask for the answer to question 1, part 2)b): What is the difference between the free cash flow model and the something equities model?
Or all the times when you have contemplated writing some key formulae on your hand so you wouldn't forget them?
Or the good old "oops-I-dropped-my-pencil-I-need-to-pick-it-up" trick and then while you are down there might as well ask your neighbour for the answer anyway?
Technically my exams aren't over yet but soon... Soon... This time around our exams were case exams were we had 72 hours and 48 hours to solve them. Piece of cake I thought. We will plenty of time to finish and we can research the answers on that storehouse of useless information - the Internet...It is almost sad how disillusioned I was by the end of it.
The problem with open book exams like these is that the pressure is enormous. You can never tell anyone that you didn't know what the answer was, or that you had a temporary lapse of memory or that you got so nervous you made a careless mistake, or even that you wrote the wrong answer for the wrong question. You have to be perfect and you know it. The thought that comes to your head when you are struggling with it is, "Well, I have all the sources I could possibly want. If I miss anything, it will just be do to my laziness to look for it."
Many things can go wrong in such an exam. There is an immense potential for distraction in such a long period of concentration. After spending 10 hours in a day trying to solve a certain problem of bonus calculation, your attention wanders hopelessly fascinated by any small thing like a gold fish in a new aquarium...Picture yourself sitting there thinking of a goldfish and making funky fish faces with only 4 hours till deadline.
A fun thing that can happen as a result of such intense work is that you feel bonded with your team and a culture emerges with its own symbols and rhetoric. I experienced this for real in our group for our MCS exam. We were stuck trying to think of a solution for a particular aspect of our case. Finally, after 2 hours we had a breakthrough. Group member 1 got so excited that she threw her hands up joyously and exclaimed that group member 2 (the girl who came up with the solution) was the "King". After that epic moment of exultation, it became official that the highest praise we could each other was that of "King"liness.
In the end, all the arguments, pounding fists on the table during arguments, constant nitpicking were all forgotten in favour of proud moments of shining teamwork. And of course, we can't forget the sense of wonderful satisfaction and accomplishment that is part of the package. All in all, a very "King"ly feeling indeed...
Saturday 10 March 2007
हिंदी में पहला ब्लोग। वाह, भाई वाह!!!
आज मुझे सज्मुच घर कि बहुत याद आने वाली हैं। हिंदी में लिखने का मज़ा ही कुछ और हैं।
पिछले हफ्ते कि ही तो बीत है कि मैंने हिंदी में चिठ्ठी लिखने कि कोशिश की और वो भी ४ साल के बाद। मै इंटरनेशनल एकोनोमिन्च्स क्लास में बेठे बेठे बोर हो चुकी थी। हमारी अध्यापिका कि नाम हैं कुमारी अनेत्ते बूम और गेर्मन्य कि रहने वाली हैं। हर क्लास, वो हमारे कक्षा के बोर्ड पर न जाने क्या क्या लिख जाती है और हमे सुला देती है और मै उसके मनपसंद शब्द "इन प्रिंसिपल" को सुन सुनकर तुंग हो चुकी थी। चिठ्ठी लिकने के बाद मेरे मन ko थोड़ी सी शांति मिली। मेरे दोस्तो फिरंगी दोस्तो को भी काफी मज़ा आया मेरे चिठ्ठी को देखकर। उन्हें येह देवंगीरी स्क्रिप्ट बहुत अच्छा लगा।
पिछले हफ्ते कि ही तो बीत है कि मैंने हिंदी में चिठ्ठी लिखने कि कोशिश की और वो भी ४ साल के बाद। मै इंटरनेशनल एकोनोमिन्च्स क्लास में बेठे बेठे बोर हो चुकी थी। हमारी अध्यापिका कि नाम हैं कुमारी अनेत्ते बूम और गेर्मन्य कि रहने वाली हैं। हर क्लास, वो हमारे कक्षा के बोर्ड पर न जाने क्या क्या लिख जाती है और हमे सुला देती है और मै उसके मनपसंद शब्द "इन प्रिंसिपल" को सुन सुनकर तुंग हो चुकी थी। चिठ्ठी लिकने के बाद मेरे मन ko थोड़ी सी शांति मिली। मेरे दोस्तो फिरंगी दोस्तो को भी काफी मज़ा आया मेरे चिठ्ठी को देखकर। उन्हें येह देवंगीरी स्क्रिप्ट बहुत अच्छा लगा।
The Road to Bliss
In my opinion, one of the most peaceful places in India (and trust me, it is not easy to find a peaceful place in a crowded country like India) is in the innermost sanctum of the Tirupathi temple, nestled in the hills of Tirumala, in Andhra Pradesh, in South India. I am not really a religious person and I generally hate all pilgrimage temples as they have a tendency to be dirty, touristy and disappointing. However, there is something about Tirupathi. One cannot ignore the devotion, the faith that devotees show. People journey from far and wide to pay their respects to the Lord of the Seven Hills and so would we.
