Damage Control

Mark asked me a few days ago, "What's the one major way that your parents' divorce affected you?" I was a little bit stunned by that particular conversation-opening gambit, especially since over the last few months, Mark and I have pretty much drifted off each others' radars. But seeing how he's Mark, and that I'll always have a soft spot for him no matter what, I gave his question serious thought. I told him, "I think it's the inability to recognise, and thus retain, a solid romantic relationship." Even as I said it, i realised that I sounded like such a cliche! Seriously, divorced parents, damaged child? How long can that band play? But it got me thinking of the many ways that we are damaged over the duration of our lives.

The friendly man-servant who one day carries 7-year-old you into a small room, and gets so friendly he leaves you in tears. Your favorite sibling who finds your secret diary and reads it aloud to his laughing friends as you sit humiliated. The girlfriend who makes you choose between the love of your life and her friendship. The parent who dismisses you for the nth time or looks at you as if you were a stranger. The lover who proudly guarantees that he would never feel anything but lust for you, teaches you to wall off your emotions, and says, "Atleast I'm being honest" as if he expects a medal. The fiance who breaks your heart the day after proclaiming to all and sundry that "I may hurt myself, but I will never hurt her". The friend-turned-lover who stands you up several times with the excuse, "Oh shit, I forgot."

The list is never-ending, and not all of it serious, sure. After all, Life is the School of Hard Knocks. It makes you appreciate the good, and makes you a better, kinder, more trustworthy person. Yes, sometimes, some of it is true. But at what cost?

Two decades ago, I wrote this totally uninspired childish attempt at a short story that tells the tale of a fortress and how she sets up her defences against attacking hordes. Everytime her exteriors were breached, she would magically rebuild stronger than before (much like human bones actually). One day, a young soldier who'd heard of the unsurpassable fortress walls came by. It was a lovely crisp winter morning, seasonal flowers were out in full bloom, and the Fortress, liking the look of the bloke who didn't shoot cannons at her, let him in without any struggle. The Prince, unworthy as he is, robs her of her treasures, sells them off, gets drunk, invites random blokes from the nearby tavern to show off, creates a ruckus, breaking all the furniture, etc etc. The fortress, pissed off, throws him out, and shuts her doors forever.

So yes, it's an obvious story with somewhat of an obvious moral. But for me, the story, and my post, is not about the shrapnel from external sources and the holes in the exterior walls. It's about the real damage inflicted by people you trust, people you let in, people who became privy to your closest held secrets, people who treated that courtesy not as a privilege but as an opportunity.

Don't get me wrong. I do know that for every jackass out there, there are atleast 10 wonderful, warm, loving people living right under your nose. But herein lies the rub. When we're born, we carry this ball of light within us. It makes us laugh loudly and unselfconsciously, it makes our eyes shine brighter, it makes us adorable to everyone. We are innocent, taking for granted that we shall be loved always, that no one will deliberately harm us, that we shall always have friends, and there'll always be someone with an answer to our dumbest-brightest questions. So good people are expected. It's the betrayals that get our attention. Because they change us.

With every betrayal - small and large - the door of the fortress shuts a little bit, converting another fraction of the ball of light into lead. At some point, you make a choice between keeping the door open, and watching your life-source getting sucked into lead, or keeping what remains of the light and just shutting the fortress door saying, "Thanks, but no thanks. Who needs this shit!"

The good news is that the light inside grows. It replenishes. It shines out through the windows, and draws everyone to you. It makes you laugh again. But it doesn't obliterate the memory of how close you got to losing everything. It whispers continuously about how it's others like those out there who made you shut down to begin with. You have all the right reasons to stay where you are. Content. Happy.

So I suppose it's fair to say that the whole separation/ parents-hating-each-other/ divorce thing is just another betrayal (maybe the biggest) in a life full of them. By now, you have some amount of perspective. But as you look out through the windows of your self-constructed missile-proof super sonic shield, you can't help hoping that someone worthy would come by and ask you out to play again. And that it's before you've forgotten how to say yes.

