(There's a danger in writing about fellow bloggers - they're likely to read your post. And then hate you for it. Unless you spare their feelings. Which isn't honest (and isn't that what a blog is?). And before you know it - you've already written for an audience. Damn!)
A few days ago, I bumped into a bunch of bloggers... different venues, but still fun. One of them happened to be the kid sister of a classmate from a lifetime ago. She claimed to have idolized me at some point. How sweet. Totally unlike today when i get hate - scraps from ex-subordinates. But that's another post (i notice lately that i'm shelving many things for later posts, and then never really getting down to it... Not good).
So anyway, back to blogger evening. It technically started at 6 in the PM, when i ended up meeting a fellow blogger for a non-alcoholic 'date' (non-alcoholic because i was heading back to work, and 'date' cuz 'meeting' sounds so... professional). He's a banker, not linked at all to the media world - a big plus. Big minus - he'd googled me and found out some details of my lurid past. Oh well, those are the breaks. Then later that evening, met up with 'kid sister', her friend, and another blogger whom i've known for a while now. I love their writing - they're witty, apparently honest and great storytellers.
But here's the thing - when one blogs, all that is true and honest and real about you is out there in the open. If you want to know anything about any blogger, just go to their page and their life's literally an open book. And then you meet them face-to-face for the first time and it's like meeting an intimate stranger. You know them, there are questions about their lives you want to ask, maybe just say that you're really thrilled about something or just that you feel their pain... and you can't. Because those intimacies are not 'yours'.... It's the oddest space to be in.
So you just watch them, intrigued and fascinated that someone so truly special is sitting within touching distance. You know that what's going on in behind that bemused expression is the real stuff - that as you're watching them, they're watching their world go slowly by, sifting through the chaff and making notes on what calls out to them.... In real life, they look like regular people - smoking, drinking, dancing, working, travelling, etc etc. But in THIS world.... Ah!
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Words Words Words!!!
I spent an evening just now surrounded by a babble of words. Famous people, not so famous people, known faces, not so known faces, all talking non-stop while constantly looking over each others shoulders trying to see if there's someone else with whom they can share the same words with. "Hey, how are you? Long time.. i'm really drunk.. whom are you here with.. ok i'll go get me another drink... Did you hear about.. oh my gawd! That was so awful!.. yeah, i got this is South Africa, when i went for a shoot..do you want another drink?.. What's up?.. how did the recording go? The shopping is so great... No, i stopped doing coke ages ago.. gymming 3 hrs everyday................." It didn't stop.
Maybe it's my discomfort around big noisy crowds that's coloring this particular post. Maybe it's my innate inability to 'mingle till i tingle'. Maybe it's the fact that more often than not i find people using words to hide rather than reveal. Maybe it's all of that and none of it.
Oh, for that one quiet moment of satisfaction spent with someone who, with one touch, drowned out the noises and made everything else fade.
Maybe it's my discomfort around big noisy crowds that's coloring this particular post. Maybe it's my innate inability to 'mingle till i tingle'. Maybe it's the fact that more often than not i find people using words to hide rather than reveal. Maybe it's all of that and none of it.
Oh, for that one quiet moment of satisfaction spent with someone who, with one touch, drowned out the noises and made everything else fade.
"Use it or Lose it"
It's a common philosophy when it comes to sex - or atleast one's 'mojo' whatever that means. And lately, i've started wondering if, in fact, i may belong to the group that has 'lost' it.
I enjoy sex. I think it's fun. It's got this amazing feel-good factor that most romantic-comedies can't beat. However, lately, i've been quite circumspect when it comes to choosing bed-mates. After a spate of being highly indiscriminate, i just ended it cold turkey (I wish i could do the same with smoking, but that's another post). And since that time, refusing to be swayed by "Oh, i really need to be held right now", i haven't really... you know.. 'been' with anyone.
Then, one day, a conversation came up about the dreaded 'use it or lose it' factor. I admit i got scared. I mean, what if it's true?? So i turned to my age-old acid test - Matt - a man who's always known which buttons to push to get me going. Matt is a man in uniform. He's clean-shaven, tall, dark and lean, kisses like a dream, adores the ground i walk on, and is married. Perfect for a no-strings-attached experiment on mojo-ism. I've known Matt for many years, most of which he spent trying to get into my pants. It was quite flattering, i must admit. But somehow, his inabilty to commit and the fact that he had a long-term girlfriend (now wife) always got in the way of the two of us getting it on. Until a drunken, one-night stand ages ago.
That's history for you.
So a few days ago, after several glasses of wine (and several men who just had not managed to grab my attention over weeks), i thought, "Let me see if i still got it." I called Matt. He surprisingly was in town. Wife wasn't - not for the whole week. This just HAD to be considered as a sign that the Universe wants me to go ahead with the ridiculous plan that had formed in my head. After that, it was just a matter of when i could effectively rationalize my behavior and help my self-control crumble. It didn't take long.
I reached his doorstep, he kissed me hullo, and things got under way. Except - while he was nibbling my neck, and murmuring delicious nothings into my ear, i was thinking of a campaign i had to roll out by the next morning. Yep, I was thinking of work. Maybe it's a step above from thinking of the laundry, but hey! MATT was KISSING me!!! It was Matt! The gorgeous hunk with the big bike and the edgy death wish! Come ON!!
But it was too late... No matter how many glasses of wine i had, how many cigarettes i smoked, how cozy i got with him, somehow - it was over. Kissing him was fun but... cerebral. One constant refrain kept running through my head - Another one bites the dust. The next morning, when i kissed him goodbye, i didn't even feel a pang. It was awful.
In my highly disgruntled state, i bumped into a friend online. She's aware of my highly tumultuous non-relationship with Matt, and rationalized my feelings of 'having lost it' as "You're finally over him! Now you can move on! You haven't lost it - your standards are just not that low anymore." Hmmm..... and this is a friend.
I don't know about moving on. Maybe this is what the Wise Men meant when they talked about attaining nirvana or moksha or whatever. All i know is, i derive greater satisfaction out of watching Johnny Depp wobble his way into Pirate heaven than i do fielding calls from various unknowns.
Maybe i should get a cat named Martha. That's truly complete this picture.
I enjoy sex. I think it's fun. It's got this amazing feel-good factor that most romantic-comedies can't beat. However, lately, i've been quite circumspect when it comes to choosing bed-mates. After a spate of being highly indiscriminate, i just ended it cold turkey (I wish i could do the same with smoking, but that's another post). And since that time, refusing to be swayed by "Oh, i really need to be held right now", i haven't really... you know.. 'been' with anyone.
Then, one day, a conversation came up about the dreaded 'use it or lose it' factor. I admit i got scared. I mean, what if it's true?? So i turned to my age-old acid test - Matt - a man who's always known which buttons to push to get me going. Matt is a man in uniform. He's clean-shaven, tall, dark and lean, kisses like a dream, adores the ground i walk on, and is married. Perfect for a no-strings-attached experiment on mojo-ism. I've known Matt for many years, most of which he spent trying to get into my pants. It was quite flattering, i must admit. But somehow, his inabilty to commit and the fact that he had a long-term girlfriend (now wife) always got in the way of the two of us getting it on. Until a drunken, one-night stand ages ago.
That's history for you.
So a few days ago, after several glasses of wine (and several men who just had not managed to grab my attention over weeks), i thought, "Let me see if i still got it." I called Matt. He surprisingly was in town. Wife wasn't - not for the whole week. This just HAD to be considered as a sign that the Universe wants me to go ahead with the ridiculous plan that had formed in my head. After that, it was just a matter of when i could effectively rationalize my behavior and help my self-control crumble. It didn't take long.
I reached his doorstep, he kissed me hullo, and things got under way. Except - while he was nibbling my neck, and murmuring delicious nothings into my ear, i was thinking of a campaign i had to roll out by the next morning. Yep, I was thinking of work. Maybe it's a step above from thinking of the laundry, but hey! MATT was KISSING me!!! It was Matt! The gorgeous hunk with the big bike and the edgy death wish! Come ON!!
But it was too late... No matter how many glasses of wine i had, how many cigarettes i smoked, how cozy i got with him, somehow - it was over. Kissing him was fun but... cerebral. One constant refrain kept running through my head - Another one bites the dust. The next morning, when i kissed him goodbye, i didn't even feel a pang. It was awful.
In my highly disgruntled state, i bumped into a friend online. She's aware of my highly tumultuous non-relationship with Matt, and rationalized my feelings of 'having lost it' as "You're finally over him! Now you can move on! You haven't lost it - your standards are just not that low anymore." Hmmm..... and this is a friend.
I don't know about moving on. Maybe this is what the Wise Men meant when they talked about attaining nirvana or moksha or whatever. All i know is, i derive greater satisfaction out of watching Johnny Depp wobble his way into Pirate heaven than i do fielding calls from various unknowns.
Maybe i should get a cat named Martha. That's truly complete this picture.
Monday, June 25, 2007
That's what Friends are for...
Something happened. The exact event is commonplace and quite irrelevant. But it has led me to question all my beliefs when it comes to friends and what friendships imply.
I've never put too much stock in 'romantic' relationships - i understand that even if two people adore each other to bits, there are circumstances in which they cannot live with each other. That doesn't reflect badly on the sincerity of the feelings thereof, just that sometimes, shit happens.
But with friendships, the rules are different. More often than not, they're platonic to start with. Immediately, things like sexual tension and jealousy are done away with. And what's brought into sharp focus are the really important things like value systems, integrity and character - archaic words in the world we live in, i know... but i'm old-fashioned.
And in light of recent developments, i've come up with my own definition and list of friendship rules and why they're important.
