Such a beast, she thought as she smiled shyly. There was something off about her, she knew. There must be a medical term for it. Insanity? Delusion? What was it exactly? Why did she care? Not tonight. Tonight was hers. The one night she did what she really wanted to do sans worldly appropriate blame.

She was lightheaded. Moonshine reflected from the cut glass filled with beautiful honey colored whiskey in her left hand. Pristine beach, a lonesome night, the voice in her head was clear and crisp, telling her what to do next. Tonight was hers. Sans Guilt.

It wasn’t easy. Her family, her friends… what would they say? Life moves on, but could she add to the difficulty of already difficult lives? She would not allow herself to think. Not tonight. Tonight she loved only one man… cared only for him… As her parched mouth drank in the whiskey, her eyes drank him in…unmatched; he stood just beyond the waters, beckoning her. Five years, she had denied herself the pleasure. Not tonight. Tonight was theirs…

The rain poured, just like that first time. She was drenched. Nature thundered. The sea waves gurgled. Her heart thumped in her ears. And she walked… one step in front of the other. She walked towards him, just as he had always wanted. Going to him, of own free will.

At the first touch of icy waters, she faltered. This wasn’t right. He wasn’t real. Just a mirage. But such a beautiful mirage. She should go back. But to what? And why? A happy content life awaited her… but the mysticism tonight refused to be ignored… Courage… Courage, if only for tonight. And it’ll all be over. With the last drop of honey-warm liquid, the voice got stronger. This was it. No guilt. No more pain. No more compromise.

She ambled into the sea to him. The rain was her only witness. It was appropriate that it ended the way it had begun. Finally, she walked towards what she really wanted. Finally, she had had the courage. One step in front of the other. She silently prayed for her loved ones. Give them peace. She walked deeper into the sea and deeper into him. Finally in his arms. Happy. Safe.

She walked till she could never walk again.

As she walks along a deserted beach that she once saw in a dream, with white sand caressing her feet and the cool breeze tangling her hair, she feels his hand in hers and she smiles. She won’t look at him, because she knows he is not real… only a mirage, a character from her past, a figment of imagination. She doesn’t want to accept that crass truth right now. She smiles because if anyone knew who she spent her nights with; they would throw her in the loony bin… not that it mattered too much, she felt caged most of the time, anyway.

Her ability to run away from reality was her greatest forte. In the middle of a traffic jam, she would be on floating mountains hugging giant pandas who loved having her around. Sitting alone, she’d be having a life changing experience in her parallel life, one only she could see, furthermore-only as an outsider, and yet she could savor the emotions in real-time.

And because she was so caught up in that parallel life, she had almost always missed living the present life well. The chances that she had passed by return to haunt her. Even though she tried to recreate that magic now and then, she failed miserably each and every time. She doesn’t give up though. She has faith in charms and madness. Just like spotting a falling star on a cloudy night, she cherishes the fleeting moment of sweet agony that comes from longing… longing for something different, something grander, and something exciting. She glorifies the peace that comes from the bittersweet knowledge that her madness is her sanity, and that she’ll never be understood.

Pseudo-sane is what she believes herself to be. Pseudo-sane in a pseudo life that she is forced to lead.

When I was an adolescent, I had a tough time coping with any kind of change. “Go with the flow”, people told me. “Just go with the flow!” But, how could I? I was a swimmer and a strong one at that. It wasn’t in my nature to just flow along. I was a rock rooted deep on the river bed. The current that I was supposed to be swept away with had merely managed to erode me a bit, but I had not been swept away, nor had I been able to go with the flow. So I stood where I always had… strong, tall and none-the-wiser for the experience.

I mused on the various ways to lift one step in front of the other and move forward. Till now, I had never gone to anyone to make me whole and inadequately few had come to me. Like a wayward sparrow, or an albatross who perches upon a peak to greet a short hello to the immovable rocks. Yet, should the stony mass miss the birds, it could never go to them and could do no more than wait for another visit, if at all. It had to be contended within its own gray mass. 

