Tag Archives: Relationships

Thank You For The Ghosts

I spoke to her today. It wasn’t as unthinkable as I imagined, over a year ago. She told me the email I sent her a fortnight ago sounded like I did not want to hear from her. I said, that was probably true.

“When things happen, I deal with them in a certain way. I go into a shell. In time, I am ready to look. But not be looked that. That takes a little longer.”

She said she would need sometime to understand that. And that’s okay.

This would probably have happened in some way or the other. As it turns out, how it happened was that a common friend told that that I was being to her, how someone else is being to me at this moment. I’ve spent the last few weeks thinking about ghosting and gaslighting. These are things that we do, while also universally acknowledging that they are horrible actions. But maybe we do these because we really can’t do anything else at that time.

Match this with our superegoistic belief that everything that happens to us is our fault (because we have to feel like we can control everything, right?) But this is not true. Sometimes people are not thinking about us when they treat us badly. Sometimes they are not even seeing us, blinded by their own lives. Maybe this is nothing more than a bus running over tiny creatures in its path, its riders not intending to hurt but not really seeing or even being able to care about the casualties of their journey.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Last month I spotted another ex friend who had ghosted me. After dozens of conversations about life, love, work and existential angst and wine, she didn’t bother to invite me to her wedding. I found out about it when a stranger contacted me asking if I was still in touch with her. I passed right by and sat down at the table next to her for half an hour before I noticed who was next to me. It was awkward for awhile but maybe that’s just me. Perhaps I am dead to her for reasons I will never know. Perhaps I never existed in her world. Maybe people can achieve complete erasures.

But I think that’s only possible when your mind is so crammed with so many things that you block out the view of what is right in front of you. Well, that’s okay too. I love airy, wide spaces but I live in a city that thrives on cramped quarters. Each to their own space. And mindspace.

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

I attended a funeral today. This was not someone that I was close to but they died of unnatural causes and very young. So I’ve had a chance to mull over a profound experience without being overrun by it. Maybe life is kind in ways we can’t quite see.

I’ve always abhorred the living’s reactions. Loud, emotional scenes scare me. They make pain and grief into larger-than-life monsters. I dealt with the first death in my adult life (my grandfather’s) by being efficient. I saw to visitors, I answered questions, I made people eat and drink water, I tended to the cleaning and putting away of things. I was punished over and over with accusations of being cold and uncaring by the very same people who I was helping. I stayed angry for a long time over it. The same people playing that wretched game of ‘My sad is sadder than yours’ do not live with the heavy burden of feeling like they haven’t done enough. I do. They have the luxury of theatrics, holding the world to ransom with their tears and shrieks because someone else is willing to pay the price – the price of holding the world together while they bash away against it.

I realised today that this is my way of coping just as the theatrics are some (weak, selfish) people’s way of coping. Being efficient makes me feel like I can control something. Death, no matter how distant, shakes our foundations and reminds us of how little we have control. What does this have to do in a post about ghosting? It is all about the sudden shock of distance, isn’t it? And what’s more shocking and distant than death?

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Someone who discarded me two years ago is waving furtively to me with likes on social media. I am not ready to go there. Well, actually I don’t want to. But what if I don’t have a choice? If people will go away without my being able to control it, maybe I also have no control over people coming back. It’s a horrid thought that life at large, has no concept of consent. I hate that the future is not a clean, straight line but may involve zigging and zagging and backtracking and U-turns and what not.

I am feeling my age a lot these days. 38 sounds like a very large age to be. But another part of me is relieved that The Thirty Diaries are drawing to a close. I think I will not do a Forty Diaries, counting off the milestones when my life map is so chaotic.

Maybe all we all need is time. If nothing else, time allows runaway emotions and stray ideas to settle. Time lets us reflect and clean our minds if we so choose. And time gives us perspective and clarity. And then, it’s up to us to choose what to do with a brand new day – a new possibility or even one that we thought we lost awhile ago. I wish us all the stillness that comes after we’ve regained peaceful breaths.

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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.

Love As A Matter of Habit

UntitledA doctor friend defined love as ‘primarily a form of OCD’. I pondered over the idea for a week and indeed, it gave me a way out of the end-of-love situation I was facing at that time.

When I’m facing the inevitable disillusionment, discontent and general dissatisfaction that sets in after the dramatic highs of the sort of relationships I get into, I know this. I know I’ll get over it, eventually. I can even estimate how long it’s likely to take me. What I didn’t know until the doctor’s prescription, is how I would get to that place of ‘over it’. Do I know now? I suppose I do. If love is just another form of OCD, a habit, I can figure it out. I know about making and breaking habits. Goals work for me, organising is my strength. I just have to focus on what parts of the person or relationship constitute habit in my life and figure out ways to get out of those habits.

