For Jakey

I think about chocolate chip pancakes and French toast, about Borat imitations, about guitars, about the Sweetheart Tree, about song recordings at Everard’s studio, about my 19th birthday. I think about band practice and vada paos, about struggling to hit that note, about sneakily smoking en route, about skits at camp, about sign language, about songs I was introduced to, about the many breakfasts. I think about all the movies that were downloaded on demand, about Coffee Jar, about the bike ride to the mandir one morning, about all the teasing, about all the love. I think about core group fights, about silly good morning messages, about driving to Nea's house to collect a red Scooty Pep, about all the little moments and memories that I can't recall now but will over time.

And I smile. Just like I always will. I love you, Jakey. And I will remember you.

Because we're human.

Life is complicated. A mere “I love you” is never enough, there is no sheer simplicity. There’s people and rules, there’s dos and don’ts. And when it is simple, we try and make it as complicated as we possibly can. Because at some level, we find it difficult to cope with the simple life. We need some sort of adversity to focus on, some sort of problem that we can work towards solving. And if there is no adversity and no problem to work towards, we create them for ourselves. Because we’re trained and conditioned to believe that a life without complications is an illusion. And that if it is devoid of complications, it is not the life we’re meant to have. Because nothing comes that easy. At least that’s what they say.

So we focus on the why. And the how. And the what next.

Because we can’t just accept the lack of problems, and we can’t just focus on the now. We say we don’t care, but we do. And we say they don’t exist, but they do. And even when they don’t, we make sure they do. We thrive and exist on the misery and mindfuckingness that accompanies repeated thinking. I know, I know. Thinking and analyzing are natural human tendencies. And if we don’t think and analyze over and over, we’re not human.

I know that. I get that. But sometimes, I just wish I was a dog.

Everyone's gone to the movies, maybe I should too?

Last year, almost to the day, a project was begun. It was proposed after a fun day of two back-to-back movies at Inox, one set of air hockey at SGS and long conversations about books and films amongst Landmark shelves – EDUCATE MEHVASH IN MOVIES. It's not like I was uneducated at the start of the project, but I wasn't the most well-versed person either. So the project was looked at as a necessity, an essential act that if not seen through would prove to be shameful. Like most good projects, this one also started with a bang. Lists were prepared in the noisy foodcourt – must watch/have watched/have not watched and I lived the project for a long while after it began – weekend movie marathons till my eyes hurt, making time no matter how busy I was, saving up to buy DVDs, watching a movie every night of my Christmas getaway.

And then the resolve fizzled away. After watching many movies – some of which I liked (Little Miss Sunshine, Johnny English), some of which I didn’t (Beowulf, American Gigolo), some which I understood and liked (Mulan, Ghost Town), and some which I didn’t understand OR like (Atonement). I even watched movies I didn’t really want to, but featured on the must watch list. I don’t know why or how the resolve fizzled away, but I wish it hadn’t. Or maybe I DO know why and how, but I still wish it hadn’t. I’ve lost out on way too much free “should-and-can-watch-a-movie” time, and for me to revive the project now would be a death sentence. I should have (like most things in life) utilized the spare time I had, to facilitate the mission and become a better-versed-in-movies person. Now I’m screwed, like I’ve never been before.

However, I’ve decided that I’m not going to give it up completely. The project HAS to be revived, it’s too damn awesome to let go off completely. I’ve lost the lists (well, metaphorically, cuz there were never actual hard copied lists to LOSE) that were so well thought of and prepared. But I’m creating my own lists now and, slowly but steadily, the project is going to continue. I have many projects to do, which the cause of all the screwedness, but then I figure movies are a fun project to have and do. So why not have ONE fun project in the midst of all this screwedness, right?

What it's all about.

This post is about many things. But it is about nothing in particular.

It is about music and songs that I want to hate, but cannot because their brilliance cannot be denied. It is about a musical genius, about how that music or any music speaks directly to me. It is about a fantastically performed show, and about awkward handshakes at the end of the fantastically performed show. It is about all that is different this year than it was last year. It is about the disbelief that comes along with the difference. It is about wanting to dance effortlessly; it is about a boy who buys Alice in Wonderland. It is about running into one family, while standing with the other. It is about a strong dislike of nicknames from lost people, about the loss of something and someone precious. It is about acting like a child – not in a child-like way, but in a childish way. It is about feeling strangely good about it too. It is about travel, and the prospect of further travel. It is about Sunday evening and Pictionary, when laughter comes faster than correct guesswork. It is about competitiveness that comes second only to Monica’s. It is about cursing stupid conjunctivitis, which keeps away the giggling idiot. It is about the question that lingers in my head and a pink boy’s – to go or not to go? A question that is not made easy by familiarity. It is about submissions and deadlines, about research and projects. It is about reading Mappings, and feeling yay and jealous at the same time. It is about happy couples – new and old, and wondering when. It’s about the hokey-pokey, and wondering what it’s all about.

I’d like to rephrase my first line.

This post is about many things. But it is about something in particular. It is about life the last few days, and the next few days.

Happy birday to me.

September 11, 2009 – September 11, 2010

On the 1st of January this year, someone asked me to map out 2009 and write it somewhere, lest I forget it. But the first half of the year had nothing worth remembering so I didn’t. The last year of my LIFE, however, has lots of things worth recollecting. So I take that person’s advice now, and map out my 20th year. It’s been an interesting year for me, from the age of 20 to the age of 21. It’s had a lot of ups and downs, goods and bads. But most importantly, it’s been a year of firsts. There are so many things that I did for the first time, so many things that happened to me for the first time.

The first time I didn’t feel bogged down by the annual play, because I just had to act, sing and dance. The first time I met and spoke to a relative I hadn’t met or spoken to since I was a child. The first time I ate sushi. The first time I heartlessly cut off all ties with a person I had cared about nonstop since I was 16 years old. The first time I ever showed someone what I wrote, at the insistence of a new entrant in my life. The first time I had a member of the male species, who was not related to me by blood, over for dinner. The first time I downloaded a song myself, as opposed to asking someone else to download for me. The first time I was in a relationship with someone I didn’t know that well, but with whom I didn’t act like a commitment phobic, emotionally dysfunctional blubbering idiot and with whom being and talking was so easy. The first time I had my heart broken, for reasons I still don’t understand but no longer care about.

The first time I met Rose and Gordon. The first time I traveled overseas. The first time I saw snow, made snowmen/snowangels and had a snowball fight. The first time I was away from my home and my city for such a long period of time. The first time landscape photography really interested me. The first time I opened up to someone I hadn’t even met, telling her things I never told anyone else. The first time the internet became a necessity in my life.

The first time I started taking my car out on a semi-regular basis, at the taunting of a shady character. The first time I missed camp at Kune. The first time I drove a little more than 20kms at a stretch on a highway. The first time I went to Bombay on my own and actually experienced the city, rather than conference halls and hotel rooms. The first time I started working, a job that I never even imagined fit for me. The first time I took a step towards financial independence. The first time I stepped out of my house for the night, and had no questions directed my way. The first time I conquered the illogical fear of technology.

