Once upon a time, in a land all too familiar for comfort, there lived a girl who desperately and hopelessly tried to live her life by following the simple yet seemingly hard to achieve principle of live and let live.
Although cynical and jaded about most things in life, somewhere deep within her heart, she secretly harbored a small but substantial amount of unadulterated hope and optimism that helped her get through life’s seemingly unending, painful and tumultuous phases. With time however, this stream of hope eventually ran dry and what remained of a once flourishing body, was a thin, nearly depleted trickle.
Never once did she believe that she could muster the courage and willingness to abandon her reservations and insecurities that twenty three years of living in fleeting times had thrown her way. Yet there she was out for public display and scrutiny once again, almost ready and willing to possibly impose upon herself great humiliation and heart wrenching failure, all in a desperate attempt to seek a small iota of comfort and solace in an exceedingly over crowded yet terribly lonely city.
After leaving behind a life that she had grown to love and cherish in a land not quite close to the place she once considered home, she felt unsure where to begin once more. Everything had a familiar ring to it, yet when she ventured too close, she couldn’t help but experience an overwhelming sense of alienation and loss. Oh how terribly afraid she was of once again being left to fend for herself alone. In these times, fraught with great unrest and distress, she managed to once again dig deep inside of her and resurrect that thin trickle of optimism and hope that had saved her from utter despondency time and again.
This thing called time is a funny entity; a whole year can go by without you even noticing its passing or it reminding you of its definite and speedy departure. Very little that is monumental or earth shattering takes places in such a finite space of time, yet seemingly inconsequential scenarios snowball into what you later label as ‘another year of your life.’ At the end of it all, you sit back and reexamine your life with false pragmatism and all you are left with is a sour taste of defeat and a possible indigestion from the bad Chinese food you consumed in your drunken stupor the previous night.
So our nameless heroine chugged along through the motions of living, going through periodic cycles of exhilaration and desolation. A very long time ago when she was still young and he was still humane, she had met a boy she grown to understand and eventually love. Unlike most fairy tale love stories however, these two did not engage in a youthful, passionate, all consuming love affair that ravaged and consumed their bodies and minds. Before their love had a chance to blossom into one of the many fantasies that filtered through her head during countless waking and sleeping hours, she boarded a jet plane to peruse a life somewhere else, while he stayed behind.
Unlike many other juvenile romances that would have ended that very night she left the country, these two managed to stay in touch and become better friends over the next six years. Neither of them was stupid enough to think that their love could survive the grueling test of time and distance. Each of them was open about their physical and emotional needs and went through a string of partners in their respective cities to make ends meet. Yet there was a small inkling of hope and longing; at least within heart that one day, if they ever ended up in the same part of the world again, they could possibly rekindle their intimacy once more, this time as adults.
One of the greatest consolations of returning back, after a long and tedious voyage for our nameless heroine was the knowledge that she could see him and possibly be with him, in flesh. They got along wonderfully well, were uncannily similar and terribly attracted to each other, or so she thought. Hectic work schedules and competitive, demanding careers took up most of their time, yet somehow they managed to take time out for each other, one out of longing and desire and the other possibly out of obligation.
This story does not have a happy ending, happy endings start and end in the movies. The more time they spent together, the more they realized how much things had changed over time. This change wasn’t something that her love for him could overcome, for she was the only one that was in love. The painful realization that this was unfortunately a one way street wasn’t the sad tragic end that she expected.
The charade of keeping up the friendship that they both supposedly valued and cherished brought with it a fresh onslaught of unexpected and undeserving pain. Alas, the façade could not last much longer; it had already dragged past its life expectancy. The humiliation, pain and anguish weren’t something that she could stand to ignore any more. All pretenses of nobility and putting their friendship above selfish personal agendas like ‘love’ fell through the roof.
Their friendship that was already treading on a fragile surface cracked completely, when she realized that he had ‘hooked up’ with one of her supposedly good friends and was now riding the relationship high-horse, after only three days of what she assumed was some fairly rigorous copulation .
All this after pointedly telling her time and again that there was no room in his heart for anyone else after his last big romance ended in great tragedy, sometimes right after they had indulged in some steamy foreplay and following it up by sleeping with a sting of women and never seeing them again just to prove his point.
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Showing posts with label friendship. Show all posts
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
So where exactly is the Happy Ending again?
So where is the ‘happy ending’ Bollywood style I ask myself time and again?
I have been delirious with a mind numbing headache and a fever that refuses to go away. Being sick has it’s advantages of course, lying in bed all night wrapped in a blanket, shuddering from the unwarranted and uncalled for chills, on an exceedingly warm October night gave me the time and space to think and contemplate about the many complexities of life. I absolutely love the fact that everyone leaves you alone when you are sick! A terrible temperament and general frumpiness are discounted as bad, lingering side effects of your so called appalling suffering and you can almost get away with anything!
It seems sort of unfortunate that even though your limbs refuse to cooperate and your body rebels at the slightest movement, your mind is most active and alive than ever. Last night I desperately tried to put myself to sleep. At first I gently rocked myself back and forth as I sat hunched in bed propped against a couple of mismatched pillows. When this didn’t have the desired effect, I moved on to restlessly tossing back and forth in short, unstable jerky movements desperately trying to cling on to the smallest glimmer of sleep, only to come really close and then see it slip away, my eyelids drooping in exhaustion, but my mind alive and more awake than ever.
Once upon a time in a familiar looking suburb of big city there lived a girl named Sheila. Sheila was the perfect child next door types. Being extremely average has its benefits, thanks to this; Sheila for a good portion of her existence lived a very ordinary life. She always had a really difficult time waking up in the morning and getting to school on time. It’s not that Sheila didn’t enjoy the benefits of a rather mediocre education system, which she realized much later on doesn’t really prepare you for life at all. Quite the contrary, Sheila just didn’t find the morning hours very conducive towards her personal growth and learning. At the end of the day Sheila skipped home from school and then spent a good portion of the evening doing homework with great gusto and enthusiasm, a rather uncanny trait in a ten year old, but little Sheila liked to study and was indeed a rather odd child.
Summer was Sheila’s favorite season of the year. Apart from the obvious joys of not having school for three whole months and the sheer bliss and luxury of loitering and loafing around that the season offered, Sheila also loved summers because this was the only in the year that she got to see Ridhi.
Ridhi was a distance cousin, she spent the summers with the family that lived next door, who were coincidently were related to them both. Sheila and Ridhi were destined to be the best of friends, age and time being on their side helped speed up the process considerably. People smiled fondly as the watched the two girls skip together hand in hand on numerous occasions, apparently their mothers were good friends too and did exactly the same when they were their age.
Childhood, suddenly without so much as a slight warning gave way to those difficult teenage years. It brought along with it many joys and angst’s, but most importantly the painful realization and discovery of the opposite sex.
Sheila was younger than Ridhi by nearly a year and a half. To her Ridhi was almost a woman, all worldly and wise. They spent many a night, with their heads tucked under the same blanket, quietly and futilely fretting about the nature of men in low, almost inaudible whispers. They were always afraid of waking up the grownups with their scandalous talks. They were overjoyed to discover that each of them more or less wanted the same things in life. Ridhi was pretty and smart and all the boys seemed to like her, although a tad bit jealous Sheila enjoyed this and vicariously lived through her. When she finally got some attention of her own, Sheila emulated Ridhi’s ways to the tee to garner the same effect her friend seem to have on men.
