So.. A Kiss is just a Kiss...?

Looking back, I can see that I’ve been dumped quite often. My shortest relationship was of 20 minutes. Sam and I had been hanging out with each other on a FWB basis for a few months when, one night, in the middle of a loud raucous nightclub, when I was well on my way to happy inebriation, he asked me out. He said, “So.. let’s you and I go out seriously... yes?” I stared at him, at his sweet, earnest face, and then I said, yes.  We kissed and then I went to meet my friends who were sitting at a table some distance away. When I returned, my relationship was over. He said, “You know what? Forget it. It won’t work.”

Alex and I went out for a remarkable four days. He asked me out after we had been hanging out with each other for years. He’s the one who helped me get over my double-whammy heartbreak (the other Sam), and he pulled me laughing and bantering right back from the edge. Over a couple of years, he earned my trust, treated me well – and then, one weird evening while he was giving me a ride back to my place, he said, “So how about we do this for real?”

I stared at his face, which looked more shocked at the fact that he had actually asked me the question, and I said, “Okay.. why not?” We grinned, terrified of this step we were taking, betting on people who we weren’t sure could handle our most vulnerable parts, and went for it. Two days of sex later, I went to visit my friend who was dying of cancer. I returned to “we need to talk”, when I was informed that “This isn’t going to work, and it’s best we end it before anyone gets hurt.”

Andy and I lasted all of no days. One day, after hanging out over many cups of coffee, he said that he’d like to see where this goes. It’s been so long since someone told me that there was a potential distance to be gone, that I said yes. Then he disappeared for 3 days – no contact. We got over that hump, and then, after an emotional trip spent with friends, family and scattered loved ones – a microcosm of what I consider my extended family – I returned home and asked him if he’d like to consider belonging to it in some small way. He said he’d love to talk about it, and then he disappeared for a week. So I cut my losses and run.

What losses? Everytime I fall in with someone’s plans with me, it’s because I’m already a little in love. When I say yes, it’s because I’m already imagining what it would be like to hold hands, to sit together on the same side of the diner booth, what it would feel to sit lightly touching each other, while we read our books or just doing our own stuff, to have unplanned surprise lunches and movies out and dinners in. I go in wholeheartedly. I don’t know any other way.

So why do I get dumped? If I’m to believe what these guys say, it’s bizarre. Many years later, Sam told me it was because right after he’d asked me and I’d said yes, I’d not stood with him, but had gone to see my friends at the next table. I waited for more, but that was all that came. When I said, “Yes, but I came back,” he said that it was too late by then. That was eight years ago, and since then Sam has been trying to get back with me and wonders why I don’t pay him any mind.

In Alex’s case, and not to my knowledge, he had his sexy-ex walk back into his life over the weekend that I was hanging with my very ill friend. However since I’d gone (“so soon after we had started going out”), it was clearly a sign that I wasn’t serious about us. And so he gave us up. Now, so many years later, during which we continue to be friends, he’s worked his ass off trying to get back to a place of affection which was offered to him so easily. And he wonders why I won’t give him his spot back.

I don’t understand it. Maybe it was because they were sure I didn’t care. Maybe it was because the chase was over. Maybe they think that I'm made of stone and don't get hurt by such betrayals.. Maybe... maybe.. The bottomline is – guys seem to ask me out, and when I say yes, they disappear.

And now there’s Aaren. He’s someone I met through my new business venture. We’ve known each other for about 8 months now. Divorced, a media man by profession, someone my mom’s met twice and approves of madly. And he said he loves me. We work together quite closely and intend to for the duration of the next couple of years. So if things go south at a personal level, it’s going to be awkward for a few years. And considering he’s one of my major highlights in the business, the down side will suck a lot.

The last few days, ever since the great “you know what I feel about you” moment, we’ve hung out once a day at least. He’s sought me out, I’ve seen him in his office, I’ve introduced him to a friend of mine, we’ve held hands, we’ve spent the night and slept entwined with each other. And kissed a couple of times.

All these things are huge exceptions to my usual modus operandi. I don’t know when was the last time I was comfortable calling a boy in the middle of the day, absolutely certain that he would be happy to hear from me, maybe even make himself available for an impromptu lunch. Or the last time all this happened without me saying the “L” word back or diving into the sack with him.

So maybe he’ll follow the same route, and wait for me to fall for him, and then he’ll walk away because the chase would be over. Maybe the sex will be terrible, which is why he’s not pulling me into it. Or maybe.. just maybe.. he’s perfect for me, the real thing, and there won’t be a downside ever.

