A tangled warp of emotions

His undying declarations of love.

Her consistent refusals.

His pesky persistence.

Her impatient refusals.

His promises to keep her happy.

Her change in perspective.

His falling in love more than ever before.

Her seeing him in a different light.

His continuous proposals.

Her 'yes'.

His being over the moon.

Her being in love, finally.

His doing everything to keep her happy.

Her finally having found 'the one'.

His deciding he has found his wife.

Her similar thoughts on the matter.

His making her a part of his world completely.

Her finding communication a tough task.

His not spotting the problem.

Her bringing it to his notice.

His promises of doing better.

Her promises of working at it, too.

His taking her for granted.

Her resentment.

His hurt.

Her blind eye.

His cutting words.

Her cutting words.

His despair.

Her apathy.

His wondering what to do next.

Her knowing exactly what to do next.

His panic.

Her broken heart.

His pleas.

Her stony heart.

His uncontrollable loss.

Her tears.

His awareness of an unfilled void.

Her memory of him.

His memory of her.

Her losing her soulmate.

Oh, that gaping hole for life.

Didn't poop stop being funny at age 5, Delhi Belly?

Perhaps being 24 has really made me older. Perhaps I’m not as ‘cool’ as I thought I was. Perhaps I’m not easily amused. Perhaps, just perhaps, I choose not to go gaga over something just because everyone else has. Or maybe I’m just a spoilsport.

I saw Delhi Belly over the weekend. Thankfully, shows at Fame, etc. weren’t available and we were forced to watch it at Cinemax, a modest multiplex charging 100 bucks a piece. I did turn up my nose at the theatre at first, but 20 minutes into the film, I couldn’t thank my lucky stars enough for the unavailability of shows in other theatres.

I missed the start of the movie by 5 minutes or so (by the end, I wondered why I didn’t miss all of it, but then, I digress). So Delhi Belly is your typical Bollywood confusion saga, where, in a nutshell an (important) package that has to be delivered to a gangster gets interspersed with…wait for it…a stool sample. Runny stool, if you must know.

Riiiight.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t like seeing live potty descriptions on the big screen. Neither do I like farts and other scatological sounds filling up my universe for an hour straight. And no, neither do I like hearing obscenities every five seconds. Also, I don’t like tasteless, not to mention unnecessary, sex scenes filling up the screen, either.

And no, not because I’m a prude.

But because, I think everyone more or less excretes the same way. And swears the same way, too. Any reason why I must pay good money to watch tripe like this in a cinema hall? Since when has poop been funny? And when was the last time you heard a movie was given an adult certification ONLY because of extremely needless bad words and random oral sex shots?

My grouse with the movie is just that. Take away all of the above from the film, and you’re left with nothing. A mediocre background score, a negligible storyline, some terrible acting (except Vijay Raaz) and a bad aftertaste. Why Delhi Belly? Because of the loosies it causes. Which in turn gives you an excuse for all the poop references.

Clap clap.

When your premise for the movie is so weak in itself, what more do you expect, really? I think I completely decided enough was bloody enough when Raaz neatly pours the runny stool sample into a napkin.

Haha. SO FUNNY!!! Let’s all ROFL, shall we?

Perhaps what amazes me more than the absolute mindnumbing bullshit on screen (shit, did I say?) was the IQ level of the audience that was present at the theatre when I was. Every swear word (everyday words like your chutiya, gandu, MC, BC, gaand, etc.) were being ROFLed at. People went ballistic when one of the characters washes his butt with orange juice due to the unavailability of water. AND SURPRISE! HIS BUTT WAS STUCK TOGETHER!

HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR HAR.

Let me clutch your neck real tight and laugh some more, please?

Our audiences have the IQ of a rotting cabbage. Or am I still crediting them with more sense than they deserve? It’s sheer deprivation of good, quality cinema that makes people find everything funny. It’s depressing what amazing ratings the movie is getting, from film critics, people I credited with intelligence and other assorted species that were to at least have the brain of cock (cock – rooster #Geddit? HAHAHAHA.)

It’s a vicious circle. Feed the audience shit – watch them lap it up – feed them more shit – because they lap it up.

And yeah, don't even dare compare this shit to 'The Hangover'. 

And Aamir Khan, I'm sorry. I gave you a chance with Ghajini. But with Delhi Belly, I will hate you (like I hate the nonsense you've fed us).