These firsts may not sound earth shattering or life altering to any of you. But to me, they do. I still can’t determine whether it was a good year or a bad one, because the pros balance out the cons. I do know one thing though – if the next year goes like the last one did, I wouldn’t mind so much. There were some really good times that I wouldn’t take back for the world. But I sure hope the pros outnumber the cons next year. HAPPY BIRDAY TO ME.

PS. Not having an internet connection at home, and having a birday on a day that the office is closed makes it difficult to update the blog on time. Happy belated birday to me. The start of 21 has been more than awesome, but that's a blog for another day.

Too much, too little or a little too much?

I can handle it, can’t I? Of course I can, says a part of me. The other part, more dominant, is doubtful. I’m the kind of person who can do whatever is thrown towards her. But at the same time, I’m the kind of person who tends to forget that sometimes. I’m the kind of person who, if she makes up her mind to do something, does it well. But at the same time I’m also the kind of person whose time management skills suck. This is a time in my life when I’ve taken on a lot of things. None on which are unnecessary. Fortunate, you might say. At least I’m not wasting my time. Yes? But then, stop to think. Is it really so fortunate? My plate is overflowing with the delights of my favourite language, the wonders of being financially independent with the help of a job that I actually enjoy, the prospects of a better future with a higher qualification degree, the love and company of friends. How do I choose, if I have to?

“Stop changing. Stop being someone you’re not.” – Just a little something, someone said to me a few nights ago. While I didn’t have a response then, I have one now. And what I have to say is this: Why the hell? I like the person I’ve become. I’ve changed, but I’m essentially still me. The girl I see in the mirror is composed, focused, a little stoic and most importantly, doesn’t hurt easily. She’s still as random as random can be, she still loves with all her heart – that thankfully hasn’t changed. But she’s a lot more careful about who she’s random with, and who/what she loves with all her heart. For now, it’s the language that’s made her weak in the knees since the 8th grade. It’s the job that she didn’t ever see herself doing, but enjoys quite a bit. It’s basking in a sliver of hopefully fast-growing independence. It’s the professor she thought was never going to teach her again. It’s the hippie girl who feels more his than hers, but is still more hers than his. It’s the chai, and sometimes the god-awful coffee from the machine. It’s a warm and fuzzy feeling, which stems from looking at photographs of a bird. It's scrounging for time so she can keep diaryfaceness alive. It’s blogging at 5am on a weekday, when she could have slept till 7am. It’s all of that, and a lot more. I just hope it’s not too much.

Hair today, gone tomorrow.

“As each strand falls I watch it drift to the ground. My head feels lighter. The hairdresser hands me my ponytail. I refuse to take my hair in my hands. Every inch of that hair was from a moment that has now gone. Thoughts, wishes, hopes, desires, dreams that are no longer. I want a new start. A new head of hair. Snip, snip, snip.” – Joyce Conway in Cecilia Ahern’s “Thanks for the Memories”


People keep asking me what made me get my new look. This is all I have to say to them – I wanted change, I needed change, so I got change. That’s it. I wish I had a more eloquent piece to write about it, but Cecilia Ahern was eloquent enough for me. Even though Joyce Conway was a woman with bigger problems than mine, a woman who had just lost her unborn baby in a traumatic mishap, as compared to my seemingly trivial troubles, and was probably more justified in feeling the way she did, what she felt and thought is exactly what I felt and thought when I decided to do what I did. The book had nothing to do with it, it’s just the way I am, and it’s just what I do. To make an emotional change, I make a physical change. It’s a road I’ve taken before, when I pierced my nose four years ago. It’s not new territory. So yes, Lou and Diaryface may have spent many chai sessions convincing me to chop off all my hair for their own reasons, and I may have spent many hours telling them my reservations about going so drastically short. But the ultimate decision of getting change was taken after the realization that I wanted change, I needed change. That’s it.

Of everything on her mind. And yet, nothing at all.

I used to know her, she was a friend. I looked at her and saw her, more clearly than most. Now I look and see nothing. She seems to have disappeared, but she’s only just invisible to the naked eye. I have to take a closer look to realize she’s right there, not quite where I left her, but close enough. She wanders lonely as a cloud (sorry Wordsworth, but she does) and doesn’t have much to say. She’s lost something, something she can’t put her finger on. Is it her soul or is it merely her confidence? There must be someone to blame, but she doesn’t have the heart to. As much as she’s changed, that’s one thing that hasn’t. Whatever’s missing is to do with her and no one else. But it would be nice to put the blame on someone else. It would lighten her burden. The burden that’s been around for a while, the cause of which is blurry. She’s happy, yes. But not completely. She’d give anything to figure out why, but the answer is elusive. Is it one or the other, or a combination of both?

Her laughter rings out loud, a sound that offers me much relief. But is that laughter hollow? Again, I have to listen closely. There’s things she’s not telling me, but that’s only because she doesn’t quite know herself. She feels drops of rain fall down upon her. Little drops, big drops, drops that drench her to the bone. And she feels nothing. She’s never been fond of the rain, and getting caught in it has always evoked a sense of annoyance in her. But now, nothing. She lets the raindrops wash over her; she lifts her face up to the sky. She’s almost glad for the rain, and that’s what makes me realize something’s different.

A lot can change in a year. Truer words were never spoken. An old love went sour, but a new friendship created. A new friendship went sour, but two newer ones blossomed out of it. A lot can really change in a year. The last time she spoke to the lover of a Russian queen, was the last time she spoke to a special someone who had seen her through a lot. The last time she spoke to the ghost of the lover, was the first and last time she reached that level of anger and emotion. She thinks of him sometimes, not entirely sure anymore. Is he dead, alive or still in limbo? It pains her deeply now, the paralysis she felt earlier is fading away. But the pain is not so deep that she wants to do something about it.

Love is a strange thing. It makes you hate sometimes. Is that what you call a paradox? Hmmm. I think it is. You’d think I’d know, what with it being my field of study and whatnot. But, that’s not a tangent I choose to go on now. Love, yes. A strange, strange thing. She loved him with all that she had. But then she also hated him. He’s always been that person in her life. The one. Oh no, not “THE ONE”. Just “the one”. You know, the one? The one who knew her at a time when she didn’t entirely know herself. The one who grew as she grew. The one who was just there, hovering around. The one who hurt her more than once, and the one who she, in turn, hurt more than once. The one who patiently (and sometimes not so patiently) heard her silly tantrums, however rare they were. The one that always made her smile and laugh. The one who, even now, probably knows more about her than most. The one who will never be the one, but will still always be the one. She hated him then, and she hates him still.

The rain is still all about her, pelting relentlessly. It shows no sign of slowing down, just like the thoughts in her head. She begins to feel annoyance creep up into her. That’s a first, after a very long time. She’s annoyed that it’s going to ruin her shoes. They’re not silk, no. And she’s not being kissed by the Rue Voltaire. They’re good sensible work shoes, and the Rue Voltaire is nowhere in sight. So having her shoes ruined couldn’t possibly be as perfect as what Corrine sings about. Annoyance is justified then, isn’t it? But is her annoyance only directed towards the rain, or does it go deeper than that? Hmmm. Go figure. Because I sure as hell can’t.

Looking at shiny, fighting over Pictionary and buying expensive things... while making magic.