When my family and I lived in Bangalore, we would undertake this journey quite often. It would take five hours to drive there with two pit stops on the way for breakfast and lunch. We would leave at some ungodly hour of the morning, or so it always seemed to me, before the sun had even risen.
There would be the usual last minute arguments that we always had in our family. My father would be ready first while my mother tried to wake up my brother and I, in a manner that allowed no arguments. While I would shower, my mother would hammer away at my bathroom door, trying to get me to hurry up. Once I was out, I would get the music we would need for our road trip ready. Soon all our efforts would be directed towards trying to get my brother out of the bathroom. Once he had emerged, all red and steaming from the hot shower, he would proceed to assess all my selections of music and promptly change most of it. This would enrage me and I would begin to squabble. Meanwhile, my parents would have begun loading up the car.
Finally, after my brother and I managed to reach a suitable compromise, he would proceed to wear his shoes. My brother wearing his shoes was something so fascinating to watch that it actually requires its own paragraph. The way he went about it, it seemed to be an arduous task, requiring utmost skill and concentration, something best left only to the professionals. He pull on his socks with such the inifinite patience of a practiced, veteran monk, who has been contemplating the meaning of life for the past 40 years under a tree in the forest. All the while, my parents would be multitasking - handling the last minute packing, making sure the maid finished her work and left, getting me out of my music library, reading the morning newspaper and finishing their cup of tea. By the time, my brother got to tying his shoelaces, our family would be almost 15 minutes late from the time we had originally planned to leave, and my father, the lone long-suffering punctual soul in our family, would have reahed the end of his patience (not that his patience was very long) and yell at my brother to hurry him up. This was, needless to say, a well-practiced tactic, that never worked. My brother would look up and then look back down with such a calm demeanour and in what seemed like a deliberately slower manner, tie up his laces with such concentration and at the same time, convey his disdain for the barbarians hurrying him up.
Finally, after all this drama, we would be ready to leave. Before anyone's journey we had this tradition of saying a quick prayer at our family altar and embracing the one leaving (in this case, hugging each other in an overly melodramatic manner). And in that one minute in which we said our silent prayers, all was forgotten, all was forgiven and everything was fine. Then we would pile into the car altogether. My brother and my father would have their ritual argument over who would get to sit in the front seat while our driver looked on in amusement. And then, we would be on our way.
At first, no one spoke, no one played any music. Everyone was just lost in their own thoughts. Then as we got out of the city and unto the highway, we would turn on the radio and listen to whatever was playing until we drove out of range. After that, it would be yet another squabble for the music.
Approximately, an hour and an half after leaving the house we would reach our first pit stop - a highway restaurant/motel called Woody's, a little outside Kolar. We already knew what we wanted to have - Masala Dosa. After this little break, we would continue on our way. Again, we would have a period of silence. Only this time, the silence would be broken not by music but by a game of 20 Questions. For those of you who don't know this game,the objective is simple. One person thinks of a famous personality and then the other players have to ask him/her 20 yes or no questions about this personality and they have three attempts to guess the personality. Of course, the advantage of playing with your family is that they know you so well that the questions tend to be very obscure like, "Does this person appear on that show that we watch on that channel that you hate?" or even something like, "Is this person that you are thinking about related to usand visited our home recently?"