How terrifying is that?

A Year of Words...

Over the last year, I’ve become quite sensitive to a few words which, when strung together in a particular order, makes me want to break skin. In truth, this sensitivity has always been simmering under the surface of my skin, but only recently has it been profitable for me to actually get to the heart of them.

“I love my job.”

This particular sentence makes me day dream about the Japanese tradition of seppuku and how it’s infinitely better than having to sit across from someone who takes pride in “loving their job.” Don’t get me wrong, loving what we do – for a living or otherwise – is the one thing that separates us from the TV-sedated robots we call a citizenry. What makes me gag, however, is the acceptance that a “job” is the highest we can aspire to despite infinite proof to the contrary.

 The unfortunate truth is that, for our whole lives, we have been told that our greatest achievement will be creating wealth for another in exchange for the comfort of a monthly salary. That monthly salary would be a great thing to work for if we were guaranteed that it would never be taken away from us – the erstwhile “government job” – and that it would be enough to give us the creature comforts we want – the high-end corporate salary. And here’s where the problem lies – in order to make that high-end corporate salary come with the security of a government job (seriously, whom are we kidding? There is no security in the corporate world!) we spend years answering to someone else, fearing consequences of our actions, drowning our frustrations in end-of-the-day drinking parties, dreading the next day of the raised eyebrow from colleagues when you land up 20 minutes late to do nothing really of significance, and continue the cycle over and over for 40 odd years of your life while planning a relaxing retirement that we will be too old to enjoy.  

Add to this messed up mix a bunch of motivational speakers encouraging us to take ‘ownership’ of companies that will fire us in a heartbeat, and self-help books exhorting us to believe that if we can’t change our circumstances, then we should learn to change ourselves so that we can find peace (Stockholm Syndrome anyone?), we have no choice but to keep plugging away, convinced that we love our jobs and that it's a good thing. 

When we were kids, we were told by our grown up parents that when we grew up, we could do whatever we wanted. We dreamed of flying and living in rooms filled with candy and not ever making our beds. In the secret spaces of our hearts, we dreamed of somehow making a difference – as an astronaut or a superhero. Not many of us thought that when we grew up, we will sit in front of a computer in a cubicle and answer to another scary grown up called “Boss”.

And that’s the tragedy – not that we “love our jobs” but that we genuinely believe that this is as good as it gets. 

“Can I come over?”

No you may not. Not unless you want to come over and talk. Just talk. Or if you want to cook me a meal. Or tell me you love me. If you’re not doing any of that, if you’re not willing to find out who I am, if you’re not willing to stay in touch (not just 30 minutes before the inevitable question), if you’re not getting me soup for when I’m ill, if you’re not sitting on the couch and reading a book while my head rests on your lap as I read another, if you’re not waking up with me in the afternoon and saying “what shall we do today?”… If you’re not doing any of that, then no, you can’t come over.

Because if you can’t handle the boring mundane bits of me, you surely don’t deserve the best of me.

 “I’m happy not doing anything…”

Oh. My. God. I know it seems a bit contradictory coming right after the job-rant, but this phrase ranks lower than the proverbial dregs in the barrel of the loser party. Why? Because the sayer of these infinitely dumb words doesn’t have the right to be ‘happy’ about doing nothing. 

Unlike what popular literature has to say, happiness while certainly being a state of zen, is also an emotion that is earned. You can’t be genuinely happy, if you are not contributing in some way. If you’re not earning a living to support your family, if you’re not creating art that makes people feel not alone, if you’re not making it possible for strangers to change their life around, if you’re not using whatever talents you have to improve the world that’s quickly going to the bottom of the heap, then you don’t have the right to bask in the ‘happiness’ that this world has given you the ability to feel.

Recently, I met an acquaintance who told me that he’s been working on a screenplay for the past few months. He told me that he had bought a few books from where he was getting a few pointers, and that he was determined to finish it before taking on a new project. I asked him how long he worked in a day. He said, ‘3-4 hours.” And what do you do with the rest of the time? “I sleep. Or watch TV. I like to just rest because I know that writing requires a calm mind.” He is married to a nurse, with a baby on the way, and he has the gall to say, “I’m happy not doing anything right now because I have to give this my best shot.”

The same day, another friend looks at me beatifically through the haze of a cigarette smoke and justifies being jobless – and not even looking – for the major part of this century by saying “It’s a miracle I’m even alive, given how much I’ve abused my body. I’m happy just sitting back and enjoying this moment.”

