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