A friend: Someone you know and like because he/she does the right thing by you and others without compromising his/her own values. Thus, someone whose value-system matches yours to a large extent.
1) Don't fraternize with your friend's ex without permission from the friend. If you do, it means you're ok with people hurting your friend. If the ex is the hurt party, and you want to be nice to him/her, without your friend being ok with it, then it means you're making a choice between your need to do the right thing, and your friend's need not to. If he/she isn't keen about doing the right thing, value systems are obviously out of whack.
2) Keep your friend's secrets. Unless ofcourse the friend's secret is hurting him/her - like drug usage, abuse, etc. Chances are, your friend knows that he/she is in trouble, but is terrified of the solution. Your job is to give them support, and perhaps a backbone. Not to spill the beans. They're not your beans to spill.
3) Accept your friend - quirks and all. Mostly because it takes all kinds to make the world, and if you try to change him/her to better fit your idea of what a friend should be, then you're not being much of a friend anyway. And hence, not worth the trouble of changing for.
4) Make time for your friends. Even if it is in the middle of the night. They wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important... to them atleast.
5) Don't take advantage of your friends. Know that some of their most vulnerable parts are known to you, which is a privilege. Don't use them for professional advancement (unless you have their permission), don't use them for personal grand-standing.
I'm sure there are several loopholes to the above few, and several additions that can be made. But what it essentially boils down to is respect and trust, the two cornerstones of any relationship. A friend asked me recently why it was that i couldn't keep a romantic relationship going - what is it that i was doing wrong. And i have to start wondering, am i expecting too much?
I've never put too much stock in 'romantic' relationships - i understand that even if two people adore each other to bits, there are circumstances in which they cannot live with each other. That doesn't reflect badly on the sincerity of the feelings thereof, just that sometimes, shit happens.
But with friendships, the rules are different. More often than not, they're platonic to start with. Immediately, things like sexual tension and jealousy are done away with. And what's brought into sharp focus are the really important things like value systems, integrity and character - archaic words in the world we live in, i know... but i'm old-fashioned.
And in light of recent developments, i've come up with my own definition and list of friendship rules and why they're important.
A friend: Someone you know and like because he/she does the right thing by you and others without compromising his/her own values. Thus, someone whose value-system matches yours to a large extent.
1) Don't fraternize with your friend's ex without permission from the friend. If you do, it means you're ok with people hurting your friend. If the ex is the hurt party, and you want to be nice to him/her, without your friend being ok with it, then it means you're making a choice between your need to do the right thing, and your friend's need not to. If he/she isn't keen about doing the right thing, value systems are obviously out of whack.
2) Keep your friend's secrets. Unless ofcourse the friend's secret is hurting him/her - like drug usage, abuse, etc. Chances are, your friend knows that he/she is in trouble, but is terrified of the solution. Your job is to give them support, and perhaps a backbone. Not to spill the beans. They're not your beans to spill.
3) Accept your friend - quirks and all. Mostly because it takes all kinds to make the world, and if you try to change him/her to better fit your idea of what a friend should be, then you're not being much of a friend anyway. And hence, not worth the trouble of changing for.
4) Make time for your friends. Even if it is in the middle of the night. They wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important... to them atleast.
5) Don't take advantage of your friends. Know that some of their most vulnerable parts are known to you, which is a privilege. Don't use them for professional advancement (unless you have their permission), don't use them for personal grand-standing.
I'm sure there are several loopholes to the above few, and several additions that can be made. But what it essentially boils down to is respect and trust, the two cornerstones of any relationship. A friend asked me recently why it was that i couldn't keep a romantic relationship going - what is it that i was doing wrong. And i have to start wondering, am i expecting too much?
Friday, June 22, 2007
A Fairy Tale
About two years ago, one of my closest friends - Samantha - got married to a guy who adored her. Her wedding day was one of the most painful days of my life.
Many years ago, we had made a pact - that we would be true to our hearts, never compromise on love and never settle for less that our due. We'd been 17. And at the age of 28, after being whacked senseless by life and love, when she married a guy because she 'didn't care either ways', i felt betrayed. This girl, dressed in silk and gold, wearing a blank expression on the 'happiest day of her life' wasn't the friend i'd known and cherished all these years.
Months passed, during which phone calls were the usual mode of contact. But everytime i asked how she was doing, her brittle over-bright voice would travel across the phone waves assuring me that "Things are perfect." After a while, even those infrequent calls petered off - after all, it's impossible to have a real conversation when you're trying to ignore the elephant in the room. However, a few months ago, she called me and told me that she had filed for divorce. She sobbed about how horrible her marriage was, how she didn't love him, how her mother was making her life miserable because of the divorce, etc etc.
I was furious. How dare she expect me to just sit here and listen sympathetically when she knew exactly what she was getting into? And if what she was getting into was so anti-code, then how could she agree to it at all? And now, i was supposed to find it in me to understand her playing a victim? While i mouthed the meaningless platitudes that are meant to comfort and support, inside i was screaming, "What have you done to my friend?"
Then, a few days ago, i read a line that jumped out of the page and practically bit me in the ass. It went like this: Everyone, without exception, is leading their fairy tale life. What????
And then i thought about a conversation i had with Samantha, all those years ago. We were drinking coffee at my place one morning, playing hooky from college, and laughing about how it'll be when we grow up. I was going to be a high-powered corporate executive, having a series of highly intense monogamous relationships, while she was going to be an atleast-twice-married sexy Mama, with a string of admirers. Seems we were living our fairy tale lives after all....
Maybe that line was right. Maybe not. I called her anyway and really listened to her. And while doing so, i sensed my friend there, albeit in flashes. We spoke for an hour, and as I hung up, I promised to visit.
And then i sat down to rewrite my fairy tale.
Many years ago, we had made a pact - that we would be true to our hearts, never compromise on love and never settle for less that our due. We'd been 17. And at the age of 28, after being whacked senseless by life and love, when she married a guy because she 'didn't care either ways', i felt betrayed. This girl, dressed in silk and gold, wearing a blank expression on the 'happiest day of her life' wasn't the friend i'd known and cherished all these years.
Months passed, during which phone calls were the usual mode of contact. But everytime i asked how she was doing, her brittle over-bright voice would travel across the phone waves assuring me that "Things are perfect." After a while, even those infrequent calls petered off - after all, it's impossible to have a real conversation when you're trying to ignore the elephant in the room. However, a few months ago, she called me and told me that she had filed for divorce. She sobbed about how horrible her marriage was, how she didn't love him, how her mother was making her life miserable because of the divorce, etc etc.
I was furious. How dare she expect me to just sit here and listen sympathetically when she knew exactly what she was getting into? And if what she was getting into was so anti-code, then how could she agree to it at all? And now, i was supposed to find it in me to understand her playing a victim? While i mouthed the meaningless platitudes that are meant to comfort and support, inside i was screaming, "What have you done to my friend?"
Then, a few days ago, i read a line that jumped out of the page and practically bit me in the ass. It went like this: Everyone, without exception, is leading their fairy tale life. What????
And then i thought about a conversation i had with Samantha, all those years ago. We were drinking coffee at my place one morning, playing hooky from college, and laughing about how it'll be when we grow up. I was going to be a high-powered corporate executive, having a series of highly intense monogamous relationships, while she was going to be an atleast-twice-married sexy Mama, with a string of admirers. Seems we were living our fairy tale lives after all....
Maybe that line was right. Maybe not. I called her anyway and really listened to her. And while doing so, i sensed my friend there, albeit in flashes. We spoke for an hour, and as I hung up, I promised to visit.
And then i sat down to rewrite my fairy tale.
Yours, Unattached
(After thinking about it a while, i've edited my original post. I think it perhaps now says what i wanted it to say)
A kid i know at work tried the "i'll read your signature" line on me. It was a slow day and i'm just stupidly drawn by things that promise to reveal some hidden aspect of my personality to me - so we sat down and the first thing she said to me was, "You don't like to own things." Wow. I must admit i have heard a variety of truisms like "you've been hurt before, you're very strong", etc etc... never something as specific as this though.
The reason i mention this is because over the last couple of weeks, my latest acquisition has been getting a lot of attention. My house. I bought it in the suburbs last year. To give you an idea of just how much of a big deal this is, let me explain. I prefer a laptop over a PC. Soft, light-weight bean bags and mattresses have been the preferred choice of furniture (i use the term loosely). I've never bought a TV or felt the need to. My only piece of furniture was a dismantleable spare-design burma-wood table and bar-stools and cupboard for clothes. Anything else would limit the 'up-and-move' quality of my existence, as seen from the average of 7 residences in as many years.
To a very large degree, this 'up and move' aspiration has been reflected in my romantic relationships. Anyone brought up the M-word, it would usually be the beginning of the end. Suddenly, things that were accepted as normal, would begin to irk - his need to just go off without leaving a note, his video-game dependency, his possessive streak, etc. And behind all the irrational arguments and the nagging nit-picking, would lie the question, "This is what i'm supposed to live with for the rest of my life??" And the answer, unfortunately, was more often than not 'NO'.
But now i own a house. It doesn't up and move. You can't pack it up and carry it with you to unpack on a hillside with beautiful views. In fact, there is little you can do with it except come back home to it every night... and repair its blemishes. And keep investing in it - your time, money, patience, peace of mind.
Much like a marriage. I find myself working really hard to keep my house looking just-so. No, i'm not anally-retentive when it comes to dust, or a bit of clutter, but i like my house to be mostly sorted. It helps me relax. It helps me unwind after a long day filled with agravations. Things that get broken have to be repaired. Things have to be bought. There is no out. You can't just leave because at some level you don't want to - it's home. Like a marriage should be.