I suspect that I hadn’t been properly socialized in the ways of the world. I wasn’t what I call, ‘people-broken.’ When too much time passes, you realize certain very visible flaws in you. These are flaws that are etched on to you, and can’t be removed… flaws that only become deeper rooted in time. You cease to blame the people around you for not caring enough, because… face it: you never cared enough, either. Subtly and without my knowledge, my definition of what could make me happy changed. I had changed. Had I gone with the flow?

Then came the days of contentment, when everything was in order and there were no loose ends. Logically, I knew I should be happy. And yet there was restlessness… restlessness, which had become more of a habit rather than an effect of some wayward cause. I couldn’t really account for the edginess. I didn’t understand it, either. All I knew is that it was there, omnipresent and omnipotent. Try as I may to shake it off or to find some justification for the anxiety, I failed.  

At the dawn of another year, I still hadn’t found the key to happiness. Maybe, I was just not smart enough to grasp what may be simple logic. Maybe I never would attain the state of ‘enlightenment’… never enough to acknowledge, classify and clean out the cob webs in my head… the busy spiders only surfacing when I sat down to write, their scrawny legs somehow creating clarity and some sense on paper, amongst blotchy ink marks. Futile thoughts still loitered in my head, like they always had and lingering questions still persisted… questions as clichéd as “What is the meaning of life”, “Do I have a higher purpose”, “What is my true calling?”& “Was it too late?”  

Today, right now…I acknowledge that I wasn’t made to live life day to day, in mundane activities and pointless chores. It isn’t fair to the life you’ve been given to not live it well. I believe I was made to lead a happy life and anything that comes in the way of that must be discarded or destroyed.  The entire exercise of discarding and destroying however, needs to be an exercise of great caution, for even if you are a believer of the theory of perpetuation of energy (matter can neither be created nor destroyed), what is once destroyed never comes back in the form it once was… And if it is true, (like I suspect it is) that a perpetual happy state can’t be attained, my current theory of attainment of happiness relies on change and experimentation. 

Try everything at least twice. Don’t go with the flow; create the reality that makes you happy. Let happiness be a floating concept. Let change be your best friend. Give people a million chances for everything except unkindness. Don’t take anything too seriously. A happy life is most likely a well lived life and a well lived life most likely comes from not shying away from anything, even at the risk of embarrassment, failure or death. I’m searching for the canvas fate has handed me so that I can draw my storyline frame for frame. Happiness is an art; it is an acquired taste; it is an exclusive state of mind; it is all they say “all-in-the-head.” If to be truly happy, the prerequisite was irrationality, I know today, without a doubt that I would embrace irrationality.

I have a happiness charter for life. Let’s hope it is a success.     

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it! Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” – Howard Thurman  

Here’s an excerpt:

A New York City subway train holds 1,200 people. This blog was viewed about 4,100 times in 2011. If it were a NYC subway train, it would take about 3 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

How are you? How goes it in the land far, far away? Are you someone’s Prince Charming there too? While you were here, you sure did make me feel like a princess. No one had done that for me before you and no one has ever treated me that way, since you’ve been gone.

Another new year is around the corner. It has a sublime feel to it, much like the one I almost spent with you all those years back. Feels like yesterday. Feels like forever. Feels like a dream…

I saw a bouquet of red roses in a girl’s hands today. I saw the way she smiled, shy, unsure… Did I look like that when you gave me flowers, or did I just frown while you grinned? I miss your laugh the most. If only it would ring out in this muted room right now. It was the only potent concoction that could infuriate and calm at the same time.

I’ve changed a lot since we last met. I forgive easily and love freely. You taught me that didn’t you? I wish I could show off my new found personality traits to you and get your seal of approval. But I can’t manufacture a miracle, so I’m going to let it go.

You’ve taught me so much over the years, even in your absence, though ‘absence’ may not be the apt word here. You’ve stayed on, haven’t you? You’ve lingered and become a part of my existence, the one thought that consumes every idle moment of my being, the one feeling that fills me up when there is nothing left to feel. Ever since you’ve been gone, you’ve walked with me every day, haven’t you?

There is a strange kind of warmth caressing me tonight. You are here, right beside me. Just like all those years back. Feels like yesterday. Feels like forever. Feels like today… right now…

Stay… just a while longer…

Love, always..