Ok, so anyone who knows me knows that M&Abu make me want to throw up, in the nicest possible way. I love them, individually and together, but it is this very love that makes me want to throw up. They represent that one couple-friend every person has in their life. The couple that is so in love that, even though they may have been with other people before, you cannot imagine one without the other. The couple that is so mushy, you exclaim impatiently, "GET MARRIED ALREADY!". The couple that has lasted for so long, that even you (a third party) know that the next step is only going to be forward. You look at them individually, and they don’t REALLY seem like the other’s type – she being so focused and career-oriented, he being so relaxed and unbothered. But when they come together, they’re the friggin definition of “meant-to-be” and you can’t help but sigh*.

M&Abu began four years ago, today. I wasn’t there the day they came to be, but I know all the details. It’s impossible I don’t, but considering the circumstances under which it happened, I wish I was there to see the looks on both their faces. That would have been epic. I only got to know of their existence a few hours later, when Abu called me to make sure Lou and the Penguin weren’t messing around with him. I don’t know if M knows this. But anyway, my first reaction was not of happiness, but of complete surprise. She says her world blurred the moment she saw him, but I had no clue. Of course, I never have a clue. But I’m sure the Penguin didn’t have a clue either, or she would have told me! Oh well, who cares now.

They happened, and they happened BIG. They’re so weirdly perfect for each other, that it seems unreal. He understands her competitiveness; she gets his lameness. He goes out of his way to make her happy; she lets him hold her hand when he’s distracted and distracting. She can be a mean bitch when she’s in pain, but he’s just always there. He can be really trying when he’s in one of his “moods”, but she overlooks it all. They spend the day together, sometimes eating at expensive restaurants, and then have stupid conversations of sweet nothings on the phone or online. After four years, they still look at each other the way they did, the day we first met Abu without his dogtag.

It’s been a long while since then, and a lot has changed. When I say a lot, I mean A LOT. I’ve known M for a long, long time and she has done things in these four years, that none of us EVER imagined possible. And, I’m not saying Abu’s responsible for it all, but he does have a HUGE part to play in it. With that, none of us can disagree. Whether it’s motivating her, calmly guiding her, gifting her coupons on their last anniversary – he’s been there, egging her on. And she’s finally begun testing her wings. I’m telling you, Sunburn will happen. Not necessarily this year, but it will!

It’s not just her who’s changed, don’t get me wrong. He’s not some God-like figure, who happened to come along for an undeserving, helpless girl. Oh no. But, I can only talk about the changes I’ve seen in her. I can’t say much about him, because I didn’t know him before he became part of M&Abu. I do know this though – they are the centers of each other’s universe. And if he knows what’s happening around him, academically, it’s because of her. No doubt about that. I’d like to see him attempt to pass his exams without her by his side. Tsk and a shake of the head.

The reason I am so particularly happy about the concept of M&Abu today, is because they have finally crossed the four year mark. It’s no longer “Boy & Girl *cough*three years*cough* Forever” and a sigh of relief can be heaved. It’s stupid, I know, and when I first heard that logic, I laughed. But recently that has been eating me up. The realization that all the so called “forever” couples I’ve ever known, have actually gone bust after three years. It doesn’t mean they’re out of danger of going bust, no. But knowing them, and knowing all the other parties of this relationship (you know, all of us have been third wheels at some point or the other), the possibilities of that happening are quite slim. I mean, really. If they can get past hurting fingertips, they can get past anything.

Here’s to the last four years, and the countless ones to come!

* Wait. Did I say sigh? I meant groan and gag. Friggin nonsense, friggin friggin. <3

Shut up and drive, drive, drive.

I love driving. Yes, that’s right. Shady and all other friends of mine who drive will laugh at that statement, but it’s true. I love driving. It is also one of the things I am most frightened of – out of my mind sometimes. But the high I get out of it is unbeatable. No matter how much I dither about not being able to handle it, no matter how much I hesitate to take the car out, the rare occasions that I do – YAY.

When Diaryface was here last month, she accused me of being a liar. We were scheduled to go to the outskirts of the city, which is a tough drive. So I made Shady drive my car. Diaryface wasn’t too happy about that. No sir, she was not. “Eh. You’re supposed to drive me around town. And now you’re getting HIM to drive? What zees? And you say you love driving. Pah!” she said and proceeded to shotgun the whole way as punishment. On the way back, however, I was forced to drive. ON THE HIGHWAY. Do you know how scary that is? I flipped out and just kept saying “Shit. NO.” over and over again, like a mad person. She, on the other hand, was most happy. She grabbed me by the hand and led me to the driver’s seat merrily. “Yes, yes. Come, come. You will drive me. The WHOLE way back. Ha!” said the friggin sadist.

BUT, I loved it. After dropping her off to her destination, I reached home. And as I was pulling into my parking space, I felt elated. It’s silly, but I had the most amazing adrenalin rush you can imagine and I felt like I could conquer everything, like nothing could stand in my way. I couldn’t stop smiling and telling everyone I happened to speak to in the course of the day that I drove 22kms at a stretch. The feeling was awesome, and something that I’ve felt before, but don’t feel often enough.

That’s changed though. I’m still scared as hell of driving, but it’s the good kind of scared. The kind of scared that drives (punny, no?) me to want to take the car out, to say no when people offer to park my car for me, to feel that same sense of elation I felt that day. After that day, I felt it last week, when I parked successfully. And again, two days ago, when I reached a crowded signal on a slope (on ground with more than a 4% gradient, yes. Ha!) and gravity did not get the best of me.

So yes, I really do love driving. And someday soon, I’m going to be completely unafraid of it. It’s a promise I made to myself last night, on the way home, when the bossy part of my mind told the submissive part of my mind to “SHUT UP AND DRIVE!” – cheesy? Haha. Yes, I agree. TRUE STORY.

Some of life's lessons so far

The last few days and weeks, I’ve been thinking. And while I’ve always known that experience is the best teacher and that life’s lessons are the best learning, it struck me how true that is – especially in the littlest of things. It has been on my mind since I read Diaryface's March post, which got me thinking of the things I have learned myself. So here is a list of some of the little things that I could come up with. It ends abruptly, because there can never be a conclusive end to such a post, but here it is anyway.

• While money isn’t necessary, sometimes it can be helpful. When I was younger, my contentment and happiness stemmed from the simple things. Racing my friends down the stairs, pressing the button in the elevator, swinging from the roots of banyan trees, listening to teeny bopper bands. All these things made me content, if not ecstatic. And it never once crossed my mind that money was something that was essential. But as time goes by, while some of these things still make me happy, it’s a little more complicated. While money cannot buy me happiness, it sure can facilitate the emotion just a little. Not because possessing it gives a sense of happiness, but because it can help to make some happiness-inducing things take place.

• Every kiss need not be followed by conversation, and every kiss need not result in a relationship. When I first watched “A Lot like Love”, I never got why Amanda Peet’s character said “Don’t. You’ll ruin it.” every time she and Ashton Kutcher’s character kissed. But now I do; now I get it completely. Sometimes, not saying anything after a kiss is the best thing to do. Especially a first kiss. That way, it can never be tarnished and it can never be led to stray into murky territory. And you’re left with the euphoria of the kiss forever.