The thing is, I didn't really buy the house. My parents bought it for me. (No, i'm not a spoilt brat...not a materially spoilt one, in any case.) This particular investment was done for various reasons - great investment opportunity, convenient base in Bombay, but most importantly, giving their only daughter roots in a rootless life. Mom even bought me plants that now i have to keep alive.
Ever since that time, things seem to be going completely out of control. .. or atleast the kind of control i'm used to having my life in. First there was the house, then there was heavy, wooden furniture, then a JOB to battle the vagaries of freelancing income to pay the EMIs, and now talk of getting a car.... All this, while there's still little to eat in my refrigerator and i'm fantasizing of just 'up-and-move'ing to Barcelona and earning my living as a bartender.
And this is where things get really freaky if i take the analogy forward. If my house is like a marriage, does that mean that even when i'm in it, i'll be constantly fantasizing about getting out, and more importantly, will i have to be kicked out of my inertia-driven state and almost forced into it?
The bottom line is, I sense myself growing roots, and the worrying part? It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling. A minor concern stays - When i look back at this time of my life 20 years from now, will i think that this was the point when i started losing myself and becoming the complete stranger i find staring back at me from the mirror now-then? Maybe. But for now, i love that in the mornings, bright sunlight streams into my living room, and the pretty flower-buds of my potted plants peek at me as i stand there, idly flipping through the papers, wondering whether i should order pizza for breakfast.
It's cozy. If this is marriage, it's allright.
A kid i know at work tried the "i'll read your signature" line on me. It was a slow day and i'm just stupidly drawn by things that promise to reveal some hidden aspect of my personality to me - so we sat down and the first thing she said to me was, "You don't like to own things." Wow. I must admit i have heard a variety of truisms like "you've been hurt before, you're very strong", etc etc... never something as specific as this though.
The reason i mention this is because over the last couple of weeks, my latest acquisition has been getting a lot of attention. My house. I bought it in the suburbs last year. To give you an idea of just how much of a big deal this is, let me explain. I prefer a laptop over a PC. Soft, light-weight bean bags and mattresses have been the preferred choice of furniture (i use the term loosely). I've never bought a TV or felt the need to. My only piece of furniture was a dismantleable spare-design burma-wood table and bar-stools and cupboard for clothes. Anything else would limit the 'up-and-move' quality of my existence, as seen from the average of 7 residences in as many years.
To a very large degree, this 'up and move' aspiration has been reflected in my romantic relationships. Anyone brought up the M-word, it would usually be the beginning of the end. Suddenly, things that were accepted as normal, would begin to irk - his need to just go off without leaving a note, his video-game dependency, his possessive streak, etc. And behind all the irrational arguments and the nagging nit-picking, would lie the question, "This is what i'm supposed to live with for the rest of my life??" And the answer, unfortunately, was more often than not 'NO'.
But now i own a house. It doesn't up and move. You can't pack it up and carry it with you to unpack on a hillside with beautiful views. In fact, there is little you can do with it except come back home to it every night... and repair its blemishes. And keep investing in it - your time, money, patience, peace of mind.
Much like a marriage. I find myself working really hard to keep my house looking just-so. No, i'm not anally-retentive when it comes to dust, or a bit of clutter, but i like my house to be mostly sorted. It helps me relax. It helps me unwind after a long day filled with agravations. Things that get broken have to be repaired. Things have to be bought. There is no out. You can't just leave because at some level you don't want to - it's home. Like a marriage should be.
The thing is, I didn't really buy the house. My parents bought it for me. (No, i'm not a spoilt brat...not a materially spoilt one, in any case.) This particular investment was done for various reasons - great investment opportunity, convenient base in Bombay, but most importantly, giving their only daughter roots in a rootless life. Mom even bought me plants that now i have to keep alive.
Ever since that time, things seem to be going completely out of control. .. or atleast the kind of control i'm used to having my life in. First there was the house, then there was heavy, wooden furniture, then a JOB to battle the vagaries of freelancing income to pay the EMIs, and now talk of getting a car.... All this, while there's still little to eat in my refrigerator and i'm fantasizing of just 'up-and-move'ing to Barcelona and earning my living as a bartender.
And this is where things get really freaky if i take the analogy forward. If my house is like a marriage, does that mean that even when i'm in it, i'll be constantly fantasizing about getting out, and more importantly, will i have to be kicked out of my inertia-driven state and almost forced into it?
The bottom line is, I sense myself growing roots, and the worrying part? It's not an entirely unpleasant feeling. A minor concern stays - When i look back at this time of my life 20 years from now, will i think that this was the point when i started losing myself and becoming the complete stranger i find staring back at me from the mirror now-then? Maybe. But for now, i love that in the mornings, bright sunlight streams into my living room, and the pretty flower-buds of my potted plants peek at me as i stand there, idly flipping through the papers, wondering whether i should order pizza for breakfast.
It's cozy. If this is marriage, it's allright.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
Who, Me?
I've never been a popular kid. Through school i was always on the fringes of the 'in' crowd. I couldn't break into the Debating teams because i truly understood where the other guy was coming from; the dramatics team was a mystery as it was impossible for me to be 'natural' while playing 'little bo peep' and the basketball team had a height criterion.
I struggled with the fact that i wasn't ever going to be the 'hot chick' in school, that guys would always think of me as the back-thumping-never-crying-best-buddy and beautiful would never be a term applied to me. One day, while going through my delayed entry into adolescent agony, i despairingly asked my professor, "What if i'm no good at anything?!" And she wisely said, "Sometimes it's enough to be a good person." She obviously hadn't lived in the Bombay media world.
In my contrary state of mind (telling the world to go to hell while begging for acceptance in the same breath), i found solace in my diary (my older brother did too apparently, when he read out bits of my self-loathing to his friends, but that's another story). It became a place where i could be completely honest about what really mattered to me - and where the slow realisation hit me that little really did. But more importantly, it became a place of habit.
And today, when that habit has led to intensely private navel-gazing on the hugely public forum of the internet, i find that i finally have a much-appreciated fan club (you know who you are). But really, if truth and a healthy disdain of how people perceive you is all it takes to 'win friends and influence people', i wish someone had told me and saved me years of heartache. Then again... maybe not.
I struggled with the fact that i wasn't ever going to be the 'hot chick' in school, that guys would always think of me as the back-thumping-never-crying-best-buddy and beautiful would never be a term applied to me. One day, while going through my delayed entry into adolescent agony, i despairingly asked my professor, "What if i'm no good at anything?!" And she wisely said, "Sometimes it's enough to be a good person." She obviously hadn't lived in the Bombay media world.
In my contrary state of mind (telling the world to go to hell while begging for acceptance in the same breath), i found solace in my diary (my older brother did too apparently, when he read out bits of my self-loathing to his friends, but that's another story). It became a place where i could be completely honest about what really mattered to me - and where the slow realisation hit me that little really did. But more importantly, it became a place of habit.
And today, when that habit has led to intensely private navel-gazing on the hugely public forum of the internet, i find that i finally have a much-appreciated fan club (you know who you are). But really, if truth and a healthy disdain of how people perceive you is all it takes to 'win friends and influence people', i wish someone had told me and saved me years of heartache. Then again... maybe not.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Faking It
Yesterday, a friend of mine told me about this embarrassing malfunction he had in bed. According to him, it has 'never happened' (yeah, right) and now he thinks it's because the woman he was with, just didn't have 'that special connection' with him. I looked at him askance, wondering whether he'd left his thinking mind along with his libido behind.
Then he brightened up and said, "But she did cum so that can be my goodbye gift to her." Uh yeah, sure. I was pissed off. Here was this guy i consider a friend who was being a total jerk about a girl who had gone out of her way to fake an orgasm for him. The moron didn't realise that that had been her goodbye gift to him.
Faked an orgasm??? Yes, sir. What followed was a lengthy discussion on orgasms, faking it, and how most men don't think their partners ever have done it. Finally it ended with him asking, "Why don't they just tell men how to give them an orgasm instead of being all romantic about it? I'm not a mindreader!" Reminded me of a blog i'd read where the writer almost begs for directions to a female orgasm. I wrote a comment on the same blog... which i'm reproducing here.
I must say, the demand for a "roadmap" to orgasm is so typically male. It's like saying - fixing the kitchen shelf needs a power drill, a saw, glue, etc, and helping my lady attain her orgasm needs a left here, a right there, slight u-turn.. and voila!
Really, come on!
A male orgasm is a physiological thing. From the age of 13 or younger, boys are taught, usually by their well-meaning older brothers or friends, how to get rid of that 'funny feeling in the pants'. A female orgasm - well, now THERE's a different story.
An orgasm for a woman is literally a way of letting go. She lets go of her inhibitions, her phobia about cellulite, being seen as imperfect (particularly by the male world which sees Claudia Schiffer as perfection), she puts away all thought - guilt over liking the 'dirty act of sex', of being considered a slut, of her laundry not done, of whether her underwear is sexy enough, etc etc. When she lets go of all of this - baggage - only then does she orgasm.
Being the sensitive, caring man of the 21st century, is actually about being able to help her do all of that - mainly by making her feel beautiful and cherished. And that process starts in the head, way before clothes are thrown off and strewn across the room. Unfortunately, there's no road map for that. Except for the big glaring word that men seem to just not see - it's called FOREPLAY.
ForePLAY. It's not supposed to be a chore. It's supposed to be stolen kisses, hand holding, raunchy messages in the middle of a board meeting. It's playful, teasing, surprising and joyous, because THAT is what sex is about. Or should be.
Women aren't trying to be mysterious or mystical about having an orgasm; it isn't a great secret that we don't want to share with you. The thing about orgasm - single or multiple - is that, while many women (not all, mind you) recognise it when going through it, very few women know consciously about these complicated but crucial elements that go into it.