Alas the long, starry, sultry nights filled with endless jibber couldn’t last forever. Today Sheila and Ridhi remains friends, they see each on rare occasion and thankfully sort of even share the same amicable feelings of warmth they once did for each other, sadly the similarity ends there. Riddhi now appears to be particularly tired and engrossed all the time. What seems like a never ending day is spent chasing after a hyper active but ridiculously adorable two year old and catering to her ever whim and fancy. Somewhere in the last five odd years or so, Riddhi had managed to snag herself a husband and produce a child. Sheila had been busy as well; only her days are filled with chasing after seemingly impossible, nonsensical, idealistic dreams, which had absolutely very little foundation in reality and unstable but interesting men she thought she was in love with, who ended up breaking her fragile and all too eager heart time and again. Riddhi basked in the glory of supposed marital bliss while Sheila reveled in her liberated, strong, independent woman of the 21st century existence. Both were seemingly content in their own right; yet felt that other lived a delusional, highly unfulfilled existence.
A couple of days ago, unexpectedly, Riddhi showed up at Sheila’s doorstep. After both got over the initial excitement and joy at each others sight, the conversation took a very sour turn. Riddhi pondered rather loudly on Sheila’s husbandless state and how incredibly unfortunate it seemed. The worldly and wise Ridhi lamented in great agony on how a life without the joys of marital bliss and snot nosed brats to run after was one badly lived. Sheila sat in utter silence as a feeling of loneliness and isolation slowly enveloped her, no words dared escape her lips.
“You are being selfish and horrible. Think about your mother, she isn’t getting any younger; doesn’t she deserve to see you happy?”
*eerie silence followed by a slightly throaty, awkward cough*
“You have some strange, funny ideas about space and relationships, what do you mean you aren’t quite ready to incorporate someone else into your life just yet? I haven’t heard anything more ridiculous!”
“Hmm.”
“What’s wrong with an arranged marriage? Not everyone is destined to meet each other and fall madly in love like Harsh and I did.”
“Yeah, thanks for rubbing salt on my nearly healed bruises.”
You must listen to your mother and meet some of these guys she is trying to introduce you to.”
“They sound like losers who can’t get a date on their own…” Sheila muttered softly.
“You think you are smart, mature, all knowing and wise but you are NOT! Have you heard yourself speak? You want the man to do all the work and make all the compromises, while you don’t give an inch."
“I don’t think that’s how I think or feel you are just misunder…” Sheila’s voice slowly trailed off as Riddhi once again loudly interjected.
“If I had an eligible, marriageable son, I would NEVER want him get marry a girl like you!!”
“Ouch.” Though Sheila.
“Change your ways before it’s too late! Otherwise there is a damn good chance that you might just end up all alone.”
“Fine, Fine!! I will meet some of these losers if you insist!” Sheila yelled, as she huffed out of the room, her composure badly shaken.
“Well NOT calling them losers would be a nice place to begin. Good.” Said Riddhi, with a triumphant humph, a big smile of victory plastered upon her lips.
The next night Sheila met Riddhi and the covered husband for dinner along with another married couple they were once very close too. The evening was fun and ordinary of sorts, the food although not exceptional was rather delectable. They all had a perfectly decently time, making small, individual contributions to the rather inane conversations that took place. Sheila remained silent through the bits where the discussed the triumphs and woes of matrimony due to her obvious lack of expertise on the subject. Now only if this was a discussion on disastrous relationships and terrible taste in men, would I have a thing or five to add, she thought herself in her usual self deprecating humorous manner. The evening ended on a good note with some scrumptious caramel custard that they each polished off with great gusto.
After the tab was paid and the husband packed off home to spend one more night in bed alone, Sheila and Riddhi silently walked homewards. Their private thoughts regularly interrupted by the sound of their sandals crunching against the abandoned gravel on the cemented side walk.
“Well, so tonight was fun!”
“Yes I had a great time. Thank you, wow we haven’t done this in a while.”
“Isn’t my husband lovely?” Riddi asked with a smile.
“Yes, he seems really nice.” Sheila offered.
“Didn’t you feel all lonely and alone tonight, having no one there to take care of you?”
“Not at all, I am quite use to looking after myself.”
Sheila strode ahead with a small yet determined and hopeful smile. She pressed a cigarette in between her parted lips and lit it with a sigh of content, all the while ignoring Riddhi’s look of disapproval and disdain, blissfully puffing away into the muggy October evening air.
I have been delirious with a mind numbing headache and a fever that refuses to go away. Being sick has it’s advantages of course, lying in bed all night wrapped in a blanket, shuddering from the unwarranted and uncalled for chills, on an exceedingly warm October night gave me the time and space to think and contemplate about the many complexities of life. I absolutely love the fact that everyone leaves you alone when you are sick! A terrible temperament and general frumpiness are discounted as bad, lingering side effects of your so called appalling suffering and you can almost get away with anything!
It seems sort of unfortunate that even though your limbs refuse to cooperate and your body rebels at the slightest movement, your mind is most active and alive than ever. Last night I desperately tried to put myself to sleep. At first I gently rocked myself back and forth as I sat hunched in bed propped against a couple of mismatched pillows. When this didn’t have the desired effect, I moved on to restlessly tossing back and forth in short, unstable jerky movements desperately trying to cling on to the smallest glimmer of sleep, only to come really close and then see it slip away, my eyelids drooping in exhaustion, but my mind alive and more awake than ever.
Once upon a time in a familiar looking suburb of big city there lived a girl named Sheila. Sheila was the perfect child next door types. Being extremely average has its benefits, thanks to this; Sheila for a good portion of her existence lived a very ordinary life. She always had a really difficult time waking up in the morning and getting to school on time. It’s not that Sheila didn’t enjoy the benefits of a rather mediocre education system, which she realized much later on doesn’t really prepare you for life at all. Quite the contrary, Sheila just didn’t find the morning hours very conducive towards her personal growth and learning. At the end of the day Sheila skipped home from school and then spent a good portion of the evening doing homework with great gusto and enthusiasm, a rather uncanny trait in a ten year old, but little Sheila liked to study and was indeed a rather odd child.
Summer was Sheila’s favorite season of the year. Apart from the obvious joys of not having school for three whole months and the sheer bliss and luxury of loitering and loafing around that the season offered, Sheila also loved summers because this was the only in the year that she got to see Ridhi.
Ridhi was a distance cousin, she spent the summers with the family that lived next door, who were coincidently were related to them both. Sheila and Ridhi were destined to be the best of friends, age and time being on their side helped speed up the process considerably. People smiled fondly as the watched the two girls skip together hand in hand on numerous occasions, apparently their mothers were good friends too and did exactly the same when they were their age.
Childhood, suddenly without so much as a slight warning gave way to those difficult teenage years. It brought along with it many joys and angst’s, but most importantly the painful realization and discovery of the opposite sex.
Sheila was younger than Ridhi by nearly a year and a half. To her Ridhi was almost a woman, all worldly and wise. They spent many a night, with their heads tucked under the same blanket, quietly and futilely fretting about the nature of men in low, almost inaudible whispers. They were always afraid of waking up the grownups with their scandalous talks. They were overjoyed to discover that each of them more or less wanted the same things in life. Ridhi was pretty and smart and all the boys seemed to like her, although a tad bit jealous Sheila enjoyed this and vicariously lived through her. When she finally got some attention of her own, Sheila emulated Ridhi’s ways to the tee to garner the same effect her friend seem to have on men.
Alas the long, starry, sultry nights filled with endless jibber couldn’t last forever. Today Sheila and Ridhi remains friends, they see each on rare occasion and thankfully sort of even share the same amicable feelings of warmth they once did for each other, sadly the similarity ends there. Riddhi now appears to be particularly tired and engrossed all the time. What seems like a never ending day is spent chasing after a hyper active but ridiculously adorable two year old and catering to her ever whim and fancy. Somewhere in the last five odd years or so, Riddhi had managed to snag herself a husband and produce a child. Sheila had been busy as well; only her days are filled with chasing after seemingly impossible, nonsensical, idealistic dreams, which had absolutely very little foundation in reality and unstable but interesting men she thought she was in love with, who ended up breaking her fragile and all too eager heart time and again. Riddhi basked in the glory of supposed marital bliss while Sheila reveled in her liberated, strong, independent woman of the 21st century existence. Both were seemingly content in their own right; yet felt that other lived a delusional, highly unfulfilled existence.