When in Doubt, turn to Poetry

Something has happened. Well, several things actually – I’ve just returned from what was supposed to be a relaxing two-week vacation (it wasn’t) in the UK, my film has finally been released after 3 years in the making (a middling success, I’m told by kind people) and I’m still financially stable (another first) despite having dug deep into my bank balance to fund my trip. And yet, amidst all these big moments, something fundamental has shifted in my life. And this time, I don’t think it’s got much to do with a man.

This time, I think it’s just me.

Just before I left, I was working on a project, my output on which left me convinced that I was a non-starter, creatively speaking. While usually, it’s just a periodic “I’m such crap, why do I bother anyway?” litany going on in my head, this time, I think I’d found a reason for the same – I have no memory for details, and memory is the one essential ingredient for a writer. It was no wonder then that I had nothing to put down on a page which didn’t boil down to worn, oft-repeated clichés.

Contrary to what appears on paper, there is all around me a plethora of drama and humour always in evidence, unique in its own way. For instance, the undercurrents of a family of eight as they manoeuvre the explosive mines of 30 years of familial baggage while on an international vacation, the ineffectual tussle between two grown men as they stagger out of a pub, the cloying groping of a couple as they block my view of a concert. Even the details of simple things like describing the undulating landscape of the Highlands, the excitement of lying on the grass in Hyde Park, soaking in the Sun, the amazing concert where John Mayer, Sheryl Crow and Eric Clapton performed on stage together for a brief few minutes are blurry for me.

What I have come away with is that I love that city, and that it’s the only other city I know that has felt like home. I’ll be hard-pressed to describe the details of the walk through Notting Hill, the beautiful sculptures that seem scattered around the city or what the paid actors said to make “eerie London” come alive for me. But I can evoke the warmth of the sunshine as I sat in Trafalgar Square, stretching out a sore back, and the fear of spending my first five pounds on some trifle, as I quickly did the pound-rupee conversion. And I haven’t even begun to scratch the surface of my experiences.

Nor am I inclined to… which is where the problem is, I think.

That city is a monument to achievement – literary, scientific, political and cultural. And amidst that whole barrage of stimuli and the accompanying discussion about their minutiae, I think I’ve realised that perhaps I won’t make it, that I don’t have it in me after all.

PS: I’d visited Lake District, home to William Wordsworth, where I'd picked up an anthology of his works. Sitting here, as I was listlessly going through it, wondering if I should delete this entire piece, something he wrote caught my eye.

He wrote, “Enough of science and of art, close up these barren leaves, come forth and bring with you a heart, that watches and receives.” This was a low self-esteem, self-pitying, pointless post, until Wordsworth saved it for me. There has to be a lesson in there somewhere, right?

Questions...

Shall I just jump him, and then see where the cards fall and what, if anything, either of us does about the future, including keeping/abandoning the friendship?

Will this phase of "who am I, where am I going?" ever end? Will I be satisfied with the answers?

Is appreciating a person sufficient substitute for not loving them? Particularly if they love you?

Is not appreciating a person enough reason to leave them? Even if they love you?

Is being a 'mama's boy' more often than being 'my man' a deal breaker?

What does it take to cut up an ex-boyfriend into 300 pieces before packing him up in a bag and strolling out with a big smile? Do guys worry about things like that when they callously mess with their girlfriends?

How does the American populace choose the right American idol and not the right President?

How many of us would dump our current spouses never to look back in the event of a 'one-time-only-no-repurcussions-guaranteed' offer? For all those who raised their hands, what are the repurcussions, the fear of which keeps us together? Is fear a good enough reason to be married?

Would you give up your high-powered career if it meant having a person worthy of you in your life who loves you unendingly, passionately, completely?

Would you give up a person you love if it meant having your career reach dizzying heights of success and fame?

Will starting a new story/post/screenplay ever get easier? Or will I always look for things to do just to delay facing the blinking cursor on a screen?

Sigh.

"You Want Men?" the Universe Laughed

I've been spending a little time thinking about what would make my perfect man - the Mr. Right, if you will. And I think the Universe has pretty much had enough of me whining about it and has chosen to throw a few men in my direction. In the process, the Universe has proven that it has a sick sense of humor.

Let me explain, I know you're holding your breath.

