Tag Archives: Intimacy

Not Your Usual Homebody

I don’t like being in other people’s homes. I discovered this, by chance only recently. I have a whole litany of excuses like ‘I spend most of my day cooped up indoors, let’s go out’. Actually that’s not an excuse, that is the truth. I feel hemmed in, suffocated even in other people’s spaces. I am scrupulously tidy (no, that’s not the mental illness called OCD) and it suits me to be so. I could call on my severe allergies as cause to be finicky about clutter and dust. I could point to my rigid, minimalist upbringing (though that had the opposite effect on my personal aesthetic, pushing me to the neon-psychedelic-garish colour range). Whatever be the case, I like the air around me spaced out in a certain way, my vision unblocked by objects and those objects to be aligned symmetrically, systematically and efficiently.

It has been my personal cross to love and be close to people who are messy, careless. dirty or plain slobs. Earlier it appealed to my mother hen instinct to clean up after them. But the last few years, starting with the abusive ex have been a real lesson. Cleaning up after other people is an act of great love and sacrifice. And not one of those people was worth it. It makes sense, doesn’t it? A person who does not even care about their own personal space – will they care about someone outside themselves?

But I digress into the efficiently planned excuse alleys of my mind. I also know extremely clean, organised, neat people. And I still don’t enjoy being in their spaces (albeit with less grief and resistance). A home is such an intimate space. Even if a bed has been made, my first thought is that it has seen the person’s nightmares, their fantasies, their lovemaking, their sickness. A study table has held the fruits of the person’s labour, their worried eye-rubs, their frustrated desk-banging. Bathrooms and kitchens tell you the ordinariness of the starriest of people and often they’re in inverse proportion to how fancy their owners are in the world. Even the hall/drawing room, the most fake of all rooms in a house – it is a picture of how the person wishes the world would see them, who they hope to invite in there, who they are forced to tolerate in close proximity. I can see all this even without the people in the rooms. Can’t you?

It feels too intrusive. It feels like too much. And despite my propensity for intimacy, I do not like it. Intimacy needs to come in small, treasured bites for me. Walking into someone’s home feels like the entire buffet table just got dumped on my soul. I don’t want to see so much, know so much about acquaintances. Especially not when I’m living in a world where flightiness is a point of pride, comittmentphobia is a virtue and meaningless attachments are favoured. Going into a home is emotional labour for me and why should I invest that in somebody unless I know they value it?

I get a reputation for being a homebody (not true, I’m neither wallflower nor 60s domestic goddess). For all the times I propose going out instead, I also get called ‘high maintenance’, a word I hate since it implies other people must pay high to maintain me. No. I like homes and I like mine. But all things in time and in a certain way. Finicky maybe.


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I’ll Have My Encounters Rare


If you liked this post, you’ll want to follow the Facebook Page and the Youtube channel. I’m Ramya Pandyan (a.k.a. Ideasmith) and I’m on Twitter and Instagram.


Byte Magic 

Follow my writings on https://www.yourquote.in/idea-smith-qor/quotes/ 

The Phone Call

My truth comes calling, on an international phone call
Sounding exactly like every other person who thinks
They have something important to say to me
Except this one always does
For sure, her words are truth, her truths truer.

She thinks I need to be better, work harder, be smarter at my job
I know, I know, I haven’t done it all yet
“Oh, didn’t they promise you that last month?”
I hate her for saying that
Hate her even more because it was 6 months back, not last month.

This was five days ago and I’m still frowning in my sleep
I know because when I wake up, my jaws hurt from clenching them
Every hour from midnight to seven, she reminds me,
“Wasn’t that promised to you 6 months ago?”
Every night she invades my dreams and every day she dogs me.

I won’t take her calls anymore, I decide, I’ll block her, delete her number even
Who needs this constant pressure?
And I plunge into being better, working harder and being smarter at my job
And hope and pray that it’ll help me forget
That she only ever remembers to call once a year.

A Comfortable Close

“I like this”, she says, “I like us.”
“We are a comfortable close.”

And she smiles at the picture on her screen one last time before switching it off.


Intimacy in brief, blinding flashes,
like light reflecting off a knife’s edge,
between our cold, hard selves.


edge^2 (Photo credit: dog on wheels)

Forgiveness, Actually

Yes, there’s more.


Do banished memories go to hell? I hope not, ‘cos I’ll only end up meeting them there again. Besides they deserve better, so much better than the  darkness in my mind.


A friend who hurts you
….is the one most likely to come back and apologize
….is the one that deserves forgiveness the least.


If intimacy is what happens when love and hate collide,
Then seperation is when they lie together in the same bed…or grave.


I would hold onto any scrap of you that I can get,
Even if it is only a painful memory.


I would make sure the memory of me never fades in your mind
Even if it means having to leave only a memory of me behind with you.


Love means never having to say you’re sorry.

I take that to mean, the situation of being sorry never arises. After all, what else is love but taking the other person’s happiness as one’s personal responsibility? Even if that’s impossible, so is love.


Forgiveness is admitting the humaness of the other person
And divinity in oneself.For

I think I can live with being just human.


Forgiveness is for the world at large, a fair exchange for our own peace of mind. But anyone who is special enough to love, is special enough to never be forgiven.

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