• There is a strange satisfaction in art, even if you’re not artistic. And there is a stranger satisfaction in childish art and craft – drawing a stereotypical picture of a house with a long driveway, a huge front yard and surrounded by a fence that separates it from the hills in the background. Or colouring mindlessly, with no sense of dimension, the pictures in a children’s Jumbo colouring book. Or making one of those origami models from a do-it-yourself handbook.

• Some of the best conversations happen over chai, and not even necessarily accompanied by cigarettes. While I’m not entirely sure whether chai itself has anything to do with that, it is an effective tool of conversation. The best time to vent about a silly ex boyfriend, or a crabby old aunt is over chai. And the best time to squeak with excitement over a kickass idea for a present, or a plan that will help overcome all sense of irresponsibility is over chai. It works both ways – happily and not-so-happily.

• There is very little a good long walk with appropriate music cannot fix. Whether you’re angry and frustrated, miserable and sad, happy and energetic – walking fits all moods. Bad news? Walk it off. A writer’s block? Walk it off. A fight with a close one? Walk it off. Happy about something? Walk it… well, in this case, not off, just walk it!

• All friendships don’t necessarily last forever. Some tend to fizzle out and become nonexistent. For a variety of reasons, but that doesn’t mean concern for the other person also becomes nonexistent. True friends will always care for the other, even if the friendship doesn’t last forever. Maybe they won’t care in the same way, but they will.

• Bravery and courage exist in different forms, and being brave doesn’t mean not being scared. Being brave, at the end of the day, is being scared but doing what you have to do. A mother sending her child out into the big bad world is brave. A couple fighting against all societal odds to be together forever is brave. A young teen struggling with first heartbreak and trying to deal with it in a right, healthy manner is brave. Another young teen moving to a new city, starting afresh and learning to live there alone, in order to complete his/her education is brave.

• As much as being single and on your own is awesome, having somebody by your side kicks awesome’s ass. It’s all very well to sing “I don’t need a man” and other such single girl-power songs, but at the end of the day, being single stings a little. Especially when you’re surrounded by these happy couples, who seem to make it look so effortless. And you’re left wondering sometimes, if there is something fundamentally wrong with you because of which the longest relationship you’ve had was a little more than six months long.

Diaryface is coming to town!

Regular readers of Musings are familiar with the term, “Diaryface”. They may not know who she is, or understand the kind of relationship we share, but they are aware of her presence in my life since she’s featured here more than once. She’s a person I’ve never even met yet, but who knows much too much about me. Kindred spirits, like the kind Anne Shirley talks of with such fervor. Creepily alike, but poles apart. Someone who "not only tolerates my incessant ramblings, but actually manages to acquire the underlying sense behind them."

For six months, my Diaryface and I have anticipated the event of us coming face-to-face. We have six months worth of daily mails filled with, “When I get there…” and “When you get here…” and so on. We’ve made mental lists of things to do and places to go, people to meet and stuff to eat. And now, “DiaryfaceMeetsDiaryface” happens TOMORROW. Within 24 hours, diaryfaceness will be brought to chai-drinking, cigarette-smoking, violently affectionate, bossy life. I'm sure it will be peppered with fights and arguments with a scrawny being, as to who will spend how much time where and when and all that, but that’s alright. This event has been awaited for so long, that I’ll take it anyhow. She made me promise things yesterday, when she called to say she's in the country, things I wasn’t too happy to oblige to, but then I obliged anyway because she’s a Diaryface and it’s not everyday a Diaryface is procured! Not only that, she tends to be a little scary sometimes. Only, don’t ever tell her I admitted to that.

TOMORROW. Words fail me when I try to describe what tomorrow will be. All I can say (in addition to the disbelief I feel that it’s already here!) when I think about tomorrow is this: EEEEEEEEEK!

Knowing and letting go.

There comes a time at least once in your life, when you’re hurt and angered beyond belief. You’re hurt and angered so much that you stop caring. You just stop. You’d think you would cry or shout and throw tantrums or tremble uncontrollably with rage or stoop to bitching and making the life of the person who caused the anger and hurt hell, but you don’t. You don’t even WANT to. You don't want to have anything to do with the person. You just reach a saturation point, at which without even pre-deciding you believe you have it in you to not give a damn. You’ve never even mentioned it on your blog, because it doesn’t deserve that kind of importance. Not to mention, the blog came into its happy existence a little later. Not that much later, only a few weeks. But even those few weeks were enough to banish the angry thoughts, with a little help from a scrawny yay presence.

Months later, you’re with someone else. Someone who makes you happy, but you can’t help thinking about the previous anger and hurt. You still feel the same about it. You don’t care, no matter how much you try to find it in you to. No matter how important the person once was in your life, and you try to reason that maybe you should forgive and forget for those old times’ sake. But you can’t, because you don’t want to. It’s not as if you’re still angry, it’s not as if you still have feelings of like, love, dislike or hate. You just don’t care. You don’t want to hear what anyone has to say about anything, you don’t feel anything. It’s a kind of paralysis that affects only that part of your brain and heart that reasons and thinks about that particular situation. But you wonder with a tiny little unaffected part of the affected part, what it would be like to meet or speak with the person after so many months. And that can only be answered when you meet or speak with the person, so it’s a question that gnaws at you incessantly. Not painfully, because you are still paralyzed after all, just incessantly.

And one day, when your life has progressed a sufficient amount and you're no longer with a significant someone else even, you meet the person, and your question is answered – YOU STILL DON’T CARE. You don’t care about what happened, you don’t care to know, you don’t even care to forgive. Strangely, out of all the emotions you thought you’d feel when you do finally meet the person, you feel none. Instead, relief is what washes over your being. Relief – that you still have it in you to not give a damn. Relief - that you still don't care. Relief - that you never have to feel and deal with that anger again. Relief – that you are still in control, without even trying. And that is when you know. THAT is when you know that you are free. Until then, you only THINK that you are and HOPE that you are. But at that moment, you KNOW. And then, you let go. Of everything.

Life is like... a Subway sandwich.

Two days ago, I had a sandwich from Subway with a friend. Now, anyone who’s eaten there knows how messy the process is. A guy I used to know called it the “Subway test of attraction”. Anyway, for those who haven’t ever eaten at Subway, a little briefing – the subs there are filled to the brim with a lot of veggies, sauces and maybe (depending on the person eating it), meat. It’s next to impossible not to spill when you eat them, resulting in everything dribbling down your chin, onto your clothes and the table top. Not very attractive, no. Not at all, as a matter of fact. They are supremely good, but you need to prepare yourself with a load of tissues. You just do.

While placing our order, my friend asked for extra olives in hers. Her logic being that she knew she was going to lose half of them while eating and she was preparing for that event, so that she still had a sufficient amount left IN her sub for her to eat. Sound and smart, right? It seemed so to me at the time. But then we sat down to eat and sure enough she was spilling most of her olives and struggling to keep the bread together and just generally making a mess, while I seemed to manage my sub just fine. I did spill a lot myself, but that as I’ve said was inevitable.

