In our search and quest for meaning and affirmation we often look so far ahead that we forget to have a closer look at what lies around us. It has been my experience that courage, magnificence, beauty, strength and love, which we all so desperately seek is just around the corner, we just forget to observe what lies the closest in our belief that the exotic and the eternal lies in a place unknown to us, beyond our grasp.
I always felt that idea of eternal love, that epic romance, which servers as an inspiration to one and all has been lost in the annals of time, unknown to modern civilization. We all lament about it, cry, bitch and moan of how it eludes us as a generation caught up in our pursuit for material possession and self-indulgent gratification, well at least I know I do, we seek to vicariously live a small piece of it, in the reassess of our imagination, through film and literature, yet I have only just realized that ‘love’ may not after all be such a fictional entity.
Even though we might fail to see and recognize it, the ordinary men and women that we ignore for their plainness and mediocrity carry forth this flame of eternal love and carefully and tenderly spread it around, to their children, their friends, colleagues and sometimes even perfect strangers. If just for once we can push aside our ignorance and just learn to listen, we might just realize that there is still hope, everywhere.
I stepped out of the train at Matunga station at around 10.20 am. I was later than usual; well this has sort of turned into a nasty habit lately that I must get rid off soon. I love traveling by train, on most good days, encountering something amusing, unexpected and engaging becomes its highlight. I absolutely love observing the various species of human beings that share the crowded Mumbai public transportation system with me. I was never much of a TV watcher, with the exception of a random craving for something funny or dramatic every once in a while, for the most part I have been pretty detached from the idiot box. Amazingly enough, I have now completely lost the occasional longing for mindless mass entertainment ever since I moved to Mumbai and started traveling by train! Seriously, who needs a TV set when all the ingredients for great entertainment are around you! Bombay and its over crowed public transportation system has become my window of entertainment!
Yeah so anyways, I have this tendency of going off into these random tangents and completely postponing the point that I am trying to make. It was a scalding day and I was late for work. I was sweating profusely in the oppressive heat. (Seriously, I think I sweat more than anyone that I know and have ever seen. I have observed women looking their freshest and prettiest, with incredible Zen like expressions lining their faces in the midst of the Bombay heat while the sweat on my countenance glistens like hot oil sputtering on a frying fan.)
My head was stuck in my book. (I cherished my last few moments of literary gratification as I marched along the platform towards the exit, expertly avoiding all possible occurrences of a collision between myself and some unsuspecting stranger.)
“You shouldn’t do that you know.” I heard someone whisper really close to my ear.
I turned around some what startled, it was “A” one of the senior managers at work. Oh great, now I have to walk with him and make small talk along the way, I groaned a little within.
I am painfully shy when it comes to having a friendly chat with most people I work with. I mostly speak when I feel there is a purpose I need to interject. I suck at small talk, it gives me a headache.
A friendly, nonchalant chat about the weather and all things meaningless isn’t really my cup of tea. I really envy the people that do manage it, getting friendly and comfy with the senior members of an organization never really hurt anyone. I wish I can do it with the ease and grace that some people manage to pull it off with.
So yeah, “A” and I were walking to the office, luckily I didn’t really need to say much, God bless his talkative soul. I don’t exactly remember how it started; I think I wasn’t even really paying too much attention to what he was saying. Suddenly, somehow the conversation veered towards his family. “A” is not a young man by anybodies standards. For someone who is fairly middle-aged, his son is awfully little. Now I can understand that this is not all that exceptional in this day and age, but some 20 odd years ago, getting married or having children in your late 30’s was unheard of.
“We had an inter-caste marriage, my wife is Hindu, we ran away from home. It was utter chaos in the beginning. We lived in fear for a long time. There were death threats and police complaints. All we had was each other and the clothes on our back.”
“A” straightened his shirt cuff as he went on reminiscing.
“She use to live in my colony, back in the day, we had the scoop on all the girls that lived in the neighborhood. It was something we were utterly proud of, me and my friends. She was the only one that I didn’t know, although her family stayed there, she had mostly grown up at her grandmothers house. I was completely awestruck when I first saw her, who is that girl? I asked my friend.”
“A” said that it was love at first sight. He knew that their union would never be accepted by those around them. A country that has been plagued and tortured by the ugly shadow of religious hatred would never let a Muslim man and a Hindu woman come together.
In an essentially secular country, religion has been the point of contention that has divided people, generation after generation. The passion and fervor of religious fundamentalism has turned men and women against each other, making them forget all empathy that they might share amongst themselves.
In spite of these seemingly impossible circumstances, here they are some twenty years later sharing a life together.