What if it were true? What if the earth was indeed going to end in December 2012? What if I was handed out a piece of parchment that said- ‘you have one year to live’. What would I do? And would I do anything differently?

When I think about it, I have precious little in my life that is left to be desired. The life I lead is fuller than it ever was, more carefree than I could have hoped for, and more blessed than what I deserve. God has always been on my side, it seems. Do I have regrets? Some. Would I do certain things differently? Yes. Do I want second chances? You bet. But if someone told me today that I had just a year to live… would I focus on what went wrong? Not a chance.

I try today to be honest in this post. What would I do if I knew for certain that the world would end in December 2012?

1. I would NOT quit my job. I absolutely love it. There is mediocre love and then there is passionate-love. What I have is absolutely the latter. My work is uber-creative and my team is the best team one could have hoped to work with. And just for that, I’d like to spend time with them.
2. I would fly down just to kiss the one boy I have wanted to kiss for the longest time.
3. I would start writing a book. If I can get it all down on paper by say March 2012, at least I could coax ten odd people to read it.
4. I would get a credit card and go on a world tour with my family. There is nothing better than a time of love and laughter with the rock pillars of your life.
5. I would marry a Texas cowboy on a whim and have a happily till Jan 2013 with him.
6. I would hunt down Nigella Lawson and have her whip up the meal of my life.
7. I would hunt down Samantha Brown and have her take me on at least three of her trips (Don’t ask me how I am getting the visa, or leave… this list is like a Bollywood movie… no logic-just masala)
8. I would travel, travel, travel, travel, travel… and then travel some more
9. I would go to an opera and get high on a symphony
10. I would probably publish this blog as a book and bury the copy 10 feet below ground level and maybe when alien life finds this chunk of ancient script, I’ll get famous some 20,000 years later.

My theory is this. I should do all the above even if no one hands me that piece of parchment. I would call 2012 ‘The Year of No Return’, and do all that I want to do when I want to do it and the way I want to do it. And if the world does not end in 2012, well then 2012 would have been the boldest, grandest and most fun year of my life. Being God’s favorite child, I am sure I could still get away with some pretty naughty things. One book, and a lot of fun travel with one rugged looking & take charge kinda man with a kind heart is all I want out of 2012, of course with continued background music to add to the dreaminess.

Bring it on 2012!  Even if the end of you is the end of me, I am happy. And if this is not the end, well 2012 shall be The Year of No Return.

The reason why I have a current policy of being so choosy is that I have terrible taste in men (and in people generally, perhaps). I sometimes think that I have a Neon sign mounted over my head that everyone can see except me. I suspect that it says something like “Arseholes, please queue up here!” Then, quite apart from that, I also transmit what I like to call my ‘rogue Mummy vibe’ or my ‘Auntie Harsimran’ vibe. Life’s losers and professional victims tend to circle me like sharks circling a bleeding person. In a room full of crowded people, they elbow others out of the way to come to my side. Their eyes alight on me and a look of hope and great interest spreads across their faces. “Ah!” they say, “if only that nice lady could be my friend then I will finally have my perfect match…. And if I impress her with the tragedies of my life then I am sure that she would willingly, and at short notice, make herself available, without demur, for
· Sex
· Sympathy
· Life coaching
· Counseling sessions
· Organizing my life
· Walking the dogs
· Making peace
· Watering the plants
· Other
· (circle any that apply according to desired relationship status and sexual preference)
“I am sure she understands,” they say to themselves,” that she was put on this planet to fill the aching void within me, and free me from having to do so myself.”

Why have I started the Dastardly Date Blog with this long vitriolic ramble? Because it explains a lot about my romantic past. I have not had many dates in my life, but a high percentage have been bad. But the trick to writing a good blog is, I think, to pick a bad date that was interestingly bad.
So who to choose? The cute upstairs neighbor who took me on a date in an auto-rickshaw and allowed me to pick up the tab for the ride and the lunch, and serve myself and him, or the strappy young lad, with a distaste for correct grammar and full words. Or the guy who proposed to take me to a Gurudwara on the first date, and told that his favorite author was Chetan Bhagat, or the guy who asked, in his opening line if I knew how to cook…

The actual story I want to relate revolves around a man whose name I realize I have now forgotten. I went out with him a couple of times a few days back. I can see his face clearly in my mind, so I am quite startled to find that I have forgotten his name.

