Monday, January 12, 2015

The futility of love...

Sometimes you cry silently, under your breath because the pain feels difficult to bear and too heavy to part with. Sometimes all you want to do is ignore, love a person anyway. But the throbbing ache in your heart never ceases. Ah the irony of it. While several of them, living under the same roof are barely steps away from shredding each other to pieces, yours is an everlasting wait. You forget the details of his face, how his nose crinkles when he smiles or the quiet dimple resting on his cheek.

God’s unfair. You rest your case. Otherwise why are some people together and distance is deciding the fate of others? And why can’t you enjoy his company without continually preparing yourself for the eventual parting? And when the moment comes, why must you breathe profusely and immerse yourself in work, so that you don’t have to worry about a timid heart, sinking into the shallow waters, in which his ship sails away.

The futility of love has never been clearer. He wants a husky and you are okay with just about anything as long as there is a dog in the house. You feel the need to text him sweet nothings, even when you are sitting on a pot, relieving yourself. You open your eyes to his messages and his are the final words you find yourself smiling at, before dozing off at night. Even when you are cynical and downright absurd, he makes you feel great about yourself. When it is his mistake, he is quick to apologise and crack an obnoxious joke which somehow restores the balance in the universe.

The futility of love has never been clearer. It lets you be, even when you are not. 

Thursday, January 1, 2015

One step at a time

“Just when you think it can't get any worse, it can. And just when you think it can't get any better, it can.” 

Next month I complete five years of writing on this nondescript online entity. Whenever things have gotten horribly out of hand, I have returned to this blog, repeatedly, desperately to perhaps mend a broken heart or one which doesn't know how to tackle grief. And also to harbour the dream of being a decent writer one day. A dream which many a times feels lost in the drudgery of everyday life which demands that every inconsequential thing gets your attention, except for what you truly aspire towards.

Coming back to my blog, Right Kind of Wrong, whose title is from the Leann Rimes song of the same name. I had heard it for the first time in the film Coyote Ugly... the story of a girl who aspires to be a songwriter but is quite unsure of her capabilities to make it big. Her insecurities about her own talent still resonates with me when I try and come to terms with what I want to do with my life. And hanging from the cliff with just one badly bruised arm holding on to a rock can be quite risky, because the rock may wobble down anytime... dragging you along with it.

But come what may, there will be many to nudge and remind you that you need to keep at it. Like my editor did today while checking one of the pages I had worked on.

"See, this is how you make a copy better. Remember this, you know, for when you write that book of yours."

He had me grinning for the next two minutes. 

Baby steps. The ones that you took as an infant, will they ever matter when you are able to stand straight on your feet and hike across hills? 

Probably not. But they will remind you of how far you have come and how far you can go.

Saturday, December 27, 2014

How 2014 failed to ruin me

The idea was to push myself off a cliff. Metaphorically, of course. To write about how the idea of self, didn’t make much sense while growing up but in my 20s it’s the only thing I can think about. To fall in love, not out of compulsion, merely greedy for the most-hyped emotion in the world, but because there was no other way except to collapse and surrender. And of course, make enough money to travel the world.

To have whacky yet benevolent life experiences, which I could write a memoir about and live off its sales profit for the next five years. Be a Carrie Bradshaw and dole out fashion advice and personal sexual narratives for a column in the New York Times. Also a role-model of sorts, who is fit and agile and doesn’t need a minimum of ten hours unperturbed sleep or feed herself every two hours to make ends meet.
But life now, is pretty much as staid, as it could possibly be. I haven’t taken a trip anywhere but home for the last two years because I wanted to save up for a masters course abroad. And I don’t regret it (I do from time to time). I finally managed to get my passport in hand (which took five months of incessant cribbing and almost foul-mouthing the almighty). Thereafter I applied to three colleges in the UK on my own (read: with my own money) and have since then been binge eating, drinking, sleeping and awaiting a positive response from the universities.
At present, I probably have less than one-tenth of the amount required to make it to one of the places I aspire to attend. But me being the forever optimist about things that concern JUST me, I somehow have this “feeling” that things will sort themselves out. It really is a childhood dream (to visit platform 9 ¾, among other things). True Story.
Final observation on this utterly unremarkable year, full of pit stops and disgusting chocolates is that it has also been depressing, funny and utterly beautiful and brave when I was forced to deal with things instead of hiding under my bed like a little puppy.
ANDDDD, I have FOR REAL joined the gym. And beating my last record of two days which was two years back, I have managed to go attend the gym for five whole days (with a three-day viral fever detour in between). I have been skipping, crunching, squatting and exercising like a boss while also stuffing my face with frappes, cheese pizzas and gooey chocolate cakes, relentlessly.
Hopefully 2015 will also be an unpleasant surprise like 2014 has been. And I shall welcome it like a true Leslie Knope fangirl, “sophisticated with a hint of slutty.”

Wednesday, December 24, 2014

All I want for Christmas is (NOT) you

As a kid, I would preserve my cleanest pair of white school socks for Santa. I didn’t bother much about if he would be tired when he got to my place, travelling across continents, should I stay up to give him a class of water and make him a sandwich? No, I wanted gifts. It was my only relationship with Santa and that was that.

Now that Santa has ceased to exist the greedy mongrel in me continues to be satiated by my friends and family who know always make a mental note when I am rambling about a book I really want to read or if I need (read: want) a new pen or lipstick, scarf or a pair of jeans.

