No

He asked me to dance today and I said no.

I used to dance with agility, dance with grace,

But now my bones have started to ache.

Icy heart and creaky limbs,

Won’t shake the darkness away.

So I won’t move my body today.

Today is not a dancing day.

He asked me to sing today and I said no.

My voice is sweet and my throat is warm,

But I refuse to sing ‘cause something’s wrong.

My throat is gulping down a ball of hate

And my tongue leaves me with a bitter aftertaste.

So I won’t open my mouth today.

Today is not a singing day.

He asked me to love today and I said no.

Love needs giving, and I had nothing to offer.

So I offered him my body instead.

He said it wasn’t enough,

He said he wanted more.

But my heart refuses to feel today.

Today is not a loving day.

He asked me to leave today,

I had a bag packed the whole way.

Image Credit: All my bags are packed by Conceptual Miracles

The Princess and the Frog

He comes, he goes, like a gentle breeze,

He waltzes in and out of my life.

Leaving in his wake a crumbling mess;

The remains of my will and pride.

What fantastic strength must I muster

From my body, mind and soul,

To throw him out of my life

And will myself to grow whole.

Once upon a time life was a dream,

Soft voices under the moon so bright,

No false promises made and broken,

No promises made at all.

Yes I can see him for what he is,

Not a prince, just a frog in disguise,

A fantasy of ‘what could’ve been’

Dancing before my wistful eyes.

Yet I leave the doors open for him,

As I bid him hello and goodbye.

I keep hoping my frog turns into a prince,

I keep waiting for the moonlight kiss.

Pieces

We’re both in pieces, you and I.

We’ve been shattered a few times.

Sharp corners and jagged ends

Drawing blood from well-meaning hands.

But when I touch you, I don’t bleed,

For when our crooked angles meet,

Sparks fly, hot and bright,

The world is more than alright.

Oh yes, you know very well,

How you make my metal heart swell.

And though you and I hate to cuddle,

We’re two pieces of the same puzzle.

Image courtesy: Two Hearts Beat As One by alexandru1988

Heartbreak Hotel

Come spend the night

With me at Heartbreak Hotel.

A destination date, if you will,

Into the recesses of my heart.

Take my hand in yours,

We’ll enter the beast together.

This house built on bad memories,

With shabby furniture and faded walls.

But before you say yes, my love,

I must warn you of what lies ahead.

Of the scars you might see,

The screams you might hear,

Or the feelings you might feel

If you come too near.

For this hotel is haunted

By the paintings that adorn its halls

Forgiven but not forgotten,

Or maybe not forgiven at all.

And don’t be scared if you hear

The floors and walls creak at night,

I’ll give you fair warning, dear,

Before the roof comes crashing down.

Image courtesy: Golden Rose by Amy-Heartbreak

The Date

There it is again; the fluttering in my stomach. As if a thousand caterpillars have chosen this very instant to break through their cocoons and spread their beautiful butterfly wings, and are now trying to find a way out of my dark insides. My hand moves towards my stomach and lingers for a few moments, as if to soothe my body, which is buzzing with nervous anticipation. It’s a mechanical gesture, one that I’ve been doing since many years to calm myself down. Today it doesn’t work.

I look at the wall with the patterned wallpaper. An ornate clock hangs from a nail, tilting to its left. The imperfection fascinates me. I listen to the clock’s periodic clicks. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Time seems to be moving slower than usual. I will it to move faster, it refuses. I sit back with a sigh.

I have intentionally chosen a table at the back, with my seat facing the glass door of the tiny café. This way, I’ll see him when he enters. I’ll be physically and mentally prepared. I realize I’m in my head too much. I’m overthinking this.

The waiter places a tray on my table. With a shaky hand, I take a few sips of the iced coffee I have ordered. It’s probably a bad idea to order before the other person arrives. But I needed to calm myself down. The cool glass feels slippery against my palm, which has become slimy with sweat. What if he tries to hold my hand, and thinks it’s cold and reptilian? I quickly wipe the sweat away with tissues. I want to hold the glass up against my forehead, which seems to be burning hot. Maybe I have a fever. I wonder if I should use this as an excuse to cancel. I don’t. The cold glass beckons, tiny droplets of condensed water forming along its outer later. But I’m conscious of the other people in the café, huddled around their tables, deep in conversation.  What if he walks in right now and sees me holding a glass against my face? That could happen to me. I have bad timing.