He was a tall young man, around about the same age as me. He had dark, curly hair cropped short, and a lanky build. He was not handsome but had a pleasant face, with intelligent eyes and a ready, quirky smile. His manner was diffident and good natured and he was an articulate conversationalist. I met him when I went to meet a friend of mine from college. One thing led to another, we met a couple of times at joint gatherings, and a couple of meetings later, he said he’d been promoted and he offered to take me out for dinner to celebrate. I appreciated the invitation, actually.
We met in a café, and he announced that he intended to show me a really good time, but that I would have to pay for both of us because he didn’t have any money. He then gave me a card with an amusing message. The card depicted a grumpy old lady with her face screwed up as if revolted by something bad. I forget the exact wording but the message was something along the lines that the first bad date was akin to lingering around like a fart. Maybe my mood was affected by the fact that I was mentally doing sums and wondering if I could afford to take me and my swain out for a meal, but I found that I didn’t like being compared to one of the grosser bodily functions. When I turned the card around, I noticed the tell-tale pencil marks addressing the card to someone else that had been crudely rubbed off… I was in receipt of a recycled greeting card. How novel.

One very cheap and nasty pizza meal later, we retired to a cheap and sticky cup of coffee. My new age beau had been regaling me with stories of various psychic development workshops he had been to. Now, I find this kind of stuff interesting but I was wondering why he had been to so many – how to draw your spirit guides, reiki, tarot, astrology, recovering past lives, discovering future lives, talking to the angels, swimming with the dolphins, sending healing to the planet, sending psychic messages to the extraterrestrials – believe you me he had done them all. Finally he started telling me about the extra-curricular groups he was attending. One was for men to get in touch with their emotions. His particular challenge was to get in touch with and express his ‘feminine side’. He went on to explain that he had tried on lipstick and nail paint just to see how he ‘felt’ about it. While I was still processing this and willing myself to be okay with it, he dropped another bomb. He asked me how I felt about same sex relationships. Interesting topic for the first date, I say. I told him it was an individual thing and I thought people should celebrate their individuality. “So”, he said, “you would not have a problem if at a later date I turned out to prefer men?” I laughed. He MUST have been joking, right? Right..?! Wrong. He regarded me with an expression that conveyed that I had been clubbed with the rest of ‘Judgmental Indians.’… And to make matters worse, for the life of me, I could not stop grinning. It’s what I do… in utter shock – I grin, if not laugh.

Somewhat composed, yet amused, I kept a straight face as he continued to tell me how life had dealt him the wrong cards, how the system was wrong, the society was prudish, the academic system was shaky, the industry was biased, people were ‘blah’ and this and that. I could almost see a green aura of negativity surround him. I did not voice my thoughts out loud, lest he decide to reiki everything right then and there. After allowing him to beat around the bush, I could hold back no longer and I asked him why we were here having this coffee and conversation if he thought he was gay… He replied that he wasn’t sure that he indeed was gay. I lifted my eyebrows in question, daring him to say what I thought he was saying… He held my gaze and shrugged what I assume was a “Why Not?”

Now either this guy was what he thought to be the smoothest shmuck I’d met or he was the most self-assured gay guy out to nail a girl. Unable to deal with the entire absurdity of it all, I concentrated on my watery brown water that the café passed for coffee, wondering why my maybe-gay date had picked this place… I had nothing quite appropriate to say. For a self-proclaimed writer, I never have much to say. Was I being too judgmental? Was I being shallow? Was I superficial to want to run away from this place arms flaying shouting “ Wourst Daate Everrrrrr…”

When we finally parted ways, I realized this was the best worst date I’d ever been on. There were so many levels to this date… not the least being that when I was paying the bill, my date was putting on Vaseline lip guard ‘to protect his sensitive lips.’ And I was biting my lip to keep from laughing and crying at the same time.

I later found out that the guy was as straight as a guy could be, considering he has a steady girlfriend now… Just a deceptively rugged looking feminine guy… I still wonder if he made up the entire “I-don’t-know-if-I am-gay-can-you-please-help-me-figure-it-out” episode. If he did, I am the biggest moron in town and if he didn’t his current girlfriend is the biggest moron in town.