Which brings me to the point of this post – could the reason why things go wrong in our lives be that we anticipate and plan for the worst? It seems good sense to be prepared and take precautions to prevent a disastrous future, but sometimes I wonder if we’re provoking destiny to mess with us. If my friend had had the normal amount of olives in hers, and not gone out of her way to make sure there were extra, maybe eating it wouldn't have been so overwhelming and she wouldn’t have struggled to hold the two pieces of bread together and made such a mess of the whole thing. Her logic, while being sound, could also have been the reason for her downfall – metaphorically, of course.

This makes me think that sometimes, maybe planning extensively is the worst thing someone can do. Maybe we should just take it easy and let life take its own course and not meddle with it. I’m not saying we should sit on the flats of our asses and life will take us wherever we want, no. I’m saying have a plan, and work towards it, but don’t plan too far into the future. You will spill your olives, no doubt. It’s inevitable. But you never know how many more olives you might end up spilling, if you think and plan and map out each and every step.

Happy things and happy people

For a while now, I’ve been avoiding visiting Musings. I come to the dashboard of blogger.com, but never click on the “View blog” option – mostly because I’m sick of seeing my latest posts there, with their anger and frustration and sadness and whatnot. I am not a wallower. I am a happy person, with happy thoughts. But, as is evident from the last couple of posts, that side of me hasn’t really emerged for a while. And I was tired of seeing all that anger and sadness as soon as I came to view Musings – my Musings, which is a happy thing. It was created at a happy time, because of happy people, for happy reasons. Its existence began with a lot of the adjective “happy”. Then somewhere along the way, the happiness disappeared. Chinu has been complaining for a while that she doesn’t want to read Musings, because she doesn’t see me in the whole thing – which stings, because Musings is my creation, something I made. So I’ve decided to bring that happiness back, instead of avoiding Musings altogether.

I’ve already done a post about “Happiness” in early November, 2009 – my first and only attempt at writing a poem. But that post was about general happiness, not specific to any one person. It listed all the things that make me, and would make a whole bunch of people, really happy. This post, on the other hand, is specific. It is about my happiness, and the factors that cause it. It is specific to the things and people that make me, and have made me, happy – in the past few days, weeks, months and generally. It’s a list of some of the things and people that I look forward to, that make me happy and that get me excited, that I am in a way thankful for.

The big, round moon in the night sky, which offers a sense of beautiful calm each time that I sit under it. It seems to make my thoughts, my feelings, my emotions and my being feel small. And it makes me think that every little thing is going to be alright and that there was absolutely no need to think and rethink so much. A phone that beeps with texts from a newly acquired shady friend. A friend so shady, that he thinks he’s cooler (with his drinking and poking and dying and whatnot) than me (the peering hamster who is caged by the monuments in her life) and never tires of reminding me about it. My M&M, who are so much better than the actual chocolate. The two people, who, I believe, will love me forever, despite the disappearing act I did for a year in the middle. For long walks and conversations, for food cravings, for venting, for general laughing fits – I know the three of us will always be around, even when we don’t live down the road from one another. Giving and receiving my daily dose of vicarious diaryfaceness, day in and day out, never tiring. The things we wouldn’t tell anyone but which slip out so easily, the never exhausting topics of conversation that all our mails consist of, the length of each mail increasing everyday. A pretty thing in the post, which sums up everything so beautifully, which made me smile incessantly, and which will go everywhere I go once it’s framed. The thought of June and all the “funsies” that will occur, some of it in my house. Yes, my house.

Watching reruns of F.R.I.E.N.D.S. There’s just something about that show, which makes you forget about everything and just sucks you in. I can know all the dialogue, mouth it along with the actors and still find it as funny as I did, the first time I watched it. The girl who sells seashells on the seashore and her insane ability to hit the nail on the head. She’s made me cry twice in the last two days, but I was happier than I would have been laughing. An old card from the Tinglet, found while I was looking through my shoe-box. A card that was given for no reason – other than the fact that she loves me so, a card that makes me realise that no matter how many days, weeks and months pass since we speak to/meet each other – we always pick up from where we left off. Heart-shaped stickers, some of which I will use juvenilely, maybe to express undying love for a fictional character. The routine of chai and cigarettes with Lou&Rog – one that gives me a chance to just chill and be and relax, one that I crib about sometimes because of the distance but actually love.

A mail from a wonderfully yay professor, who is truly the best. Honest to God. She is what D.H.Lawrence talks about, the tree that our “tendrils reach out yearningly” to touch. She lights up the classroom with her wisdom and modesty and eccentricity, while giving you the feeling that she actually cares – which she does. The baby penguin, who loves me and worries for me. I snap at her, like I would at my mother. But she isn’t my mother, even if she’s freakishly like one. She’s a good friend, who I very easily tend to lose patience with and that is a two-way street. But at the end of the day, we’re cool. Always. And that’s how it’s been since the beginning. A big bird, who looks out for me even from faraway Canada. I like how he’s more present in my life now, than he was when he lived in the same city. It’s weird how that happens sometimes. The Laragirl, who I realise I have never really given a nickname. I haven’t met her since her birthday three weeks ago, but the thought of her makes me happy and keeps me going. While we don’t really keep in touch that regularly, I know she’s always around. And so am I, which I know she knows. Well, I hope she does. Camp at Kune, and everything it entails – from standing on the ledge to walking till the waterfall to the night prayer to 11-1 sessions to the Last Supper.

Ah, life. And ah, the small things and big people which make that same life worthwhile.

From ARRGH to not-so-ARRGH

Closet immaturity. Misunderstandings. Trophies and cricket bats. Best friends or diaryfaces. First telephonic conversations that should have been oh-so-yay, but weren’t as yay as they should have been. Crying women. Taking sides. Traffic. Frustratingly unknown songs on my iPod. Trying to study but not being able to. Board exams. Graduation. Unnecessary, uncalled-for drama. Pressure. Conquests. Flirting, or lack thereof. Accusations. Broke-ness. No credit. An unserviced scooter that sounds like she’s being strangled. Bullshit reasoning. Cold, curt mails in my inbox. The first (and hopefully, only) taste of unpleasantness. The possibility of an “I told you so” from a member of the male species.

Chai and cigarettes. Adorable texts from adorable people. Venting. Pointing out the futility of it all. Riding that same unserviced scooter and feeling the wind hit my face. Singing “Party in the USA” to annoy silly, fidgety boys. Brand new dicey lighters. Funny stories about utterly disgusting people. Laughing loudly, leading to extreme embarrassment. Watching people who look like they’ll fight everyday, but who mostly talk out of their asses. Coming home to an empty, peaceful house. Facebook poking. The stability that F.R.I.E.N.D.S offers, and knowing that the show will never let me down. The newness that tomorrow represents, and trying to ignore the fact that it’s one more day closer to the exams. A yay, closer-to-normal mail that appeared in my inbox, just as I was hitting publish on this post.

♪ Got my hands up, they’re playing my song, and now I’m (and it’s) gonna be ok. ♪


Disclaimer: (Added two months later)
Because this post seems to some people to be really similar to Randomity, I thought this should be included. This post is NOT Randomity - that belongs to Diaryface, and Diaryface alone. This was my way of letting off steam in a way I know best - writing. Unfortunately, the reason and situation because of which I needed to let off steam was not something I could write a full fledged piece about. So this was my way of venting by writing, yet being discreet. So yeah, not Randomity.