Noble intentions, right? All about gratitude and such? Bullshit. You don’t have the luxury of being happy when – forget the world – your own house is not in order. I’m not saying that certain activities rank higher than others, I’m just gawking at the complacency of the person who seems to be extremely comfortable wasting whatever talents s/he has been endowed with and following the path of being ‘happy.’ If people without limbs can find a purpose, if they can affect others lives for the better, if they can accomplish physical feats beyond compare, they are the ones who have earned the right to be happy not doing anything because they have already done enough.  For everyone else, it’s the easy cop-out. The internal dialogue goes something like this: “I’m happy not doing anything…

…because I don’t want to find out for a fact that I can’t. If I want something more, and I work for it, and I fail, then everyone will know that I couldn’t get what I wanted, and I would be a failure. So it’s better by and large to want nothing, because that way, with the least amount of effort, I’m likely to get it.”

And at the end of the day, I find myself wondering if we’ve made it okay as a community to train ourselves to be happy with anything… It would explain a lot, including the steady decline of the human race.

“I can’t do this.”

If at one end of the pendulum are people who don’t want to achieve more, the other end is filled to the brim with people who believe that they can’t. And it’s not just them; their most beloved believe that they can’t do it – whatever “it” is.

Just yesterday, I met a woman who had started her own little venture a few years ago – something to do with providing errand girls for working women – “Do anything that needs to be done while you go ahead and be awesome!” As a concept it was really great, and a lot of investors found themselves keen. However, a few months into it, facing challenges at the home and the work front, she finally gave it up because – as her family said – “Baby, it’s destroying you. Why don’t you just give it up if it’s so hard?”

Not one of them said, “Tell me what needs to be done, I’ll work with you.”  Sure, offers to babysit or make dinner abounded but a new venture doesn’t just need handmaidens, it needs partners to bear some of the actual weight. It’s not really their fault. In a culture that views anything that women try as a “hobby”, or something to keep them busy or just ‘silly’, we have got trained to not reach out with help because ‘it won’t last’. This becomes so deeply ingrained that often, we end up looking at ourselves through the same refracting lenses of prejudice and be absolutely certain that ‘I can’t do this.’

The truth is, no single person can do it alone. But the truth also is, the people who care about you and your dreams the most are probably not the ones you believe they are. In fact, more often than not, your closest friends and family will let you down the fastest. But the most unfortunate part of this equation is that they will make it okay for you to give up on yourself because, after all, they ‘know’ you.

 “I’m not good with people…”

Honestly speaking, I have been guilty of saying that so often in my life that this is just the karmic cycle coming back to haunt me. The simple fact is, nobody is any good with people – we just learn to fake it as well as we can because picking our way through the mine-laden miasma of emotions and intelligence is a tough one. But just like everything else in our lives, this too becomes better with practice. There is no excuse for ‘not being good with people’ particularly when all our feelings of well-being and happiness springs from the people around us – our colleagues, our friends, our families, the stranger serving us coffee. 

And there’s enough literature out there in the world to help us – in fact, most of the religious texts are in fact instruction booklets on how to deal with people. Be kind, be respectful, don’t steal your neighbor’s wife etc – all clearly written down as a guideline on how to be better at this. But, just like everything else that was written in an instruction manual, you actually have to do the things to experience the benefit. And the advantages of it are incalculable. You want a new job – boom! People.  A raise? More people. A new dress – a designer who is *drum beats* a person! You want to create wealth? What’s the biggest resource we have – gasp! People. 

The secret weapon is ofcourse the fact that no one is good at it. Some people have just spent more time practicing. 

“I’m just not the kind of person who…”

Call it what you will. At the end of the day, we end up limiting ourselves much more than we ever give ourselves credit for. Words like “money isn’t what drives me” trip out a person’s mouth usually when s/he hasn’t ever made the kind of money that would make a significant difference to anyone’s life. “I’m more of an in-the-moment kind of person” is the standard response of anyone who is asked to think about and take responsibility for more than just his / her immediate requirements of food, recreation and shopping.  “I’m best at what I’m doing” is a phrase used mostly by people who haven’t done more than the one thing in their lives and haven’t discovered their immense promise. We forget that there was a time in our lives when we weren’t sure of who we were and what we were about and those were the most adventurous and rewarding years that we look back on with the greatest affection.