I push the glass away, and my heart begins to pound. I glance at my phone to see the time. Five minutes late. ‘Why am I getting so nervous? It’s just a date. It’s no big deal.’ I repeat this in my head a few times, till I feel my throat constricting. “I know why you’re so nervous.” I hear my bestie’s voice in my head. “You like Ethan! You like Ethan!” In my mind’s eye, I see myself blushing.

I catch the waiter’s eye, signal for a glass of water and gulp it down with growing urgency. The phone buzzes. I snatch it and read Ethan’s message.

Sorry, can’t make it tonight.

As I take a deep breath, I feel my throat clearing. Must be all the water I drank.

No problem. I was running late anyways.

His message also says some other things. I ignore them, deciding to read it properly later. As my heartbeat slowly returns to normal, I feel my body relaxing.

‘What should I do now?’ I wonder, looking around the tiny café. Going home doesn’t seem very appealing. And I like it here. Suddenly I grin. I whip my phone out, and type rapidly.

Are you nearby? Are you free?

The phone buzzes back in equal haste. Within minutes, Jake is here, sitting right across me. We talk, we laugh, we binge on fries. He asks me about Ethan. I feel the familiar tightening of my muscles, and I blush. He smiles. I feel a warmth spreading through my body; the warmth of friendship, of familiarity, of Jake.

I reach home and check my phone to see Ethan’s messages. I wonder if I should be offended that he cancelled our date, but his reason seems valid enough, so I decide to play it cool. “But he cancelled on you, so let him text you first.” There’s my bestie’s voice again. I roll my eyes and keep the phone aside. It buzzes and I grab it.

You forgot your scarf in my car again, moron.

It’s Jake.

Meet me tomorrow and take it.

I smile, feeling the warmth in my body again. Looks like I’m meeting Jake tomorrow.

Bruised

I was a bruised little animal
Hiding in the shade
Of your love, till I was healed,
And then I walked away.

Was it wrong? Was I selfish?
WIll I burn in hell for this?
That would frighten me well
If I believed in the existence of hell.

So what if I hurt you?
Someone hurt me too.
That’s just the way it goes;
The cycle of love and heartbreak.

Your wounds will heal
With someone else’s love
And then you’ll leave them
Too, all alone.

Aren’t we just animals here
Inside our civilized coats?
Looking for self-preservation.
There’s safety in being alone.

You say we had it all,
And I threw it away
But is ‘us’ what I wanted
In the first place?

Maybe yes, maybe no
Maybe I wanted it before.
But something has changed
Now I’m as jaded as they say.

And this is not our story, love.
The story is mine.
And happiness of the forever kind
Comes at a price.

My Bi Friend Forever

It can be a life-changing moment; when your best friend of 12 years comes out to you as bisexual. This is a friend you’ve had sleepovers with since you were a child, cuddling together in the same blanket before adulthood made cuddling gross. A friend who insisted on eating maggi from a single plate; and whose pathetic attempts at cooking food left you eating tasteless, lumpy and uncooked biryani. A friend you’ve shared every little secret with. A friend you even shared crushes with! (We were big on sharing back then). A friend who you almost lost contact with a couple of times after school, but who clawed her way back into your life like a resilient little cat.

So the moment that this friend tells you that she’s ‘officially’ attracted to both men and women can be life-changing.

But it wasn’t. And my response of “Weren’t you already bisexual?” was perhaps surprising, and a little anticlimactic. “Yes, but its official now!” she had answered, rolling her eyes. But after hearing stories of her dalliances with both genders for almost a year, and cringing at the detailed descriptions (there is no such thing as too much information, she keeps telling me), this news was not news.

It’s been almost two years now since my best friend first embraced the ‘bi’ label. Fortunately, she’s surrounded by people who sooner or later were accepting of all her labels; whether the bisexual one, or the poly amorous one. Of course she comes across people who’re incredulous, or who say or write hurtful things under the guise of ‘trying to understand’ and ‘creative freedom’. But Sammy has always been a tough one, and I sometimes find myself getting more offended by people’s insensitivity than her (for good reasons, I assure you).