Eventually, we would tire of the game and silence would fall on the car again. Then as I would protest the silence and plead for some music to be played. My brother and I would be on one side, begging for 'our' music to be played while my father and our driver would be the other team, demanding music from their era to be played. Of course, there would ba a lot of verbal assaults on their age during this argument by my brother and I, while the other team would question the integrity of our music and question its status as music and not noise. Our driver would enjoy this squabble. He would join, hesitantly at first, but eventually he would get his way and we would play the music that he liked.
Our mother, was delightful fun on all these roadtrips. She never joined our squabble over the music because she would usually be asleep during those parts of our journey. During her naps, we would cruise along the highways at speeds of 160 km/hr (which is pretty fast for Indian roads) until she awoke and took one look at the speedometer. With a sleepy utterance of "आस्थे, आस्थे ।" (Slow down, slow down), she would go right back to sleep. This was repeated once every twenty minutes and it had an effect which lasted 5 minutes in total each time.
Once we reached Tirupati town at the foot of the Tirumala hills, it would be time for lunch and our second pit stop. Again we had a regular restaurant we visited and a regular lunch that we ate. It was all like a ritual. After lunch, we would pile into the car again to begin our ascent into the hills. This would take around an hour. Our attempts to play some music would immediately be squashed by our mother who would in her usual worried tone, tell us to shut up and let our driver concentrate while he drove around the sharp hairpin bends in the ascent. And usually, we would obey, lapsing into our own thoughts yet again.
Eventually we would reach the top - Tirumala town itself. Tirumala is a noisy, dirty, touristy little town that always seems to be bursting at the seams. People used to queue for miles along the city, actually in cages to get into the temple and inner sanctum, to walk past the 7 gates of Vaikuntam. And for what - a two second glimpse at an bejewelled idol and then a hard shove in the back to get people to move on in the line. Within these two seconds, people would cover a whole palete of emotions, from joy at finally reaching their long journey's end, to exultation at having finally been granted a vision of their beloved Govinda, to ecstacy, chagrin when the pushers push them on, deviousness when they try to con the pushers into letting them stay on for a second longer, anger when this tactic fails to work, resignation as they move on, and hope as they turn around to catch a glimpse of the Lord for the last time. All this happens in a timespan of just one minute. Now, of course, there are no more long queues and cages. Technology has made them redundant. Instead now the Lord's devotees are given a wristband stating the time of their 'darshan' and they are required to show up at the temple's gates at the said time. But the pushers still remain and so does the emotional rollercoaster.
I have had the good fortune to have been blessed with a viewing of one of the many other services. The one that I enjoy the most is the Abhishekam, that is the service wherein the Lord is bathed with buckets and buckets of milk and then massaged with sandalwood. It takes place early in the morning at around 2 or 3 a.m. but no one complains about this. It is well worth it if one gets to sit in the Lord's presence for almost an hour.
The inner sanctum is so peaceful and His presence is overwhelming. I had always planned a list of things that I wanted to say to the Lord when I saw him, but once you reach there, once you reach that inner sanctum, all words are lost. One loses track of one's thoughts amidst the chants of Om and Govinda. It is almost like a trance state with no thought.
On my last trip to the temple, I undertook an experiment. I was resolved to say my prayer in front of the Lord when I got there and finally, I realize why that is not possible. When you pray, you tend to close your eyes to concerntrate your thoughts on what you want to say, ask and thank for. But in Tirupathi, after having fought just to view the Lord, to get a split-second glimpse of him, you just can't close your eyes when you get there. For in the time when you might pray, the next time you open your eyes he may not be visible anymore. I appreciate my father's explanation for this phenomenon. According to him, the Lord knows what you need better than you do and therefore when you are in His presence, words and thoughts are no longer necessary. All you need is that calm overpowering reassurance which is what you get indeed.
People say that you only journey to Tirumala if the Lord has called you. You can plan all you want but if he hasn't called you, you will never reach him. He must call. When you reach the inner sanctum, a wonderful feeling of calm that envelops you (even despite the pushing crowds). A feeling that you have reached your journey's end and He will take care of things now. A feeling of such security and comfort that one can only feel when one is truly at home, like the feeling on gets in one's mother & father's embrace. And that's when you truly realize, or atleast I did, that through this whole journey together with my family, through all our squabbles, through all the masala dosas we ate to get here, to get this 30 second glimpse, none of those things mattered. Eventually, what mattered was that we were here together and of course, that emotion is too powerful to express so like most other emotions, it is lost in silence and never said.