“It was a while before we had our son, having absolutely nothing in our pockets made it difficult to have a child. No complains, we are very happy.”
By then we had reached the office entrance and went our separate ways. I was completely awed by “A’s” story, in this crazy eccentric world that we live in love might just conquer it all. Well at least for this one lucky couple anyways.
More to follow…
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bombay. Show all posts
Friday, May 23, 2008
Monday, May 19, 2008
Yeh Hai Mumbai Meri Jaan Part I
Just this one time, I would like to completely dedicate this blog post to something other than well…me. So much has happened in so little time, my mind stands boggled at the mechanics of this city. What really drives it? What makes it tick? What strange, bizarre path are we all trudging along at our pace? Life is beautiful, sounds like a cliché, but I know for a fact that this is true. Bombay is a fantastic place, in spite of all the bullshit that irritates me and bogs me down time and again, The crap, stink and filth that pollutes my life and makes me want to run away to some distant corner of the world, to get away from it all once and for all, it is ultimately the people here that make it truly, truly incredible, they make Bombay a place worth living. I finally feel like I belong here, for better or for worse. Every familiar corner that I turn to, stirs a powerful memory that fills my soul with an unexplainable sense of fulfillment that no other place has ever provided. I have finally realized that I am utterly in love with this city. My love maybe imperfect and humane but it is pure in it’s though and emotion.
. The vast arrays of experiences that this city has thrown my way are unique in their disparity, perhaps only possible to encounter here. Ultimately it is the people and their spirit that makes this city what it is, I hope wish and pray with all my heart that this never ever changes. Without its people a place is just that, a place, a mass of land, a geographic entity without an identity of its own. It is the people of Bombay that make it what it is.
The other day I taking the train to work, it was hot and sticky; I was uncomfortable in the heat and cringed in agony. I boarded the first class compartment as usual, a small luxury I allow myself, in spite of the fact that I only ride it for two stops. The morning was like many others, the air was thick with humidity and foul smells, and it was hard to breath. I always stand by the door whenever I can; I prefer it to sitting in a congested compartment. I was quietly reading my book and whiling away time, the train slowly left the platform at its own leisure pace, just when it was about to pick up some pace a little girl not more than seven or eight jumped in unexpectedly. Her clothes were stained and a little tattered but she seemed oblivious to this, her baldhead glistened with little droplets of unshed sweat. I was instantly jealous; I wish I had the courage to shave my head to get away from the unbearable warmth. Trust me, having ridiculously long; curly hair is a real pain in the summer. My wild mane, gathered in an untidy bun at the top of my head was a real contract to hair free existence. She gave me a small smile, almost acknowledging my awe at her boldness as she firmly tucked her black dupatta into the waistband of her pants. Somewhere along the way, in a quick, swift, precise movement she unfurled the black cloth upon her undeveloped breasts to hide her modesty. I watched a little amused. I remember vaguely what it was like to be eight once. The thought that someone could leach at my femininity, which was still in construction, never once occurred to me at that age. I wondered that instance, what kind of life she must me leading, to be so clearly aware of all the vile, predatory influences that harbor in this city.
Before I could even finish my thought, the little bald girl started singly loudly. Normally this would be nothing out of the ordinary, lots of people sing on trains. I catch myself humming a popular tune every once in a while too. It wasn’t the fact that she was singing, but her choice of song that was so damn odd.
“Nayak, nahi, Khalnayak hai tu, zulmi bada dukh dayak hai tu.” You are not a hero but a villain; you torment me and cause me great pain.
“Iss Pyar ki, thujako kya khabar, iss payar ke kaha layak hai tu.” You are unaware of my love for you; you deserve none of it anyways.
My eyes immediately shot up from my magazine; it was indeed an odd choice of song for a little girl. Not just because it was a tormented woman expressing her love and pain for a treacherous man that is truly unworthy of it, but also because this song is way, way before her time.
To be fair, this was quite a popular tune in the early nineties, when the movie first came out. I may have been ten or eleven when it bombarded the nation and cause mass hysteria and equal outrage. I’m almost 24 now, somewhere along the way its significance had faded with the passage of time and lost in the annals of cinematic history, until now, when it was resurrected in my memory by this little girl.
I immediately wondered where she had heard it and what could have possibly caused her to musically lament about the agony of a doomed love. What had this little eight year old seen and heard in her own brief life that had caused her sing this particular number as she dangerously hung from the open doorway, ignoring our warning about oncoming trains.