Just as well… after a spread of disastrous dates, I have sworn off dating. And anyone who ever wanted to date me would reconsider after reading this blog.

As Alex Stephens said, “Never date a writer… She’ll write about things you have done to her or things you never did for her.”  Now Alex Stephens knew what he was talking about!

G’bye suckers. I aint available no more.

Disclaimer: “Characters & incidents may or may not be fictional.”

Words have eluded me a past couple of days, and that is always a precursor to you showing your ugly head through me, making my body a medium for your outburst. Not anymore. I’m beating you to your attempt, writing out all that needs written.

You are an unfair emotion. You come at the most inopportune moments, moments when I most need to be my calm, logical self. You are persistent emotion… gnawing at my insides, insinuating me to snap and gnarl at the simplest of things. I have nothing to be upset about. I have a fabulous job, a loving family, a sturdy support system in terms of friends, and a cute little place to call my own. Yet, you tease me about my lack of social tact, lack of romantic lucidity, lack of dignity to live like a pauper if my dreams asked for it, lack of determination and focus to write one good book, lack of this, lack of that… Believe me- I have tried to run away from you. I’ve ducked, and sprinted, hid and waited with baited breath for your shadow to pass me by, unnoticed but you have always found me, disguised as self-doubt, self-loathe, unpleasant in your closeness, hostile in your acknowledgement and always, always a cold shudder right to my soul. I have now realized that every time I ran away from you, I’ve tried to run away from myself. What a reproachful, dumb, impossible thing to do, right?

So I’m no longer running away. You and I will now form an improbable alliance. I’m going to accept you as a part of me. And I will control you, and not the other way round. You might resist, but I’m going to persist. I’m no victim, and no one- least of all you- is going to victimize me.

You can duck, and sprint, hide and wait with baited breath for my shadow to pass you by, unnoticed but I will always find you just before you can pull a trick. You can disguise as self-doubt, self-loathe, but I will be right there waiting to catch you at your very own masquerade – unpleasant in my closeness, hostile in my acknowledgement and always, always a cold shudder right to your existence. You are one sporty emotion. You strategize like a professional chess player and charm like the never caught robber in cops and thieves. But you don’t get to get better of the decisive, controlled, amused lady protagonist at the end of the story.

So what do you say? Do you want to play?

I’m GAME.

‘No time like the present!’ read the title of what I assume was a self-help book in the hands of a geeky looking, thin, short man in faded orange sweatshirt. ‘No time like the present’ said my head to my heart… I could already see my naughty avatar get warmed up to do something obnoxious.

My flight was boarding. A lot depended on who I would be seated with. I had the last seat in the airbus, and by the look of the crowd, air-bus was completely apt nomenclature for this flight. I decidedly put my i-pod away shook myself out of my usual expression and plastered a social disposition to my entire character. Bold, flirtatious Me was ready for her first bold, flirtatious move… should she find a worthy subject.

Last seats mean your style is cramped up and you have no space in the overhead bin for your stuff. It was, hence a given that I’d look around for an airhostess to help me out. Only, I was faced with a gorgeous air-host! He sort of just ‘appeared’ out of thin air with a professional, courteous smile… and me? Well, I was already in character. Here’s the low down on how different my reaction to everything was.

 … but though my friends may be on to something, another thing came to my notice in sharp contrast. ‘Flirtatious, Bold Me’ will always just be a character… a mask I put on when I am bored and need entertainment. It isn’t something that comes naturally to me, and frankly it isn’t something that I could do frequently. I finally know that I can flirt… that if it came to down to dirty, I could make a few moves of my own… question just is- how frequently would I put the knowledge and art to practice. And if I don’t would I still be considered snooty and unworthy of attention.

While officially, I was here on official purpose, my parents had sent me here with one sole purpose – to find someone to call my own. I don’t blame them. When the entire ‘shaadi’ business at home just went “so-very-wrong” during my one month at home… getting a job offer in Bangalore was a Godsend, more so for them I think, than for me. They got respite from the “jawaan-beti-ghar-pe-baithi-hai” syndrome, while I got to come to a place I had never been before.