I need to stop eating that particular food for about six weeks so it doesn’t immediately pull up the memory of him cooking it for me. Because then when my body is processing the dopamine hit from the food, my brain connects it to his memory and to him. Break that pattern, learn a new one. I’m so Pavlovian.

I‘ve never been addicted to any of the common afflictions around. I’ve tried most of them and I still dabble as often and as much as I want. It’s not that I have stronger willpower than most people. It is that I know how to manage habit. I’m good at organising actions, thoughts and motivations into bite-sized pieces and feeding them to myself (or other people, if required) in a staggered out way. It requires a fine blend of deprivation in tiny quantities and rewards on a periodic basis. It’s not rocket science and I am good at it.

I am speaking often now to a former love. He’s going through some hard times right now. Off and on over the past few years, we’ve reconnected briefly. A lunch here, a movie there, coffee and some messages. Then we get into newer habits with other people and lose touch till the next time we reconnect. I think it suits us, not making a habit of each other.

I spoke to another ex today, who is married to a friend of mine. I set boundaries in this relationship by changing or insisting on certain times, places and conversations. We only ever meet outside homes. Only sit on opposite sides of a table. No hugs except at the end of a meeting. We discuss the past in detail but the present, only superficially. This relationship gets defined by the habits we both agree to. Periodically he breaks a habit and in response, I create a new one. We stay in balance.

And finally, this now explains my restlessness at the start of any relationship when nice things get done and said. It’s not that I don’t enjoy it. But I fear that it will turn into a habit that I become dependent on. And who knows better than I, how acutely messing up a schedule can hit you?

This works for me. The only trouble is, I draw people who are the exact opposite of me. People who enjoy the excuses and hiding places that chaos, the lack of habit/OCD affords them. Then again, I suppose you could say I enjoy solving puzzles and what are relationships like these but puzzles to be solved?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

* 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.

People I’ve Unfriended On Facebook

  • Classmates I only accepted requests from because we got tagged in old photos. They weren’t nice to me in school, I don’t want them around.
  • People I met at some event with whom I haven’t interacted again. If we need to speak again, one of us will find the other sure enough.
  • Colleagues from zillion jobs ago. Go, LinkedIn!
  • Friends of exes. Yes, truly done suffering.
  • One time crushes or flames who are married. What’s the point? (yes, I am that cold)
  • People I just don’t like. Maybe I never did or maybe this is recent. I don’t have to explain.
  • Friends who are not anymore. How many of these there have been in the past year! Maybe I was long overdue a life spring-cleaning. Sigh.
  • Spouses, siblings and other associations via the above people. Keep it clean and brutal, make it good.

I’m reclaiming the word ‘Friend’. A friend is someone whose life is engaged with mine, not just connected via digital bytes. Friendship cannot get by on nostalgia or long redundant promises. It certainly is not worth dragging along relationships that have thrown up more than their fair share of resentment, anger and hurt.

I’ve decided it is also okay for me to hold up certain things as standards for people in my life. No lies, no backbiting, no cheating, no pettiness. I bend over backwards to avoid doing these and I have the right to expect it from other people. Lying is a big deal for me and it’s time I let it become the deal-breaker too.

There are new people in there, of course. These are people I see the possibility of really sharing life experiences, with. These may be people I know from work, common acquaintances or events I’ve been to. But there has been something in our last conversations that makes me think, there could be more. If someone has faded to being one of the numbers or I feel like I’ve faded similarly in their life, I’ve hit UNFRIEND.

Relationships matter to me as do words. A cluttered friends list means a diluted life for me. To give someone I don’t like much or who I feel doesn’t treat me well or to whom I’m indifferent, the same access to my life that I give the people who matter to me — this seems disrespectful of these important relationships. And they wear me down. So goodbye, everyone who has ceased to matter and thank you for having passed through my life in whatever way you did. Go in peace, fare well and don’t look back. I won’t.