“Choli, ke piche kya hai, chunri ke niche kya hai.” What is behind my blouse? What lies hidden underneath this cover that conceals my ripe breasts?
“Choli me dil hai mera, chunri me dil he mera, yeh dil meh dungi mera yar ko, pyar ko.” My heart lies hidden underneath my blouse and cover. I shall only give it away to my aficionado whom I love.
The song remains etched in my memory, I slightly imitated the gyrating hip movements made immortal by the lovely Ms. Dikshit, “The Original Queen of Bollywood”. By then we were all engrossed in the enthusiastic performance. Some
even participated a little. A small encouraging smile, a look of nostalgia at the thought of a skimpily clad MD expertly swinging her nimble hips and a hum here and there is all she needed to continue with great gusto.
Her arms curled into a perfect arch when perched on her hips. They swung back and forth as she thrust her non-existent breasts forward and backwards in tune to the beat of the song. The unmelodious voice rose to a crescendo as it reverberated through the train compartment. We all looked a little embarrassed and dazed at this spectacle. Both these songs that originated in the same film dare to explore the idea of a woman consumed by passion confessing her love and desire for intimacy with her lover. She knows that he is far from perfect and all that might ever come her way at the end of it all is never ending heartbreak, yet she is willing to risk it all, just for that one, small, brief, moment of true happiness, even if it means a life time of sorrow ahead.
Aren’t we all in some ways a reflection of this woman who is willing to sacrifice a life of mediocrity and normalcy for that one single, moment of undying fervor that will awaken our spirit forever? Why then is it that we are willing to suppress our hearts great desire or even remotely acknowledge its existence in the name of false modesty?
Why did I need this little girl on the train, who may or may not even fully comprehend the meaning of her words, to stir my soul and awaken my ardor?
She may never read this, but I would like to whole heartedly thank her for making me realize that although my heart might have been broken before, there is still some room, somewhere in there for love, to let it consume me, once again, irrespective of the consequences.
(Next chronicle to come soon.)
. The vast arrays of experiences that this city has thrown my way are unique in their disparity, perhaps only possible to encounter here. Ultimately it is the people and their spirit that makes this city what it is, I hope wish and pray with all my heart that this never ever changes. Without its people a place is just that, a place, a mass of land, a geographic entity without an identity of its own. It is the people of Bombay that make it what it is.
The other day I taking the train to work, it was hot and sticky; I was uncomfortable in the heat and cringed in agony. I boarded the first class compartment as usual, a small luxury I allow myself, in spite of the fact that I only ride it for two stops. The morning was like many others, the air was thick with humidity and foul smells, and it was hard to breath. I always stand by the door whenever I can; I prefer it to sitting in a congested compartment. I was quietly reading my book and whiling away time, the train slowly left the platform at its own leisure pace, just when it was about to pick up some pace a little girl not more than seven or eight jumped in unexpectedly. Her clothes were stained and a little tattered but she seemed oblivious to this, her baldhead glistened with little droplets of unshed sweat. I was instantly jealous; I wish I had the courage to shave my head to get away from the unbearable warmth. Trust me, having ridiculously long; curly hair is a real pain in the summer. My wild mane, gathered in an untidy bun at the top of my head was a real contract to hair free existence. She gave me a small smile, almost acknowledging my awe at her boldness as she firmly tucked her black dupatta into the waistband of her pants. Somewhere along the way, in a quick, swift, precise movement she unfurled the black cloth upon her undeveloped breasts to hide her modesty. I watched a little amused. I remember vaguely what it was like to be eight once. The thought that someone could leach at my femininity, which was still in construction, never once occurred to me at that age. I wondered that instance, what kind of life she must me leading, to be so clearly aware of all the vile, predatory influences that harbor in this city.
Before I could even finish my thought, the little bald girl started singly loudly. Normally this would be nothing out of the ordinary, lots of people sing on trains. I catch myself humming a popular tune every once in a while too. It wasn’t the fact that she was singing, but her choice of song that was so damn odd.
“Nayak, nahi, Khalnayak hai tu, zulmi bada dukh dayak hai tu.” You are not a hero but a villain; you torment me and cause me great pain.
“Iss Pyar ki, thujako kya khabar, iss payar ke kaha layak hai tu.” You are unaware of my love for you; you deserve none of it anyways.
My eyes immediately shot up from my magazine; it was indeed an odd choice of song for a little girl. Not just because it was a tormented woman expressing her love and pain for a treacherous man that is truly unworthy of it, but also because this song is way, way before her time.