“What was it like?” she asked me the other day, “When I told you I was bi? You didn’t exactly respond.”

“Didn’t I?!” I paused for moment.”It didn’t change anything”

She gave me a relieved little smile.”Good. Because your response matters.”

So we joke about being in a relationship, because after 12 years, it sure feels like one. We’re big on sharing again; clothes, make up, even food. (She offered to share her boyfriend as well, but I had to draw the line somewhere!) We make plans to live together, travel together, sing together, write together. We’re inseparable, which can sometimes irk people, but we love annoying people, so it works in our favor.(Some may say that’s unhealthy, but what do they know?)

Maybe this is not what I expected when I started talking to the new girl in my school. But this is much better! We’re not conventional, and we don’t ever intend to be.

So this is a shout out to everyone who has that loved one who’s different from you, and makes life choices that you might never completely understand. Support them through every decision they make. Because those decisions are hard. And your response matters.

PS: For those of you who’re not exactly sure about what bisexuality is, or need a coming-out anthem, here’s a video you must watch at all costs.

The Adult Life: Part II

To be or not to be an adult… That’s the dilemma we all face.

One I pondered over last year, when I had a taste of adult life during the summer. You can read my earlier post here. Thankfully, I had one last year of college life left, and I made the best of it.

Now college life is over, and adult life has officially begun. And it’s every bit as scary and tiring as I thought it would be.

I know what they say. Stepping into adult life has its perks; the overwhelming sense of hope and confidence intermingled with a nervous energy to do things and go places. The youthful and creative ideas that give us an edge over the others. The quick rise up the ladder of success. And there’s the independence which comes from earning and spending one’s own money. That’s what they say.

But adult life isn’t all that rosy. It’s a quiet sadness over losing your friends from college, who slowly fade away as you dive headfirst into your new life. It’s the lack of energy required to make new ones. It’s the exhaustion after a long day at work, which makes you want to spend the remaining hours by yourself, reading a book or listening to some music. Sometimes it’s the restlessness from not having much work to do, leaving you feeling unsatisfied and unproductive.

It’s the weekends spent in quiet isolation. The hours spent staring into a laptop screen. The pending chores you haven’t had time to do. The people you try to make plans with. It’s the expectation of a good work-life-social life-sleep balance. It’s the lack of one.

So I spend my days as a confused, and quite overwhelmed adult, not sure of what I’m doing wrong. And I see others around me, people my age, struggling through something similar.

Maybe this is a phase; a period of transition. Maybe this is what adult life is really like. But for now, life is a bitch.

The Great Escape

How lovely would it be

If you and me were lost at sea,

Or disappeared among the misty clouds,

Or hid under the warm brown earth?

The two of us, side by side,

Without another, for a while.

No distractions, no anxieties,

Nothing to cloud our tired minds.

How the words would flow!

From your lips to mine

And back from mine to yours

An intimacy so sublime.

Our eyes would crinkle and shine

The way they did once upon a time,

And our hearts and minds would heal

From the blows and bruises of life.

Do you think they would notice?

Realize that we have gone?

Or would the world just carry on,

The way it did before we were born?

But it wouldn’t really matter

Whether the world wasted away,

Or shook with tears of joy,

‘Cause I’d have you by my side.

So darling, come with me now,

Away from life’s cruel games.

We could finally make

The great escape.

You and Me

How do I, from this multicoloured sea,

Pick droplets of colour to describe you and me?

 

Do I pick yellow for the happy memories

And colour the sad ones with blue?

Or do I just paint a rainbow

To describe everything we’ve been through?

 

But a rainbow isn’t enough!

Seven colours don’t suffice

To show you all the things

That I feel deep inside.

 

‘Cause though my heart is broken

And it feels a little blue,

There’s a new, rosy glow around it

And that feels nice too!

 

But this isn’t about me,

It’s about me and you.

Seven colours can’t describe us,

Neither can twenty-two.

 

But darling, don’t fret. I have a solution, you see.