A couple of days ago, unexpectedly, Riddhi showed up at Sheila’s doorstep. After both got over the initial excitement and joy at each others sight, the conversation took a very sour turn. Riddhi pondered rather loudly on Sheila’s husbandless state and how incredibly unfortunate it seemed. The worldly and wise Ridhi lamented in great agony on how a life without the joys of marital bliss and snot nosed brats to run after was one badly lived. Sheila sat in utter silence as a feeling of loneliness and isolation slowly enveloped her, no words dared escape her lips.
“You are being selfish and horrible. Think about your mother, she isn’t getting any younger; doesn’t she deserve to see you happy?”
*eerie silence followed by a slightly throaty, awkward cough*
“You have some strange, funny ideas about space and relationships, what do you mean you aren’t quite ready to incorporate someone else into your life just yet? I haven’t heard anything more ridiculous!”
“Hmm.”
“What’s wrong with an arranged marriage? Not everyone is destined to meet each other and fall madly in love like Harsh and I did.”
“Yeah, thanks for rubbing salt on my nearly healed bruises.”
You must listen to your mother and meet some of these guys she is trying to introduce you to.”
“They sound like losers who can’t get a date on their own…” Sheila muttered softly.
“You think you are smart, mature, all knowing and wise but you are NOT! Have you heard yourself speak? You want the man to do all the work and make all the compromises, while you don’t give an inch."
“I don’t think that’s how I think or feel you are just misunder…” Sheila’s voice slowly trailed off as Riddhi once again loudly interjected.
“If I had an eligible, marriageable son, I would NEVER want him get marry a girl like you!!”
“Ouch.” Though Sheila.
“Change your ways before it’s too late! Otherwise there is a damn good chance that you might just end up all alone.”
“Fine, Fine!! I will meet some of these losers if you insist!” Sheila yelled, as she huffed out of the room, her composure badly shaken.
“Well NOT calling them losers would be a nice place to begin. Good.” Said Riddhi, with a triumphant humph, a big smile of victory plastered upon her lips.
The next night Sheila met Riddhi and the covered husband for dinner along with another married couple they were once very close too. The evening was fun and ordinary of sorts, the food although not exceptional was rather delectable. They all had a perfectly decently time, making small, individual contributions to the rather inane conversations that took place. Sheila remained silent through the bits where the discussed the triumphs and woes of matrimony due to her obvious lack of expertise on the subject. Now only if this was a discussion on disastrous relationships and terrible taste in men, would I have a thing or five to add, she thought herself in her usual self deprecating humorous manner. The evening ended on a good note with some scrumptious caramel custard that they each polished off with great gusto.
After the tab was paid and the husband packed off home to spend one more night in bed alone, Sheila and Riddhi silently walked homewards. Their private thoughts regularly interrupted by the sound of their sandals crunching against the abandoned gravel on the cemented side walk.
“Well, so tonight was fun!”
“Yes I had a great time. Thank you, wow we haven’t done this in a while.”
“Isn’t my husband lovely?” Riddi asked with a smile.
“Yes, he seems really nice.” Sheila offered.
“Didn’t you feel all lonely and alone tonight, having no one there to take care of you?”
“Not at all, I am quite use to looking after myself.”
Sheila strode ahead with a small yet determined and hopeful smile. She pressed a cigarette in between her parted lips and lit it with a sigh of content, all the while ignoring Riddhi’s look of disapproval and disdain, blissfully puffing away into the muggy October evening air.
Friday, October 10, 2008
The Perfect Relationship
Sometimes the best, most unexpected relationships in life come from places you thought you would never venture too and people that you least expect to ever encounter, only to wonder in the end ‘ Am I seriously capable of anything remotely normal and functional?’
Of the zillion dates and relationships and random hook-ups that I tortured and subjected myself too, the most satisfying, gratifying and fulfilling relationship I have EVER had has been with my ex- roommate ‘N’. Fate brought us together in the most mysterious of ways, I had no idea she was that weird chick that never closed her blinds and walked around naked in her dorm room until I started living with her and observed some striking similarities between the two. A whole three years later she still pranced around naked in our very messy apartment, albeit minus my sense of awkwardness, discomfort and sense of initial shock. Thank you ‘N’ for making me forget my unnecessary and trite sense of modesty. You go around thinking and feeling, imagining and concocting the premise of the perfect romance that will make you truly blissfully only to much later realize that you are actually living it, ironically with someone of the same sex that unfortunately neither consider being in a relationship with or are attracted to.
So ‘N’ and I lived in semi picture-perfect domestic bliss. I cooked and cleaned; she walked the dog and brought the groceries. At the end of each day I would come home from work or class, drop my keys on the table by the door and go ‘Hey Hun how was your day?’
She picked me up from class whenever it was late; we would either listen to love lines on the radio or sing to what ever tape she had in the cassette player on our way back home as we chomped down chicken quesedias from Taco Bell. She was probably the only person I knew, that actually used a cassette player circa 2005. One day we spent hours store hopping around the city looking for a place that sold blank cassettes just so that she could make another one of those god damn mix-tapes that littered the dash board and floor of her old station wagon.
We spend hours being in the same room without saying a word to each other, blissfully occupied in our individual activities, but knowing and aware of each others presence and more importantly being comforted by it. There were no awkward silences between ‘N’ and me, just silences.
I am not ashamed to admit that she made me incredibly happy. We perfectly balanced each other out, my hyper, over-worked and over-anxious self needed someone laid back, happy and content like ‘N’ around to remind me of all the good things in life and once again be encompassed by a sense of quiet satisfaction for no apparent reason. She needed someone motivated and ambitious like me around to encourage her to push herself and always work towards doing better. How do I know this? Well, she told me so.
I would come back from my ballroom dancing class and try to teach her everything new that I had learnt. I would squirm and shriek every time she touched me because it would make me feel ticklish all over. We would giggle like school girls every time our breasts bounced off each other and almost never managed to finish the routine as we were both laughing so hard by then.
We bonded over books and movies and sometimes over common thoughts, ideals and dreams while we let life happen somewhere along the way. We cried together, laughed together, sang together, danced together and lived together, going through all of life’s great and not so great moments with each other somewhere in the vicinity willing to lend a helping shoulder if need be.
Every thing I wanted from my ideal relationship with a man, I got from my relationship with my roommate. Now only if we were attracted to each other or for that matter even the same sex, things would have been hypothetically perfect!
I have always wondered why is it so that the when two women become good friends, the bond that they might share with each other runs a lot deeper and stronger than what we may ever hope to share wit someone of the opposite sex. Is it solely because we happen to share the same gender and therefore by proxy the same organs and hormones that makes us tick, that we are inherently bound together and therefore capable of understanding each others needs and wants a lot better? I have never felt the level of comfort and ease that I had developed with ‘N’ around any of my previous boyfriends, not even the ones that I supposedly loved. Is this because when two women make a committed choice to indulge, include and incorporate each other into their individual lives they are much more willing and able to see the beauty and extraordinariness amongst the most banal and simplest of things?
I just got a really long email from her the other day filled with fond recollections that plastered a nice big smile on my face which was difficult to wipe off at least for a good few hours.
Why I reminisce about ‘N’ after a good two years since we went our separate ways? I don’t know, I just don’t think I need to have any logical and pragmatic reason fondly reflect upon the most sincere, honest, enriching relationship of my life, minus the earth shattering, toe curling sex of course.