You know what they say about dams bursting? Well, the dam kind of creaked a bit with Vinnie. He's a few years younger than I, inexperienced in the matters of love and heartbreak, and was 'pursuing me' (his words, not mine) from a different city. He was cute, totally my type physically, and spontaneous and fun. For him, this was leap-first-ask-questions-later territory, which is so refreshing in these days of over-mentalisation of everything. Wish I'd kissed him the last (and only) time I saw him. He wishes it too. But distance, and not just the physical kind, keeps me hands-off.

(Why, you ask? Cuz he's a child!!! What's wrong with you readers, have you no morals???)

Then there was Tappa, sweet, adorable, super-bright, affectionate, wannabe-husband-daddy... absolutely wonderful. He makes me feel soft and sweet. Except for almost negligible chemistry from my side, there was no reason for me not to get it on with him. That, and the fact thatI've been kissed better.

Which brings me to Steve. If there was a poll on recent kisses I've shared, he would rate among the top three. But that could also be because I haven't been kissed in a while. That aside, the one time he did kiss me, I was knee-wobbled surprised. And in these days of my fallen standards, that itself would have been enough. That is, if he'd learnt to keep his mouth shut, and let the "tall, brooding" thing weave its magic. I mean it, that boy is an idiot, and proves it everytime he opens his mouth to speak. I read recently that the female sex organ is the brain. Obviously, that piece of information has bypassed him entirely. Pity.

And then ofcourse there's Kosta. He appeals to my sex organ allright. But I'm getting to my wit's end trying to figure out how the hell to snog him. He's totally unapproachable (sexually speaking). And what's worse, he keeps dropping these heavy innuendo-laden bricks around me, but just not when I'm physically in front of him. Oh no, at that time we discuss the world and it's problems and potential solutions. He drives me nut-job wild.

(PS: If Kosta did drop those bricks when I'm in front of him, I'd probably be all tongue-tied and gawky about it. I'm the equivalent of a clutz in a China shop when it comes to 'moments'. Sigh. That's another post, though.)

But what proves irrevocably that the Universe is perverse is this: put these guys together in one package - the youthful passion, the soft affection, the extremely masculine 'you're mine, wench!' attitude and the total mental stimulation - there will be my perfect person.

So I'm wondering, does anyone know the legal position on five-somes (absolutely no pun intended!)?

"He loves me, he loves me not...."

He was pretentious, spoke with an accent that had come from few years in USA, and had stayed put over the last eight years he had been back in the country. He held onto that accent, as if he was holding on to that part of his life that held the most promise. But i didn't really mind. He was someone i could laugh with, despite his accent.

But when one starts to tick off "despite this" and "inspite of that", the relationship is doomed before it starts. There are just too many things that one needs to overlook to actually get down to the long arduous process of falling in love. And it is a process.

A friend of mine once told me, "Falling in love is not a feeling, it's a decision." At the time, i scoffed at him, pitied him for his total lack of awareness of the best thing in the world. Two years and several still-born attempts later, I'm inclined to agree with him.

So i decided to fall in love with the at-heart-American. I wasn't doing much else with my life anyway, and he was nice. And then the oddest thing happened - he intrigued me. It's odd because I don't find that happening too often. Normally I'm quick to peg people into certain slots. And they usually don't bother trying to escape from it. But with him, there was something different.

For one, he was quite sexy in a completely hands-off manner. Tall, lean and totally my type. But additionally, he was almost ascetic - the virgin. I was afraid to touch him because I was terrified he would crumble with shock. And yet, I know that he had had his lovers, some whom he had left crushed, and others who had trampled him on their way out. In fact, it could very well be this improbable combination of being fascinated and yet compelled to run away fast that made me stand rooted.

He never made a single move on me. We talked about it - not about making a move on me specifically, but about sex in general - and it was a hugely academic discussion. We could very well have been discussing .... the weather. Oh! And the verbosity of it all. Words one wouldn't normally use in conversation came up all the time. My rusty vocabulary got a new shine, my dumbed-down sentence formation got a new life, and I finally understood a statement I'd been struggling with from the time I was 12 - "Words conceal instead of reveal" - it was the subject of a debate competition. For example, after hours of speaking with him, I still didn't know the answer to my basic question - is he into me or what?