It’d take the entire sea to describe you and me.

What Love Was

In the beginning, love was slow;

That warm feeling seeping slowly into her heart

When she wasn’t looking, filling her up

Until she felt she would burst with happiness.

 

She’d been wrong. Love was hurtful;

Pain and heartbreak had left her raw.

Love didn’t exist! she told herself.

She would never fall in love again.

 

She fell in love again. It was patient,

Kind and gentle. Simple and familiar.

It was friendship. It was perfect.

Maybe too perfect. She fell out of love again.

 

Love was a burst of colour, a blinding flash of light.

A spark that flew when two stones

Accidentally brushed against each other.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a fire was lit.

 

Love was the sea meeting the land.

Not to gently embrace the white sand,

But to crash itself upon the rocky shore.

Impulsive and brazen. All consuming.

 

Or maybe love was the sand

Waiting to be touched by the sea,

Glowing under the pale moonlight

With a thirst that would never fully be quenched.

 

Love was the flickering embers in a dying fire,

A brazen reminder of the spark that it once held

Brought back to life with a sudden word, a look, a touch.

Emitting wisps of smoky memories, refusing to die.

A Lament

They say life is filled with good and bad moments. That the bad moments exist so we could cherish the good. We shake our cynical heads at these clichéd sentences.

It’s true, but it’s so obvious! Why say it?

Maybe it’s for days like these, that one needs to be reminded of statements like ‘bad things happen for a reason’. A day when it’s alright to use clichés, and reassure ourselves with lies. A day when being cynical is not enough to keep you sane.

It’s a day of mourning.

To be honest, I was never very close to her. She was not one of those women who spend their time doting over their children, or grandchildren. No. She was making something of herself. And she became many things; actress and author are the only two I’m aware of. But I know she became many things. She was always doing something.

She was not domestic, the way you would expect grandmothers to be. She was extroverted, and passionate, and ambitious. She was the grandmother I had, but never really knew. She was the grandmother I would have liked to know.

Sometimes I think I’m like her. Or that if I knew her, I’d like to be her. She was flouting norms, when flouting norms was not the norm. She was bold, brave and brazen. But most importantly , she was independent. She was free.

I never understood this as a kid. I understand it now.

Surely, this is unhelpful. This description that does not describe. It’s difficult to describe someone you barely knew. But love doesn’t come from knowing. Love comes from being. You love someone simply because they exist. You love her because she is your grandmother, and you are her granddaughter. And there’s no changing that.

The last few years she hadn’t been as free. You could see her mind and spirit, as fiery as ever, trapped inside a decaying body. I’d like to think she found a way out. I’d like to think she’s finally free again.

Maybe that’s naïve. Maybe it’s optimistic. But today both naïveté and optimism are acceptable. After all, it’s a day of mourning.

A Journey Down Memory Lane

We all have great memories of our grandparents; happy, cheerful memories of them buying us gifts, cooking our favourite food, and pampering us. I have these rosy memories of my grandmother, and much more. I saw her at her best, but I also saw her at her worst, and it changed the way I saw the world.

Let me start from the beginning. The oldest memory that I have of my grandma is of sitting in the kitchen of my old house in Mumbai, helping her make puran. Aai, as we called her, made the most delicious puran polis in the world. And being the spoilt little kid that I was, I would demand that she make them from scratch every time she came home for a visit.

Since she came to our house all the way from Kolhapur, my mother would get vexed at my childish, possibly thoughtless demands. She would offer to make the sweet dish herself. “No!” I would declare. “Your puran poli doesn’t taste as good as hers.” And so we would sit in the kitchen, grandmother and granddaughter, bound together in the moment by our love for puran poli.

I remember that one summer vacation spent entirely at my grandparents’ house. I was learning to swim, and was expected to lose weight by the time my mother dropped in for a visit. Needless to say, she was quite unpleasantly surprised to see that I had actually gained weight because of the amount of food I was being fed.

But that’s the kind of person Aai was. The kind that got up at dawn every single day to offer prayers to her gods. The kind who lavishly converted a cupboard into a shrine in her tiny 1 BHK flat. The kind who loved making food and feeding people. Who poured too much ghee on chapatis, and refused to let you eat them any other way. Who hid packets of biscuits from her husband in a different dabba every day, to make sure he didn’t eat too many.