But just as a few sentences have made it to my hate list, there are a few more phrases that make me light up from inside. “Don’t worry, we’ll do this together” is high up there. Not said by many, and meant by even fewer, when I look around at the unlikely people – strangers almost – who said these words to me and meant it, I’m grateful that someone out there is looking out for me. “I’d like to see where this goes..” said while holding my hand, looking into my eyes, letting me imagine a future. It didn’t last, but atleast there was a promise, an intention – something that there’s so little of these days. 

The fact is, I suppose, we all have challenges that we face internally and externally. We face disappointments and betrayals, we celebrate victories no matter how small. But one thing I’ve learned over the last year is this – While many can convince us of how worthless we are, how devoid of talent or ability, we allow no one to convince us of our worth or our immense capability. 

And that’s the biggest tragedy of it all.

The New-er Man

I recently read an article on Man-myths that women still believe are true. As I was going through it, my vagina almost cried out in desolate anguish at some of those points. Specifically, one myth-busted is that men don’t find it uncomfortable, in fact welcome it, when women are the sexual aggressors in the relationship. The other is that men are totally comfortable letting the woman be the main breadwinner. Why is this upsetting me? Because the two things that one could depend on a man to do – be horny and be able to bring the jam to the table - is now slowly also becoming the woman’s prerogative.

As a person who lives alone, takes care of my house, my car, my work, my bills, my taxes, my business and often, my own orgasm, I’d really like to believe that when it comes to a relationship, I won’t have to lug a romantic laggard across the threshold, or work two jobs so I can be the primary breadwinner because – wait for it – “he’s totally comfortable with that”. This does not mean that I want a chauvinist as a partner, but yes, I like the fact that I can depend on my partner to come on to me, to splurge on me, without me worrying about where the next rent or mortgage payment is coming from. I do that anyway – why must I tolerate another whole person in my emotional and physical space just so I can do more of the same??

Don’t get me wrong – I understand the trauma women face when they have to encounter PMS-like mood swings from their man because she’s earning more than him, and yes, we’d all like to have partners who’re self-assured enough to not let that dent their spirit. But there’s a thin line between being self-assured and being a lazy-ass free-loader. And it’s that thin easy-to-cross line that scares me. Because it starts from “men being totally comfortable with not fulfilling their ‘traditional roles’ to men demanding and expecting that women fulfill them.”

It scares me because I’m a woman looking for a partner. However, during that search, one of the most common statements I’ve heard about my personality is that I’m intimidating. This trait apparently only comes into effect in the romantic arena, and miraculously goes completely AWOL in friendships and familial relationships. Why? Because it seems that when I’m auditioning someone for the role of friend-sexual partner-family, I have to tip-toe around their oh-so-sensitive natures. We must accept their retiring personality, laugh at their weak attempts at humour, shy away from discussions about religion or politics or money because heaven forbid, we intimidate them. Me? I’d rather scare them off over dinner, than find out in an emergency that they cannot step up.

And it’s not really their fault. Women have been socially and temperamentally conditioned to be nice, accommodating, flexible and always loving because these were the key qualities – along with social mores – that would ensure that you found a mate. This was indeed crucial because, even till 50 odd years ago, it was the male partner who brought financial security to our lives. And over so many years of social training, men too got used to expecting those traits from us. But the world’s economy kind of got away from us to the extent that most men today prefer working partners. The irony? What it takes to be an effective and high-achieving ‘working’ partner is also what pulls us back from being the above stated easy-going, ego-boosting, whatever-you-want-is-perfectly-okay-with-us-because-you-know-best people we’re expected to be. 

The other day I went out with Manee. Manee was introduced to me by a friend, and quite out of the blue he asked me out. We chatted – well, he talked a lot, and didn’t let me finish my responses to questions he asked (oh well, I didn’t say it was a perfect date, did I?) – over some wine and fritters. At the end of the evening, when I offered to split the bill (as I do on most dates), he said one of the most convoluted sentences I’ve ever heard. 

He said, “I’d like to take care of the bill, but I understand that you may feel offended, so if you choose, you may in fact split the bill though it would be just as okay for me to take care of this round, and if you want, maybe the next time, we could split it or maybe this time is also okay. Whatever you decide.” Honestly, a simple yes, please or no, thank you would have sufficed and been quite consequence-free. Instead now, at the end of the evening, two people stared at each other across a chasm of political correctness and over-sensitivity to non-existent feelings to find a way to clear a small bill. I stared at him and said, “So, should I put my card in with yours then?” 

Sigh.