So I started stretching the boundaries. Little by little, I added a bit of the outrageously flirtatious into conversations which he surprisingly responded to in kind, but with an added edge of indulgence. I invited him out to dark cubbyholes which play loud throbbing music and totally suitable for a bit of sin. But, instead of him being the odd one out in that place, he made the whole place odd. I really liked that about him.

It is also one of the first few things that I know will infuriate me endlessly in a longer-than-few-weeks relationship. Other things would include the accent and the verbosity, the annoying way he licks his lips when introspective, his huge phobia of commitment to anything, his shaky career footing, etc etc. That said, I like him, despite myself. THAT, I think, is the biggest problem. After all, how long can liking someone 'despite' myself work?

Oh! And I still don't know if he's into me. The fact that he could be imagining some other woman (or man, yes there IS that tragic possibility too) while I'm plucking petals off some unsuspecting flower is a little disturbing. Actually, just plucking petals off is disturbing enough.

Le Divorce

Over the last few weeks, i've had several things to write about. But everytime i came here, thinking i'd put down a post - another memory in the cybervoid - i wondered, "Is it really that important?" It wasn't. But then, nothing in my blog is. So why stop, eh?

The story is about Children. And Parents. And Marriage and Divorce. Coming from a 'broken family' myself, i'm a little sick and tired of the eyes that widen while hearing a story of another fallen apart marriage, another shaken foundation stone of what should have been a long-term relationship. And then there are the hushed voices that say, "But what about the child?" But i have been guilty of the same, though not for the same reasons.

I recently found myself face-to-face with this exact situation. A very close friend of mine - Damien - told me that he was separating from his wife of four years. I know they have been going through their share of ups and downs over the years, but with the arrival of their bundle of joy a year or so ago, most people assumed that things were limping back to normal.

Not. Because if they had been, he would have not cheated on his wife, he said. So, the simple decision was to end it. My immediate reaction was "You have a son. what about that?" to which he replied, "He's too young." I laughed.

Yes, the child does go through his/her share of trauma. If the kid is old enough, then he/she pretty much is certain that the reason why Mommy and Daddy are fighting is him/her. It must be because he/she asked for the cycle, or doesn't like mushrooms or got a 'can do better' remark from the schoolteacher in the last pages of the school diary. The kid vows to be the best kid ever
if the parents will not fight anymore.

If the kid is a little older, then the battle lines are drawn and he/she is forced - subtly or otherwise - to pick sides. Daddy becomes the 'asshole' or Mommy becomes the 'bitch'. There is
rage, not because the child is really upset about the divorce situation but more because the child can't understand how his parents - the people he loves the most - made him/her pick a side, without a thought to how that would tear him up. And that rage forms a big part of who he/she finally becomes.

Damien was certain that the split would not harm the psyche of his too-young son. But the reason i laughed was because Damien, in all his knowledgable naivete, had no idea what the absence of his kid would do to him. And few people actually stop to think about that.

The way i see it, the reason people go through the whole process of loving, marriage, conception, childbirth and child rearing (the last bit goes on till you die) is to have someone in your life who will never stop belonging. You will always be a parent, the child will always be your child, whom you will always worry about and always love, pretty much unconditionally. But that bond only happens over time, over fights and arguments, and laughs. You become a prototype for the child's moral compass, it imbibes your values, and through the child, you propagate all that you think is good and right in your world. It's a rare chance to shape the future.

The Kid? He'll find alternate role models, strangers who have a say simply by virtue of being around when a child's question - "what does fuck mean?" - needed an adult answer.

The divorce won't screw up the kid as much as it will screw up the parent as he helplessly watches his future become someone else's. My Father didn't know this. I hope Damien does.

So Long and Thanks for all the Fish

I think I'm done writing here. I find myself writing for an audience that lately is filled with people i know. They quote me in conversation. They write about me in their blogs. It's all quite flattering. And claustrophobia-inducing.

I find myself writing about nothing... or rather, writing about things that matter, but always considering the most palatable presentation. In the process I lose out on my truth. Instead, i come up with shoddy paragraphs that aren't even cathartic. Completely awful, and doesn't augur well for my career as a novelist.

Oh well, those are the breaks.

I hate making final statements, so i'll leave myself a loophole - This may be my home but i need a vacation. Maybe i'll be back. Maybe not.