The kind whom as she grew older, could no longer lift heavy objects due to her hip-replacement surgery. The kind who developed cancer at the age of 76 and died.

But the image that is most imprinted on my mind, is our last meeting. I had gone home for Diwali, when I was casually told that Aai was sick; a mere health issue, nothing important. And she had been admitted into a hospital in Mumbai. Mum insisted that I go visit her. I was reluctant, my distaste for hospitals overpowering my enthusiasm to meet my grandma after two whole years.

Finally, I agreed. On reaching the hospital, I was informed that she was admitted to the ICU, and could only have one visitor at a time. Surprised at the seriousness of her illness, I made my way to her room. I found her lying on the bed, bed-ridden and barely conscious. She graced my presence with a grunt of recognition, before insisting that I go downstairs and send my mother to her. Asha. Asha kuthe aahe? Asha la pathav. Rasping. Wheezing. Coughing. It was the only thing she would say, over and over again. In a monotonous voice. Barely breathing. Barely alive.

Those were the last words she would ever say to me.

So this is an ode to my grandmother, born as someone else, and reborn at her wedding as Suman Kaulgud. A woman of immeasurable strength and patience. And it is an ode to every person who has been embraced by death. Who has been loved and cherished during her lifetime, and terribly missed later.

Goodbyes can be hard, especially if they are of a permanent nature. But the way we deal with these farewells is what defines us. Do we dwell on the tragic memories? Sinking into the pain and grief that they bring? Do we run away from them? Tucking them safely into the recesses of our minds, only to be hit with waves of despair when they find their way to the surface? Or do we accept the memories for what they are, packets of joyful grief and happy sadness? And let them wash over us, till that person is no longer dead, but is a part of us. Alive. Breathing. To be found in a journey down memory lane.

A Letter to the Nice Guys

We hear about this all the time. How women always fall for the jerks. How the nice guys are friendzoned. How they never get a chance. How unfair it is.

Having been friendzoned myself, (yes, it happens to women too!) I know how you feel. And having friendzoned quite a few guys myself, I also know the other perspective; the woman’s perspective that no one seems to bother about.

So I figured I would put it out there. An answer to the eternal question on every nice guy’s mind:

Why don’t women choose the nice guys?

Dear ‘Nice Guy’,

First of all, I’d like to thank you for being there for us. No matter what, we can always depend on you. In the good times or the bad, you always have our back. Especially in the bad times.

Come to think of it, you always befriend us during our times of need! Whether we’re having problems with our studies, parents, boyfriends or friends, you suddenly show up and give us a shoulder to cry on. You listen patiently to all our rantings and try to help us out. That’s what good friends do, and we appreciate it. You’re a nice guy.

But as soon as the problem goes away, you start expecting some appreciation or some kind of a reward for helping us out. Most of the times, friendship is just not enough and you want ‘something’ more. And if we don’t feel the same way about you, you get hurt. Offended. Unable to understand why we wouldn’t want to be with a ‘nice guy’ like you.

Let’s get something straight. If you feel this way, you are not a nice guy. Just because you helped us in our time of need, we do not ‘owe’ you anything.  And if you feel that you are entitled to some kind of benefits simply because you helped us out,  you are highly mistaken. And not at all nice. In fact you are a selfish douche. And not a very good friend.

And if you are one of those guys who has liked a girl since a long long time, and has  stayed her friend and supported her through thick and thin, but never expressed your feelings, you have no right to complain! The girl probably doesn’t even have a clue that you like her. Just being there for her is not going to magically make her fall in love with you. You have to tell her how you feel. If she feels the same way, good for you! If she doesn’t, you can still continue to be her friend. Unless you were only doing it to get close to her. In which case, you are also a douche.

And this is the reason girls don’t fall for guys like you. Because deep down, you are not a nice guy, and we know it.

So don’t go around complaining about how life is unfair, and how you don’t have a chance. Maybe if you just asked us out instead of trying to get close to us when we’re vulnerable, you wouldn’t have such a hard time. Maybe then you would actually have a chance at a relationship based on mutual respect and not planning and manipulation on your part.