What does happen is that, over the years, she goes through several men (or few men several times) who try really hard to satisfy her (bless them), who try to be the "sensitive, caring man of the 21st century". Some of them manage to do so, some of them don't, and its only in that process, she learns what makes her tick. And, like a learned trait, it becomes easier to let go, and easier to tip over to the side of a full-blown orgasm.
Then, why do we fake it? Just as the female 'orgasm' has burst onto the male sexual arena recently, even women have to deal with the pressures of "Did you cum? How many times? Was it good?" Jeez! Something that was supposed to be fun, and private, is now suddenly dinner table conversation, with women being called a variety of names - 'frigid, cold, unresponsive, weird, unwomanly' etc etc - if she hasn't "had one." And this is from other women, by the way.
In defence, women have learnt the fine art of 'faking it'(THAT is easy - remember Meg Ryan in "when Harry met Sally"?)and just enjoying the liberation of sexual intimacy hoping that while faking it, the real thing will come along, without the added pressure of looking for it.
The modern woman is not always swayed by material things because lately the modern woman can buy herself her own shiny baubles including the diamond ring. But the modern woman does enjoy "the weight of a man", and hopes to come across one who will help her drown out all the noise in her head and be able to say, in that glorious moment of ecstacy, "YES!!"
Then he brightened up and said, "But she did cum so that can be my goodbye gift to her." Uh yeah, sure. I was pissed off. Here was this guy i consider a friend who was being a total jerk about a girl who had gone out of her way to fake an orgasm for him. The moron didn't realise that that had been her goodbye gift to him.
Faked an orgasm??? Yes, sir. What followed was a lengthy discussion on orgasms, faking it, and how most men don't think their partners ever have done it. Finally it ended with him asking, "Why don't they just tell men how to give them an orgasm instead of being all romantic about it? I'm not a mindreader!" Reminded me of a blog i'd read where the writer almost begs for directions to a female orgasm. I wrote a comment on the same blog... which i'm reproducing here.
I must say, the demand for a "roadmap" to orgasm is so typically male. It's like saying - fixing the kitchen shelf needs a power drill, a saw, glue, etc, and helping my lady attain her orgasm needs a left here, a right there, slight u-turn.. and voila!
Really, come on!
A male orgasm is a physiological thing. From the age of 13 or younger, boys are taught, usually by their well-meaning older brothers or friends, how to get rid of that 'funny feeling in the pants'. A female orgasm - well, now THERE's a different story.
An orgasm for a woman is literally a way of letting go. She lets go of her inhibitions, her phobia about cellulite, being seen as imperfect (particularly by the male world which sees Claudia Schiffer as perfection), she puts away all thought - guilt over liking the 'dirty act of sex', of being considered a slut, of her laundry not done, of whether her underwear is sexy enough, etc etc. When she lets go of all of this - baggage - only then does she orgasm.
Being the sensitive, caring man of the 21st century, is actually about being able to help her do all of that - mainly by making her feel beautiful and cherished. And that process starts in the head, way before clothes are thrown off and strewn across the room. Unfortunately, there's no road map for that. Except for the big glaring word that men seem to just not see - it's called FOREPLAY.
ForePLAY. It's not supposed to be a chore. It's supposed to be stolen kisses, hand holding, raunchy messages in the middle of a board meeting. It's playful, teasing, surprising and joyous, because THAT is what sex is about. Or should be.
Women aren't trying to be mysterious or mystical about having an orgasm; it isn't a great secret that we don't want to share with you. The thing about orgasm - single or multiple - is that, while many women (not all, mind you) recognise it when going through it, very few women know consciously about these complicated but crucial elements that go into it.
What does happen is that, over the years, she goes through several men (or few men several times) who try really hard to satisfy her (bless them), who try to be the "sensitive, caring man of the 21st century". Some of them manage to do so, some of them don't, and its only in that process, she learns what makes her tick. And, like a learned trait, it becomes easier to let go, and easier to tip over to the side of a full-blown orgasm.
Then, why do we fake it? Just as the female 'orgasm' has burst onto the male sexual arena recently, even women have to deal with the pressures of "Did you cum? How many times? Was it good?" Jeez! Something that was supposed to be fun, and private, is now suddenly dinner table conversation, with women being called a variety of names - 'frigid, cold, unresponsive, weird, unwomanly' etc etc - if she hasn't "had one." And this is from other women, by the way.
In defence, women have learnt the fine art of 'faking it'(THAT is easy - remember Meg Ryan in "when Harry met Sally"?)and just enjoying the liberation of sexual intimacy hoping that while faking it, the real thing will come along, without the added pressure of looking for it.
The modern woman is not always swayed by material things because lately the modern woman can buy herself her own shiny baubles including the diamond ring. But the modern woman does enjoy "the weight of a man", and hopes to come across one who will help her drown out all the noise in her head and be able to say, in that glorious moment of ecstacy, "YES!!"
Monday, June 4, 2007
Do I look like a Dating Service?
There used to be a time when i would look forward to having everyone i care about - friends, family, etc - in one location as i truly believed that people important to me should know each other. This was a dream that had its basis in movies revolving around Thankgiving, where dysfunctional families got together for a whole day of torture. But i always thought they were hilarious. The dysfunctional family i could provide, the 'weird' friends would show up, and atleast for that one day/week/month, i won't have to miss anyone because everyone important would be there - though probably in different rooms.
Needless to say, the stars haven't yet aligned for that to happen. With family and friends scattered all over the world, with different schedules and different life cycles, it's understandable. But, at my end, i continue to try and stay in touch. Practically everyday, i'm out with someone for a drink or dinner. When that doesn't happen, phonecalls and emails rule. And as far as possible, i manipulate occasions where different groups of friends can meet and interact, and preferably form bonds that are independent of me. After all, that's how true families are formed.
Until, lately, i find a lot of my friends come up with a very annoying line of conversation. It goes something like this:
Friend: Yo! What plans tonight?
Me: Nothing major. Have a birthday party to go to. Wanna come?
Friend: Are there gonna be any cute/hot chicks/guys there?
Me: No idea.. i'm sure there will be some fairly interesting people.
Friend: Who?
Me: Well.. Name1, Name2, Name3...
Friend: they're not hot/cute/ oh lord, them again??
Me: They're friends. That's why i'm meeting them.
Friend: DO they have hot friends..?
Me: why?
Friend: Otherwise there's no point.
No point??? Almost everyone i count as a friend is attractive, funny, charming, mildly eccentric and interesting (including the irritant). I don't categorise them as shaggable or not, although i'm sure they would be considered so by someone. But what really gets my goat is the attitude that dismisses what an evening can potentially be by simply shutting your mind to the idea of the unexpected.
"If i'm not getting laid, then i'm not interested." Well, honey, if you aren't interested, you aren't getting laid.
Maybe people are getting more impatient about discovering each other. The speed-dating syndrome and the Sitcom/Movie world {where every half hour episode has so many beautiful (thanks to make-up and lighting), funny (thanks to a good script probably written by someone who isn't as hot as the people saying the lines) people} has leaked into our real world expectations, that we now have no time to read beyond the superficial.
Snap judgements are made on the basis of boob-size, butt-shape, hair-length, complexion, etc, before even bothering to actually 'see' a person. They don't notice that under the not-so-perfect boob-shape is someone who's tone-deaf and loves dancing, that the guy with the not-so-perfect weight category is someone who loves to race cars, that the obnoxious guy sitting in one corner of the room sullenly smoking cigarettes is a guy who's rather shy about big groups of people and hopes that someone will just talk nicely to him instead of being sarcastic.
I'm not saying it's easy. It just takes a temporary suspension of paranoia so that we can actually listen to what someone is saying without being convinced that he/she is malicious. It implies taking a break from being yourself, and giving that other person the same chance.
And if they can't do that, i just hope that they can stop pestering me to introduce them to my single, cute friends. Because whatever i may be, i'm not a dating service. And if that doesn't work, i really hope that the day when i'll have everyone under one roof isn't that far - that way, everyone will meet everyone i know and then they'll stop making "new hot friends" a pre-requisite for just hanging out.
Needless to say, the stars haven't yet aligned for that to happen. With family and friends scattered all over the world, with different schedules and different life cycles, it's understandable. But, at my end, i continue to try and stay in touch. Practically everyday, i'm out with someone for a drink or dinner. When that doesn't happen, phonecalls and emails rule. And as far as possible, i manipulate occasions where different groups of friends can meet and interact, and preferably form bonds that are independent of me. After all, that's how true families are formed.
Until, lately, i find a lot of my friends come up with a very annoying line of conversation. It goes something like this:
Friend: Yo! What plans tonight?
Me: Nothing major. Have a birthday party to go to. Wanna come?
Friend: Are there gonna be any cute/hot chicks/guys there?
Me: No idea.. i'm sure there will be some fairly interesting people.
Friend: Who?
Me: Well.. Name1, Name2, Name3...
Friend: they're not hot/cute/ oh lord, them again??
Me: They're friends. That's why i'm meeting them.
Friend: DO they have hot friends..?
Me: why?
Friend: Otherwise there's no point.
No point??? Almost everyone i count as a friend is attractive, funny, charming, mildly eccentric and interesting (including the irritant). I don't categorise them as shaggable or not, although i'm sure they would be considered so by someone. But what really gets my goat is the attitude that dismisses what an evening can potentially be by simply shutting your mind to the idea of the unexpected.
"If i'm not getting laid, then i'm not interested." Well, honey, if you aren't interested, you aren't getting laid.