Till i know, thanks for writing in. It's been great :-)

The Delhi (dah-lee)

I've always had a love-hate relationship with Delhi... and no, it's not the cliched 'i love to hate' kind of thing either. It's... something else.

I have spent the longest time of my almost-nomadic life in Delhi - a total of 12 years. It's a really long time to spend in a city known for its chauvinistic attitude, unsafe streets, daylight rapes-kidnappings-muggings and where eve-teasing is so rampant as to be almost invisible.

It was when i realised that i was developing a chronic backache from the constant hunching and holding my arms in front of my chest that i decided to run. And oh, i ran. All the way across the country to Pune, the land of black soils and unimaginable freedom (comparitively speaking, ofcourse).

My next tryst with Delhi then began 3-4 years later when i fell in love with a Delhi-boy. It was ironic actually that i had to run away to find someone who was actually already in my friend circle. I hadn't noticed him ever while i was there. Very Alchemist. It was also a reflection of who i would have been had i continued living there - a closed-off person who lived in fear and gave an inch to no-one.

This time however, things were better. Probably because by then public transport was a thing of my past and interaction with the masses was kept to a minimum thanks to boyfriend-bodyguard always being around during the once-in-two-months trips that were undertaken. But what irked was that one needed those separators in place to be comfortable.

Back in Mumbai i would soak up the freedom, the mental space and the comparitive safety, while shaking off the remnants of the Dahlee Dust. When the romantic relationship ended, so did the renewed acquaintance with the city. Good riddance, i felt.

And then recently i found myself back there, now moving mostly between Le Meridien and Karol Bagh. I was there for a work assignment and was quite surprised to see how much Delhi has changed. It's become bigger and populated.. by cars. Coming from a city where one finds people on the streets regardless of the time of day/night, i was a little taken aback at not seeing too many people on the roads even during the day. But i did see a lot of cars. And Cabs.

Maybe it's distance that gives you the kind of objectivity required to reassess a place. Delhi is pretty. Clean air, thanks to stringent controls, lots of greenery and flowers and a comfortable climate. The houses are spacious as are the roads. The lifestyle is laid-back. The food is delicious. But somethings haven't changed. People talk loudly. LOUDLY. Cabbies overcharge and aren't considered safe. And there is a palpable sense of boundaries - of behaviour, clothing, etc - that exists.

The common sentiment is that if all the people from Delhi were vacuumed up and replaced by Bombayites, Delhi would be the most amazing city to live in. But until that happens, Delhi will continue to be the city that makes me glad i call Bombay (potholes, prices not withstanding) home.

The Spark

Why is this concept so hard to understand? Women like men who know how to ignite the spark in them. Simple. Over the last couple of days i've been nanny to a few of my male friends' non-relationship problems. Both of them have decided they want to be with a particular girl (different girl for each of them) and the chosen girl ofcourse treats them like... furniture.

Can't say i blame the girl. While i was trying to tell them what they should do to attract attention of their respective scrumpets, I found myself giving up and saying, "I can't imagine you being sexual." Yeowch!! But there it is - THAT is the problem.

For a woman to be sexually attracted and feel sexual requires a man (or a woman, if she's gay). If you don't believe me, imagine being in a single-sex world. Make up companies would collapse, so would aftershave and perfume, etc etc. At this point, probably all the feminists of the world just turned in their graves, but i'm talking sexuality, not the equal rights in the workplace, man helping change diapers kind of stuff. Sexuality, whether we like it or not, is linked to sex, and the desire to mate. Who would want to mate with furniture?

Boy 1 told me, "i don't give 'bhao' to women. Either they talk to me or they can fuck off." And the result of that admirable stance? He's sipping coffee with a platonic female friend, while the Girl is probably having dinner with someone who went that extra distance and got noticed. Boy 2 asks, "What do you mean get noticed? We're friends already." Uh, yeah.. and that's how she treats you, not as someone she'd want to bonk silly.

Sigh.

And then i started wondering about the solution. What would it take to create the proverbial 'spark'. And the answer is - surprise.

The minute you surprise someone, you get their attention. It makes you stand out from the crowd. It's what all pick-up-lines, flowers in the workplace, whipped cream in bed etc is all about - surprise.