Of the zillion dates and relationships and random hook-ups that I tortured and subjected myself too, the most satisfying, gratifying and fulfilling relationship I have EVER had has been with my ex- roommate ‘N’. Fate brought us together in the most mysterious of ways, I had no idea she was that weird chick that never closed her blinds and walked around naked in her dorm room until I started living with her and observed some striking similarities between the two. A whole three years later she still pranced around naked in our very messy apartment, albeit minus my sense of awkwardness, discomfort and sense of initial shock. Thank you ‘N’ for making me forget my unnecessary and trite sense of modesty. You go around thinking and feeling, imagining and concocting the premise of the perfect romance that will make you truly blissfully only to much later realize that you are actually living it, ironically with someone of the same sex that unfortunately neither consider being in a relationship with or are attracted to.
So ‘N’ and I lived in semi picture-perfect domestic bliss. I cooked and cleaned; she walked the dog and brought the groceries. At the end of each day I would come home from work or class, drop my keys on the table by the door and go ‘Hey Hun how was your day?’
She picked me up from class whenever it was late; we would either listen to love lines on the radio or sing to what ever tape she had in the cassette player on our way back home as we chomped down chicken quesedias from Taco Bell. She was probably the only person I knew, that actually used a cassette player circa 2005. One day we spent hours store hopping around the city looking for a place that sold blank cassettes just so that she could make another one of those god damn mix-tapes that littered the dash board and floor of her old station wagon.
We spend hours being in the same room without saying a word to each other, blissfully occupied in our individual activities, but knowing and aware of each others presence and more importantly being comforted by it. There were no awkward silences between ‘N’ and me, just silences.
I am not ashamed to admit that she made me incredibly happy. We perfectly balanced each other out, my hyper, over-worked and over-anxious self needed someone laid back, happy and content like ‘N’ around to remind me of all the good things in life and once again be encompassed by a sense of quiet satisfaction for no apparent reason. She needed someone motivated and ambitious like me around to encourage her to push herself and always work towards doing better. How do I know this? Well, she told me so.
I would come back from my ballroom dancing class and try to teach her everything new that I had learnt. I would squirm and shriek every time she touched me because it would make me feel ticklish all over. We would giggle like school girls every time our breasts bounced off each other and almost never managed to finish the routine as we were both laughing so hard by then.
We bonded over books and movies and sometimes over common thoughts, ideals and dreams while we let life happen somewhere along the way. We cried together, laughed together, sang together, danced together and lived together, going through all of life’s great and not so great moments with each other somewhere in the vicinity willing to lend a helping shoulder if need be.
Every thing I wanted from my ideal relationship with a man, I got from my relationship with my roommate. Now only if we were attracted to each other or for that matter even the same sex, things would have been hypothetically perfect!
I have always wondered why is it so that the when two women become good friends, the bond that they might share with each other runs a lot deeper and stronger than what we may ever hope to share wit someone of the opposite sex. Is it solely because we happen to share the same gender and therefore by proxy the same organs and hormones that makes us tick, that we are inherently bound together and therefore capable of understanding each others needs and wants a lot better? I have never felt the level of comfort and ease that I had developed with ‘N’ around any of my previous boyfriends, not even the ones that I supposedly loved. Is this because when two women make a committed choice to indulge, include and incorporate each other into their individual lives they are much more willing and able to see the beauty and extraordinariness amongst the most banal and simplest of things?
I just got a really long email from her the other day filled with fond recollections that plastered a nice big smile on my face which was difficult to wipe off at least for a good few hours.
Why I reminisce about ‘N’ after a good two years since we went our separate ways? I don’t know, I just don’t think I need to have any logical and pragmatic reason fondly reflect upon the most sincere, honest, enriching relationship of my life, minus the earth shattering, toe curling sex of course.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Feels a Little bit like Stupidity
I have been absolutely insufferable lately. I have been mean, grumpy, angry, frustrated and hopelessly depressed. Yes, I admit I haven’t been good company. In fact, I have been absolutely intolerable. The worst part about being this way is to absolutely know how incredibly unfair you are to yourself and those around you, but yet be completely incapable of changing the way you think and feel. It’s a really frustrating, hopeless, lonely rut to be stuck in. I could easily blame my lack of amicability upon my hormones; yes to a certain degree they do hugely contribute to my volatile, tumultuous state of mind, but that would only partially be the truth. I have been generally cross with the world recently and most of it has been no ones fault but my own, I most certainly can’t blame it on my period. Sure I cannot control the way people act and behave, but it is certainly in my power to control the way I feel and react to things and it maddening to sometimes contemplate that this is the least I have control over.
My general frumpiness isn’t all a concoction of my overactive imagination. I have been genuinely sad and troubled; the worst part is my complete incapacity to discuss it with anyone, not even close friends and family. I perhaps unfairly and wrongly think that they don’t care enough or are simply incapable of understanding what I am going through. Yes, I know this might be unreasonable on my part, but I simply can’t stop feeling this way. I know the whole I am so alone, no one really gets me and the world is such a shitty place to live in bullshit is a little cliché and that I should have left my teenage angst behind a long time ago, exactly six years to be precise when I stopped being a teenager, but what the hell, I can label this my mid-life crisis and call it a day!
My dad passed away precisely six years and five days ago. I thought that things would get better with time, all wounds nicely healed and scabbed, but I guess in many ways it was some solid wishful thinking on my part. Some things never really become a distant, less painfully memory, even after all the time that has gone by. I would be lying and exaggerating if I said that my life came to a screeching a halt, a painful standstill and any other metaphors I can think off after my dad died. But with him I feel like I lost a little bit of myself too, that little something that I haven’t quiet managed to find yet. I wish I really knew what it was, things would be a lot easier if I did, all I feel time and again is this over whelming sense of loss, which no matter what I do never really seems to go away. Just when I think I am alright, I feel this crushing urge to just see him and be with him one more time, just so that I can ask him if I turned out alright. I know it’s a little sick to need this kind of validation, but when you are as confused and lost as I feel I am it’s comforting to know that you are on the right track, especially when nothing makes any sense at all. It is unbelievably painful to miss and want someone so terribly and know that they are really truly gone forever.
The gloom and doom of my father’s death anniversary and the subsequent onslaught of nostalgic recollection had made me less than friendly in the last couple of weeks. I use ‘had’ because I think I am slowly getting out of my funk, but in the process I have very successfully managed to alienate the people I care the most about. A lot of my friends have stopped calling me, just because I have been so damn difficult to deal with. Worst of all, I feel like I am growing further and further apart from my closest friend and this has been the hardest to deal with.
He was the one person I always looked forward to seeing, one I felt I could always count on, someone who got me, well at least a little. Now he is one I have successfully managed to push the furthest away. I know it’s no ones fault but my own, but it would be really, truly nice and comforting if just once he would pick up the phone and ask me if I was alright. Maybe with a little patience and perseverance cajole the truth out of me. We never spend time together anymore, not as a group, we do plenty of that, I’m talking about just him and me. Now every chance he gets he runs away, acting like my presence and company is the source of great annoyance, I really hate and resent that, only because I miss him so damn much. I know I am not fun and chirpy all the time, but to be abandoned by your closest friend at what seems like the most vulnerable time in your life, feels a little bit like betrayal.
A bunch of us were hanging out late last night and as usual the conversation took a serious turn. ‘T’ told me that I should really stop being so damn moral, judgmental and idealistic all the time. Apparently someone wise once said that ‘A high moral ground is a very lonely place.’ I forgot who it was. Yeah I guess I do agree, but I am also obstinate enough to think that what precious, few morals that I do have in possession are the guiding principals of my life and if I didn’t have them, I would be left with almost nothing. If it’s a choice between being alone and letting go of my ideals then I stubbornly choose to stick with my morality. Well at least for now anyway, when I feel like I am strong enough live with the consequences of my decision. They advised me time and again that I need to cut myself a slack and give the world a break. Don’t they think that I already know this? I mean pragmatically and logical it all makes absolute perfect sense, but making something that seems so simple into an actual living, breathing reality is a whole different ball game. Sweeping, life changes don’t really happen over night.