Maybe people are getting more impatient about discovering each other. The speed-dating syndrome and the Sitcom/Movie world {where every half hour episode has so many beautiful (thanks to make-up and lighting), funny (thanks to a good script probably written by someone who isn't as hot as the people saying the lines) people} has leaked into our real world expectations, that we now have no time to read beyond the superficial.
Snap judgements are made on the basis of boob-size, butt-shape, hair-length, complexion, etc, before even bothering to actually 'see' a person. They don't notice that under the not-so-perfect boob-shape is someone who's tone-deaf and loves dancing, that the guy with the not-so-perfect weight category is someone who loves to race cars, that the obnoxious guy sitting in one corner of the room sullenly smoking cigarettes is a guy who's rather shy about big groups of people and hopes that someone will just talk nicely to him instead of being sarcastic.
I'm not saying it's easy. It just takes a temporary suspension of paranoia so that we can actually listen to what someone is saying without being convinced that he/she is malicious. It implies taking a break from being yourself, and giving that other person the same chance.
And if they can't do that, i just hope that they can stop pestering me to introduce them to my single, cute friends. Because whatever i may be, i'm not a dating service. And if that doesn't work, i really hope that the day when i'll have everyone under one roof isn't that far - that way, everyone will meet everyone i know and then they'll stop making "new hot friends" a pre-requisite for just hanging out.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Guilty Pleasures
Somethings i love to do. And i can't really talk about them with any kind of pride or rebellion because they're not really all that great or all that.. rebellious. They're just stuff i like to do and probably wouldn't admit to - like drinking juice straight from the carton without the intermediate step of pouring it into a glass. So here's a list.
- Watching Dance Movies. And i don't mean just the cult films like Dirty Dancing and The Company. I mean just any stupid, cliched badly-directed/acted/written film revolving around the main genre of dance. I can't help myself. I walk into the video store, look at all the really good films out there, but somedays when comfort is all you need, i find myself unerringly picking out a dance flick. I have watched them all i think - i know the stories almost backward - there's always the great but straight-laced dancer who gets influenced by the rogue street-dancing, whatever that may be, the little kid who dies and brings the rogue dancer to his senses and want to do something good with his talent, the inner conflict of the great dancer who just can't reach that final potential but who finds a way to get over it. And there's the dancing - from Dirty Dancing to Save the Last Dance to Step up, dance has always been a place where cultures have collided and passion has ruled. I think its my own sense of rebellion and cheering-on of change. Or not.
- Staying in Bed. I know, that sounds like the usual stuff, but i really stay in bed. I don't answer the door, no matter what. Various people ring the doorbell at different times of the day, and i can't be bothered to get up at all, knowing that they will go away. I stay curled up on my bed, with a book to read, my phone on silent mode (so that when i return calls the next day, i can claim that my phone was on silent mode and hence i can't really be held responsible for not answering). Yes, those days i find myself not eating much either cuz that would imply getting out of bed and rummaging in a fridge that most certainly would not have anything edible, or ordering in (which is pointless considering the previous 'not opening door' clause). At best, i get a bottle of water and keep it next to me. Hey, in some regions, it's even considered healthy. And Holy.
- Junk Food. This is a big one. Not just the comfort food kind of big. This stuff i can gorge on unendingly. Specifically those god-awful McDonald burgers. I know they're the stuff heart-attacks are made of, i know that each molecule of saturated fat will go straight to my thighs and add another dimple in them, i know it all... but oh! The joy of unwrapping that ridiculously small tasteless burger, and taking that first bite of cheese and mayo heaven... Don't get me wrong, i DON'T eat this everyday. There was a time when i did... but since then, better sense and my 30s caught up. Plus, i've discovered the joys of healthy sandwiches - whole wheat bread, slices of lean meat, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers and a splash of mustard and marmite... I make them, i love them and i mostly eat only them. But every now and then, at just that time when you become conscious of your hunger and feel just that little bit lazy about getting off your not-so-toned ass... And the worst of it is - they home deliver!
- Talking to Myself. OK, this isn't the "senile grandmother talking to voices" kind of thing. Actually, on second thought, it might well be. But it basically revolves around me having completely rational conversations with "myself" (or whoever i happen to be imagining at that point) about anything and everything under the sun. There is a start, a middle and an end. Usually, neither of us gets convinced with the arguments presented. But "I" usually make more sense. "I" am smarter, more articulate, have greater ability of coming up with cutting and sarcastic remarks, and have a great grasp on logic. "Myself" on the other hand is mostly a listener, who tells me to take my prissy personality for a walk and not come back until i make sense. And then i go out for a walk with myself, batting the breeze like two crochety old ladies. Or five. Sometimes, its hilarious and I laugh out loud. Which is usually a little odd in the middle of a board meeting.
- Freecell. Yes, its that strange computer game that has four packs of cards all laid out in 8 columns and... well, I'm not here to provide a tutorial, you figure it out. The thing is, it's my calm down-unwind-rejuvenate-think laterally kind of game. I don't pretend to be infatuated by computer games. World of Warcraft and Tetris are really two games among a world of many that require concentration, an certain amount of guessing, and time. Freecell, on the other hand, requires no guessing, as all the cards are placed right in front of you. There is no clock against which you're playing. There is no numerical score that you have to beat. There are no thousand keys to hit to get different kinds of guns or kicks or what-have-you. It's not life-or-death (virtual or otherwise). You just have to get the packs in their slots using simple rules of available space. It's simple. It's logical. All the elements are in your control and every game theoretically can be won. I like that possibility. Atleast it exists in a game, if not in life.
- Watching Dance Movies. And i don't mean just the cult films like Dirty Dancing and The Company. I mean just any stupid, cliched badly-directed/acted/written film revolving around the main genre of dance. I can't help myself. I walk into the video store, look at all the really good films out there, but somedays when comfort is all you need, i find myself unerringly picking out a dance flick. I have watched them all i think - i know the stories almost backward - there's always the great but straight-laced dancer who gets influenced by the rogue street-dancing, whatever that may be, the little kid who dies and brings the rogue dancer to his senses and want to do something good with his talent, the inner conflict of the great dancer who just can't reach that final potential but who finds a way to get over it. And there's the dancing - from Dirty Dancing to Save the Last Dance to Step up, dance has always been a place where cultures have collided and passion has ruled. I think its my own sense of rebellion and cheering-on of change. Or not.
- Staying in Bed. I know, that sounds like the usual stuff, but i really stay in bed. I don't answer the door, no matter what. Various people ring the doorbell at different times of the day, and i can't be bothered to get up at all, knowing that they will go away. I stay curled up on my bed, with a book to read, my phone on silent mode (so that when i return calls the next day, i can claim that my phone was on silent mode and hence i can't really be held responsible for not answering). Yes, those days i find myself not eating much either cuz that would imply getting out of bed and rummaging in a fridge that most certainly would not have anything edible, or ordering in (which is pointless considering the previous 'not opening door' clause). At best, i get a bottle of water and keep it next to me. Hey, in some regions, it's even considered healthy. And Holy.
- Junk Food. This is a big one. Not just the comfort food kind of big. This stuff i can gorge on unendingly. Specifically those god-awful McDonald burgers. I know they're the stuff heart-attacks are made of, i know that each molecule of saturated fat will go straight to my thighs and add another dimple in them, i know it all... but oh! The joy of unwrapping that ridiculously small tasteless burger, and taking that first bite of cheese and mayo heaven... Don't get me wrong, i DON'T eat this everyday. There was a time when i did... but since then, better sense and my 30s caught up. Plus, i've discovered the joys of healthy sandwiches - whole wheat bread, slices of lean meat, tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers and a splash of mustard and marmite... I make them, i love them and i mostly eat only them. But every now and then, at just that time when you become conscious of your hunger and feel just that little bit lazy about getting off your not-so-toned ass... And the worst of it is - they home deliver!
- Talking to Myself. OK, this isn't the "senile grandmother talking to voices" kind of thing. Actually, on second thought, it might well be. But it basically revolves around me having completely rational conversations with "myself" (or whoever i happen to be imagining at that point) about anything and everything under the sun. There is a start, a middle and an end. Usually, neither of us gets convinced with the arguments presented. But "I" usually make more sense. "I" am smarter, more articulate, have greater ability of coming up with cutting and sarcastic remarks, and have a great grasp on logic. "Myself" on the other hand is mostly a listener, who tells me to take my prissy personality for a walk and not come back until i make sense. And then i go out for a walk with myself, batting the breeze like two crochety old ladies. Or five. Sometimes, its hilarious and I laugh out loud. Which is usually a little odd in the middle of a board meeting.
- Freecell. Yes, its that strange computer game that has four packs of cards all laid out in 8 columns and... well, I'm not here to provide a tutorial, you figure it out. The thing is, it's my calm down-unwind-rejuvenate-think laterally kind of game. I don't pretend to be infatuated by computer games. World of Warcraft and Tetris are really two games among a world of many that require concentration, an certain amount of guessing, and time. Freecell, on the other hand, requires no guessing, as all the cards are placed right in front of you. There is no clock against which you're playing. There is no numerical score that you have to beat. There are no thousand keys to hit to get different kinds of guns or kicks or what-have-you. It's not life-or-death (virtual or otherwise). You just have to get the packs in their slots using simple rules of available space. It's simple. It's logical. All the elements are in your control and every game theoretically can be won. I like that possibility. Atleast it exists in a game, if not in life.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Searcher's Anatomy.