But for that, you would have to be a nice guy.

With love,

The friend that you lost.

Episode 1: An old soul

‘If your husband or his family are pure vegetarians, will you give up non-veg for them?’, he asked.

We were walking on the ring road at night, just the four of us. Talking about anything and everything. Me, Panda, Doll and GG. (Yes these are real people and not figments of my imagination. I’m gonna call them by their nicknames.)

Now Panda is a foodie who loves Hulk and looks like Po from Kung fu Panda. (I know you’re reading this. You’re welcome) He also likes to profile people and read my blog posts and analyze my thought process. Doll is a fair girly girl who is passionate about food, music, puzzles, movies; basically everything. GG is a new addition to our group. He’s the funny guy, who can mimic people perfectly. Of course sometimes he can get really annoying. Like when he asked this question.

If GG had his way, the entire world would be vegetarian, or at least his friends. Unfortunately he has friends like me and Panda, who love chicken way too much. Anyways, GG asked me whether I would turn vegetarian if my husband or in-laws disapproved. He was met with an awkward silence, as I tried to find a way to explain my convictions to him.

But Doll did it for me. “She doesn’t wanna get married” she said abruptly. Maybe the silence had disturbed her.

“What?!” GG exclaimed. “Are you one of those lesbians?!” he whispered dramatically.

I looked away, resisting the urge to retort back. Panda smirked and Doll, who never holds back, burst into laughter.

“She doesn’t wanna get married.” Doll repeated. “She wants to be in a live-in relationship. And she wants to adopt.”

“Wow! Where do you get such amazing thoughts from?” GG asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s alright, calm down” I said, patting his arm soothingly.

Panda changed the topic, and within a minute GG was back to his usual self; childish and hilarious.

As the others walked on ahead, amidst Doll’s peals of laughter, I couldn’t help being amused by GG’s reaction. He so perfectly represented the Indian crowd. So easily scandalized, wired against change, yet so innocent and forgetful. There was something childlike about him, a quality I had also seen in my parents; a strong conviction in themselves and their beliefs. And the ability to see the world in black and white. Something I don’t have.

I am, after all, an old soul.

Mother Knows Best

The first time I heard (and saw) this song in Disney’s Tangled, I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. How could someone so perfectly fit into a song the infuriating behaviour of mothers all around the world?!

Well they did. And it exists. Right here.

Now I’m not saying my mum is a villain. But there are so many similarities between Rapunzel’s ‘mother’ and my own! The criticism. The incessant nagging. The restrictions. The infuriating ‘mother knows best’ attitude.

This isn’t a post about mom bashing. Though I have been known to do that a lot!

Because there is one major difference between Rapunzel’s mother and mine. A difference that effectively sidelines all the similarities. My mum loves me, not just my hair. (Rapunzel’s hair has magical powers, which is why Mother Gothel keeps her around.) In fact she really doesn’t like my hair, but that’s not the point. Maybe if my hair had healing powers she would like it more. But it doesn’t, so she’s left with plain old me, void of any magical powers, and she loves me for me.

Mothers have this superpower, this ability to love you unconditionally. Whether you are the best and most obedient kid or a super-rebellious one, she will love you all the same.

I know what you’re going to say. People say this all the time. Why are you realizing this just now? What changed?

Well, I guess my attitude towards my mom changed.

Being a feminist, atheist and whatever else I choose to be, I am always defying the norm. And most of the times, defying my mom. (Just like Rapunzel defies Mother Gothel and leaves the tower!) I have always prided myself in being strong and independent and freethinking. In being whatever I am today despite the challenges life has thrown at me. Despite the restrictions imposed by society and *cough* my mom *cough*.

What never struck me before was the fact that my mom is reason for me being so strong and independent, and being able to face those challenges in the first place. She was the one who showed me how to stand up to bullies. She pushed me into music and dance, two of my biggest passions and talents today, to help me get rid of my shyness and become more confident. She urged me to step out into the limelight for the smallest of things. She told me I was meant for greatness. Lucky for me, I believed her.