And just for that small realization, that 30 second insight into your life, that tiny taste of true inner peace, it is well worth the trip. It is bliss.
When my family and I lived in Bangalore, we would undertake this journey quite often. It would take five hours to drive there with two pit stops on the way for breakfast and lunch. We would leave at some ungodly hour of the morning, or so it always seemed to me, before the sun had even risen.
There would be the usual last minute arguments that we always had in our family. My father would be ready first while my mother tried to wake up my brother and I, in a manner that allowed no arguments. While I would shower, my mother would hammer away at my bathroom door, trying to get me to hurry up. Once I was out, I would get the music we would need for our road trip ready. Soon all our efforts would be directed towards trying to get my brother out of the bathroom. Once he had emerged, all red and steaming from the hot shower, he would proceed to assess all my selections of music and promptly change most of it. This would enrage me and I would begin to squabble. Meanwhile, my parents would have begun loading up the car.
Finally, after my brother and I managed to reach a suitable compromise, he would proceed to wear his shoes. My brother wearing his shoes was something so fascinating to watch that it actually requires its own paragraph. The way he went about it, it seemed to be an arduous task, requiring utmost skill and concentration, something best left only to the professionals. He pull on his socks with such the inifinite patience of a practiced, veteran monk, who has been contemplating the meaning of life for the past 40 years under a tree in the forest. All the while, my parents would be multitasking - handling the last minute packing, making sure the maid finished her work and left, getting me out of my music library, reading the morning newspaper and finishing their cup of tea. By the time, my brother got to tying his shoelaces, our family would be almost 15 minutes late from the time we had originally planned to leave, and my father, the lone long-suffering punctual soul in our family, would have reahed the end of his patience (not that his patience was very long) and yell at my brother to hurry him up. This was, needless to say, a well-practiced tactic, that never worked. My brother would look up and then look back down with such a calm demeanour and in what seemed like a deliberately slower manner, tie up his laces with such concentration and at the same time, convey his disdain for the barbarians hurrying him up.
Finally, after all this drama, we would be ready to leave. Before anyone's journey we had this tradition of saying a quick prayer at our family altar and embracing the one leaving (in this case, hugging each other in an overly melodramatic manner). And in that one minute in which we said our silent prayers, all was forgotten, all was forgiven and everything was fine. Then we would pile into the car altogether. My brother and my father would have their ritual argument over who would get to sit in the front seat while our driver looked on in amusement. And then, we would be on our way.
At first, no one spoke, no one played any music. Everyone was just lost in their own thoughts. Then as we got out of the city and unto the highway, we would turn on the radio and listen to whatever was playing until we drove out of range. After that, it would be yet another squabble for the music.
Approximately, an hour and an half after leaving the house we would reach our first pit stop - a highway restaurant/motel called Woody's, a little outside Kolar. We already knew what we wanted to have - Masala Dosa. After this little break, we would continue on our way. Again, we would have a period of silence. Only this time, the silence would be broken not by music but by a game of 20 Questions. For those of you who don't know this game,the objective is simple. One person thinks of a famous personality and then the other players have to ask him/her 20 yes or no questions about this personality and they have three attempts to guess the personality. Of course, the advantage of playing with your family is that they know you so well that the questions tend to be very obscure like, "Does this person appear on that show that we watch on that channel that you hate?" or even something like, "Is this person that you are thinking about related to usand visited our home recently?"
Eventually, we would tire of the game and silence would fall on the car again. Then as I would protest the silence and plead for some music to be played. My brother and I would be on one side, begging for 'our' music to be played while my father and our driver would be the other team, demanding music from their era to be played. Of course, there would ba a lot of verbal assaults on their age during this argument by my brother and I, while the other team would question the integrity of our music and question its status as music and not noise. Our driver would enjoy this squabble. He would join, hesitantly at first, but eventually he would get his way and we would play the music that he liked.