Two Months Since

“Mehvs, I think this is it for me” – Two months ago, with these words, it was over.

My heart sank, my throat dried up and my mind screamed repeatedly “What? That’s not where this was supposed to go at all!” And it really wasn’t. It was supposed to be a hiccup, nothing major – a hiccup that disappears with a little water, or sugar, or even fright as the case may be. But that’s not what happened. Instead it ENDED, leaving me devastated. It took me longer to get over him, than it took me to get over anybody. That’s saying something because firstly, it was the shortest relationship I’ve had and secondly, to be able to detach and snip any kind of emotional ties is freakishly easy for me. I scare myself with this ability of mine. It’s not something I’m very proud of, not at all in fact. But it’s there, present in me.

The last two months have been trying. I went from painful misery, to utter disbelief, to absolute anger, and finally moved on to acceptance. I spent time with friends who didn’t completely understand but made an effort just to BE there for me, and who I later went on to foolishly disregard (without meaning to, but I did). I made myself socially inactive, because a huge masochistic part of me (that I didn’t know existed) wanted to do nothing but wallow in self pity. I woke up most mornings with thoughts swirling around in my head - thoughts that made me physically ill. I faced mails from Birdie and Diaryface telling me, without mincing their words, to “snap out of it. Nothing and no one is worth this.” I dealt with people who meant well but didn’t help, with their looks of despair and crestfallen remarks – “But you guys are so good together!” and responded to them with a well-rehearsed shrug of the shoulder and a parroted line – “We’re better off as friends” I kept looking back at the relationship, looking for signs that I should have caught onto. I have ‘500 Days of Summer’ to thank for that. For that, and also for reminding me that “just because she (well in this case, he) likes the same bizarro crap you do, does not mean she’s (he’s) your soul mate.” (I should mention that I did manage to find instances that should have warned me about what was in store)

But every time I braced myself thinking I was strong enough, there would come something that shook my resolve and took me back to square one – the graphic novel on my table, lyrics in my wallet, ‘Broke & Bonafide’ videos on my phone, old Gtalk conversations saved on my computer. Passing by places we liked to frequent proved to be difficult; I couldn’t listen to friggin ‘Raise Up’ without wanting to cry – forget any mushy song; watching movies without him seemed surreal – even merely thinking of the word “surreal” was painful; reading in Landmark became my Everest and I stopped listening to the radio altogether because I just couldn’t take it.

Gradually, it became easier. The pain diminished and was gone before I came to realize that it had. I heard the radio for the first time in two months last night and then this morning, while looking for something, I came across a photograph taken on the last day of October, 2009 – a picture of him and me at Toons, the first picture of us as a couple, the only one I have because all the others are with him. It’s not a very clear picture; it was taken from Lara’s phone. But you can tell it’s a happy, uncomplicated, glow-y picture. I looked at it and smiled, remembering the events that took place that day and night – crystal clear, like it was only just yesterday – and went back to looking for what I was. No pain, no anger, no tears, no sting.

Do I wish things had turned out differently? Hell yeah.
Do I think he made a mistake? Probably.
Do I still resent him for that? Nope.
Do I miss my “fraand” and the easy (sometimes meaningful) banter and strange comfort we shared? More than anything.
Do I know that’ll take more time to return than I’d like, and might not even? Yes, sadly, I do.

PS. The accompanying picture is obviously not the same as the one I mentioned. But it is my favorite photograph of the two of us, from a banter-filled comfortable time not too long ago. Also, this post was written on the 16th of March, 2010. Why is it up only now, you ask? Blame it on a temperamental internet connection. Boo.

On a Diaryface's 21st

For the last three months, the internet has become a sort of necessity for me. I’ve never been extremely dependent on it, probably because I didn’t have that much access to it until I was 19 years old. But now, when I don’t have access to my inbox, I get really restless. I feel like there’s something missing in my day, and it will only be complete when I go online and read/send a mail from/to my Diaryface. Reading about her day and telling her about mine, offers a yayness equal to none other. Without ever having met or spoken our lives are so entwined it’s a little strange. Today, this beautiful Diaryface completes twenty-one years of age. And on this occasion I raise my black Camera Obscura mug full of chai, in order to toast all the things that make this relationship one of my most favourite things in the whole wide world.

To vicariousness. To random ramblings. To kindred spirit hood and diaryfaceness. To Mappings and Musings. To a yay phenomenon of the universe with no explanation whatsoever. To Anne-with-an-e Shirley. To emotional teaspoon-ness. To bossiness. To snow angels, men and villages. To creepy alikeness. To cake batter – cooked and uncooked. To left-handedness. To made up words. To funny pants and the instant yayness they provide. To Rose&Morris, and their blossoming romance. To celebrating Eloping Day. To stealing babies and later feasting on them. To cherry danishes. To violent affection. To my stuffed zoo, which she will help me name over the summer. To Randomity.

To the painful pains of being a girl. To overcoming itches. To stupidly cutesy words, that offer reasons to smile. To Lorellie and Rory Gilmore. To Polly Pinkleton and her magical powers. To the rites of passage. To John Mayer, the Weepies, Jack Johnson, Micheal Buble, Corrine, Carly and Dusty. To Maeve Binchy. To FB bumper stickers. To dal-chawal-pickle. To keeping a loud alarm clock at the far end of the room. To the movie with a butterfly on the subway. To speaking with sand. To jell-o shots. To the yayness that February came with. To multiple P.Ses. To yucky lipstick, which she doesn’t ever need to use anymore, because she’s legal. To make-up in general – which we buy and never apply. To Sleek Bleek, Vlad, Mr. Dibbles and Gordon. To chai and cigarettes. To happy red toes.

To Mommy&DaddyMathews’ yay story. To Valentine’s Day. To subject headers. To dancing in whatever condition, under whatever circumstance. To London dreams of cider-serving pubs. To having extremely similar gift ideas. To George Clooney and Richard Gere. To well-hunting. To shamelessly using the other in times of boo-ness. To de-cluttering. To subtle bitchiness. To an irrational fear of laptops and other technology. To Dance Classics. To Moira Elizabeth Mary Jones – the fairy who had mail. To making ourselves happy. To being worth more. To ripping band-aids. To nicknaming everybody. To Mr. Rightest. To the LBD that I hope she wore the whole day. To the fancy named drink she is holding up for this toast. To a birthday countdown, which ends today.

HAPPY BIRDAY, POOKINS DIARYFACE! I LURVE TO YOU.

PS. I did not forget diaryfaceness in my instructions, you goose. You THINK?

The Solace in Regret

Regret – I’ve always told myself to participate in every relationship in life without that emotion hovering over my head. And it works. There isn’t anything that has happened that I really regret. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of lapses in judgment, of people that could have (and should have) been avoided, of being caught up in the heat of the moment, of saying something I shouldn’t have, of NOT saying something when I should have. But regret is not the emotion I feel, when I think back on these things. It was part of the process of growing up (which is still happening). They all, in some way or the other, helped to make me the person I am today.