If you want. Whatever you decide. Leave the ball in his/her court. Go with the flow. Words that are increasingly defining our generation – men and women – and the inability to follow through on what YOU want if it involves another human being. We walk around in increasingly cushioned cocoons with pseudo-hyper-aware sensitivity beacons to other peoples’ feelings, and find ourselves paralyzed when it comes to going after what we want. Men seem comfortable giving that up and yet, the most attractive feature about men has been their confidence, their ability to go after what they want – even if its misguided and to make women feel looked after and safe.

But that’s hard work. It takes character and courage. Many would rather stay in bed and let someone else take those decisions. Society has a word for them – it’s “children”. 

Which brings us to the crossroads. Ofcourse it’s understandable why men are totally okay with, in fact welcome it, when women become the aggressors – financially and sexually. When you come to think of it, it’s not that different from women who think it’s totally okay, if fact would welcome it, for the men to have monthly cramps, insert tampons into their genital orifices to stem the flow of blood, carry a baby for 9 months to term, breast-feed the spawn, have sagging boobs and cellulite, and ofcourse have their balls ripped out as something the size of a watermelon tears through them and is hailed as the “miracle of life.” We would really be okay with that.

So let’s make a deal. When the men can do the latter, we’ll do the former. What say? But until that becomes a real possibility, I’d suggest the guys just grow a pair and continue to try and live up to the ideal. If they want to be laid. Only if they want it.

"Why Don't you Listen, Mom???"

Something strange happens when women become mothers. No, it isn't the mommy clothes or the widening hips but more of the intangibles. It's almost like they make a deal with the Devil - "I'll have this spawn of hell in return for enormous powers." And one of the powers that they have - including the eyes at the back of the head (yes, that's real) - is having the following sentences mean absolutely nothing to them. Even when you're 30.

"You can't tell me what to do!" 

These words just bounce right off them. They nod and agree about how you're old enough to make your own decisions, about how many more responsibilities you have now – with a career and investments and everything else, how you have grown up to be a mature woman, and then Wham! Be home by 10. Put your clothes away. Save some more money. Watch that car watch that car!! No matter how many times you say these words to her, it doesn’t matter.

She tells you anyway.

"Stop the emotional blackmail!" 

Your mother signed on a strange dotted line when she gave birth to you, a dotted line that gave her immense powers. We all know the one where she knows that you'd eaten the last slice of meatloaf even when it was hours ago and you’d washed the dishes. She didn’t even think for a minute that it was Tammy, your imaginary friend! The other power she got was being able to twist your innards into a pulpy gutted mess by just one barely quivering lip and a heartbroken stare. This is how she got you to call her everyday without fail even when you were hungover and your tongue felt like sandpaper after another late night bash in the dorm. This is how she ensures that you visit even when your life is going to hell in a handbasket. So when you say those words to her, all she hears is “mumble mumble mumble.”

The blackmail continues, and you simmer in low-heat while you visit your family with her, get to know your nephews and nieces, hear her laugh at a funny paragraph in the book you got her for her birthday, and you think of all the things you could be doing in your apartment, watching TV, drinking beer all by yourself. And you think, “This emotional blackmail is bullshit!”

"Butt out of my life!"

Right up there with the first one, this one works in the opposite way. You say one thing, and she hears, “Mom, I really need you to tell me what to do.” This is why, whenever you say these words to her, she returns with “Tell me what’s going on!” The sad part is, you tell her what’s going on, with the total understanding that she won’t have the answer. And often, she doesn’t... or even worse, she tells you what you already know, deep down in the recesses of your heart, things that you don’t want to acknowledge. But sometimes, just sometimes, she says or does the exact thing that changes everything. And she sees it in your eyes, that you underestimated her once more, that everything you thought you knew or could expect from her has just been proven wrong. And she smiles, because it’s the same look you’ve had on your face every time she surprised you – about the meatloaf or your boyfriend.

"I hate you I hate you!"

This one is the last great weapon in your arsenal. You bring it out when everything else has failed. When she has refused to let you deal with your life by yourself, when she has insisted on fighting your bad choices even when you knew they were wrong, when she has categorically chosen to misunderstand what you meant when you said “Butt out!” When nothing has worked, you bring this out, certain that this will finally make her stop, make her not believe in you, make it finally okay for you to not constantly try to live up to her expectations of you. And like all great weapons, this promises effective destruction. And it works, she gets that you hate her. What you forgot however, is that this doesn’t make her hate you. And since she doesn’t hate you, she doesn’t stop.