Our mother, was delightful fun on all these roadtrips. She never joined our squabble over the music because she would usually be asleep during those parts of our journey. During her naps, we would cruise along the highways at speeds of 160 km/hr (which is pretty fast for Indian roads) until she awoke and took one look at the speedometer. With a sleepy utterance of "आस्थे, आस्थे ।" (Slow down, slow down), she would go right back to sleep. This was repeated once every twenty minutes and it had an effect which lasted 5 minutes in total each time.
Once we reached Tirupati town at the foot of the Tirumala hills, it would be time for lunch and our second pit stop. Again we had a regular restaurant we visited and a regular lunch that we ate. It was all like a ritual. After lunch, we would pile into the car again to begin our ascent into the hills. This would take around an hour. Our attempts to play some music would immediately be squashed by our mother who would in her usual worried tone, tell us to shut up and let our driver concentrate while he drove around the sharp hairpin bends in the ascent. And usually, we would obey, lapsing into our own thoughts yet again.
Eventually we would reach the top - Tirumala town itself. Tirumala is a noisy, dirty, touristy little town that always seems to be bursting at the seams. People used to queue for miles along the city, actually in cages to get into the temple and inner sanctum, to walk past the 7 gates of Vaikuntam. And for what - a two second glimpse at an bejewelled idol and then a hard shove in the back to get people to move on in the line. Within these two seconds, people would cover a whole palete of emotions, from joy at finally reaching their long journey's end, to exultation at having finally been granted a vision of their beloved Govinda, to ecstacy, chagrin when the pushers push them on, deviousness when they try to con the pushers into letting them stay on for a second longer, anger when this tactic fails to work, resignation as they move on, and hope as they turn around to catch a glimpse of the Lord for the last time. All this happens in a timespan of just one minute. Now, of course, there are no more long queues and cages. Technology has made them redundant. Instead now the Lord's devotees are given a wristband stating the time of their 'darshan' and they are required to show up at the temple's gates at the said time. But the pushers still remain and so does the emotional rollercoaster.
I have had the good fortune to have been blessed with a viewing of one of the many other services. The one that I enjoy the most is the Abhishekam, that is the service wherein the Lord is bathed with buckets and buckets of milk and then massaged with sandalwood. It takes place early in the morning at around 2 or 3 a.m. but no one complains about this. It is well worth it if one gets to sit in the Lord's presence for almost an hour.
The inner sanctum is so peaceful and His presence is overwhelming. I had always planned a list of things that I wanted to say to the Lord when I saw him, but once you reach there, once you reach that inner sanctum, all words are lost. One loses track of one's thoughts amidst the chants of Om and Govinda. It is almost like a trance state with no thought.
On my last trip to the temple, I undertook an experiment. I was resolved to say my prayer in front of the Lord when I got there and finally, I realize why that is not possible. When you pray, you tend to close your eyes to concerntrate your thoughts on what you want to say, ask and thank for. But in Tirupathi, after having fought just to view the Lord, to get a split-second glimpse of him, you just can't close your eyes when you get there. For in the time when you might pray, the next time you open your eyes he may not be visible anymore. I appreciate my father's explanation for this phenomenon. According to him, the Lord knows what you need better than you do and therefore when you are in His presence, words and thoughts are no longer necessary. All you need is that calm overpowering reassurance which is what you get indeed.
People say that you only journey to Tirumala if the Lord has called you. You can plan all you want but if he hasn't called you, you will never reach him. He must call. When you reach the inner sanctum, a wonderful feeling of calm that envelops you (even despite the pushing crowds). A feeling that you have reached your journey's end and He will take care of things now. A feeling of such security and comfort that one can only feel when one is truly at home, like the feeling on gets in one's mother & father's embrace. And that's when you truly realize, or atleast I did, that through this whole journey together with my family, through all our squabbles, through all the masala dosas we ate to get here, to get this 30 second glimpse, none of those things mattered. Eventually, what mattered was that we were here together and of course, that emotion is too powerful to express so like most other emotions, it is lost in silence and never said.
And just for that small realization, that 30 second insight into your life, that tiny taste of true inner peace, it is well worth the trip. It is bliss.
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