Of Boobquakes and SlutWalks

SlutWalk seems to be the new ‘Boobquake’. Twitter can’t stop talking about it, news sites are giving it a lot of coverage (I don’t know about newspapers, I’m going green) while I’ve even heard my fellow women passengers in the train vehemently appreciate a ‘daring’ and ‘bold’ movement like that.

So for the uninitiated, here’s your SlutWalk gyaan. 

Just a few questions, though. 

Does a man’s sexual beast awaken only when a woman is ‘half-clothed’? True that perhaps skin show excites him a little more than he normally would have been, but how about the zillion times I’ve been fully covered, in a three-fourth sleeved kurta and jeans, no cleavage showing, but still had a lewd remark or a boob graze strewn my way? How do you explain this molestation? The amount of times I’ve had to hit molesters on the head with the binding of my book till they wince is not funny. I can safely say I haven’t been showing any skin at any of those times (since I don’t wear revealing clothes), but have had my fair share of eve-teasing thrown my way.

The worst part? One generally can’t do anything about it. There usually isn’t any use retaliating when you hurl your dirtiest swear word back at these men, or worse hit back, because they’re generally used to all this and more. You do it for your satisfaction, but realize you don’t really get any. Slowly you get used to being molested like this, without it playing on your head all day. What do you do but get used to it really, except sit at home?

That is how sad the state of affairs has become.

But then on the other hand are the men who would never utter a lewd word about any woman, even if she was walking naked on the road. Laugh all you want, but I do know men like that. They’d help bash up anyone who troubles random women, let alone women who are their friends or family. Don’t we all know such men, too? Just proves it takes all kinds to make up the male species.

So how do you explain the mentality of a man, really?

And as women, don’t we judge other women who are provocatively dressed? I know I do. I judge a girl who’s wearing a really tiny skirt that barely covers her butt. I know I think a zillion times before I wear something I think is remotely revealing. “Is my cleavage showing?”, “Are the boobs looking too big?” Questions most of us ask ourselves each morning as we dress up.

Are we really as liberated in our own heads as we make ourselves out to be? We fear being judged by all and sundry when we wear certain types of clothing – and the fear rarely has to do with molestation. We fear how we are perceived by everyone around us. If we aren’t confident of whether what we’re doing is right or wrong, don’t expect anyone else around to reassure you either.

Remember, slutty is in the mind. You are as slutty as you think you are. No one else holds the right to call you that, as long as you don’t call yourself that, either.

Happy SlutWalking!

Every once in a while...

(Forgive me for this personal, random post. Just need an outlet, and what better than my own blog?)

Every once in a while, you decide your life is perfect just the way it is. Every once in a while, you’re certain that the way your life is headed is just the way you want it to be. These rare flashes of insight are what keep you going, convincing you that the path you have chosen is right, the risks you’ve taken have been worthwhile, that you’re finally becoming someone capable of taking your own decisions. You heave a satisfied sigh of relief and try bettering yourself.

And then, every once in a while your belief in yourself is broken into a zillion pieces, when something you believe in, are proud of, is shot down by someone else. Someone you look up to, someone whose word is the gospel for you. And suddenly you’re not so proud anymore. Suddenly you wonder if you’re doing the right thing, if you were ever doing the right thing.

Parents, family, boyfriends, girlfriends, everyone close thinks you’re completely in the right place. But how much of it is the bias of their love for you and how much is the absolute truth? How does one go about pacifying self-doubt and self-worth? 

Am I really good at whatever I do and take up? 

Is there a way to ever know?

And then there are the friends. The people you trust with your life. The people who, whether or not they agree with you, will not judge you and hold stuff you tell them against you. Where do you go when someone like this does judge you after all? Phases you out, doesn’t want to talk to you apart from the bare essentials? Will you trust anyone with your darkest secrets ever again?

I don’t think so. If you were to learn from my experience, I’d say don’t tell anyone about stuff no one would understand. How much ever they claim they would. There are some things best left untold, best taken to your grave.

Trust me, it’s for the good of everyone concerned. Or not.

Losing you?

I fear losing you. 
Stupid cliche?
I think not. 
Hackneyed? 
Not anymore.
Scary? Not when it 
Happens to someone else. 


When it's you?  
Shatters my world. 


What world, really? 