To be fair, this was quite a popular tune in the early nineties, when the movie first came out. I may have been ten or eleven when it bombarded the nation and cause mass hysteria and equal outrage. I’m almost 24 now, somewhere along the way its significance had faded with the passage of time and lost in the annals of cinematic history, until now, when it was resurrected in my memory by this little girl.
I immediately wondered where she had heard it and what could have possibly caused her to musically lament about the agony of a doomed love. What had this little eight year old seen and heard in her own brief life that had caused her sing this particular number as she dangerously hung from the open doorway, ignoring our warning about oncoming trains.
“Choli, ke piche kya hai, chunri ke niche kya hai.” What is behind my blouse? What lies hidden underneath this cover that conceals my ripe breasts?
“Choli me dil hai mera, chunri me dil he mera, yeh dil meh dungi mera yar ko, pyar ko.” My heart lies hidden underneath my blouse and cover. I shall only give it away to my aficionado whom I love.
The song remains etched in my memory, I slightly imitated the gyrating hip movements made immortal by the lovely Ms. Dikshit, “The Original Queen of Bollywood”. By then we were all engrossed in the enthusiastic performance. Some
even participated a little. A small encouraging smile, a look of nostalgia at the thought of a skimpily clad MD expertly swinging her nimble hips and a hum here and there is all she needed to continue with great gusto.
Her arms curled into a perfect arch when perched on her hips. They swung back and forth as she thrust her non-existent breasts forward and backwards in tune to the beat of the song. The unmelodious voice rose to a crescendo as it reverberated through the train compartment. We all looked a little embarrassed and dazed at this spectacle. Both these songs that originated in the same film dare to explore the idea of a woman consumed by passion confessing her love and desire for intimacy with her lover. She knows that he is far from perfect and all that might ever come her way at the end of it all is never ending heartbreak, yet she is willing to risk it all, just for that one, small, brief, moment of true happiness, even if it means a life time of sorrow ahead.
Aren’t we all in some ways a reflection of this woman who is willing to sacrifice a life of mediocrity and normalcy for that one single, moment of undying fervor that will awaken our spirit forever? Why then is it that we are willing to suppress our hearts great desire or even remotely acknowledge its existence in the name of false modesty?
Why did I need this little girl on the train, who may or may not even fully comprehend the meaning of her words, to stir my soul and awaken my ardor?
She may never read this, but I would like to whole heartedly thank her for making me realize that although my heart might have been broken before, there is still some room, somewhere in there for love, to let it consume me, once again, irrespective of the consequences.
(Next chronicle to come soon.)
Friday, May 9, 2008
Lady Bombay
I’m so thoroughly bored of Bombay; it makes my head spin and my limbs numb with exhaustion. They call this the city of dreams, a place brimming with excitement and adventure that will constantly keep you on your toes and keep you guessing. What total utter rubbish! I have been back for a little over six months and the memorable moments have been few and far in between. The most exciting that has happened to me since I have gotten back is sharing a cab ride with a transsexual hooker in Colaba; in retrospect it wasn’t all that exhilarating either. Thanks to her, I now understand the small shady alley’s of South Bombay with a lot more intimacy and depth, which I lacked before, but to be honest, I was too damn chicken shit to actually utilize the moment to its full potential. I was so damn freaked out; I hunched low in my seat and tried to disappear into the seat cushions as the rather fetching transsexual openly and unabashedly trolled for customers, staring into cabs and peeking at dilapidated hotels. I was so afraid of being recognized, like anyone one would really even know who I am? I had been in the country for less than two months, a different picture from my childhood days. I should have played along and let my curiosity take over, after all it’s not like everyday that I get to share cabs with prostitutes. She looked so fetching, with shapely ankles and long muscular legs. Her straight, silky, brown wig sure had me fooled for a while. She looked like a polished, young urbanite ready to have a good time on a Friday. I guess I should have paid more attention and noted that there was something awkward about her gait; she was uncomfortable in her ultra tight skirt that clung to her legs like second skin. She pulled it down at least twice in the short distance from the station to the cab. For an unguarded second or two she even dared to swallow, her bobbing Adam’s apple giving away her secret, it was a hot sticky evening, I’m sure her throat must have been parched with thirst, I know mine was.
I was completely fascinated, totally in awe of this might magnificent creature. My right hand shook with nervous excitement, it always does when I am thrilled. To me,
she was like a character that had stepped out of the pages of “Maximum City”, a miniscule part of the large, undignified so called underbelly of this gigantic city. She lived a dangerous, seductive, gripping life, amongst the pimps and the hookers and the druggies, the men and women that inhabit the streets of Bombay after they are abandoned by the civilized world. She lived a life that I wasn’t born into, a life that I had only experienced through books and movies. My middle class, suburban, Maharastrian upbringing has kept me somewhat sheltered from some of the harsher realities of life and this city.