Sept Shorts01: Everyone’s Got A Back-up Plan

I set myself a writing challenge of producing a short story a day, back in May. I didn’t manage to do them all but that exercise did result in 20 short stories, spanning different genres, collectively called the MayShortReads. It was an immensely exciting exercise and I propose to do that again. So here’s to the September Shorts. You can expect one every day (or night) this month. I’d love to hear your comments. And if you’d like to jump in, a fellow runner…errm, writer is always a fun companion to have on an exercise such as this. Now, on to the story…

~O~O~O~O~O~O~

Nyssa taps her mouse. She clicks her tongue, annoyed at the new email that comes slithering into her mailbox. Varun, walking down the corridor stops a few feet short of her cubicle and looks at the papers in his hand. Waiting, waiting.

Sure enough, Nyssa looks up a few seconds later. As he has calculated, she seems relieved for a chance to unburden her woes. Varun to the rescue, he whoops to himself as he walks up to what he hopes will be a welcoming smile.

It’s the Operations Manager this time. He’s refusing to release the orders. Varun swoops in to save the day. A phone call will set that right, he assures her. Nyssa smiles.

“Thanks, Varun! You’re awesome, buddy.” she trails away in a cloud of perfume and pre-date excitement, before he has a chance to propose dinner.

Varun signs out of work in the office register, over an hour later, the scowl writ large on his face. It has taken more than a phone call to set that mess right.  “I’m sick of being her bloody Plan B.” he mutters to himself. He yanks out his phone and taps out a message. He hits send and turns to the television screen mounted on the wall.

“What are you wearing right now? That’s all he wants to know. I haven’t heard from him in a week and now this. What am I wearing right now. He couldn’t even be bothered with calling.”

Meghna’s voice rises with each full stop but she doesn’t care. She has spent the last half an hour, carefully crafting messages that sound just the right balance of sexy, aloof, interested and sympathetic. All to no avail. She’s spending Friday night by herself.

“I’m just his fucking back-up plan, that’s all.” she sobs.

Tasneem sighs, “Don’t do that to yourself, Meghna. Don’t do it. Why don’t you come over? I’ve made some biryani. We’ll watch a movie together.”

Meghna sniffs, unhearing. “No, I don’t feel like getting out now. Back-up plan, that’s all I am. He couldn’t even be bothered to come over.” and she hangs up to luxuriate in her puddle of woe.

Tasneem puts her phone away thinking, “Neither can you.” She picks up the half-eaten plate of biryani and takes it to the kitchen. Twenty minutes later, she has scrubbed every utensil clean and wiped down the counter. There’s nothing on TV and it’s no fun watching a movie all by herself. She picks up the phone and looks at the time. It’s too late for a call, she tells herself. Shareen won’t like it. She taps out a message instead.

“Bhai, how are you?”

And she isn’t surprised when the phone rings in less than five minutes. At least her conscience is clear.

Shareen scowls at her husband’s back but straightens her face out immediately. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he catches that expression on her face. She is just too tired for another fight. He has left the movie hall now though so she brings out her phone. It feels like she’s just watching one screen after another, all by herself. The intermission arrives and he still hasn’t returned. She gets up to stretch her legs and walks out. He’s standing near the pillar, absorbed in conversation on the phone. And she thinks what she only lets herself think in the privacy of bathrooms. Her husband should have married that ‘muh-boli behen’ of his, instead of her. What is she after all, but a substitute life partner?

She looks at her phone, the abysmally small list of numbers permitted on it. And as usual, she dials the first one.

“Ammi, how are you? Were you sleeping?”

Of course not, she is assured. A few seconds of someone wanting to hear her voice is all that’s needed. Shareen takes a deep breath and answers, yes, everything is well, they’re watching a movie, no it’s okay, don’t rush for it, wait till it comes out on TV. And then, noticing the crowds retreating into the hall, she ends the conversation and says goodbye.

On another tiny screen, a picture of Shareen comes up as wallpaper as the phone call disconnects. Her mother looks at the picture, wishing she could hear Shareen more often and not just see her in this picture. It’s a picture taken at Shareen’s wedding, two years earlier. They haven’t seen her since then. She lies awake for a long time, thinking about the last two years.

In the morning, she has put her worries out of her head. There’s another daughter to be seen to, as well, after all. If only she didn’t insist on being so stubborn. By nine o’clock, breakfast is ready and so is the agenda for the weekend. It’s time to look for a bridegroom, no more messing around.

“You will also get up earlier every day now and learn to cook. Why can’t you be more like your sister?”

Nyssa turns away from her mother’s tirade. Her sister must have called last night, she surmises, as the fresh wave of parental zeal comes her way. She had hoped to talk to them about Ranjit over the weekend but clearly this is not the day. She sighs as her mother straightens the picture of Shareen on the dressing table.