The one we've carefully 
Built together? 
Of the home facing the sea? 
Where sounds of your 
Laughter, are what only waves 
Are made of? 

Where love runs through 
The hallways
Like a child, mischievous?


Where arguments crumble 
Like our daughter's dominos?
Where you and I grow 
To love one another. 
Grow older? Better?


Where beauty fades away.
But love engulfs?


Is it the same home? 
The same world?
Is it so brittle? 
A mere domino, 
Is that what it is?


Answer me this. 
You owe me an explanation. 
You give me some answers. 


I know you have none.


Answer me this. 
Wash me of my guilt.
Explain. 
So I hate not my own soul. 


Do this for us. Do this for me. 
Selfishness, I seek refuge in you. 
Wipe away my tears. 
And I shall wipe yours.


For is that not what makes you and me,
My soulmate?

Of the life gone by and the life to be lived

She stared out of the window, perched on the sill, staring at the trees that arched the road. The evening
was peaceful, the kids away at a camp, the husband away at work. She was alone, all alone.


Alone with her thoughts, she pondered about her life gone by, the life she was leading. The perfect life. She had chosen her career, her job, her husband, everything. Her parents, bless them, had given her all kinds of freedom. “I want to take up finance,” she’d told them firmly. Her mother was convinced she’d be better at languages, but never took away her freedom to make her life’s decisions.


She sighed. Maybe she needed some more convincing? Or maybe a mother who had controlled her life just a little bit?


After college, and hating every minute of it, she was now an investment banker. Whatever that was, really. “Little Ms. Finance and all that”, her friends mocked her. “I love finance! What makes you think I don’t?!”, she asked, sounding more convinced than she felt. No one else was convinced either. 


What were her talents, really? She could converse well, loved the languages, was good at them and loved to read. But were these talents? Not unless she did something useful with them. 


The clock steadily ticked away. Her thoughts strayed to the life she could have led. Settled in some strange land, where no one knew her, where there would be no prejudices, no pressure to please and fit in. Some place that would consider her plain looks exotic and not just another face in the crowd. 


Why hadn't she take up a more creative field? At least something that didn’t have a bloody dress code? Even the people she kept running into were like products of a sausage factory. Identically dressed, full of numbers, stock markets, the Wall Street…she wanted to scream!


The friends thought she traveled to a hundred different exotic countries every year – so lucky! Sure.


Again, she’d meet the same type of people, just with blue eyes or different hair. Scratch the surface and they were all the same. The business trips were the worst. Always in the best, most glamorous of hotels, too much splendour, everyone on their best fake behaviour. Before she knew it, it would be time to come back to the children’s homework, deciding what the husband would like for dinner, preparing more presentations, the obligatory sex…


Her thoughts cut to the time in college when she’d first started dating Nikhil. Nope, no exoticism there either. They were classmates, friends, part of the same group, grew to love each other.


In hindsight, did she actually ever love him enough to marry him? He was a very nice person, a dutiful husband, a loving father, a wonderful son, the perfect son-in-law – the list of everything amazing he was, was endless. He’d do anything to keep her happy, but then…why was she even having this conversation with herself?


“Time to face the truth, hon”, she told herself. She’d married Nikhil out of some obligation. She was incredibly fond of him, but it was more indirect parental pressure to marry that ‘lovely boy’ and the lack of a concrete excuse to not marry him, that led her to say yes. Marrying Nikhil was like marrying a beloved friend. There wasn’t a life without him, but was the one for her. Did she want someone Bohemian? She didn’t know. Perhaps someone who wouldn’t be so conventional about life, who wouldn’t have the next twenty years panned out in advance.


What would she do, if given half a chance to start all over? Well, she’d throw caution to the winds, truly this time. Be a hippie, begin with that tattoo she always wanted, move on to making a bonfire out of her business suits, then major in French or German, move continents, travel alone, the list was endless. Why wasn't it legal to sometimes forget that you had a husband and children, and just do what you wanted? 


What wouldn’t she give to not pretend she was the dutiful wife she wasn’t, in her head? She wanted to
glob trot, live on her own terms. For once, she didn’t want to be tied down to the shackles of marriage,
the constant adjustments and compromises that came with it. When had she lost the freedom of walking
out, for good?


Suddenly, she was scared. Very, very scared. What was she thinking? She had everything anyone would ever want from life. But that was the thing. Anyone would want the life she was leading. But not her. She wanted to do something about it.


