Things I Can't Write In My CV

My professor stopped me after I opened the door for her and asked me what my name was, and memorized the spelling. I smiled for an entire minute.

I gave $10 to an ex-convict and bought two key chains - one was rubber 8-ball and the other a big yellow smiley face.

My instinct about how my grandparents are feeling, even when I'm in another country, is always right.

My hands have a healing touch. It's not my fault. They can calm hysterical sisters and hysterical children down, and those are the two categories of people that get very hysterical.

I have clarity about how I feel.

Small things upset me far more than big things ever could.

I'm very good at moving furniture around to optimize space in a room.

I'm compulsive about cleanliness and organization.

I agree with Holden Caulfield when he says that movies can ruin you. They really can.

My sister is the most precious person in the whole world.

My decisions might be arbit, but I always follow them through, and they always lead to something good.

I've cheated and I've lied. Never meant to harm anyone, but still done it.

My Karma is unbelievably on the mark. Always.

I know Yoga.

I forget stuff pretty easily.

I can get along with anyone.

I'm kinky.

I will never steal office stationery even though stationery is my single biggest weakness. But I might overuse it.

I have a jealous side that never defeats my practical side.

I never put on weight on my legs.

I think size matters.

Hampi

It's a funny name for a place, but it sounds all right to an Indian.

This is not about Hampi- you can find out everything you want on the internet. This is about that odd experience which isn't odd per se, but makes you think. Anyone who loves to travel knows what I mean.

I met a strange woman in my travel to this alfresco museum of the world, this natural heritage site of everyone's most careful preservation - she was from Rajasthan, which is way up north of Hampi. She was a gypsy, trying to sell anklets for 800 bucks to passers by, especially the white (and mostly stoned) ones. I went closer and picked one up (it was lovely - with shells and beads running along its length) and I asked her how much. She said 30 bucks. I exclaimed, you were just yelling 800! And she said, you are from where I am, you see right through me.

And there began again the old introspection of life and how we're better or worse off though we all rise from the same ashes. Do we really? How has a lady from the deserts of Rajasthan, which is fast gaining its repute as a tourist destination, found her way to a little heritage village in South India, and made a living from rings and bells? Her childhood was spent in the scorching sun, learning to spin and sew and count money before she could write her name (if she could write at all); and mine was in the shelter of a home and school where the most menial task I ever performed was setting the table, grudgingly so.

And no, I was never out in the sun for longer than necessary - if I had, I'd have gone as brown as this wrinkled old woman...who was by now, tying a third anklet on me and saying how lovely it looked on my fair skin - something that must have been demanded of her by society that she couldn't give. North India's prejudice for fair people is so deep-rooted that it reflects even in my family, which claims to hold the torch of liberalism. It does, in so many ways, but not all. The ones who are actually liberal don't make a fuss about it because their actions speak louder.

I thought more than I saw in Hampi, and fell in love with Paulo Coelho again. Reading his book just added to the romance of this forgotten kingdom.

I bought 7 pairs of anklets from her.