What is it with love stories? Either the boy doesn't get the girl and that can be for any number of reasons - death, marriage, duty, obligation, etc etc. Or the boy gets the girl and then it falls apart over some ridiculous reason and we call it existential love stories where it's left ambiguous or the boy and the girl walk away from each other inexplicably and the audience is supposed to sigh and say "oh, that's so sad.. but there really was no other way. That's real life." Or boy dumps girl, thinking he's moving on to greener pastures only to find that he isn't, and in fact the girl has moved on to nicer, sweeter, not as hot but definitely better people who just swept them off their feet. Boy gets what he deserved. My kind of happy ending.
And then there's me. Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl. Boy proposes. Boy freaks out. Boy dumps girl. Boy gets married. And the girl? She meets other men, who're not nicer or sweeter, just another kind of strange. So strange, that she learns to prefer her own company, telling people that she's with other people when in fact she is home. Reading a book. Or watching season episodes of Grey's Anatomy.
All the time wondering when McDreamy is gonna waltz into her life. Which, going by the way she's going, would only be if he breaks down her door.
Pathetic.
And then there's me. Boy meets girl. Boy gets girl. Boy proposes. Boy freaks out. Boy dumps girl. Boy gets married. And the girl? She meets other men, who're not nicer or sweeter, just another kind of strange. So strange, that she learns to prefer her own company, telling people that she's with other people when in fact she is home. Reading a book. Or watching season episodes of Grey's Anatomy.
All the time wondering when McDreamy is gonna waltz into her life. Which, going by the way she's going, would only be if he breaks down her door.
Pathetic.
Monday, April 30, 2007
When i grow up....
Tomorrow's Labor Day. It's the day before i officially become one of the 'labor' - the kind that goes to an office every day at 10 am and stays there till about 8 pm, manages to do lots of things, all of which are totally mysterious. But, miraculously, they seem to be contributing to the GNP.
I have been a freelance writer for the better part of 4 years and before that, i have been a freelance assistant director for features, ad films, TV shows, etc. The word freelance is used a lot in my regular conversation, and when people ask me what i do, my usual response is, "I'm a (writer/director/actor/bartender) these days." They would give me a "you're so interesting" look, ask the basic questions to which i'd reply in my usual way ("yes, scripts.. screenplay.. films.. nothing you would have seen so far, it's all getting made... LOVELY weather we've been having, right??") we would laugh, and quickly we would move on to more tangible topics of conversation - like the latest war or Rupert Everett's sexy smile.
And i loved it. I lived in my favorite pair of jeans and sneakers, worked out of home which pretty much meant that i mastered flexitime, and couldn't be bothered about the impression i made on people so long as my work was impeccable. I would look down upon the "corporates" as people who barely saw anything beyond the four walls of their company, so completely imprisoned by who said what to whom, always huddled together in corners of bars talking about the skeletons in their bosses' or colleagues' closets, and who would laugh at jokes that weren't remotely funny. Me, I talked movies, and TV shows and knew what Mrs Jaya 'really' meant when she said something about Aishwarya. I could do what i wanted, when i wanted - i was the queen and mistress of all i surveyed - my time was truly my own, and a mid-afternoon movie mid-week wasn't a luxury. And someone was paying me to tell stories! Life couldn't get better.
Until i realised that there was a great price to pay for this exciting and volatile life. Somewhere in the vicinity of 700,000 bucks, to be precise, over the last 2 years. I was broke. Despite all the work i was doing, i wasn't seeing the paychecks i had earned. Producers just conveniently didn't take calls, IPR was just another meaningless collection of letters and 'the check is in the mail' was the cruel joke and it was on me.
So i capitulated. A job came along and someone put his faith in me. I took it up, promising to join from the first of May. All my friends congratulated me on a new life, new steps and new adventures (come on! How adventurous is going to work at an office after all?). I smile at them all, and yet i sense the underlying judgement that sounds something like "sellout." Or maybe that's just me. From being a bohemian raphsody, supremely arrogant of her choices, i have quickly morphed into someone who peddles her 'creativity' (probably non-existent) for the benefit of a faceless corporation.
And here i am, looking back on my ex-life with something that resembles nostalgia and a slight bitterness. Like looking from the outside in and wondering what went wrong. But more than that, i'm terrified that this new life, with its unique code of conduct, dress and language which will just strip me bare and expose that fact that i'm NOT creative, couldn't lead a team to save anyone's life and that i'm totally unemployable after all.
But atleast for a few months it'll be easier to introduce myself. "Hi, i'm Searcher, creative head, So and So company." That sounds allright then. But the big question remains - what do i wear??
I have been a freelance writer for the better part of 4 years and before that, i have been a freelance assistant director for features, ad films, TV shows, etc. The word freelance is used a lot in my regular conversation, and when people ask me what i do, my usual response is, "I'm a (writer/director/actor/bartender) these days." They would give me a "you're so interesting" look, ask the basic questions to which i'd reply in my usual way ("yes, scripts.. screenplay.. films.. nothing you would have seen so far, it's all getting made... LOVELY weather we've been having, right??") we would laugh, and quickly we would move on to more tangible topics of conversation - like the latest war or Rupert Everett's sexy smile.
And i loved it. I lived in my favorite pair of jeans and sneakers, worked out of home which pretty much meant that i mastered flexitime, and couldn't be bothered about the impression i made on people so long as my work was impeccable. I would look down upon the "corporates" as people who barely saw anything beyond the four walls of their company, so completely imprisoned by who said what to whom, always huddled together in corners of bars talking about the skeletons in their bosses' or colleagues' closets, and who would laugh at jokes that weren't remotely funny. Me, I talked movies, and TV shows and knew what Mrs Jaya 'really' meant when she said something about Aishwarya. I could do what i wanted, when i wanted - i was the queen and mistress of all i surveyed - my time was truly my own, and a mid-afternoon movie mid-week wasn't a luxury. And someone was paying me to tell stories! Life couldn't get better.
Until i realised that there was a great price to pay for this exciting and volatile life. Somewhere in the vicinity of 700,000 bucks, to be precise, over the last 2 years. I was broke. Despite all the work i was doing, i wasn't seeing the paychecks i had earned. Producers just conveniently didn't take calls, IPR was just another meaningless collection of letters and 'the check is in the mail' was the cruel joke and it was on me.
So i capitulated. A job came along and someone put his faith in me. I took it up, promising to join from the first of May. All my friends congratulated me on a new life, new steps and new adventures (come on! How adventurous is going to work at an office after all?). I smile at them all, and yet i sense the underlying judgement that sounds something like "sellout." Or maybe that's just me. From being a bohemian raphsody, supremely arrogant of her choices, i have quickly morphed into someone who peddles her 'creativity' (probably non-existent) for the benefit of a faceless corporation.
And here i am, looking back on my ex-life with something that resembles nostalgia and a slight bitterness. Like looking from the outside in and wondering what went wrong. But more than that, i'm terrified that this new life, with its unique code of conduct, dress and language which will just strip me bare and expose that fact that i'm NOT creative, couldn't lead a team to save anyone's life and that i'm totally unemployable after all.
But atleast for a few months it'll be easier to introduce myself. "Hi, i'm Searcher, creative head, So and So company." That sounds allright then. But the big question remains - what do i wear??
Monday, April 23, 2007
Till Death Do Us 'Part? One can only hope.
So over the last couple of days, the whole marriage thing has been floating around a bit. And it's odd, because while i'm thinking that it's just one of those things, I observe that the Universe may just be lining up its stars to tell me something that i'm just not paying any attention to.
First, there was my grandmother calling me (she NEVER calls) telling me how she has set me up with some guy she's found out about who lives in the USA and who has a brother in Australia. Since when did people get married to someone based on the country of residence? No, i'm not being naive.... I know grooms and brides are sought after particularly if they happen to be in any of the First World countries, but we know that's not a marriage so much as a visa.
So anyway, about this guy. He's supposed to be absolutely perfect - settled (read as rich, has a green card, has a 6-digit dollar salary doing some IT/sales/marketing job in an international company), single (read as bored of chasing skirt and under pressure to provide the regulation bride and grandkids), etc etc. But how does one marry a stranger?
My friends seem to be facing this exact situation a lot these days. One of them is sure she won't marry a stranger. Her folks got her on to one of the matrimonial sites, and she met a few people, ended up falling for a few... but no marriage in site. After 6 months of dating, it's still "too early" to tell. The fact is, there's nothing to tell. They're still doing the dance that we're all tired of dancing - the reason one is going through the "for matrimonial purposes" exercise anyway.
Then i have my mother calling up - a veteran of two marriages. And it seems even she's pretty clueless. According to her, a marriage works only if two people trust and respect each other. After all, the age-old reasons for marriage seem to have been deemed redundant - financial security and sexual availability... and yes, family. But in today's changing world, women are earning enough to be independent, everyone's sexually active and women have been single parents for years already.
Then in today's paper, i read how, with lengthening paces in the world of scientific breakthrough, it's possible that sperms will soon be created out of bone marrow. No men needed. No mess, no heartache, no need for prozac. Yay.
And finally, all around me, my still-single and newly-single friends hurtle towards the wrong side of 30 or 35 or 40, wondering what went wrong. Why did that girl/ guy not love them enough/ not wait for them/ leave them/ cheat on them/ divorce them/ marry someone else, etc etc and why are they left on the sidelines, giving their all to keeping that smile pasted on their faces, while they watch someone else get their happily ever after?
I don't know what the Universe is trying to tell me. That time's running out? That we're lonely creatures of nature? I knew that a long time ago. But seriously, did it have to rub my nose in it?
First, there was my grandmother calling me (she NEVER calls) telling me how she has set me up with some guy she's found out about who lives in the USA and who has a brother in Australia. Since when did people get married to someone based on the country of residence? No, i'm not being naive.... I know grooms and brides are sought after particularly if they happen to be in any of the First World countries, but we know that's not a marriage so much as a visa.