But where does one start taking charge of one’s own life?


Her thoughts were interrupted with the ring of her cellphone… “Nikhil Baby”, it said, merrily.


“Hello babe. Have you left office?” she asked.


“Yep. Home in half an hour. Dinner had better be something good. I’m famished!” he said.


“Yeah. Come on over. Dinner is something you’ll love,” she smiled.


“Great! See you. And I love you, wifey,” he said, hanging up.


She quickly busied herself heating dinner, making rotis. Nikhil liked dinner ready when he came home from work, and that was the least she could do, wasn’t it? Her mind began making a mental to-do list: Presentation for tomorrow, dishes to be done, the car to be given for servicing for next day, helping the kids with their projects…it sure was a long day ahead.


She quickly got busy with her list, trying to knock off work so as to sleep on time. A long list of chores was waiting for her.


Restarting her life? That could wait. She had dinner to get ready, first.

There was no one else, there never could be...

He woke up after a very brief afternoon nap. The time was 4.30 pm, the day, Saturday. He got out of bed, fixed himself some tea and switched on some TV. 


Some time later, he checked the clock again…Yikes! It was almost 5 pm. Izzie would be mad at him, for the umpteenth time. She’d almost given up on him. He rushed about the house like a headless chicken – he had exactly 20 minutes to move out. There were flowers to be picked up, too. How did he always end up being late despite waking up on time and having the best intentions? This was surely one of the unexplained mysteries of the universe.


Rush, rush, rush…He rushed through his shower, wore the shirt she liked on him best, the deo she loved and the Puma shoes she’d bought him two years ago. Pretty pleased with what he saw in the mirror, he stepped out, maneuvering through traffic, halting with a screech straight at the florist’s doorstep.


Nothing had changed. He’d been buying her the same orchids for the past year and a half. Salimbhai would keep the bouquet ready every Saturday, he’d pay and whisk off with a ‘Thanks, Salimbhai!’.


Today was no different. Off he sped from Salimbhai’s. Hastily finding the first available parking space, he walked briskly, bouquet in tow. Soon he was outside the gates. 


“Arey Sir, you’re 20 minutes late again,” chuckled Fernandes.


“Yeah man, traffic!” he panted.


Entering, he walked over to the spot she always waited for him, patiently. She’d stopped complaining these days; resigned to her fate, perhaps.


All was silent – there was just another man sitting on the grass, with his eyes close. He looked at peace with his solitude, oblivious to the world he was physically present in. Our man, too, sat down on the grass opposite her.


As usual, she didn’t say anything.


“Sorry Izzie, I’m late. Don’t hate me!” he said, very apologetic. He put down the flowers before her, knowing she’d be too mad right now to appreciate them. But she’d preserve the bouquet till he gave her a new one next week.


She didn’t say anything. He knew she couldn’t remain angry with him for long, something he was deeply grateful to all the powers of the universe for.


Soon, he was chatting up a storm. He told her about his week, the upcoming 3-week work trip to Sweden, and she listened without interrupting. “But don’t you worry. I’ll be back soon, okay, love?” he reassured her.


Suddenly, there was silence.


“I love you, Isabel,” he said, and he never meant it more.


A silent tear trickled down his cheek. He didn’t brush it off; he didn’t try swallowing his tears either. He stayed absolutely still, didn’t move one inch for the fear of losing the beautiful moment he was a part of. With her. 


There was no one else, there never could be.


He was caught in the most beautiful moment of his life. He closed his eyes and let it engulf him.


He opened his eyes, got up and silently walked out of the graveyard, feeling complete, fulfilled and in love like never before.


There was no else, there never could be.

I sat on the bench,
Waiting.
Looking around for
A face familiar, a bird
I could identify.
Ears strained for the chirp
Of a bird,
The sound of
A laugh, footsteps, a whisper.

I waited. All around was
Unfamiliarity. All was cold.
All I heard
Was silence.
I waited.
For what?

A hug from
A friend?
A man's closeness?
The sound of
A child's giggle?
I knew not.
But wait I did.

I got up. Left.
Alone, still alone.
As alone as ever.
As alone as when
I had walked in.
As alone as
I was yesterday.

As alone as
I would be,
Tomorrow.

Alone.
Always alone.

Tag-a-tag-tag!