"Please don't die Mum.."

And then, years later, as you sit amidst your grown nephews and nieces, your cousins and your extended family that she ensured you build ties with, at a moment in your life when you have achieved everything you didn’t think possible, and finally have come to terms with how much of a solo cheerleader your mom has been, when you find yourself on the other side of the mom-conundrum and have learned to laugh about how your kids seem to think you were born yesterday, she lies on a bed, frail and exhausted, smiling at your pitiful jokes designed to make her laugh, to not think about an improbable tomorrow. She lies there and you finally squeeze these words out of your heart, and hope that just this once, she will listen.

And, just like every other time, this time too, she doesn’t listen.

Guilt and Redemption

Grief. The grief of a child being torn from a parent's bosom - that's what the people of Hindustan faced when the battlelines were drawn. It's that grief that has made India - and Pakistan - angry, it's grief that has held her back.

Sixty five years ago, on the night of 14th August 1947, the child and parent separated. People walked away from their homes to their new lands, to their new lives. I was there. I saw the police standing in line, I saw the heavy security. I was a part of the group that was supposed to ensure that nothing went wrong, that no one was hurt beyond the grief that was now everyone's legacy.

I knew that it was a situation fraught with danger, an underlying hatred was burning through the land, infecting everything in sight. I knew that the only way to stay untouched was to deal with it behind a shield of calmness, strength and empathy. I failed.

The unending lines of people filing past each other became structured. I was nervous about "them" - my brothers who had suddenly become strangers. One man-made line across a contract of freedom ensured that I didn't trust them, their bleak, angry faces held secret plans to hurt "my people, my land." So, to forestall any malicious moment, I stole across to their line of control to "help" them. I knew the only way I could save my people was a preemptive strike. The cold was seeping through my uniform, clutching my heart in its grip, not letting me shake off my fear of the other.

Someone must have heard me. Like me, they too must have sought any advantage they could get. We were already opposing warriors across one bold rivulet of grief. As I walked into a clearing with Zafer, my armed security guard, there was pin drop silence. We stopped. The air pressed down upon us. And then everything exploded - men came running down the sides of the mountain, trees were infested with soldiers, armed to the teeth. They saw Zafer's gun and suddenly seventy odd barrels pointed at us. I knew this is how I die. As I raised my rifle as a final salute to my life, gunfire ripped through the angry silence of the border. I fell, clutching my stomach, a bullet tearing apart my insides, and my final moments were spent watching the sorrow-laden people break rank and run to the other, intent on washing off their rage with the others' blood.

I caused the first bloodbath that has ever since become the norm for these two countries. That load is unbearable to carry.

Until today. I found myself back there - pulled through time and space, back to that fateful night. There I was, once again surrounded by my team. Zafer was looking at me, wondering what we should do. The night was the same, the situation as grim. Nothing looked different. I nodded to Zafer, "Let's go."

Zafer looked at me doubtfully, but I set off, determined to change things this time around. We reached the enclosure and I sensed rather than heard the people crowding us, fingers tightening on the triggers. The night waited. In the ensuing burst of activity, I saw Zafer raise his gun, ready to attack. Trembling with the audacity of changing the future, I shouted, "Hello?"

There was screaming, and thundering footsteps of armed soldiers shook the ground, the unmistakable sound of their rifles being cocked and I knew that before too long, the first bullet will tear through me. I was terrified.

"Hello?" I shouted again.
"Who is it? Who the fuck are you?"
"I'm from the Indian security, this is Zafer from my team..."

Guns got whipped out, seventy barrels pointed straight at our chests. This was a firing squad. Zafer instinctively put his first victim right in the crosshairs, uncomprehending of my motives to lure him out to this potential death field, but unwilling to go down without a fight. I put my hand on his gun, pushing it down to point harmlessly at the ground. I put my gun on the ground and raised my arms high above my head.

"What the fuck is this? Blow them apart!"

In the midst of the screaming and shouting, a woman leaned down from the tree and said with a voice of pure authority, "What are you doing here?"

Behind them, I could see the single file of people getting antsy. There were a few furtive looks, some glances to see if they could get away with murder. I looked at the woman.

"I just wanted to ask if you could use some help."

There was pin drop silence as Zafer looked incredulously at me. The woman smiled.

"Yeah, we definitely could."

There was no bloodbath that day, or the next. Till date, India and Pakistan remain as family just separated by an easily jumped neighborhood boundary wall. I wept, as the burden of sixty five years got lifted from me.