I’m not saying they all helped positively. In fact, if you ask my friends they’ll tell you how different I was a few years ago. By different, I mean happy and carefree. This post is inspired by what someone said to me today, about a time when she was so happy that she can’t look at pictures of herself from that age now, because they make her feel old and tired. I used to be like her, I too had a phase where I was so happy being me, that my skin glowed and smiles came naturally. People I knew at that age described me and my life as “uncomplicated”.

Would I take back the events that occurred in my life (the ones that make me unlike that teenager self) between then and now, or change them in any way? My first response is to say no. That would go hand-in-hand with the first line of this post, wouldn’t it? But then, I think about it and I think about it some more. And the answer I come up with is fuzzy, unclear. Which makes me wonder – what IS regret?

When I ask myself, “Would you go back and warn your 16 year old self against going to ‘Cherry on the Top’ everyday?” I’d probably say yes, because it ended in something so messed up, in something so unpleasant, that it broke off a part of my spirit. But if I DO go back and change those days – it would mean taking back my first kiss; it would mean not having a developed sense of ‘opposition to unfaithfulness’ as I have now; it would mean not knowing that I’m not one to be trampled upon.

When I ask myself, “Would you go back in time to tell your 18 year old self to not answer the phone on that November night?” again I’d probably say yes. It was a phone call that led up to the days and months of my life when I stopped being myself. I buried my lame randomness and child-like questions, things that were trademark of me, and instead became an older, bitter, nasty and seemingly more mature stranger. But again, if I DO take them back – it would mean not knowing my capacity to endure emotional blackmail; it would mean not understanding what pseudo-maturity can do to me; it would mean not being a better judge of character now.

I ask myself, “Would you go back to that night in October, 2009 and do anything differently?” and once more I think to say yes. It ended with my heart broken and pain that was all-pervasive, which in turn effectively ended my friendship as I knew it with one of the best, most transparent people I have met. Nothing will ever go back to being exactly the same, no matter how much he or anyone else assures me. And it all began on the fated October night. But taking that day and night back – it would mean losing out on the best, almost-perfect (albeit brief) relationship I have ever known; it would mean never knowing such a happy and comfortable presence in my life; it would mean not having the knowledge that I COULD fall hopelessly in love.

Which makes me wonder – does anyone know if they truly regret anything in their lives? And does thinking about changing something, however fleetingly it may be, mean that we regret what occurred? Every thing that takes place in our lifetime has a hand in shaping us to become the people we are. I’ve written an entire post and I have no idea what regret really means, but I’m quite sure thinking about changing something doesn’t mean I regret, it just means I’m thinking a little too much about what COULD have happened. Doesn’t it?

Dear Boy...

FOREWORD:
When I was 13 years old, I read two articles in Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul. One was called “Dear Boy…” and the other “Dear Girl…” – both of these letters addressed to no one in particular, but instead to a person they had never met and had hopes of one day meeting. Inspired by them, I wrote a similar letter of my own to the someone I hoped to meet someday. Last week, I found that letter in an old file at the back of my cupboard and it caught my eye. Coupled with the songs I was listening to (Michael Buble’s “Haven’t Met You Yet”, followed by John Mayer’s “Love Song for No One”) at the moment that I came across it, I was inspired to edit the letter and make appropriate subtractions/additions so as to make it suitable for the age I am at now. As I came to realise, I didn’t have to modify it too much because not much has changed in the last seven years. And yet, a lot has.

This letter is for the hope – the hope to find a right-righter-rightest someone, with whom there will be a future so joyful that we will sail breezily through it all, including and especially the troubled waters.




Dear Boy,

There will come a time, not too long from now, when we will meet and fall in love. When that time comes, I pray you will love me for what I am and not expect me to change to suit you. I hope that when we meet, we will hear the music from violins and saxophones that people say one hears when one falls in love. I hope also, that in addition to that tingly musical anticipation, we feel comfortable enough with each other to say and do whatever it is we want.

I hope you will remember that 'Love Story' is my feel-good book, and that chocolate does the trick for me every time – whether I am angry, sad or happy. I hope you will understand that when I get angry for whatever reason, I prefer to walk long distances alone to calm myself. Please know that there will be times when I have had a bad day, and all I’ll need from you is a long hug until I feel ready to let go. I hope you will be there to give me that hug, and just let me BE until I am prepared to talk about what’s on my mind. If and when I cry, I hope you will not make too big a deal, and instead understand why I am crying, and not call me immature and get annoyed.

I hope you will remember that I like giving and receiving little notes and gifts for no occasion, to convey everything and nothing. I hope you will remember that I like white carnations, and that I like different colors at different times, depending on my mood. I hope you understand that sometimes I crave for particular foods, that sometimes I dance to music only I can hear and sing at the top of my voice when I ride my scooter, and that sometimes I like to color in children’s coloring books. I hope you don’t get alarmed and understand my need to show affection violently sometimes. Please know that although I am a huge sucker for important dates, like birthdays and anniversaries, I will do my best to not get mad if you forget them. I hope you hold my hand and shower me with kisses, because I am a hand-holding-and-kissing girl, through and through.

I hope you won’t get angry when I start humming randomly in the middle of a conversation – it doesn’t mean I wasn’t listening to what you said, I’m just like that. And I hope you understand my tendency to digress and remember random, inane unrelated things (like lines from F.R.I.E.N.D.S) and say them out loud in the middle of an intense heated discussion. The volume and manner in which I laugh takes some getting used to, I hope you won't be too embarrassed. While I am a huge fan of fancy candle-lit dates, please know that it doesn’t matter to me – I will be equally comfortable at a road-side dhaba, as long as I can spend that time with you. When we go out partying, I hope you will stop me from drinking too much, and take care of me if I do. I hope that you will make me laugh, look after me when I’m sick, be trustworthy and honest and faithful and understand my utter inability to communicate and express myself sometimes. I hope you will respond to my random lame stupidity with random lame stupidity of your own.

I hope you don’t think I’m asking too much of you. I hope you understand that I am anxious and eager, and a little bit hopeful. Please know that I am a trying person to be with, but I promise you I will do my best to make our love work. I would like you to share with me what is on your mind always, and I will try to do the same. I hope that we are what the other one always hoped for, and that our love transcends all inadequacies and deficiencies. Thank you for listening to my random ramblings, they’re a bit much I should think.

- M

Stupid Songs and Stupider Lyrics

The whole of yesterday and today I have been listening to my music player on random, and one after the other all that is playing is some sad, mopey romantic song or the other. I don’t WANT to hear any of that, because it is jarring my mission of not thinking, but every time I press ‘next’ another stupid song starts playing.