This dawned on me with a new-found love for my mom.

Because now there is one thing I’m absolutely sure of. At  the end of the day when I come back to the tower after gathering the courage to leave it and see the world, no one will be happier or prouder than my mother.

And today I can admit, although I’m still cringing a little, mother does know best!

A Love Poem

I see you watching me,

With love in your eyes.

Mesmerized, watching every move,

Like you have never seen movement before.

Your eyes light up like diamonds

Every time you see my face. Pleasure,

Like you have never known pleasure before.

Never have stars danced so in your eyes.

Your eyes, a peculiar shade of brown

Draw me closer against my will.

And I too stand mesmerized,

My heart melting at the sight of you.

With you I laugh, and what a laugh!

Every atom of my body shivers.

We laugh together, side by side

Until nothing remains but our joy in our hearts.

And when you whisper sweet nothings

So playfully in my ear,

My heart, it swells with liquid love.

My mind loses its rationality.

I have, but a tiny glimpse

Of the life that lies with you.

A future so uncertain yet familiar,

The thought of which fills me with glee.

I see you watching me,

As you lie awake in bed.

And I sleep in your arms

Basking in the warmth of a new-found love.

The Art of Friendship

In the journey of life, we come across hundreds of people; all eccentric in their own way. Out of these, we pick a few as friends. A choice based on our own whims and fancies. After all, we’re eccentric too!

Over time we get to know them better – their likes and dislikes, their strengths and weaknesses, basically everything that makes them so adorkable. (yes, I just made that up)

There are certain things about them that we don’t like; their stubbornness or their anal obsession over cleanliness. But we deal with it anyway, because they give us something we crave in our lives. It could be adventure, stability or simply a listening ear.

Sometimes, we find we don’t need those things in our life anymore. And so, we don’t need those people anymore. That’s when relationships get tense. We begin to focus on their annoying habits, their irksome behaviour. And we begin to detest the person who was once such a dear friend. Maybe inseparable.

Of course we cannot blame ourselves for this sudden change! It is always so easy to blame someone else. To look at how drastically they have changed ( for the worse, of course!) and easily overlook the change in us.

You might say this is a selfish way of looking at friendship. That friendship is purer than a self-serving attitude. But is it really?

Look around you, at the kind of people the surround you in everyday life. They all enrich your life in so many ways, give it meaning and colour and spirit. Now look at the ones left behind; the people you are no longer friends with. Maybe you had a falling out. Maybe you lost touch with them. Maybe you simply drifted apart.

In the end, it just boils down to a simple reason. You no longer needed them in your life. And that does not make you cold-hearted or evil. It simply makes you human.

The Woman

I call her didi. 

She’s eleven years older than me; an age difference everyone keeps reminding us of. But we talk as equals. And boy, do we talk! Whether lazing around at home or sipping coffee in our favorite café, we move from one topic to another. Sharing what we learned, taking it apart bit by bit.  We are unaware of time, space and age. Of the supposed gap between generations Y and Z. We aren’t sisters; we’re just two individuals. Discussing. Analyzing. Be it psychology, sociology or the plot of a new TV show; our banter never stops.

But we aren’t equals. Not really. I see her once in two months; sometimes more often. We spend half of our nights talking; spilling our friends’ secrets and whispering about boys. I tell her about my college, she tells me about hers. Sometimes I say something really funny and she lets out a peal of laughter, waking everyone in the house. It sounds like a witch’s cackle, I tell her.

Sometimes I call her when I’m in FLAME. When something really exciting happens. Or when I need comforting. Or when I have tough decisions to make. You see, she knows everything about me.

But she’s a small child. Mani mau (kitten/cat), I call her. She cries when she gets terribly hungry. And she drinks unbelievably large amounts of milk.

She buys me gifts. Loads of them. She makes fun of me; and I can never resist pulling her leg. We share clothes; always eyeing each other’s brand new purchases. We take hilariously stupid videos and selfies. We sing incredibly stupid songs on the karaoke. As individuals, we are unmistakably different. But our academic tastes are so similar and non-mainstream, they sometimes leave our parents baffled.

She’s my confidante, my mentor, my mother, my daughter. I call her didi.