What is she but the under-achieving daughter after all? The back-up child, that’s all.

Watch and Phone

Watch and Phone (Photo credit: █ Slices of Light █▀ ▀ ▀)

Just another love poem

They call this emotion blind.
So if love were a painting, I’d be a blind artist.

And it’s food for the soul
So if love were a banquet, I’d be a glutton.
If love were a bottle of vinegar, I’d be pickled in it.

But what would my love be like? I’ll tell you.
If my love were a letter, it would be silent.
If my love were a word, it would be misspelt.
If my love were a sentence, it would be incomplete.
If my love were a question, it would be rhetorical.
If my love were a paragraph, it would be verbose.
If my love were a language, it would be Braille.

And yes, love is always painful.
If love were a disease, it would be the cancer in your cells.
If love was murder, I’d be dead in your arms tonight.
If love were just a shot of poison, I’d be lying cold with a smile on my lips.

But instead, there’s art and food and poetry.
And an empty glass in my hands.

Movie: Dhobi Ghat – Mumbai Musings

Movies are a big part of weekend planning. Realistically, what else is there to do in Mumbai? Let’s not go into the notions of what a ‘happening’ city this is. I’ve been active on the cultural circuit for the past year and a half and gone to everything I could find. Poetry slams, Open mics, music gigs, stand-up comedy, workshops, book readings, board game meets…to my utter disgust, all I found was the same frenzied networking, the same desperate need to be cool, the same petty politicking and hard-nosed business dealings, in place of any real interest in the event/field or depth of thought. I’ve struggled with this but had to conclude that Mumbai lets you make a living, not a life.

Dhobi Ghat, Kiran Rao’s directorial debut was this weekend’s big feature. It started on a less-than-pleasant note. Considering that movies are the only standard entertainment available and the skyrocketing multiplex prices, I tend to frequent the second-tier theatres that are still ‘safe’ for a woman to go to alone but cheaper. Moviestar Goregaon was my pick. We entered about ten minutes before the start of the show, when the lights were still on, which is probably why the filthy seats caught our notice. I don’t mean a broken armrest or an undone stitch on the upholstery. I mean filthy, godaloneknows what black, smelly, gunky-goo streaked across all the seats that we could find. The manager was apologetic enough but there were no cleaner seats available and so we had our tickets refunded. While on this, I must add that the theater is now under BIG cinemas which to me, means that service levels can only plummet. My past experiences show that Fame Adlabs, also part of the same group, offers rude staff, smelly (and bedbug-infested) seats and stale food for its high prices. I bid goodbye to another of my budget alternatives. The boy was most appalled at the fact that the other theatergoers streamed in, blindly (and deafly) made their way around us and arranged themselves comfortably in those same filthy seats, even as we pointed them out to the staff. Mumbai, you could redefine the laws of robotics.

We managed to finally catch the movie at 24 Karat, another theatre down the road and I was glad we’d persisted. After the kind of tortures that Bollywood has been visiting on our senses lately (Sheila Kejwani, anyone?), it was a real pleasure to not have to shield my eyes and ears.

A number of things stand out about the movie. Firstly, there isn’t one concrete plot. What there are, are a number of strong, well-etched characters and the little (and big) incidents that constitute their lives. Secondly, the absence of background music is noticeable. Most Bollywood films use music to cue the audience into the mood of the scene, sometimes excessively. Dhobi Ghat, in comparison, is understated, stark and disorienting because it doesn’t offer any such hints, preferring instead to let the audience figure it out for itself. It’s hard to tell whether you’re supposed to laugh at Zohaib’s poker-faced filmdom dreams or empathize with them. It’s tricky to deciding whether Shai’s pursuit of Arun (and parallel ignorance of Zohaib’s attention) is pathetic or natural. You’re not sure whether to dislike Arun or admire him. And thus we respond to the characters just the way we would to people in real life. With confusion, with warmth, with respect and then derision, with conflicting emotions.

It seems counter-intuitive but its not, that when the viewer is given so much to think about, even deeper levels make themselves visible. I liked how Dhobi Ghat effectively portrays that Mumbaikers blur the social order but don’t quite erase it. Economic classes, gender barriers, cultural divides are bridged and broken in mysterious ways. Most of us flit in and out of the periphery with a comfort that sometimes baffles outsiders. Interactions happen in that twilight zone as so relationships – odd, indefinable and yet deeply intimate ones like those of fellow train-passengers, bais & dhobis & house madams and people who occupy the same flat at different times.