I am probably the stupidest human being on the planet. I am stupid because I realize that I am doing idiotic things and yet continue to do them because all I have is my idiocy.
My general frumpiness isn’t all a concoction of my overactive imagination. I have been genuinely sad and troubled; the worst part is my complete incapacity to discuss it with anyone, not even close friends and family. I perhaps unfairly and wrongly think that they don’t care enough or are simply incapable of understanding what I am going through. Yes, I know this might be unreasonable on my part, but I simply can’t stop feeling this way. I know the whole I am so alone, no one really gets me and the world is such a shitty place to live in bullshit is a little cliché and that I should have left my teenage angst behind a long time ago, exactly six years to be precise when I stopped being a teenager, but what the hell, I can label this my mid-life crisis and call it a day!
My dad passed away precisely six years and five days ago. I thought that things would get better with time, all wounds nicely healed and scabbed, but I guess in many ways it was some solid wishful thinking on my part. Some things never really become a distant, less painfully memory, even after all the time that has gone by. I would be lying and exaggerating if I said that my life came to a screeching a halt, a painful standstill and any other metaphors I can think off after my dad died. But with him I feel like I lost a little bit of myself too, that little something that I haven’t quiet managed to find yet. I wish I really knew what it was, things would be a lot easier if I did, all I feel time and again is this over whelming sense of loss, which no matter what I do never really seems to go away. Just when I think I am alright, I feel this crushing urge to just see him and be with him one more time, just so that I can ask him if I turned out alright. I know it’s a little sick to need this kind of validation, but when you are as confused and lost as I feel I am it’s comforting to know that you are on the right track, especially when nothing makes any sense at all. It is unbelievably painful to miss and want someone so terribly and know that they are really truly gone forever.
The gloom and doom of my father’s death anniversary and the subsequent onslaught of nostalgic recollection had made me less than friendly in the last couple of weeks. I use ‘had’ because I think I am slowly getting out of my funk, but in the process I have very successfully managed to alienate the people I care the most about. A lot of my friends have stopped calling me, just because I have been so damn difficult to deal with. Worst of all, I feel like I am growing further and further apart from my closest friend and this has been the hardest to deal with.
He was the one person I always looked forward to seeing, one I felt I could always count on, someone who got me, well at least a little. Now he is one I have successfully managed to push the furthest away. I know it’s no ones fault but my own, but it would be really, truly nice and comforting if just once he would pick up the phone and ask me if I was alright. Maybe with a little patience and perseverance cajole the truth out of me. We never spend time together anymore, not as a group, we do plenty of that, I’m talking about just him and me. Now every chance he gets he runs away, acting like my presence and company is the source of great annoyance, I really hate and resent that, only because I miss him so damn much. I know I am not fun and chirpy all the time, but to be abandoned by your closest friend at what seems like the most vulnerable time in your life, feels a little bit like betrayal.
A bunch of us were hanging out late last night and as usual the conversation took a serious turn. ‘T’ told me that I should really stop being so damn moral, judgmental and idealistic all the time. Apparently someone wise once said that ‘A high moral ground is a very lonely place.’ I forgot who it was. Yeah I guess I do agree, but I am also obstinate enough to think that what precious, few morals that I do have in possession are the guiding principals of my life and if I didn’t have them, I would be left with almost nothing. If it’s a choice between being alone and letting go of my ideals then I stubbornly choose to stick with my morality. Well at least for now anyway, when I feel like I am strong enough live with the consequences of my decision. They advised me time and again that I need to cut myself a slack and give the world a break. Don’t they think that I already know this? I mean pragmatically and logical it all makes absolute perfect sense, but making something that seems so simple into an actual living, breathing reality is a whole different ball game. Sweeping, life changes don’t really happen over night.
I am probably the stupidest human being on the planet. I am stupid because I realize that I am doing idiotic things and yet continue to do them because all I have is my idiocy.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
When memories beckon
I haven’t blogged in a really long time; well there is a reason for it. For a while everything seemed to have lost its significance and time and again I wondered why. It’s not like I didn’t have anything to write about well I did, a lot, but nothing truly, really mattered anymore. I hate when I get into one of these ‘life doesn’t make any sense, what’s the point of it all?!’ phases in my life. It leads to more complacency than I want and have bargained for. I slowly but surely seep into a personal hell hole where all my dreams, thoughts, contemplations and musings lead to an utmost state of self-pity followed by deep personal loathing for daring to once again go into the same mental and emotional state that I told myself time and again I will not go into.
A semi-famous friend once wrote that every day she wakes up in the morning hoping, wishing and praying that something truly wonderful and magical would invade her world, opening a chasm of never ending delightful possibilities, making life once again truly worth living, but shit nothing really ever happens, then you crawl into bed at the end of exhausting day filled with the same monotony that make it well just that, another exhausting day, bitterly disappointed, sad and well alone.
The loneliness sadly doesn’t bother me anymore, I take solace and comfort in it, and I have managed to make a demon into a friend. Only in my weakest moments to I really truly wistfully and desperately long for the warmth and comfort of someone else, not friends and mates and people that understand and get me, well thank God I at least I have that much, which I am most eternally grateful for, no I am talking about the innate knowledge that at the end of the day, in spite of all my eccentricities and imperfections there is someone waiting for me curled up under the sheets warm and welcoming, who loves me anyways, just for who I am. I miss that feeling of belonging for better or for worse, I am okay most of the time, but sometimes in this crazy, awful, wonderful, mad, fast-paced city, when I catch a small glimpse of the things that I secretly long for, I can’t but help but feel both wonderful and terribly sad. Everywhere I look around me, there is a great sadness, none the less, it isn’t all despair, tears and sorrow, this I am most certain off. Every once in a while I catch that small glimpse of hope, whether it is a middle aged couple, harrowed and harassed by the burdens of matrimony and parenthood sharing an all knowing, warm and cherishing smile as the cart their noisy annoying spawns into an auto or a young couple lip-locked in a passionate embrace in a club somewhere, that’s when I know, that well shit, there is love, somewhere.
I’m twenty four years old, yes I turned a year older almost two months ago, yes I suppose you could have called it a significant moment of my life, except the fact that there was nothing significant about it, I had a grand boozed out weekend with close friends, followed by a quick, wild, again boozed filled trip to Goa, but all of it seems so far away now, locked in some unknown memory bank in the recesses of my mind, waiting for me to reminisce fondly on some latter day, while I work on creating new memories. I know that I shall look back upon it fondly, as I do often of the great wonderful memories that I have stored, on the darkest of days, while I desperately work on creating many such fond moments that will comfort me through lives many tumultuous times ahead.
Memories are really truly a wonderful entity; they probably are in my top five favorite things in life. They remind of the great times gone by, which are important, but more importantly, they remind me of the person that I was, what I was capable of and of who I am. They reassure me of things that I may or may not have forgotten about myself in my crazy attempt to just be and also of the truth that nothing ever will be the same anymore. Things always change, they will, they must, they have to and I must learn to accept it, even if it well hurts a lot.