But, the premise was set! A promise had been made. Bangalore was where I was supposed to meet someone… let’s just say…’in a sort of permanent association kind of way.’ I wondered if the blue eyed Finnish hunk I met on the plane could be my permanent someone and dismissed the thought. I hadn’t even got his name… though I had his company, work experience, travelogue, insights to India and all things Indian, shoe number and sleep habits… I just hadn’t got his name… (Or number!)

That first week here was the most strenuous, I suppose. But I can say that only in hindsight. While I was in those moments, running behind brokers with a whooping-like cough, runny nose and a running fever was not that bad. I was getting to know this city, rolling in its sensibilities, getting wet in its moody showers, happy with the fact that everyone knew Hindi, albeit with a distinct flavor– “todha todha” (little little)… and smiling at the newness of it all.

The first week was also a week of realizations. The people I thought I’d rely on once I was here, were suspiciously out of touch and the ones I had not even considered came to my rescue… providing brokers’ phone numbers and directions and all sorts of innovative ideas. I realized two things that first week. One: I had fair weathered friends. And Second: I was a lousy judge of character. But all is well, because it all ended well…

Twenty days in, and I have a small, yet adorable apartment to call my own – the financing from A to Z done by me. The sense of independence is through-the-roof! At work, my boss is the most ‘chilled out-yet sensible’ guy I’ve ever met… my team mates are accommodating and supportive… and my work profile is a 180 degree turnaround from a creativity aspect than my last job (in an outstandingly good way!)… and I am just settling in now… it’ll take a little time while I discover this city, perched in a state that has its own state flag… and seek to understand it and roll with the good times I know it’ll offer me!

Cheers to Bangaluru!!! .       Enjaay Maadi! \m/

Yet so much more to me

Mine, all mine

All I could imagine it to be…

It’s been 3 years since I’ve been seriously blogging and what initially started as an experimental hobby has grown into a full blown obsession. I blog because I have a lot to say… nothing that’s an eye-opener or even remotely intelligent… chances are that you might leave the blog more stupid than wise, having spent moments of your life on a blog that you take away nothing from… But, at the end of the day, I write for me. I write because I have the need to be heard and an overpowering fear of rejection. I talk to my blog because it won’t talk back, it won’t put me down and it won’t desert me. My words don’t try to drum their ideas into my head. They don’t get bored and irritated and they don’t run away. I can come here again and again, and my words are right there to greet me.

I am possessive about my blog posts, proud of the fact that they are my creation and naïve enough to believe that no one can take this away from me. My blog is and has been my best friend… my best way to unwind, to make sense of the zillion thoughts that buzz in my head, my ally and the worst keeper of my secrets.

Initially, I had thought this blog will be my happy place and which was why it was created. At that time, my disposition towards life was lukewarm, to put it mildly. But, then something spectacular happened. My real world became my happy place. And this blog became a place where all my darker thoughts came out of my system and stayed and thrived into popular blog posts. And I became calmer, more tolerant, and easier to be with. I’m not sure which was the cause and which the effect. Did my blog create a happier me or did the happier me create an alternative reality? The question still lies unanswered and I shall contemplate it at another time. The answer could be as simple as “I grew up!” But simple answers don’t make for great plots. And mediocre plots don’t make good writers.

What’s on my blog? A friend once told me that my blog is like a sea, that isn’t easy to navigate. I wish it was. I wish I could say that my blog caters to only those who read poetry, or that it is a travel blog, or a blog with funny anecdotes. I wish I could say that my blog is organized writing with proper categorizations.

But my blog is ME. I couldn’t categorize what I write, much as our emotions can’t be categorized in any shade of gray. The blog is utterly random; its blog posts are at times deep and thoughtful, at other times frivolous and stupid, there are moments of being loquacious, then there are moments of brevity, there are moments of using big words like loquacious, and then there are moments of keeping it simple. I rhyme, I spin stories, I write an essay, I try my hand (and usually fail) at humor, I’m terrified of writing terrifyingly bad horror genre, I write about love when I have never experienced it, I write about loss and do the emotion injustice.