- the shy guy who reveals a sardonic sense of humor
- the funny guy who suddenly goes serious
- the 'fuck you, i'm cool' guy who shows sincere concern
- the ugly guy who keeps getting stunning women as visitors (call your friends or hire them, if you must!)
- the weird stamp collector almost-stalker guy...who's just near-sighted.

Or whatever.

The point i'm trying to make is that we as women love to categorize men. Once we have pigeon-holed you, then we can deal with you. It's the men who refuse to fall in with our definitions and keep us off-kilter that annoy us, irritate us and finally... get us.

Stupid, huh? I know. But the truth is, once you get our attention for a long enough period, then we start desiring your exclusive attention. And thus continues the age-old dance.

PS: Maybe the above is a simplistic explanation. But it's definitely a place to start.

I think.

Rules of Engagement

I felt a single most ecstatic burst of happiness a few days ago. It was while i watched a bunch of strangers - boys, girls, men and kids - throw their arms up in the air and dance to a song. I forget what song it was, i forget the singer - all i remember is that feeling of unadulterated happiness seeing all those people moving together to one common beat, smiling, laughing, moving their bodies, joyful. A simple beat, a simple song, and everyone relates to it in the most primal way. Fabulous.

Not like real life when there is no single beat, no single lyric, no one song. In the cacophony of verbal and non-verbal noise, i'm lost about what the next step should be.

Recently, i met Mark and we had a normal conversation about movies, music, friends and stuff while we sipped on wine and he rubbed my shoulders. It's taken a long many months of coffee breaks, dinners, sporadic dancing evenings out, etc - for us to get to this stage, but before i knew it, he was kissing (!!!) my shoulders and then i was astride him with my tongue down his throat. All very pulse-racingly exciting. But in my head i had a thousand questions firing off - what's going on? Does he like me? Or is this some strange validation thing? Or is this a 'casual' thing, as he said? Will it be casual for me? Do i want him? Or is my desire a function of not being able to have him? Or gratitude that he's in my life again?

So ofcourse, with all these questions going off like firecrackers, i'm obviously distracted, which reflects in my ardor. So things end off there, i go home, hugging myself in bed, awake till 5 o clock the next morning going nowhere in my head. And since then, nothing. No reference to the evening or the moment. We're back to being... friends.

I'm confused. I wish there was a a list of rules - of engagement - when it comes to the two sexes dancing the mating dance. And it's not just Mark. Looking over my recent interactions with Boys, i get a feeling something is out of whack.

First there's Mocha. After a break-up that wasn't really a break up but more a 'let's take a break' situation, we're back to using a plethora of 'baby', 'sweety' and 'darling' terminology. Which by itself doesn't mean anything i know, and considering we've each been through a serious relationship after that (which didn't work out), lots of water has flown under the bridge. So we're friends. Who adore each other. And I know it doesn't really mean anything that just because he called me out of the blue, i flew across to see him and spend one day with him. I know it doesn't mean anything that as we slept, he curled up around me and held me like he wasn't going to let go. I know all that... and yet, i can't help but wonder about the exact nature of the 'friendship.'

Then there's Jackie. Who went a little nuts on me after meeting me twice, and having two aborted conversations on the phone. He wrote well. Had deep profound insights on life and love. Didn't make me laugh much, but then the night was still young. Then, there was silence for a month. Nothing. Not even an email. Suddenly, one day around the time when i'd kind of written him off, he called to say he was getting married but he would call it all off if only I would give him one indication of my feelings. That was scary.

And finally ofcourse there's Mark.

So I tried formatting a few of these rules, but do feel free to add.

1) If you like someone, just tell them that. Let there be no secret about it. This is not a treasure hunt. Life's gonna be plenty interesting without this added tidbit of "what the fuck is going on!?!"

2) If you don't like them, don't kiss them. If you do kiss them, then let it mean that you DO like them. No casual kissing.

3) But if you don't "like them like them" (is it even allowed to say that once you get out of junior school?), then make it clear. Say, "I enjoyed kissing you (or not). But i don't really 'like you like you' (there's that ridiculous term again). So next time you see me, don't assume that i like you. Or fret about it." Make it clear immediately after kissing exercise. Or before. Or during. But make it clear.