My best friend from high-school moved back to Bombay at the beginning of the week, I have seen her for all of twenty minutes for a quick snack at a cheap fast-food restaurant, which later gave me a stomach ache. Between her trips to the doctor and mother care and my erratic work schedule we have found very little time for each other. I could have called her over the long holiday weekend, but somehow I just couldn’t get myself to reach for the phone and press ‘Call’. The life that we once shared has become a memory of the past and it depresses me to no end. All the crazy promises that we once made to each other as young wide eyed girls seem just that, promises. Life worked out so differently for us, it’s not suppose to be this way I thought to myself, what happened to always being there for each other and being a significant part of each other existence and that solitary moment on Carter Road all those years ago where we promised to each other that we will let nothing get in between us ever? Now I desperately try to understand her but I can’t, our existences are so vastly different; I don’t know what it’s like to have a husband that is alone back in some alien country, while she is here scared shit-less about having a baby. I just feel like I missed that train a long time ago. This is not how things are suppose to work out, what happened to all those promises that we had made to each other? How we would get married together someday, preferably in the same alter, how our gorgeous children would someday fall desperately, madly in love with each other and we would become sisters by marriage. We shared the most significant moments of our youth we each other, she was the first person that I called when I got my shiny new bicycle on my twelfth birthday that I so desperately wanted. The first person I confessed to about how madly I was in love with ‘H’ when I was sixteen and how bitterly disappointed I was when my first real kiss, with my first real boyfriend was so, well wet and clammy.
I helped her buy candles when she decided it was time she lost her virginity, we poured over the Kamasutra together turning to left, right, up and down figuring out what the hell they were really doing, giggling endlessly like the little school girls we were, while we ignored the stern disapproving looks for the adults in the store. I was the first person she called when things didn’t go according to how we had both imagined it would be and sex was then well just that, sex.
We easily assimilated each others experiences into our own sphere of knowledge, learning and vicariously living through each other, promising and knowing that this is how it would always be, until now. Why is it so difficult for us to share the most significant moment of our adulthood, just like we once did as children? Are we oh, so different right now as we once were, and will our friendship be stored in the back of my mind someday, in the memory box labeled ‘X-my best friend from high school’ its importance faded with time?
A semi-famous friend once wrote that every day she wakes up in the morning hoping, wishing and praying that something truly wonderful and magical would invade her world, opening a chasm of never ending delightful possibilities, making life once again truly worth living, but shit nothing really ever happens, then you crawl into bed at the end of exhausting day filled with the same monotony that make it well just that, another exhausting day, bitterly disappointed, sad and well alone.
The loneliness sadly doesn’t bother me anymore, I take solace and comfort in it, and I have managed to make a demon into a friend. Only in my weakest moments to I really truly wistfully and desperately long for the warmth and comfort of someone else, not friends and mates and people that understand and get me, well thank God I at least I have that much, which I am most eternally grateful for, no I am talking about the innate knowledge that at the end of the day, in spite of all my eccentricities and imperfections there is someone waiting for me curled up under the sheets warm and welcoming, who loves me anyways, just for who I am. I miss that feeling of belonging for better or for worse, I am okay most of the time, but sometimes in this crazy, awful, wonderful, mad, fast-paced city, when I catch a small glimpse of the things that I secretly long for, I can’t but help but feel both wonderful and terribly sad. Everywhere I look around me, there is a great sadness, none the less, it isn’t all despair, tears and sorrow, this I am most certain off. Every once in a while I catch that small glimpse of hope, whether it is a middle aged couple, harrowed and harassed by the burdens of matrimony and parenthood sharing an all knowing, warm and cherishing smile as the cart their noisy annoying spawns into an auto or a young couple lip-locked in a passionate embrace in a club somewhere, that’s when I know, that well shit, there is love, somewhere.
I’m twenty four years old, yes I turned a year older almost two months ago, yes I suppose you could have called it a significant moment of my life, except the fact that there was nothing significant about it, I had a grand boozed out weekend with close friends, followed by a quick, wild, again boozed filled trip to Goa, but all of it seems so far away now, locked in some unknown memory bank in the recesses of my mind, waiting for me to reminisce fondly on some latter day, while I work on creating new memories. I know that I shall look back upon it fondly, as I do often of the great wonderful memories that I have stored, on the darkest of days, while I desperately work on creating many such fond moments that will comfort me through lives many tumultuous times ahead.
Memories are really truly a wonderful entity; they probably are in my top five favorite things in life. They remind of the great times gone by, which are important, but more importantly, they remind me of the person that I was, what I was capable of and of who I am. They reassure me of things that I may or may not have forgotten about myself in my crazy attempt to just be and also of the truth that nothing ever will be the same anymore. Things always change, they will, they must, they have to and I must learn to accept it, even if it well hurts a lot.
My best friend from high-school moved back to Bombay at the beginning of the week, I have seen her for all of twenty minutes for a quick snack at a cheap fast-food restaurant, which later gave me a stomach ache. Between her trips to the doctor and mother care and my erratic work schedule we have found very little time for each other. I could have called her over the long holiday weekend, but somehow I just couldn’t get myself to reach for the phone and press ‘Call’. The life that we once shared has become a memory of the past and it depresses me to no end. All the crazy promises that we once made to each other as young wide eyed girls seem just that, promises. Life worked out so differently for us, it’s not suppose to be this way I thought to myself, what happened to always being there for each other and being a significant part of each other existence and that solitary moment on Carter Road all those years ago where we promised to each other that we will let nothing get in between us ever? Now I desperately try to understand her but I can’t, our existences are so vastly different; I don’t know what it’s like to have a husband that is alone back in some alien country, while she is here scared shit-less about having a baby. I just feel like I missed that train a long time ago. This is not how things are suppose to work out, what happened to all those promises that we had made to each other? How we would get married together someday, preferably in the same alter, how our gorgeous children would someday fall desperately, madly in love with each other and we would become sisters by marriage. We shared the most significant moments of our youth we each other, she was the first person that I called when I got my shiny new bicycle on my twelfth birthday that I so desperately wanted. The first person I confessed to about how madly I was in love with ‘H’ when I was sixteen and how bitterly disappointed I was when my first real kiss, with my first real boyfriend was so, well wet and clammy.
I helped her buy candles when she decided it was time she lost her virginity, we poured over the Kamasutra together turning to left, right, up and down figuring out what the hell they were really doing, giggling endlessly like the little school girls we were, while we ignored the stern disapproving looks for the adults in the store. I was the first person she called when things didn’t go according to how we had both imagined it would be and sex was then well just that, sex.
We easily assimilated each others experiences into our own sphere of knowledge, learning and vicariously living through each other, promising and knowing that this is how it would always be, until now. Why is it so difficult for us to share the most significant moment of our adulthood, just like we once did as children? Are we oh, so different right now as we once were, and will our friendship be stored in the back of my mind someday, in the memory box labeled ‘X-my best friend from high school’ its importance faded with time?
Monday, April 14, 2008
Bombay Fantasies
So much to do and so little time, this has always been my trouble with life. I invent these grandiose plans to attain artistic satisfaction, sometimes almost brag about it, but at the end of the day, what is left is nothing more than a head full of amusing ideas and observations and nothing concrete to really show for them.
Take this blog for example, after the sincere attempt to keep writing and trudging along in my half-hearted literary pursuits, it is only now, some three odd weeks later, that I find the time to actually update it. I do exaggerate when I say that I lack the time, what I however not jest about is the serious lack of energy to anything remotely constructive on the personal gratification and growth front. I guess this would make me machosistic, purposely causing myself pain, for squandering such great potential, or so I convince myself to believe!
I am inherently lazy, a dreamer, an observer, a writer who doesn’t indulge in her passion often enough, but sure spins grandiose dreams around it. At the end of the day I am absolutely uninspired to get to the computer and write. The sad fact is that none of this is due to lack of ideas or inspiration, they thrive aplenty. It is my stubborn refusal to ultimately push myself beyond the extent of regular necessity, is what will bring my ultimate downfall.