Prateek Babbar (underutilized in Jaane Tu Ya Jaane Na) steals the show with a poker face arranged around brooding-animated-wry-resigned-intense-pragmatic eyes. A hundred emotions flit across his face in a single look over a brun maska. And most impressively, his very silhouette seems to evolve over the course of the movie, starting with an awkward, blurred  look to a more resolute, defined profile at the end of the movie. I don’t know if that’s good acting or good cinematography; I’m willing to bet on both.

Kriti Malhotra comes in second in terms of her performance as the anonymous face in a series of video-letters. She’s spontaneous, realistic and her voice washes over you with as much familiarity as the neighbor’s.

I was the least impressed with Monica Dogra. Considering the footage she has in the movie, (the promos say it’s four people’s stories but she seems to be around the most), she doesn’t stand out much, except as a moderately pretty face. Interestingly, her act is what made me think that Dhobi Ghat may have made a good movie but it would be a great book. The characters are wonderfully created and the script is taut. Beyond that, it falls to the people who don the roles to bring them to life and I’m afraid Monica as Shai, just didn’t do it for me.

As always, I checked what Meetu had to say before watching the movie. This time, I don’t quite agree with her, when she says that the movie could have very well been set in New York or London or even Pune. Dhobi Ghat doesn’t just pay lip service to standard Mumbai iconography like trains and movies. It snaps up an accurate slice of Mumbai life, from its crowded chaos jostling with glitzy glamour to the near schizophrenic behavior that these contrasts seem to bring out in the city’s occupants.

I started this post talking about the robotic behaviour of Mumbaikers but I also speak for the tangible, prideful emotion that we carry collectively. A city is no more than a group of human beings, after all. And I’d like to think that the unique situations that this group finds itself in, day in and day out, makes us uniquely who we are. Dhobi Ghat seems to agree.

If you love Mumbai, this is definitely for you. If you’re appalled by it and there’s still room for an explanation, maybe this movie will give you one.

Movie: Turning Thirty

I saw the movie yesterday, five days after it was released and at the unlikely time of 3:30 p.m. It felt sort of appropriate considering that the movie seemed to showcase the absolute freedom of the urban Indian woman.

The movie was strictly okay. The songs made me cringe, especially the one just following the opening scene with its done-over-to-the-point-of-nausea ‘couple in a convertible’ picturisation. It also felt a little too Sex and the City in a desi setting. And yet, I didn’t walk out of the theatre. I guess, it’s not the kind of movie I’d take someone on a date to, not one that I’d want to watch with my parents and not one I’d arrange a weekend plan around. But it is the kind of movie that I wouldn’t mind catching on an unexpected free weekday afternoon, by myself just like I did.

I don’t think the problem was the story itself, even if I did overhear a guy tell another, “It should have had a board saying Only For High Profile Women”. That just strikes me as typical Indian male horse-blinkeredness. We do drink and cuss. We are ambitious, ruthless, confused and non-comittal. And yes, casual sex, sex-without-feelings, revenge sex, premarital sex, illicit sex, gay sex…all of these things and more are a realistic part of our lives. Maybe this describes only one kind of Indian woman but that kind definitely exists, and not just in the high society pages.

But I thought the dialogues and the acting left much to be desired. It wasn’t like anybody was wooden. But the theme was fairly complex and new in the purview of Indian cinema. None of the actors really seemed convincing. They just looked…awkward. Except for Tilottama Shome (remember Alice from Monsoon Wedding?) who I thought carried every moment of even her very limited footage with ease.

Something struck me only towards the end and I don’t know if the makers even intended this. Naina, the protagonist faces the standard issues that one would expect from this movie – break-up, heartbreak, parental pressure to get married, societal perceptions towards ageing. But the one subtle issue that underlies the story and the only one that really satisfactorily reaches resolution, both in the situation and in her mind, is her career.

It got me thinking. The world has always struggled with integrating women and ambition. The generation before ours had jobs and within overwhelming barriers like lower pay, stereotyped roles and automatic prioritizing of family over career. My generation has careers but still within standard norms of what will impress the marriage market, what will be conducive to the partner’s own career and eventually, motherhood. Even today, it’s hard for us to admit that we worry about our jobs, employability and career path as much as, if not more than the way our relationships are going.

The boy often points out how hard and cynical I am about many things about my past. It stands out that he seems a tad more understanding about my bitterness over failed relationships than he does about my dashed hopes at the workplace. But maybe that’s not the typical male dismissal of my ambition, as I’d like to think. It is possible, just a wee bit at least, that I’m more bothered by the lows of my career than my love life.