Aargh! I've been tagged by The Monkeykong, Prince of Apes. Highly silly tag, if you ask me, but whatever. A mandatory blog update was due, so what better option than a useless tag thingummy? So here goes.


A) Five things in my room:


1. An invisible bed. It houses everything - books, diaries, underwear, lots of clothes, bedsheets. Everything except sleeping space. If you've ever lost anything, chances are, you'll find it on my bed.
2. A dead cockroach. It's been there for 3 weeks. I'm hoping it'll slowly disintegrate into nothingness soon. 
3. My suitcase full of books. I'm still in the process of figuring out where to keep them books so they won't gather dust and dog-ears. 
4. My gym bag, that's big enough to use while moving continents. 
5. A tent. I don't know what it's doing there, exactly, but it was always there since I moved. Maybe God is trying to tell me something. 


B) Five things in my bag:


1. My notebook. You never know when inspiration strikes, although Mr. Murphy always gives me flashes of insight only when I'm on the pot or eating extremely cheesy pizza.
2. A blue pouch with essentials - lootttsss of pens, kajal, lip balm, housekeys, pen drives, chocolates and other stuff that's best not mentioned on this family blog. I think I can survive on a deserted island if I'm equipped with my signature blue pouch - kajal to look good at all times and the back of the pen to dig my nose with. 
3. An empty packet of Happydent gum. The box is too nice to throw. 
4. My bandanna
5. An envelope with my dad's writing on it. I carry that around everywhere. Looking at it helps me miss home less on days I'm homesick, miserable and about to throw a tantrum.


C) Five things in my wallet: 
1. (Hardly any) money
2. A cute note from Becky, from the time she gifted me the wallet. 
3. A picture of someone who I should probably discard (from my life and the wallet...and no, it's not the ex).
4. My railway ID from 7 years ago, with a picture of me from my REAL FATNESS days.
5. Lots of old bills that fatten my wallet up and deceive me into thinking there's something of real value in it.


And since the tag was a bit boring, I'm going to try and spice it up by adding other random categories:


D) The five most favourite things about my house:


1. My twin fin babies - Chilli Pepper and Xplode happily swimming around in the tank. On a side note, how do you get one kid to stop biting the other's buttock off?
2. The wash basin decorated with flashing blue lights, stocked with alcohol! It's the coolest Daaru ka Basin, ever.
3. The terrace. Depressed? Upset? Our terrace is just the place for you.*
4. The mad graffiti on the walls.
5. The thinking corner of the house, where ideas, words, thoughts flow effortlessly, like puke after much drinking.


*Conditions apply


E) Five rules of the house:


1) No smoking inside (unless you're a REALLY special friend).
2) No saying 'Oh you have goldfish? They generally die in 30 days!' (Although two people have majorly broken the rule.)
3) Touch books / DVDs without permission (this leads to a war fought with nothing less deadlier than bazookas)
4) No bringing animals into the house while I'm around. One dog is bad enough. The fish are an exception, though.
5) Ask me to cook khichdi all the time. 


And that's about all I have time for, folks. Do take up the tag, spread the vellaness, add more categories. For now, I tag: 


1) The Cat.
2) Chippy.
3) The Baby Girl.
4) Shayon.
5) Dormerpin
6) Prem Piyush
7) The Wiseass

The games Fate plays

Fate is such an indecipherable mystery. A sort of storeroom to stow away life’s unexplained, irrational tales. If you wonder why certain things went the way they did, well, Fate’s the woman who seems to be the answer to everything. Quite an overactive little busybody, our Fate.

But, I digress. Fate made them meet. Where? I don’t really know. Two strangers, same hometown, caught in the same strange city, but because of such bizarrely opposing circumstances!

She, in the city, chasing the love she thought she had. He, leaving behind the love he once had. As usual, fate brings them closer. The sparks fly. The love, it happens. She couldn’t escape it anyway. Finally, in her head, it all begins to fit. Why it didn’t work out with anyone else before. The tears of the past all seem explained. Finally, she was truly happy. The ghost of her past had managed to lift its ugly shadow. The sunshine was back, and so was her smile.

But as Fate would have it, the ghost of his past refused to lift its shadow from over him. It refused to let him look ahead. Did he want to look ahead? The bigger question was, did he want to look ahead with her? No he did not. Don’t be silly, Ms. Presumption.