Bombay, the city of dying hopes, fading dreams and aspirations, a city rich with its multitude of characters that make life amusing and interesting. These characters stand as rich sources of literary inspiration for the men and women in my stories. I observe their every day lives, their outwardly visible joys and sorrows, their quirk and idiosyncrasies. These humane qualities of people around me get emulated by the characters in my stories, fumbling around life like everone else. Maybe one of the biggest reasons I like writing so much is because I get to play the God of my universe. My characters and their lives sprout from the recesses of my imagination, the courses of their destiny at my command. Perhaps, I’m sick of living life on someone else’s terms, being bitterly disappointed every step along the way. My stories and my writing liberate me from my own bitterness and disappointment, even if it is for a short while. Now I can channel it into the lives of my characters, deriving a sadistic pleasure from their sadness,disappointment and dejection, confirming my belief that hapiness and contentment are merely illusions.
Perhaps, one of the biggest reasons why my work ends up being so melancholy is because I have spent a huge portion of my adult life is such utter loneliness and isolation. The bitter realization that in spite of everything and everyone, at the end of the day, I feel a terrible sense of loss and emptiness that never really goes away. It is ironic that after moving to Bombay this has gotten worse, what is more ironic is that I have never had these many friends in my life to date. Every night can be an occasion of celebration if I choose to make it so. There is no shortage of people to call if I wish to drink myself to oblivion, to distract myself from my self imposed bitterness. Each of us masking our pain under an envelope of false cheer and goodness, I feel exhausted at the end if it all, unable to cope with my own insincerity, yet too exhausted and dejected to infuse my fledgling energy into letting anyone in.
I sometimes enjoy narrating to the world my Mumbai fantasies. Wild dreams sexual escapades with cab-drivers, vegetable vendors and mailmen. It is the Indian equivalent of a badly produced American porno with the hot pizza guy or the sexy copy repair guy. In a vaguely American context the idea almost works, but in a society, which is so class conscious, a young educated woman having a wild fantasy about someone in a much lower socio-economic bracket is blasphemy. This strange world that we live in, does not even allow us the small liberty to dream outside the confines of our tax bracket. To dream big is to be ambitious, but to dream of having a good time with someone who may not come from the same world is just plain lowering ones standards.
What does this city have to offer any way other than rich fodder to my already fertile imagination? Where is the time, place or the energy to establish meaningful relationships with someone one new? Where are the people to establish these relationships with? At the end of the day, I lack the motivation to make any attempt to appeal to those around me. It feels false and stupid. I’m not interesting or fabulous enough to have people fawn all over me for who I am. Honestly, there are so many better looking women out there. I am neither terribly interesting, nor do I possess a sparkling sense of humor. I look about average and I maybe almost fat. With mediocrity being the bane of my existence, the chance of meeting someone truly wonderful who stands for the text book definition of a great catch is bleak. What then is so damn wrong to draw a small amount of thrill and excitement from a fantasy that will never materialize but makes life a little interesting?
Last week was both fun and humiliating. The humiliation set in after the fun ended. My stubborn refusal to initiate any romantic connection with someone new, who might actually like me back, lead me again to a place that I promised myself I would never go to. It ended badly the first time, I was sad and hurt. I swallowed my pride and pain convincing myself time and again that his friendship was more important than my silly little crush and a few stolen kisses. It would be unwise to throw away years of trust and companionship over unrequited love that would eventually fade away. I have always cared about him with a burning fervor that time cannot extinguish, more than he will ever know, more than what he will ever feel for me. I doused the flames of my passion in the name of friendship, but the embers blazed on unknowingly.
He has always been incredibly cruel. Sometimes I truly resent him for it. Time and again he tortures me with the cruel knowledge of all the women that he has possessed, knowing fully well that I hate to hear about it. I have learned to expect very little from people, least of all from him, yet he torments me with his kisses, awakening my desire just one more time, making me wishfully wonder the possibility of what if…
Sometimes, I’m almost convinced that I’m capable of having an adult sexual relationship with my best friend without the messiness of all the feelings get in the way. After all, as a sensible adult with no time for love what else could possibly be better? I’m okay with the once inherited knowledge that he shall never ever feel the same way about me; But to reminded of it time and again is cruelty and humiliation at its best. Accepting the truth life has been disappointing has never been hard, but to hear it reverberated time and again is something that I’m not yet fully capable of.
Take this blog for example, after the sincere attempt to keep writing and trudging along in my half-hearted literary pursuits, it is only now, some three odd weeks later, that I find the time to actually update it. I do exaggerate when I say that I lack the time, what I however not jest about is the serious lack of energy to anything remotely constructive on the personal gratification and growth front. I guess this would make me machosistic, purposely causing myself pain, for squandering such great potential, or so I convince myself to believe!
I am inherently lazy, a dreamer, an observer, a writer who doesn’t indulge in her passion often enough, but sure spins grandiose dreams around it. At the end of the day I am absolutely uninspired to get to the computer and write. The sad fact is that none of this is due to lack of ideas or inspiration, they thrive aplenty. It is my stubborn refusal to ultimately push myself beyond the extent of regular necessity, is what will bring my ultimate downfall.
Bombay, the city of dying hopes, fading dreams and aspirations, a city rich with its multitude of characters that make life amusing and interesting. These characters stand as rich sources of literary inspiration for the men and women in my stories. I observe their every day lives, their outwardly visible joys and sorrows, their quirk and idiosyncrasies. These humane qualities of people around me get emulated by the characters in my stories, fumbling around life like everone else. Maybe one of the biggest reasons I like writing so much is because I get to play the God of my universe. My characters and their lives sprout from the recesses of my imagination, the courses of their destiny at my command. Perhaps, I’m sick of living life on someone else’s terms, being bitterly disappointed every step along the way. My stories and my writing liberate me from my own bitterness and disappointment, even if it is for a short while. Now I can channel it into the lives of my characters, deriving a sadistic pleasure from their sadness,disappointment and dejection, confirming my belief that hapiness and contentment are merely illusions.
Perhaps, one of the biggest reasons why my work ends up being so melancholy is because I have spent a huge portion of my adult life is such utter loneliness and isolation. The bitter realization that in spite of everything and everyone, at the end of the day, I feel a terrible sense of loss and emptiness that never really goes away. It is ironic that after moving to Bombay this has gotten worse, what is more ironic is that I have never had these many friends in my life to date. Every night can be an occasion of celebration if I choose to make it so. There is no shortage of people to call if I wish to drink myself to oblivion, to distract myself from my self imposed bitterness. Each of us masking our pain under an envelope of false cheer and goodness, I feel exhausted at the end if it all, unable to cope with my own insincerity, yet too exhausted and dejected to infuse my fledgling energy into letting anyone in.
I sometimes enjoy narrating to the world my Mumbai fantasies. Wild dreams sexual escapades with cab-drivers, vegetable vendors and mailmen. It is the Indian equivalent of a badly produced American porno with the hot pizza guy or the sexy copy repair guy. In a vaguely American context the idea almost works, but in a society, which is so class conscious, a young educated woman having a wild fantasy about someone in a much lower socio-economic bracket is blasphemy. This strange world that we live in, does not even allow us the small liberty to dream outside the confines of our tax bracket. To dream big is to be ambitious, but to dream of having a good time with someone who may not come from the same world is just plain lowering ones standards.
What does this city have to offer any way other than rich fodder to my already fertile imagination? Where is the time, place or the energy to establish meaningful relationships with someone one new? Where are the people to establish these relationships with? At the end of the day, I lack the motivation to make any attempt to appeal to those around me. It feels false and stupid. I’m not interesting or fabulous enough to have people fawn all over me for who I am. Honestly, there are so many better looking women out there. I am neither terribly interesting, nor do I possess a sparkling sense of humor. I look about average and I maybe almost fat. With mediocrity being the bane of my existence, the chance of meeting someone truly wonderful who stands for the text book definition of a great catch is bleak. What then is so damn wrong to draw a small amount of thrill and excitement from a fantasy that will never materialize but makes life a little interesting?