So anyway, about this guy. He's supposed to be absolutely perfect - settled (read as rich, has a green card, has a 6-digit dollar salary doing some IT/sales/marketing job in an international company), single (read as bored of chasing skirt and under pressure to provide the regulation bride and grandkids), etc etc. But how does one marry a stranger?
My friends seem to be facing this exact situation a lot these days. One of them is sure she won't marry a stranger. Her folks got her on to one of the matrimonial sites, and she met a few people, ended up falling for a few... but no marriage in site. After 6 months of dating, it's still "too early" to tell. The fact is, there's nothing to tell. They're still doing the dance that we're all tired of dancing - the reason one is going through the "for matrimonial purposes" exercise anyway.
Then i have my mother calling up - a veteran of two marriages. And it seems even she's pretty clueless. According to her, a marriage works only if two people trust and respect each other. After all, the age-old reasons for marriage seem to have been deemed redundant - financial security and sexual availability... and yes, family. But in today's changing world, women are earning enough to be independent, everyone's sexually active and women have been single parents for years already.
Then in today's paper, i read how, with lengthening paces in the world of scientific breakthrough, it's possible that sperms will soon be created out of bone marrow. No men needed. No mess, no heartache, no need for prozac. Yay.
And finally, all around me, my still-single and newly-single friends hurtle towards the wrong side of 30 or 35 or 40, wondering what went wrong. Why did that girl/ guy not love them enough/ not wait for them/ leave them/ cheat on them/ divorce them/ marry someone else, etc etc and why are they left on the sidelines, giving their all to keeping that smile pasted on their faces, while they watch someone else get their happily ever after?
I don't know what the Universe is trying to tell me. That time's running out? That we're lonely creatures of nature? I knew that a long time ago. But seriously, did it have to rub my nose in it?
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Where would we be without our painful childhoods?
This was the question that Dr Finch, a psychiatrist, and an unforgettable character 
in the bestseller book (and now a motion picture) "Running with Scissors" asked Augusten (the writer) when he said, 'I don't fit in." We all have those days, but when you're younger, you have the capacity to feel every isolating moment in its purest agony., as the adult reflex of rationalising it hasn't yet kicked in. In those moments, it helps to have someone to blame. Augusten blamed his parents mostly (and yet didn't really), and i blamed mine.
When i was 13, my father left home and his family - his wife, and two kids - and went to NY, USA to study further. At the time, i thought it was just a short break, and soon he will return and we would go back to being the happy family that we had been (i mean, what are fights between parents, right? And hey, silent houses and non-conversation dinner tables are a small price to pay for having a dad and mom).
When the short break showed no sign of ending, I became worried that the reason my father was staying away was because when he had been here, he used to think that the only reason i talked to him was when i needed money to buy my small treats - candy, samosas, ice cream. I was hugely relieved when a few months later, my mom told me that we were all going to travel to the US, and start a new life with Dad. Maybe he had forgiven me.
So when i returned to India, and home, and my school and friends, just a few months after leaving for another shore, i was relieved. I was happy. Except on those days when i would receive a letter from my father which would hold just the most awful things that he could think of writing to me - how i was selfish, didn't love him, how i was going to end up like my (shrewish) mother, how he was disappointed with me, etc. Let's just say, the fragile bonds of a father-daughter relationhsip were being frayed beyond repair. And we stopped writing to each other.
My mother continued living a half life, living with increasingly resentful in-laws who kept finding ways and means of throwing us out of the house, not earning enough to be able to move out, evading all "how's your husband?" questions with "he's fine" answers and when my father found someone else, and chose to break the news to my mother - bravely - through me, I held my mother as she wept in my arms. That was the day i knew i hated him.
So boo-hoo.
I like those kind of stories. Not just for the resonance that i sense - in some alternate part of me - but also for the fact that these are the true heroes of our time. In an age of technologically isolating lifestyles, where all one seems to have are memories of what one was and what one thought they would be, people who manage to survive their childhoods, and come out the stronger for it, are the ones who need to be applauded.
Augusten came out of it with a bestseller book. Hopefully i'll come out of it with something just as cool.
in the bestseller book (and now a motion picture) "Running with Scissors" asked Augusten (the writer) when he said, 'I don't fit in." We all have those days, but when you're younger, you have the capacity to feel every isolating moment in its purest agony., as the adult reflex of rationalising it hasn't yet kicked in. In those moments, it helps to have someone to blame. Augusten blamed his parents mostly (and yet didn't really), and i blamed mine.When i was 13, my father left home and his family - his wife, and two kids - and went to NY, USA to study further. At the time, i thought it was just a short break, and soon he will return and we would go back to being the happy family that we had been (i mean, what are fights between parents, right? And hey, silent houses and non-conversation dinner tables are a small price to pay for having a dad and mom).
When the short break showed no sign of ending, I became worried that the reason my father was staying away was because when he had been here, he used to think that the only reason i talked to him was when i needed money to buy my small treats - candy, samosas, ice cream. I was hugely relieved when a few months later, my mom told me that we were all going to travel to the US, and start a new life with Dad. Maybe he had forgiven me.
Except, USA wasn't much fun. The place was cold, which probably made the people so too, and every evening there were the constant repetitive slightly drunken fights between mom, dad, my aunt and uncle (with whom we were staying in a 3-bedroom apartment that housed 4 adults, my brother, my three little cousins, a nanny and me). So when it became clear that this particular marital equation was not going to work, my mother made the very brave decision to return to India. With 15 year old me.
My father never let me forget it. He considered it the biggest betrayal that his daughter had committed against him - chosen MOM. In my head, it was the most practical decision - Dad had my brother, so Mom was going to have me. It was fair, right? Plus, Dad wasn't earning at all those days, so the idea of him supporting himself and two kids (one of them going to art school - my brother) was impossible. Plus i hated NY, hated the school there, the rules of existence ("don't stare at people, they will kill you!") that had been instilled into my young mind by my father and brother.
So when i returned to India, and home, and my school and friends, just a few months after leaving for another shore, i was relieved. I was happy. Except on those days when i would receive a letter from my father which would hold just the most awful things that he could think of writing to me - how i was selfish, didn't love him, how i was going to end up like my (shrewish) mother, how he was disappointed with me, etc. Let's just say, the fragile bonds of a father-daughter relationhsip were being frayed beyond repair. And we stopped writing to each other.
My mother continued living a half life, living with increasingly resentful in-laws who kept finding ways and means of throwing us out of the house, not earning enough to be able to move out, evading all "how's your husband?" questions with "he's fine" answers and when my father found someone else, and chose to break the news to my mother - bravely - through me, I held my mother as she wept in my arms. That was the day i knew i hated him.
Six years later, when i was in University, doing my Masters, my father dropped back into my life. He wanted to build bridges, held me and sobbed on my shoulder, telling me how thrilled he was to see me, how happy that i had become 'such a gorgeous lady', probably not quite fathoming the fact that he was a total stranger to me. But he tried a lot - gave me money to support myself through the lean beginning years of my work life, contributed finances towards buying my house and partly furnishing it. In exchange (and it always felt like that), i pretended to participate in the "we are fa-mi-lie" role play.
This entire thing probably goes to explain why in my own personal relationships, i am torn in two different directions - the desire to settle down and have a family that sticks together, and yet running at the first sign of committment. I look for father figures in my professional life, from whom i'm constantly seeking approval and hate rocking the boat, I have ill-advised relationships with highly inappropriate people, and torment myself with feelings of guilt and inadequacy when those relationships don't work out. Unfortunately, I don't see a way out of it, as i really have no frame of reference.
So boo-hoo.
Until i come across "Running with Scissors" about a childhood that is truly unbelievable. Born into a family with an alcoholic father, a psychotic mother with delusions of her creative genius who finally gives him up to the care and welfare of her freaky shrink, who defrauds his patients because of his own IRS woes, and his fucked up family where each one would be a separate tome in the psychobabble library of woes. And at the tender age of 15, when no child should be asked to make a decision of that magnitude, he decides to leave it all behind, and chase his dreams of being a writer in New York.
I like those kind of stories. Not just for the resonance that i sense - in some alternate part of me - but also for the fact that these are the true heroes of our time. In an age of technologically isolating lifestyles, where all one seems to have are memories of what one was and what one thought they would be, people who manage to survive their childhoods, and come out the stronger for it, are the ones who need to be applauded.
Augusten came out of it with a bestseller book. Hopefully i'll come out of it with something just as cool.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
A small bottle of yellow pills...
... That's all it takes to end a life, usually your own. Ofcourse, getting the prescription pills requires a little bit of planning, but some kind of ingenious thinking, some acting abilities and some make-up can take care of it. The truth is, when it comes to quieting once and for all the all-pervasive silence that has invaded your entire being, it's a small price to pay.
When i was 15, a favorite teacher in school hanged herself from her living room fan when her two kids were out playing, and the husband was at work. At that time, it was a massive shock - after all, she always seemed so happy, she had such a great life, wonderful family - what could possibly have possessed her to take such a step? Running almost alongside that thought was the usual judgement - how selfish not to think of the devastation that she was going to leave behind.
The fact, as i think i know today, is that that very thought is probably what prevented her from taking that final step 3 weeks or even 6 months ago. But 3 weeks - 6 months later, when she found no respite from the life that she had, she despaired.
A few months ago, when i found myself face-to-face with the bottle of pills, I finally realised that words like 'selfish', 'cowardly', 'stupid' had no place in this scenario. At that time, the big problem was heartbreak. I know it's a cliche, but then a cliche didn't become one without help, right? However, at the time, i didn't recognise the signs... Let me explain.