4) If you don't make it clear that same time, then it means you DO like them like them (Fine! YOU find another term). Refer to rule 1.

5) None of the rules apply if I am the KISSER. Instead, please refer to Ostrich Rule below.

Ostrich Rule:

Look elsewhere. Look busy. Look uninterested. Laugh everything off, so you can pretend that you don't take anything seriously. All the while, hope nobody asks you to make difficult choices. So that if things go to hell in a teacup, you can't blame yourself. Nobody else can either. After all, you weren't even paying attention.

But please, someone make a decision!

PS: That means you.

Trust Me.

Two simple words. So easy to say. So hard to do.

He's my friend. Or rather he has become my friend over the last few months of hanging out, drinking and laughs. More importantly, he looks out for me. He makes me feel like i belong to something, no matter how tenuously. He makes me feel warm. He's like my brother and an ogre rolled into one. Which makes him fun. It's surprising, considering one of the first times i met him some many lifetimes ago, he came on to me in an unattractive manner. We don't ever talk about that, thank heavens.

But several years, and many waters under the bridge after that, we're laughing. And that's good. But we've rediscovered each other at a point in time when i'm extremely careful about whom i let into my world. I talk and laugh and let anyone believe that they're my friend. That part's easy. But when it comes to really being a part of my life and my affection, it's like pulling teeth out of my mouth. With pliers. I don't like it but that's how it is and it's tough. Not because i want to provide the challenge but because that's the only way i know how to protect myself.

And he speaks of trust. With the caveat - "don't tell me stuff after i'm 2 drinks down." Which pretty much is anytime i meet him. I've been burned once by him, even though we don't agree about whose fault it was. My position is, at the end of the day, it doesn't matter whose fault it was because I got burned, not him. I wonder if Trust works within a narrow boundary like that. I, who can barely count my own drinks when i get down to it, will i be able to censor myself based on someone else's inebriation? And more importantly, is that trust or just a window of providing information?

The other problem - if trust has been given and shattered thoughtlessly, forgiveness is hard to come by.

Unfortunately in my case there are no 'stages' when it comes to friendship and trust. Either I'm in or out. There are no grey areas, no cusps, no transition periods, nothing. It's a leap of faith. Call me lazy but I don't feel like leaping only to land on hard, jagged-edged rock. Done that so often it's almost boring.

To trust or not to trust, that is the question. Always.

Fearing Loss

A funeral. A man eulogising a stranger. The stranger's family sitting with head bowed, tears streaming down their faces. My friend among them. I don't believe in God, reincarnation or any of the other palliatives that one takes to survive the crushing blow of such loss. All i see is my friend sitting there crying renewed tears with every anecdote told about her father.

I wonder if i'll be there when my parents need me to hold their hand. Or will i typically run away, choosing to block out reality, hoping the calvinesque move will restore things to how they were. I will miss my mother's laugh even though she can drive me insane somedays. My father... I worry that all my unresolved things with him will remain so. Mostly because a resolution requires an acceptance of the problem. He doesn't believe there is any problem. I hope my brother is somewhere nearby as we can always laugh, even at the macabre.

I wonder if anyone will grieve for me. More importantly, I wonder if there will be anyone whose hand i shall hold as i breathe my last, tell them i love them and know that it made a difference to them knowing that.

Or shall i be alone, contemplating the loss of a life i never had? Does any of this matter when we are dead?

"Don't they look cute together?"

How many times have i heard that question? And how many more times have i dismissed it with a look of disbelief that says, "How shallow! Two people in love are two people in love." And here i am today, eating my words.

I opened an old deserted folder on my laptop called "xyz". It's a folder which has old photographs and various pieces of literature linked to my last relationship. I haven't junked it yet. Don't know why. Probably because i expected a day like today, when i'll be intrigued about its contents, and double-click on it, as a dare.

Call me stupid. No really, i mean it. Say it aloud. "You are stupid." Said it? Thank you.

I think i'll blame my mother for this. And Simon. Simon who went and had a drink with him last night, and my mom, because she asked me today, "You are over him, right?" Otherwise i haven't thought of him in months.