For all the talk about crime, gangs, underworld, drugs, whores, pimps, cops, rapes and murders that is associated with this city, in all my years of living here I hadn’t met a single one of them…until now. Not that they didn’t exist, they are very much a part of the same city that I inhabit, breathing the very same air that I do, most probably drinking the very same germ infested municipality water, which I meticulously boil every morning, but for obvious reasons, under the very same smog polluted Bombay sky, we live such different lives that our paths never ever crossed.
In spite of the odds being against us ever meeting, here we were traveling in the same cab, to almost the same distance, but for very different reasons. I wanted to strike up a conversation, yet no words escaped my throat. For the first time in my life I felt truly intimidated by a person that was oblivious to my presence. She obviously had more pressing issues on her mind. My hunched, nervous self in the back seat held very little significance to her, I was just another unidentifiable face, which makes up this city that she would forget all too soon. To me she was Lady Bombay, grandiose and powerful cascading with sadness and neglect, at the brink of deterioration. This is what I had returned for.
In a diverse and varied city like Bombay, if one is thirsting for interesting encounters and reminiscing about long cab rides with transvestites four months later, you know there is a problem. Maybe I am just not all that fun, adventurous or interesting or maybe it is so that fun and adventure eludes me like the bubonic plague, whatever maybe the case, my mind is absolutely numb with boredom. People are just not built for stagnation, well not me anyway. This whole nine to five crap job, crap home, crap food, crap friends and crap relationships may actually appeal to someone but not me. I want to live a whirlwind life where one moment vastly differs from the next, providing a fresh perspective on the most mundane things. May I never, ever loose the power to see life just a little crocked, this I sincerely pray for?
Sometimes it is hard to see things skewed when everything is so damn straight around you. I wonder when my next, big adventure will begin, when Lady Bombay will once again shower upon me the blessing of an unexpected encounter, and well minus the fat cab fare.
I was completely fascinated, totally in awe of this might magnificent creature. My right hand shook with nervous excitement, it always does when I am thrilled. To me,
she was like a character that had stepped out of the pages of “Maximum City”, a miniscule part of the large, undignified so called underbelly of this gigantic city. She lived a dangerous, seductive, gripping life, amongst the pimps and the hookers and the druggies, the men and women that inhabit the streets of Bombay after they are abandoned by the civilized world. She lived a life that I wasn’t born into, a life that I had only experienced through books and movies. My middle class, suburban, Maharastrian upbringing has kept me somewhat sheltered from some of the harsher realities of life and this city.
For all the talk about crime, gangs, underworld, drugs, whores, pimps, cops, rapes and murders that is associated with this city, in all my years of living here I hadn’t met a single one of them…until now. Not that they didn’t exist, they are very much a part of the same city that I inhabit, breathing the very same air that I do, most probably drinking the very same germ infested municipality water, which I meticulously boil every morning, but for obvious reasons, under the very same smog polluted Bombay sky, we live such different lives that our paths never ever crossed.
In spite of the odds being against us ever meeting, here we were traveling in the same cab, to almost the same distance, but for very different reasons. I wanted to strike up a conversation, yet no words escaped my throat. For the first time in my life I felt truly intimidated by a person that was oblivious to my presence. She obviously had more pressing issues on her mind. My hunched, nervous self in the back seat held very little significance to her, I was just another unidentifiable face, which makes up this city that she would forget all too soon. To me she was Lady Bombay, grandiose and powerful cascading with sadness and neglect, at the brink of deterioration. This is what I had returned for.
In a diverse and varied city like Bombay, if one is thirsting for interesting encounters and reminiscing about long cab rides with transvestites four months later, you know there is a problem. Maybe I am just not all that fun, adventurous or interesting or maybe it is so that fun and adventure eludes me like the bubonic plague, whatever maybe the case, my mind is absolutely numb with boredom. People are just not built for stagnation, well not me anyway. This whole nine to five crap job, crap home, crap food, crap friends and crap relationships may actually appeal to someone but not me. I want to live a whirlwind life where one moment vastly differs from the next, providing a fresh perspective on the most mundane things. May I never, ever loose the power to see life just a little crocked, this I sincerely pray for?
Sometimes it is hard to see things skewed when everything is so damn straight around you. I wonder when my next, big adventure will begin, when Lady Bombay will once again shower upon me the blessing of an unexpected encounter, and well minus the fat cab fare.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