Every BODY has a way of dealing with pain. Some drink, some fight and some cry. In my case, my body usually shuts down all systems of functioning, waits for my mind to deal with the pain and accompanying rage and then finally surfaces, whole, complete, new. However, when someone broke my heart, the magnitude of pain that radiated through all my nerve endings was more than my system was used to. It shut down, completely, while dealing with the pain and the gargantuan amount of rage that systematically eroded away my insides. The only thing that continued to function was the screensaver which kept flashing “I’m all right, don’t worry.”
Taking this screensaver as gospel truth (even i did that, incidentally... I know it's odd to talk of oneself in the third person, but trust me, that's usually what happens), I attempted normalcy. Hanging out with friends, going out every night, having interesting encounters of the sexual kind, and 'living it up' became the order of the day. However, as much as i would try normalcy, the more I started getting enveloped in a kind of fog (worse than prison walls) that separated me from the person sitting 2 feet away.
The spoken words began to have the metallic quality of sound emanating from an answering machine – and that’s what I became in return. Soon the words too lost their meaning, and I found myself lip-reading, emulating the expressions on the person’s face – they laugh and so will I, she quirks an eyebrow and so will I, he nods a question and I nod back in response. I was on auto-pilot mode. Which was probably good, because work was apparently great (My bank balance was quite healthy even though i don't remember now what i was doing then) and i had many friends (don't remember who was there and who wasn't). For all practical purposes, i had a great life.
The truth was I was imprisoned by my own silence, finding it impossible to reach out for anything, or to even scream for help, in my slippery journey to the edge. I wanted to yell and shout and scream about how much I was hurting, how much it pained to keep that smile pasted on my face, how essential it felt to reassure everyone else instead of focussing on me. And how, despite the parties and the drinks and the various laughs I was sharing with the world, I was desperately unhappy.
One morning, at home, I confronted myself. I finally acknowledged that ball of dread that had nestled comfortably in the pit of my stomach which left no place for food, drink, or any real peace. My reflection mirrored my emaciation of spirit, my lips which had lines of resentment etched around it, my eyes which had lost all of its sparkle. At the young age of 27, I had become a bitter, old woman. Didn't anyone see that?
And i thought, what a way to live, and what's worse, i could see no way out of it. Years of this isolating silence stretched out in front of me; dinners, drinks, parties that i would be at and yet feel absolutely unconnected to, the series of people i was naked with and now can't recollect the faces of... I was trapped. The idea of falling asleep one night without the accompanying dread of waking up to such an existence was hard to resist...
Just as that bottle of pills started to look really good to me, my guardian angel stepped off from his usual celestial perch and bumped into me, in the form of an old friend. He took one look at me and said, “Jeez, you look like shit. What’s up with you?” After all this time, with everyday being spent in the company of many friends, was i still so transparent to someone who took one hard look at me?
And in a crowded coffee shop, I sat across from him and poured my heart out like I hadn’t done ever. I cried and I laughed and then I went back to crying, and told him all about my loneliness, and my sense of disappointment, and the crushing blow to my sense of judgement and self worth… why didn’t anyone love me? Was it that hard?
And the mere act of telling him, and finally acknowledging to another live human being how completely apart I was falling over some guy was cathartic. Like layers of clothing, my bitterness and resentment and pride fell away to finally reveal my true unsullied self to the Sun. I basked in its heat, finally content that my unhappiness wasn’t a dirty secret that I was keeping hidden from everyone, and that I could let it out, and hence prevent it from festering.
Even as I sat there, the opaque fog of silence lifted from around me, and sounds of the world started filtering in. The lines around my mouth surprised themselves by curling up into a smile. And that smile finally sent that shot of electricity to my eyes that brought its spark back to life, albeit feebly… but then it hadn’t been used in months. That evening, I went home, and got rid of the pills, and the months of silence that had surrounded me. I revelled in the music of the day, I danced for the first time that year, and I actually listened to love songs.
Many months later and just a few days ago, I saw him again. Bombay is a small place, and its surprising that it hadn't happened more often, but it seems the Universe does conspire to give you everything you desire. By this time, a lot of water had flown under the bridge and I was able to see him for who he was - just another stranger smoking a cigarette wondering where his next paycheck was coming from. Maybe some crimes are never forgiven, but at that moment, I found myself surprisingly happy and relieved. It was finally over.
As I walked away, I knew that something inside me which i had assumed was broken, had healed itself. The fact that I had had a good look at Despair, gone right to the heart of it... and found nothing there might have helped a little.
When i was 15, a favorite teacher in school hanged herself from her living room fan when her two kids were out playing, and the husband was at work. At that time, it was a massive shock - after all, she always seemed so happy, she had such a great life, wonderful family - what could possibly have possessed her to take such a step? Running almost alongside that thought was the usual judgement - how selfish not to think of the devastation that she was going to leave behind.
The fact, as i think i know today, is that that very thought is probably what prevented her from taking that final step 3 weeks or even 6 months ago. But 3 weeks - 6 months later, when she found no respite from the life that she had, she despaired.
A few months ago, when i found myself face-to-face with the bottle of pills, I finally realised that words like 'selfish', 'cowardly', 'stupid' had no place in this scenario. At that time, the big problem was heartbreak. I know it's a cliche, but then a cliche didn't become one without help, right? However, at the time, i didn't recognise the signs... Let me explain.
Every BODY has a way of dealing with pain. Some drink, some fight and some cry. In my case, my body usually shuts down all systems of functioning, waits for my mind to deal with the pain and accompanying rage and then finally surfaces, whole, complete, new. However, when someone broke my heart, the magnitude of pain that radiated through all my nerve endings was more than my system was used to. It shut down, completely, while dealing with the pain and the gargantuan amount of rage that systematically eroded away my insides. The only thing that continued to function was the screensaver which kept flashing “I’m all right, don’t worry.”
Taking this screensaver as gospel truth (even i did that, incidentally... I know it's odd to talk of oneself in the third person, but trust me, that's usually what happens), I attempted normalcy. Hanging out with friends, going out every night, having interesting encounters of the sexual kind, and 'living it up' became the order of the day. However, as much as i would try normalcy, the more I started getting enveloped in a kind of fog (worse than prison walls) that separated me from the person sitting 2 feet away.
The spoken words began to have the metallic quality of sound emanating from an answering machine – and that’s what I became in return. Soon the words too lost their meaning, and I found myself lip-reading, emulating the expressions on the person’s face – they laugh and so will I, she quirks an eyebrow and so will I, he nods a question and I nod back in response. I was on auto-pilot mode. Which was probably good, because work was apparently great (My bank balance was quite healthy even though i don't remember now what i was doing then) and i had many friends (don't remember who was there and who wasn't). For all practical purposes, i had a great life.
The truth was I was imprisoned by my own silence, finding it impossible to reach out for anything, or to even scream for help, in my slippery journey to the edge. I wanted to yell and shout and scream about how much I was hurting, how much it pained to keep that smile pasted on my face, how essential it felt to reassure everyone else instead of focussing on me. And how, despite the parties and the drinks and the various laughs I was sharing with the world, I was desperately unhappy.
One morning, at home, I confronted myself. I finally acknowledged that ball of dread that had nestled comfortably in the pit of my stomach which left no place for food, drink, or any real peace. My reflection mirrored my emaciation of spirit, my lips which had lines of resentment etched around it, my eyes which had lost all of its sparkle. At the young age of 27, I had become a bitter, old woman. Didn't anyone see that?
And i thought, what a way to live, and what's worse, i could see no way out of it. Years of this isolating silence stretched out in front of me; dinners, drinks, parties that i would be at and yet feel absolutely unconnected to, the series of people i was naked with and now can't recollect the faces of... I was trapped. The idea of falling asleep one night without the accompanying dread of waking up to such an existence was hard to resist...
Just as that bottle of pills started to look really good to me, my guardian angel stepped off from his usual celestial perch and bumped into me, in the form of an old friend. He took one look at me and said, “Jeez, you look like shit. What’s up with you?” After all this time, with everyday being spent in the company of many friends, was i still so transparent to someone who took one hard look at me?
And in a crowded coffee shop, I sat across from him and poured my heart out like I hadn’t done ever. I cried and I laughed and then I went back to crying, and told him all about my loneliness, and my sense of disappointment, and the crushing blow to my sense of judgement and self worth… why didn’t anyone love me? Was it that hard?
And the mere act of telling him, and finally acknowledging to another live human being how completely apart I was falling over some guy was cathartic. Like layers of clothing, my bitterness and resentment and pride fell away to finally reveal my true unsullied self to the Sun. I basked in its heat, finally content that my unhappiness wasn’t a dirty secret that I was keeping hidden from everyone, and that I could let it out, and hence prevent it from festering.
Even as I sat there, the opaque fog of silence lifted from around me, and sounds of the world started filtering in. The lines around my mouth surprised themselves by curling up into a smile. And that smile finally sent that shot of electricity to my eyes that brought its spark back to life, albeit feebly… but then it hadn’t been used in months. That evening, I went home, and got rid of the pills, and the months of silence that had surrounded me. I revelled in the music of the day, I danced for the first time that year, and I actually listened to love songs.
Many months later and just a few days ago, I saw him again. Bombay is a small place, and its surprising that it hadn't happened more often, but it seems the Universe does conspire to give you everything you desire. By this time, a lot of water had flown under the bridge and I was able to see him for who he was - just another stranger smoking a cigarette wondering where his next paycheck was coming from. Maybe some crimes are never forgiven, but at that moment, I found myself surprisingly happy and relieved. It was finally over.
As I walked away, I knew that something inside me which i had assumed was broken, had healed itself. The fact that I had had a good look at Despair, gone right to the heart of it... and found nothing there might have helped a little.
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