This is not to say that I’ve loved any less or that my relationships mattered less to me than my career. But when I look back, I’ve more or less made my peace with the relationship failures, even the ones that were disasters. I’ve been able to do so by finally accepting that people, emotions and relationships are uncontrollable and that there’s no logic or rules or framework to follow. They happen and if they happen well, I count myself as lucky.

Career on the other hand, seems a lot more logical and structured, which means my expectations are nearly higher. Pettiness, politicking, theft, sabotage are each more difficult to forgive (and impossible to forget) when it comes to my workplace. And whether this is actually true or not, my expectations are still that I’d be able to right such wrongs or seek justice in some manner, when it pertains to work-related issues.

The same obviously doesn’t hold for relationships. Leading someone on, cheating, stealing another woman’s boyfriend and lying are not crimes punishable by law. And hence, my only hope for resolution is to accept and move on.

I’m heartened to note that popular culture (even it if is a somewhat offbeat movie like this one) portraying such issues. Pop culture does reflect how we are, how we think and how we behave, after all.

My favorite words in the movie were in the very last scene.

“Turning thirty is something I learnt to accept and appreciate only after I turned thirty-one.”

That means a helluva lot more than I can say. I’m tiptoeing towards the end of my 31 and I’m still learning to articulate what the big three-O has brought into my life.

Looking For Peace

I sat on the grass for a long time. It felt like it, as I breathed every second that passed. The grass felt comfortable under my butt and thighs. Like a carpet? No, I’m a Mumbai girl, I’m not used to carpets. The park is full of little mounds and grassy gradations and the contours of this patch of land fit comfortably under my legs. I don’t remember the last time I tasted comfort like this.

I was facing the jogging track and people walked by me, heads angled in front, not a glance here or there, focused on building up their heart rate and burning their calories. It was odd to be ignored quite like that. How have I not noticed it earlier? Maybe because I’ve been one of them. Truly, we city people miss the lovely things right before our eyes as we chase after other things.

How often I myself have pounded down this same track, my feet keeping up with my thoughts, an Ipod plugged into my ears or a phone conversation happening in parallel. I’ve been running away from things that are too much bear, rushing through conversations that must be had. And that’s exactly what I see written on all the faces that whip past me on the track today. I hope they find their peace. I really hope. It’s all around, abundant and just waiting to be experienced.

Last month I carried anger and indignation inside me, frothing like a bottle of coca-cola in the backseat of a car that’s zoomed down one of Mumbai’s roads. It rose inside me, threatening to burst forth from my lips and eyes any minute. Any damn minute right now. And I struggled to contain it, to settle it. My best friend had thrown a tantrum when I spoke up for the first time in 15yrs. Another friend had spoken up for the first time in 12yrs and burst forth with things that had little to do with the occasion. The irony of the two events happening in the same week was not lost on me. While I labeled the first one a tantrum, I called the second one an excessive and uncalled for response. I was torn between the two and my anger at the end of it was the stress I felt torn between the two diverse roles I played in these events.

Then there was the person who wanted me to work for him for free. Worst of all was his condescending attitude, an impression of ‘You’re not working so let me give you something worthwhile to do’, an air of doing me a favour by letting me do his work. I wanted to toss it all in this face and flounce out angrily but of course I didn’t. Seething, seething, seething.

Then, an ex- told me that I was just the same as ever, everlastingly full of angst. But he laughed as he said it, just as he always has. And I realized even if he were right, it didn’t matter anymore. I am just myself that’s all.

And A jauntily told me that it was a good thing to replace one’s friends. Relationships outgrew their purpose too and permanence was overrated, he said. There’s some solace to be drawn from that. Can I then let go of all the shackles that hold me back without fear? We hold the keys to our own handcuffs and we hold it with tight, fierce desperation.

It’s time to breathe. A deeeeeeeep breath. And let go.

Yesterday the temple was crowded, as it always is on Saturdays. I found a relatively empty spot and sat down to collect my thoughts. Ten minutes later, when I was walking down the road, a young man passed by and said something. I unplugged my earphones and stared back. He said,

When you were doing your puja, you looked very peaceful and serene. It felt good to see that.

And he walked away. Peace, happiness, contentment, so elusive. I think I’ll stop trying to figure out how to get them and keep them. I’ll just stay in them when they do occur.

At The End Of Fascination

The person I wrote this for, when he read it, told me,

You don’t yet realize that we are beyond this.

It was a fitting end in every way possible.

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