Hush now. If you listen closely, you can hear the evil cackles of Fate. Result of the pure sadistic pleasure she derives from the cruel games she plays.

Unrequited love. So grand, so archaic, so Elizabethan. If only it felt as glamorous. But for her, it was a pattern, something she should have gotten used to, a long time ago. The silly optimist in her would make her believe it was different each time, only to have her silly heart broken again. He would never love her. Of course he wouldn’t.

Well, Ms. Optimist. At least he was open about it.

Yes. Like that makes it any better. In fact, ignorance was so much bliss, wasn’t it?

What next? She’s contemplating packing her bags. Leaving. Back to the same hometown she’d left, to pursue love. This time, she’s returning to it, defeated, hurt, miserable, a failure. Running away? Maybe. She has no strength left to fight back. And fight for what, really?

Oh, the sheer senselessness of it all. The sheer waste. She wonders why she had to run into him, let him teach her how to live, make her feel alive again. Wonders when he became a part of her soul. Wonders why she left her soul around to be trespassed on, and her heart to be trampled.

Oh, she wonders… 

Yes. I am all those things...

Yes. I...

1) Swear.
2) Get extremely angry.
3) Am impulsive.
4) Can be immature
5) Nag
6) Am Lazy
7) Am all messed up.
8) Am emotional
9) Am spoilt
10) Am unreasonable, sometimes.
11) Am arrogant.
12) Am vengeful.
13) Am wicked.
14) Am a procrastinator.

But, I also...

1) Love with all I have
2) Am the best friend.
3) Understand.
4) Don't judge.
5) Am your equal.
6) Stand up for what's right.
7) Am the hopeless closet romantic.
8) Will do anything for you.
9) Am a good daughter / sister.
10) Return lost mobile phones to their owners.
11) Am independent.
12) Am accomodating.
13) Am the eternal optimist.
14) Am generally happy and positive.
15) Am always there.

Is it then, so hard to love me? Is it so easy to hate? I take you with your flaws. Can't you focus on the good for me?

I'm not perfect.

I'm not trying to be.

I'm just myself.

Do you still like me?

Of sons and remains of coffee

Remember that boring evening at work? You stuck in your office, me in mine? And that sudden coffee plan? Barista at 8. See you there. 


Should have known then what a bundle of lateness you are. I finished reading a two whole chapters of my book before you walked through that door, bag in tow, hair swishing. "Sorry Moodles. Got stuck." 


"It's ok, I say," smiling. One really can't be mad at you, can one? 


We spoke that evening. A lot. Chatter chatter. About what? Nothing of consequence. Work. Colleagues. Gossip about cabbages and kings. And did we wonder whether pigs have wings? We must have. 


Coffee. That's how it always starts. Why didn't we do more coffee trips when I was around? Oh yes, it's always been work.


Never mind that now. 


Fate made me move to a different city. You were heartbroken at seeing me go. I, at leaving you behind. Should I have packed you in that suitcase like I'd planned? I should have when I'd the chance. See? I'm not always impulsive. 


I promised never to lose sight of you. I promised I'd be there. I promised to do all I could, to stop you from hurting. Wishing I could have all of your pain. Friends? We were beyond that years ago. Soon, you became my son. Me, your overprotective mommy. "Sleep. Get some rest. Eat on time. Don't smoke so much," and all that. Did it bother you? I hope not.


Being your mother, a full time job I loved. I wanted to envelope you in my love. Protect you from the big, bad world. A mother fawning over her little baby. Apart from the fact that I didn't give birth to you, all the motherly instincts were there. I felt normal. I felt like a woman. Responsible for her cub, shielding you from the eyes of the world. Fiercely protective. You were just mine. 


Maybe I overdid that bit, in hindsight. Somewhere, I lost the plot. You were not my son, I, not your mother. Happy realisation. Too late. You were not mine for keeps. I had no right to be jealous. I had no right to keep you chained. 


But all I did was want to see you happy. All I ever wanted was to grow old together. With you. Live in that palatial house by the sea, which you'd sell your kidney to buy for me. That's ok. About the kidneys, I mean. That's what two kidneys are for. And no, no dog named Gaffurbhai would run in the passages of our home. Shh. No arguments. My word is the law. Because mother knows best.


So what happened? We lived together, we loved together. Sometimes each other. Sometimes other people. But we loved. And we laughed. And sobbed. And hugged. And we sang. And we cheered. Life was good. I had you. And you had me, or so I thought.