Last week was both fun and humiliating. The humiliation set in after the fun ended. My stubborn refusal to initiate any romantic connection with someone new, who might actually like me back, lead me again to a place that I promised myself I would never go to. It ended badly the first time, I was sad and hurt. I swallowed my pride and pain convincing myself time and again that his friendship was more important than my silly little crush and a few stolen kisses. It would be unwise to throw away years of trust and companionship over unrequited love that would eventually fade away. I have always cared about him with a burning fervor that time cannot extinguish, more than he will ever know, more than what he will ever feel for me. I doused the flames of my passion in the name of friendship, but the embers blazed on unknowingly.
He has always been incredibly cruel. Sometimes I truly resent him for it. Time and again he tortures me with the cruel knowledge of all the women that he has possessed, knowing fully well that I hate to hear about it. I have learned to expect very little from people, least of all from him, yet he torments me with his kisses, awakening my desire just one more time, making me wishfully wonder the possibility of what if…
Sometimes, I’m almost convinced that I’m capable of having an adult sexual relationship with my best friend without the messiness of all the feelings get in the way. After all, as a sensible adult with no time for love what else could possibly be better? I’m okay with the once inherited knowledge that he shall never ever feel the same way about me; But to reminded of it time and again is cruelty and humiliation at its best. Accepting the truth life has been disappointing has never been hard, but to hear it reverberated time and again is something that I’m not yet fully capable of.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Friday Night Lights....
Last night was fun, after a really exhausting and challenging week at work I was finally ready to roll up my sleeves and seriously unwind. My quest for a perfectly enjoyable evening took me to Zenzi, of course. It’s that friendly neighborhood bar where everybody knows your name….well actually, they don’t but does it really matter anyways?
The place was bustling in its Friday night frenzy, S and I walked in there together. He was a tad bit earlier than I, in anticipation of my grand “coming”; he aimlessly walked the streets in order to avoid the painful awkwardness of being at a bar all alone on a Friday night. I often wonder why we as people always find it so incredibly painful to encounter our isolation in a crowd. What is this inexplicable need to be constantly seen heard and wanted in general public view?
S is my new friend, a good specimen of the human race, I think with time and effort we could embark upon a beautiful friendship. He is definitely my benchmark for future boyfriend material, after all who wouldn’t want to be with a cute, smart, funny, kind guy who would adore you. Yeah maybe I would be bored initially, the sweetness would be incredibly nauseating, but once my stomach has settled I think it would be a nice treat.
My friend M is dating this incredibly sweet guy for the last few weeks. Last night he mentioned within hearing distance that he was waiting for his “girlfriend” to arrive. So when does dating turn into a relationship? Is it after the fourth, fifth, tenth date? Is it a relationship if you see each other every day in a non-platonic manner and just assume you are with each other? Or is the “so what are we?” conversation absolutely essential to take the dating encounter into the next big “R” stage.
And really now, who gets to make that decision? As much as I like P it was rather presumptuous of him to assume that M and he are in relationship when there was really no conversation to that effect. Why does it always have to be the man who gets to make the call on a decision that equally affects both people? It’s not just India; this is a truly global masculine trend that unfailingly repeats itself in every single culture across the universe.
As a woman am I suppose to be happy and all accepting of the fact that the men which we associate with are willing to finally accept us as girlfriends, wife’s or whatever, therefore we must accept this decision unquestioningly?
When a woman wants to, or is finally ready to go from dating stage to a relationship or from a relationship to a marriage, more often than not the man gets completely freaked out and runs away. We as the docile, gentler sex are expected to accept the hash reality that some of the most monumental decisions in our lives aren’t really made by us at all.
The night progressed and so did the jolly good time. S and I ran into several people that we know including Butch Cassidy and his bitch that we met at the saloon a few days back. As the awkward small talk progressed, J had the audacity to ask me in rather upright manner if I came to Zenzi all the time? I think I even noticed him turn his nose up ever so slightly as he spoke those condescending words.
First of all, if he has seen me at Zenzi ALL the time, he is there just as often as I am, therefore the moral high ground that he stands on so damn proudly come crashing down with a big, huge, loud ugly THUD.
Even if I did go to Zenzi everyday it’s clearly none of his business. Oh wait but it is, because in this rather complicated world that we co-exist in, we choose to wear our so called liberal ideals on our sleeves so proudly, which of course only apply to us. Deep down inside we will never tolerate those same values exercised by others, especially our women. Imagine the horror if J does end up with a woman who is smarter than he is, (which wouldn’t be that hard to find) who can think for herself and the worse of all make her own decisions, including how often she wants to hang out at her favorite bar.
The place was bustling in its Friday night frenzy, S and I walked in there together. He was a tad bit earlier than I, in anticipation of my grand “coming”; he aimlessly walked the streets in order to avoid the painful awkwardness of being at a bar all alone on a Friday night. I often wonder why we as people always find it so incredibly painful to encounter our isolation in a crowd. What is this inexplicable need to be constantly seen heard and wanted in general public view?
S is my new friend, a good specimen of the human race, I think with time and effort we could embark upon a beautiful friendship. He is definitely my benchmark for future boyfriend material, after all who wouldn’t want to be with a cute, smart, funny, kind guy who would adore you. Yeah maybe I would be bored initially, the sweetness would be incredibly nauseating, but once my stomach has settled I think it would be a nice treat.
My friend M is dating this incredibly sweet guy for the last few weeks. Last night he mentioned within hearing distance that he was waiting for his “girlfriend” to arrive. So when does dating turn into a relationship? Is it after the fourth, fifth, tenth date? Is it a relationship if you see each other every day in a non-platonic manner and just assume you are with each other? Or is the “so what are we?” conversation absolutely essential to take the dating encounter into the next big “R” stage.
And really now, who gets to make that decision? As much as I like P it was rather presumptuous of him to assume that M and he are in relationship when there was really no conversation to that effect. Why does it always have to be the man who gets to make the call on a decision that equally affects both people? It’s not just India; this is a truly global masculine trend that unfailingly repeats itself in every single culture across the universe.
As a woman am I suppose to be happy and all accepting of the fact that the men which we associate with are willing to finally accept us as girlfriends, wife’s or whatever, therefore we must accept this decision unquestioningly?
When a woman wants to, or is finally ready to go from dating stage to a relationship or from a relationship to a marriage, more often than not the man gets completely freaked out and runs away. We as the docile, gentler sex are expected to accept the hash reality that some of the most monumental decisions in our lives aren’t really made by us at all.
The night progressed and so did the jolly good time. S and I ran into several people that we know including Butch Cassidy and his bitch that we met at the saloon a few days back. As the awkward small talk progressed, J had the audacity to ask me in rather upright manner if I came to Zenzi all the time? I think I even noticed him turn his nose up ever so slightly as he spoke those condescending words.
First of all, if he has seen me at Zenzi ALL the time, he is there just as often as I am, therefore the moral high ground that he stands on so damn proudly come crashing down with a big, huge, loud ugly THUD.
Even if I did go to Zenzi everyday it’s clearly none of his business. Oh wait but it is, because in this rather complicated world that we co-exist in, we choose to wear our so called liberal ideals on our sleeves so proudly, which of course only apply to us. Deep down inside we will never tolerate those same values exercised by others, especially our women. Imagine the horror if J does end up with a woman who is smarter than he is, (which wouldn’t be that hard to find) who can think for herself and the worse of all make her own decisions, including how often she wants to hang out at her favorite bar.
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