But suddenly this Christmas eve I realize that all along I have been anything but thankful. Not for material possessions but for the people who bear with me every day and believe that I am a good person who only goes nuts at times. Whose jokes are downright unfunny but hey she is as imperfect as perfect can be! (See, what I did there)

Anyway, as I sit in my room typing this post, my head is dizzy with a viral fever which has been harrowing me for the last two days and I don’t remember the last time I was sick on Christmas, so yes, I am a little sad and also a little bitter maybe.

However this also makes me realize that Christmas is not just a hullabaloo of what presents you got and what you aspired for and couldn’t achieve. It’s also about being there in the moment. Having that extra piece of pie and not care two hoots about what it is going to do to your hourglass figure, that extra tequila shot at a random bar because everyone around is hammered anyway. Karaoke to your favourite song on a non karaoke night or better still dirty dance to it and make your friend hope for a microsecond that you didn't exist (but then come and join you any way). 

But above all a silent prayer, because somewhere somehow some Santa is looking out for you, and will make sure your wishes, they come true.

Merry Christmas everyone. 

Friday, November 28, 2014

Feeling It

You know how it is? How it always is? You think you are invincible, but then just one small thing makes your world collapse. 
All your life you have been running from it. Commitment scares you. Your inability to hide your emotions scares you. The fact that you will feel a certain way about someone and that you will never matter to them, the way they do to you... scares you. 
I have never been the one for pushing boundaries. Complacency works perfectly for me because it protects my timid little soul from getting hurt and crushed, in an instant. But when you want lemonade from life, it will certainly offer you a glass of bitter gourd juice and expect you to be okay with it. 
This post is for a friend who teaches me something every day. Her unabashed nature, her insistence on including me in the craziest of activities, her inherent ability to find the best in people inspires me, although I don't tell her this often, as I should. 
Yesterday, early in the morning, she had to catch a flight back home. She didn't wake me up because I am a grumpy cat monster who can't do without 10 hours of blissful nap time. So she left, without letting me hug her goodbye. 
To be honest, I feel a huge void right now. Missing, dismissing, and reeling from the fact that I won't see her for over a week. Also hating how feelings catch up rather innocently, when you have every mind to procrastinate your sentiments till they are ready to explode like an unmanageable blister on your face. 

I guess the best people in your life will be the first ones to throw you in the pool to learn swimming, even though you are terrified. It is an important life skill they'll say, never promising that you'll NOT be scared or that your lungs will NOT bloat up because of the atrocious salty water you'll keep swallowing. 
But they will make sure of one thing though. 
That you keep putting yourself out there. Dance like no one's watching, swim like your bum is on fire and sing, because you could very well be the next Adele in making (maybe not, actually mostly not). 

And of course, feel what you are feeling... because you live only once. 

Thursday, November 13, 2014

Lingering Tides

She imagines him imagining her. This is her salvation.” — Margaret Atwood

At times, I don’t think a lull, a seepage of irreverent thoughts or a blow to my head could be, would be as detrimental as the idea of a future – without you. For the longest time, it seemed futile to even think about what if we did make it, you know? Right now, taking one day at a time seems tougher than trekking a mountain; and considering that I am the laziest and the slowest person on the planet that could very well imply the end of me.

I would like to think of myself as you think of me, “the girl who writes like it’s raining in the middle of May”. I want to be okay with each passing day which makes me forget how it feels to stand next to you, inhaling the faint deodorant on you which assures me I am home, where your hands and mine forever keep reaching out for each other.  

Is love enough to battle wary? Is trust enough to ward off personal insecurities? Will our misunderstandings ever get the better of us?

I wish I wasn’t as sad as I am, now. I wish that it didn’t seem like a battle to make myself understood. It was alright that we mutually hurt each other, only if we could move past it. 

Let’s not treat love like a competition but vouch only for ourselves. Can we retain even an inkling of admiration and not forget that words when not used well, shatters one’s sense of being?

Too many questions but I have just one answer. I love you, I know you do too. And I hope that’ll someday be enough.

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Of dreams and us

I dreamed of you last night; two dreams, which were not daunted by the miles which separate us in reality. You gave me that quizzical look when we first met, the one that I have grown to love and miss. It didn’t matter to you that this girl who was once a romantic is now swayed by the fallacies of life, although she wishes to escape reasoning and dissolve into emotions. She has unwillingly held herself at the edge of the cliff, but can’t let go.

You know I doubt my love often, and find my conscience conceited for wanting to take the easy way out. Did it have to be this difficult? That I am always eager to misconstrue, find reasons why we wouldn’t be compatible. But then we say the most incorrigibly idiotic things to each other and the pain ceases by a notch.

Last night, I was in bed, finding it difficult to breathe with a chest full of phlegm. Reminded of the time when my feet had gone too cold at the movies, and you sneaked your hand below the seat to keep rubbing them so that they were warm.

It’s overwhelming to try and keep up when we meet after ages, make memories which should suffice for the times we spend apart. But then I dream of you. Of us. Not trying to make things work in the little time we have together, but being in the moment. Breaking into a laugh in the middle of a serious conversation, speaking endlessly of our indisputable love for our dogs and cats and how coffee just makes the world a little better.

With each day that passes us by, you inspire me to be a little more chaotic and sentimental. To trust that love will guide us, and even on darkest of nights, there will always be a glimmer of hope. And dreams which will see us through.