Why the past tense now? Why the end, when the beginning seems like just yesterday? Where did time lose us? Where did we lose time? Where did we lose ourselves? Where did I lose you?


I don't know you anymore. And much as I'd like you to, you don't know me. We stopped being a team. When? And when did the tears replace the laughter? Over and over? Why didn't I ever notice? 


I was busy. Chasing my dreams. Making new acquaintances. In a different part of the world. You were there. Was I there for you? I now doubt. Like I now doubt everything else. Love, friendship, top that list. 


You're gone. And there's nothing I can do about it. 'We' died a pernicious, cancerous death. And now all that's left behind? A black hole. Where happiness goes in, never comes back out. Seeped in. Sucked in. We died a gory death. 
This is not the death I ordered, God. Wait, I never ordered one. Trust you to mess up, as always, you interfering pile of trouble. 


A cup of coffee stares at me now. Half drunk. It has unfinished business. Coffee. That's how it always starts. But it can end in two ways, mind you. One, you drink it all up. Feel happy. Refreshed. 


Or, two, you pour away its cold, forgotten remains. Then you wonder. How would you have felt if you hadn't forgotten to consume it?


And the coffee on my table? I forgot to finish it. Left it behind. The warmth is now gone. What remains behind is a sad, watery, sickening taste of caffeine. 


I get up. Pour it away. Watch its remains flow down the sink. With the other hand, I wipe a silent tear that forces its way out of my eye. 


Goodbye, my son.


I love you.

Is your S-P-A-C-E-B-A-R working fine?

(Resurrected this post I'd written a month back. Still holds true, I guess).

If it is, kindly use it more often. And not just on the computer.

The tiny percentage of population that knows me quite well, knows how fiercely protective I am about my space. In fact, I'm just short of marking my territory by peeing around it. Cross that line, and you're done for. Really.

It's strange how people don't get the thin red line between 'overtly caring' and 'space intruding'. And I see this especially since I'm going through an unpleasant patch right now (read: break up). I love my friends for being there. But really, I'm not dying and neither is anyone else. And the few close friends I have understand my need to be alone sometimes and don't keep 'checking on me'. They don't keep calling, SMSing, pinging me on chat and asking me if I'm okay. They still poke me in the ribs when they meet me, give me a big hug and tell me about the hot pair of legs they can't forget from last night's party. Or they rant about how much they hate their jobs. And trust me, that works for me.

I've been getting quite a lot of annoying calls these days, where people keep calling wondering if I'm going to be free all the time, now that I'm single. Hey, it's not like only the boy used to keep me busy before! I still had stuff to do around the house, books to read, writing to do, a job to work on, friends to catch up with, solitary walks to take, coffee shops to visit, sleep to catch up on, amongst the zillion things I normally do. And probably the best thing I like(d) about the boy was that he understood this need for my space. He never intruded upon it, not once. If I wanted to be alone, I just did. Maybe he didn't agree with it, but neither did he question it. Which worked for me.

So what needs to change now? Why the constant calls trying to keep me busy? If I need help, I'll tell you. I promise. And I'm pretty certain I'm not suicidal yet. So it's not like if you don't speak to me for two hours, I pretty much must be staring at that bottle of rat poison. That's not what a break up needs to do to you. Why should it? You haven't stopped being an independent person. Your life hasn't stopped moving. Your job isn't waiting for you to 'come out of depression' (yes, someone assumed I must be clinically depressed), so why assume I must be staring at his handkerchief and crying my eyes out? I don't know if that's how you do it, but I don't.

Why is giving space to people becoming such a difficult task? Forget about me, but everywhere I go, I run into people who won't give their friends / partners / parents / children any space to breathe. How difficult is it to let people be for a while? Respect your own space, don't let anyone mess with it. Then you'll find it easier to respect other people's alone time. It isn't necessary to know what your person is upto every minute of every day, and really, it's ok if he / she makes plans with a bunch of friends, without asking you to join. You should do the same, too, you know. It's healthy. Checking people's phones, emails isn't the nicest thing to do. If a person wants to deceive you, he'll do it anyway, however watchful your eye is.

The mantra is: Just Give It A Rest. Do not suffocate. If it's yours, it will remain with you. If it isn't, it isn't going to stay with you however hard you try.

Now, time to check on that Spacebar, yes?