Why does every song nowadays have to have some deep intellectual lyrics with soothing romantic music that make you think and be philosophical man? Tejas says that when people are in a particular mood, they want to listen to music that reflects the mood they’re in. I think he’s wrong. When I was walking the long distance from my house to my friend Lara’s house, no doubt I was sad and hurting and moping, but I did not want to listen to Joshua Radin and Schuyler Fisk singing “Play me a song, your newest one/Please leave your taste on my tongue”, or friggin John Mayer (I love him with all I’ve got but COME ON!) singing a love song for no one about how half of his damn heart’s got a grip on some situation while he’s slow dancing in a burning room. I did not want to know that all Martina Mcbride needs is her love, her valentine. And then there was Jack Johnson with his combination of words that he can’t put on the back of a postcard and asking me if I remembered the first time we met because he sure did. Colbie Caillat was falling and dropping so quickly for some guy, that she probably should have kept it to herself until she knew me better and Owl City was obsessing about his fireflies. Of course he’s not weird because he hates goodbyes, no one LIKES them. He really should think before he writes these goddamned lyrics. Even the Weepies - while they are an awesome band, I didn’t want to hear them talk about waking up and wishing they were dead as the world continued to spin madly on.

Whatever happened to the songs that make no sense when I needed them? – The songs that have lyrics like they were written just for fun, not for the real love of music or out of a real need to express. I didn’t have most of them on my play list, I realized. Because, I mean, they’re so silly and stupid right? I obviously gave preference to the “good” songs when I was putting them onto my player. Bad move. Because while I was walking for over an hour, I was stuck with the good, even great songs, when all I wanted to listen to was Metrostation asking me if I would do it like this if she does it like that. I wanted to listen to Robyn describe her style as “the bom-diddi-bom di-dang di-dang diggi-diggi”. I wanted Soulja Boy to crank that and Sean Kingston to call 911. I wanted to know all that Scotty didn't. I missed Kesha singing about how she woke up in the morning feeling like P. Diddy and I missed Alexandra Burke singing about the bad boys that catch her eye. I even missed Akon singing about that sexy bitch, a song that I cannot STAND otherwise.

SHIT. What is this world coming to?

Bittersweet weirdness

Three hours. That’s how long the no-crying promise lasted. It can’t be helped; it’s something I have to do. The pain is too much. It’s a dull constant pain, not the screaming throbbing kind. It went away for a little while, lost among unrelated conversations about Joey and his nonchalance, hunger strikes, “basically lots of”, doing things WITH people or FOR, figuring out the best time in the year, trying to describe a philosophical self with words so apt that they wouldn't come easily, trying to lie straight facedly like Harry, chocolate wrappers in pockets or dustbins, pearls of "advice" and building shrines in memory of the other. Laughter pushed it out – inappropriate laughter for the moment we were in, yet so appropriate because of who we are. I see that now, vaguely. But now it’s back, that pain. It hurts. It’s bound to, but it shouldn’t be so awful. It wasn’t that bad really, today. It was strangely NICE. And the pain is bittersweet. It has to be – it’s born out of complete agreement and yet, utter lack of understanding. Why is it so half and half?

Chocolate is not helping. There is already too much in my system from the past week, for it to satisfy any sort of craving. Stupid bags of chocolate from the last night out shopping in Edinburgh. Breathing helps, but it’s coming out in rasps because of the crying. Which is fine, because trying to control it gives me something to do. Typing helps, especially LOUDLY while banging on the keyboard. Hitting him and calling him names helped too, but then that may have to do with the inevitable laughter that followed. Is it weird, that laughter? It didn’t feel all that weird, and that felt weirder. Light-hearted, nonsensical banter – that was the essence wasn’t it? Hell yeah, it was. It was the friggin definition. It had vanished for a while, but now it’s back. Yay. But is it weird that it returned in such a twisted situation?

Diaryface was right, as she always is – it IS a rite of passage. It happened to me just today, and I really didn’t expect it to happen so soon after that particular mail she sent – like an omen, almost. Sshh, I’m not supposed to talk like that. But then, I’m cheating on the no-crying promise, why not on this one too?

I can’t concentrate. I think I’m rambling, but I can’t be sure because I can’t concentrate. This is it. What? I said, this is it. WHAT is it? THIS, yes, this is it. It doesn’t have to be, but it is. And, strangely enough, it feels like even before the beginning. That IS weird, isn’t it? But it doesn’t FEEL weird. It feels so right and so horribly wrong. I don’t know how and what to feel. GO. I’m sick of you. Yet, you’re right, I’m not. How CAN I be, you semi-good looking North Carolinian Gulfy asshole? “HEY! Watch it. You’re not allowed to say asshole anymore.”

For a comfort level that is one of it’s kind, for crying as an energy releaser, for the best conversation we've had in over a month, for random statements filled with utter time-pass, for rumbling tummies, for something that I knew I could never live up to, for excessive drinking of water, for a confused secret that will be safe no matter what the bribe or bet – I will remember today.

Bonnie ol' Scotland

Hello to you, hello to you.
I know, I know. Everyone was expecting at least one blog post for every day that I was away on holiday. I was one of the people who thought that would be the case. After all, it was supposed to be my happy snowy Christmas getaway. And it was! The last three weeks of my life have been brilliant. Don’t let the lack of posts make you think otherwise. It’s just that while I was there, all my spare internet time and writing prowess got spent on writing super long mails to my super awesome Diaryface and my equally awesome hoity-toity baby boy T. (Teehee. I have never called him that, ever. I totally just came up with it right now while typing. Not the term ‘baby boy T’, the hoity-toity prefix. I think I’ll keep it.) So then I thought I’d do one big post about the whole holiday once I’m back – which is what I’m doing.

My holiday was superb in the sense that I couldn’t have asked for anything more to happen. I had a white Christmas for the first time, complete with stockings over the fireplace and a ceiling to floor tree with the biggest pile of presents under it that I have ever seen. New years too was awesome with the fireworks display at midnight and the champagne induced giggliness after, but later I saw pictures on Facebook of the party my friends had and I got so homesick that I was physically ill! However, other than that, the vacation consisted of lots of sightseeing, snow angels, sampling of new things, traveling, shopping, movie watching and picture taking. My camera Rose Red was most excited and went clickety-click at everything in sight.

I met some really nice people, with whom I had some really nice conversations. I found the yummiest cutest baby whom I wanted to put in my big bag and bring back with me. I saw some marvelous buildings which quite literally took my breath away. I sampled things that I had never before, like Haggis (YUCK). I shopped like I have never done before and bought clothes like never before. I went off on my own for a day, which for someone like me is a huge thing. I don’t like doing things alone and I need company in everything I do – someone to pass comments to, to experience with. The only thing I can do on my own and enjoy it thoroughly is WALK, and even for that I need music to accompany me. I made snowmen and snowangels. I cut a lot of vegetables. I watched a lot of movies. I went for a cruise around the Loch Ness. I ice skated and fell flat on me arse, but it was worth every minute!

The holiday gave me a lot of things. It gave me exposure to a different country and a different type of people. It also truly made me believe that I should take up landscape photography seriously because, at the risk of sounding vain, I think I’m really good at it. This opinion is shared by my event manager cum photographer best friend, David “giggling idiot” Selvam, so I know I’m not imagining it. Maybe as a profession, maybe not. But I think I should hone the skill. The holiday has no doubt given me a lot more than what I have mentioned – the effects of which I may not feel immediately and will probably feel as more time goes by. But even then, it has been an experience like none other.

PS. The accompanying picture is a view from the ferris wheel at the Edinburgh Winter Wonderland. On the right, it captures one of the main streets of Edinburgh, the Prince’s Street. But the picture was mainly taken for Kyra and her fascination with twinkly lights in trees.