The thing is, the girl in those pictures, she looks a bit like me, but not really. And that's what i'm having such a hard time comprehending. It's like i have blocked out such a large part of my memory when it comes to that relationship, that i can barely recognise myself in those pictures. In fact, when i look at them, i swear i can almost make out the haze that forms in front of my eyes.

I was plumper then. Longer hair. He was bald. Still is. Fair complexioned. Dark circles around his eyes. Nice smile. And the two of us look like we so weren't made for each other (lol!).. Seriously.

And i took so long to get over it. Sheeesh! What a waste.

(PS: Incidentally, That's why you called me stupid... the amount of time i took to get to this stage.)

Adult Choices

Everyone who knows someone who has cheated on their significant other, raise your hands! Yep, i'm guessing you did. Now, all those who blamed the other woman/man for breaking up a marriage, raise YOUR hands. I'm thinking the number of hands just went up by atleast half. I'm hoping not, though.

Because in today's day and age, you don't have a leg to stand on.

When my parents split, it was an unusual occurence for that time. For the longest time, the rest of the extended family even managed to pretend that it hadn't happened. In the meanwhile, my Dad met and fell in love with another woman. He technically cheated on my mother since they were still married at that time.

When they decided to officially call it quits, it was a shocking revelation for most people. Probably because in the rest of the family, something like this had never happened. Marriages were sacred and 'through thick and thin till death do you 'part' was a literal statement. And yet, here were two people, who had supposedly been madly in love and shared two kids, just calling it off. While my parents went through their share of grief, I believe that what really riled the rest of the family was the incomprehensible choice they made - personal happiness over societal norms.

Personal Happiness. Two words that changed a culture. Or not. My point being, once THAT can of worms is opened, there is no going back. Personal happiness doesn't stop at just relationships anymore, it extends to your job and career path, your possessions, your friends, etc etc. It goes from buying the right toothpaste (because it makes you feel good about yourself) to studying for the MBA (great pay packets!) to backpacking around the world to 'trying out' partners to see who best suits you.

Ofcourse, behaviour like that comes with its own share of value judgements from others. After all, one man's "partner trial" could very well be another man's "cheating partner". We've all heard "Do unto others as you'd like them to do unto you." (An Aside: That argument falls apart in the vicinity of a masochist who would in that case be giving everyone a royal thrashing.) And yes, we've all heard about the repurcussions of inviting 'bad karma'.

But really, whom are we kidding?? Pursuit of happiness is a choice you make every minute of every day. From the mundane - fried or poached? - to the complex - Shall i dump his sorry ass or shall i stay? - once that choice is made, it's YOUR choice. And hence, it's nobody's problem but yours.

So, if a man/ woman strays, it isn't because there was someone to stray towards, but that he/she CHOSE to risk what they had for the promise of something else.

Bottom line - If you single-mindedly chase your happiness (and that's a good thing, incidentally, since no one else will chase it for you), then it's only logical that others are doing it too. The bad news - their choices may not always fit in with your life plan. But those are the breaks of being an adult and taking responsibility for your life. It's not about paying your bills or doing the laundry - it's about accepting that whatever you do (or don't), has repurcussions on your life. That you have the power to choose. And hopefully you're adult enough to deal with that without hiding behind cliches.

Recipe for Love

What you will need:

a) Three glasses of home-made cashew wine, maybe more

b) Russel Crowe on the screen

c) Spicy jalapeno pizza

d) A film set in beautiful Florence

e) Rock ballads with lyrics like -

...."I knew something changed between us,
All the talk we made was small
But what do you say to someone
When they've heard you say it all
It's an awkward conversation,
In a most peculiar way
How did we get from saying "I love you" to "I'll see you around someday"....

or even lyrics like..

"I can never understand
Why when a drink is in my hand
Time accelerates and leaves me still in love with you..."

Or even...

"I’ve been chasing grace.
Grace ain’t so easily found..
One bad hand can devil a man, chase him and carry him down
When you start giving in, where do the promises all go
Will your darkest hour write a blank check on your soul..."

f) A deep baritone

g) Eyes that crinkle in amusement

h) Solitude

i) A sunday

j) A terrace with a view.

Mix all. Let settle. Hope for the best.