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.

The Little Things

“The little things? The little moments? They aren’t little.” – Jon Kabat-Zinn


Stolen glances that offer soundless reassurance, quick nods that convey more than words can, soft touches to let you know something's wrong, hushed sighs that imply not all is right, half smiles that imply contentment, winks to express amusement, a squeeze of the hand to comfort the restless and disgruntled mind.

They say these little silent means of communication are worth much more than any spoken/written word. They convey all the right things, and their application eliminates all need for verbal communication. “Actions speak louder than words”. And they aren’t wrong.

But sometimes, in addition to the silent gestures, one NEEDS to state in so many words what it is that they are going through, without having to be asked. One needs to share the little things that are on one’s mind. One needs to express what it is that is disgruntling them so much, what it is that is amusing them. The people who like and love us and care about us are not mind readers; nor do they have some insane sixth sense. They are, however, around to listen to all the things we have to say. And more often than not, they want to know what is on our minds.

So for god’s sake, tell them whatever it is that you are feeling. Vent at your close ones if you’re frustrated after a bad day. Feel like you’ve accomplished something at work? – celebrate it with them. Bored out of your mind? - let them know. Sad about something that happened at home? – cry on their shoulder in their arms. Got an incredulous life-altering, earth-shattering idea that'll probably never work? - let them in on the secret. Craving for a food item? - inform them, they'll be happy to accompany you in your quest for it. Happy because, well, JUST? – tell them you are.

Because that’s what they’re here for. Really. And don’t say “No, they’re here for more important things” – because while that may be true, they are also here for the little things. They are here to experience your little moments with you. Because those are what truly matter.

Remember that.

Radio Ga-ga? More like Radio Goo.

A = guy, B = ex-wife, C = some girl.

A is hurt and tormented by his divorce with B and can never fall in love again, or so he claims. C is in love with A, and B misses A and wants him back. C thinks love is all about sacrifice and stuff, so she tries getting them back together. B is aware that C is in love with A, and that A is also in love with C, only he doesn’t know it yet. And she also, to some extent, tries to pair them up. A knows C is in love with him. But because of the previously mentioned hurt and torment, he ignores it. Oh! And then in the midst of all this, C’s entire family believes A is C’s boyfriend and is arranging for them to be married soon, because of some misunderstanding that occurred a while ago and no one had the guts to rectify it.

Confused? Yeah, so were we. And we were actually watching it unfold before our eyes, without any analogy of this kind that I presented to you. THIS, ladies and gentlemen, in a nutshell is the absolutely messed up plotline of what has to be one of the most ridiculous movies I have seen EVER. There are bad movies, and then there is Himesh Reshammiya’s “Radio”. Not that I went in expecting any better, but it was so bad, it needs an entire post to trash.

Before I begin and before you guys ask me what possessed me to go for the movie in the first place, I’d like to say this – one advantage of dating a radio jockey is that almost every week we watch a movie first day-first show free of cost, so that he can review it on his show. Of course, this works as a disadvantage too, when he absolutely HAS to watch even the worst ones as part of his job. I realize that I am not obliged to go with the boy on such occasions, and that I am perfectly free to stay home. But then I’m a nice person and besides, we don’t get too much of free time to just chill and be anymore. So, I go along to spend some time with him and to give him company (misery loves that, apparently).

From the very first scene of the movie, we looked at each other with an “oh-my-god-what-IS-this?” expression. It starts with a ridiculous “it’s complicated” stamp like thing and a caption thing – “Chapter 1: Divorce aur Ganpati Bappa”. Yeah, the entire movie is told over many such chapters, with equally ridiculous names. The whole “it’s complicated” stamp made no sense to us at all, and neither did the problems faced by the characters. They weren’t real or big enough to actually be considered at all. The biggest drawback of Shanaya Dhingra (Shehnaz Treasurywala), according to the narrator (RJ Vivaan, played by Himesh Reshammiya himself) is that she’s a Facebook addict. Not her psychotic family, coupled with the fact that she has the ability to annoy you with the mere sound of her voice. Oh and the second biggest drawback? The fact that she says “bhot” instead of “bahut”.

Another thing totally pissing off about the whole thing? (Well, not so much to me since radio is not my industry. But it was still appaling to know how underhanded and cheap it was) – The fact that Ghanta Singh of Radio One was totally ripped off in Paresh Rawal’s Jhandu Lal Tyaagi. My boy was indignant - he was cursing loudly and calling everyone at work to let them know what had been done!

Acting is horrible by EVERYBODY, there is not a single saving grace. And brand placements are as forced and disconnected as they get.

RJ Shanaya (on air): ‘Love karo bhai, aur kuch nahi toh Kurkure khao’. Ex wife sitting in car listening to radio: ‘Gadi roko. Mujhe Kurkure khaana hai!’

Vivaan: ‘Yeh dish antenna badal dalo yaar! Paise main deta hoon! I’m not a dish antenna mechanic, I am a radio jockey!’


UGH.