Point is- I write.  I send out all my sentiments to this cyber space void with no specific intention beyond the act of writing. Yet, sometimes I get lucky and find out that someone like you reads what I write… and gratitude light up my eyes just as a smile lights up my face…

I am very excited about moving in with you. I hope that our initial awkwardness dies out very soon and that we have a long, comfortable relationship based on mutual respect and trust.

I hope you show me a home and a heart, travels and adventure, craziness and awe. Mostly, I hope you show me happiness, laughter and joy. I have heard a lot of great things about you, already and my expectations are a bit high. I hope you meet and surpass those expectations every day.

As an instinctual creature, I have a very, very good feeling about you and about the new experiences that I am about to share with you. I don’t know what they are, I don’t know when they’ll surface, but I am as sure of them as I am of the nose upon my face. I believe it is a holy intervention that has led me straight to you and I am not about to fight fate.

I promise to give to you as much as you do to me in terms of creation of memories. I promise to be fearless and somewhat experimentative. I shall strive for at least one ‘OMG! I can’t believe I did that!!‘ moment every month, and I shall allow those closest to me to know those moments so that they can roll on the floor in piles of laughter.

You are going to be my biggest adventure till date and I can’t wait to begin my time with you.

With love and starry eyes
Harsimran

Note from Founder and Chair-woman

Ladies and Gentlemen! Welcome to a society conjured up by yours truly. It’s currently in Version 1.0, but notify me and I will let you know when an upgrade releases. The society has been designed from scratch and aims to be hassle free, literally meaning freeing you of hassles. (strictly of the emotional kind).

About:

MUENSO stands for MUtual ENcouragement SOciety, a not-for-profit organization where friends give encouragement to each other for day-to-day emotional dealings.

It was started by the hardly-known Harishman Kapoor (yes, you read that right), known for being eccentric. She legally changed her name to Harishman from Harsimran when a Tamil Official messed up her name on all the documents drafted to make MUENSO a registered society.

Harishman had a view of a world where people who were friends provided great and not so great advice to other people (also friends) and where enthusiasm and encouragement would be given free of cost.

Controversy:

MUENSO got into a minor* controversy wherein A. Krishnamoorthy called Harishman a ‘bum’ for coming up with a redundant society. The case is still open on how offensive the following statement from A. Krishnamoorthy was- “Bum! Its called being friends.” Harishman claims the statement brought to light her bum in an indecent manner, while putting down her claim-to-millions-overnight-idea in jeopardy. When A. Krishnamoorthy pointed out the Not-For-Profit nature of MUENSO, things got out of hand, literally. Harishman was spotted flinging spoons, empty plastic bottles and even her shoe at Ms. A. When asked to comment on the act, she said it was the parliament’s fault and did not elaborate further.

We have leather-finished custom-built shoulders to meet every head structure type to provide a wholesome crying experience. For a minimal* extra charge, you can also have the state-of-the-art electronic shoulder that pats your back every ten seconds and croons ‘it’s ok’. Please bring your own tear-gland-stimulators.

All this and much, much more*…

Advertising Stratergy:

The following punchlines have been formulated to advertise the society.

1. It’s not a counselling session… it’s MUENSO!

2. We help you figure what YOU want at MUENSO!

(We use alcohol, drugs and other extra curricular* as the pathway of exploration)

3. Your parents might ask you to go see a counselor,

BUT

If you want to get what you don’t know you want yet

Come To MUENSO!

Current Status of the Society

Pending the status of the legal battle in the what is now being known as the case of ‘Harishman’s bum Vs. Frandship claim of A. Krishnamoorthy’, the society has not yet been legally registered. However, Harishman claims that the society is being run in secret and is positive that it will grow to be one of the most well-known secret societies of its time.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________

* Terms and Conditions Apply.

After what seemed eons to me, I finally broke the silence with one blunt question. “Why are you afraid of the lift?” The old man looked at me and with a whimsical smile said, “I’m not just afraid of this lift, I am afraid of all elevators and all closed spaces.” I did not understand how a big man like himself could be afraid. It was such a girly attribute. “But you are a boy! How can you be afraid?” The man smiled a full smile and gave one shout of laughter. He leaned in and said in a low tone, “I’ll let you in on a secret! Boys get scared very easily. They are just good at not showing it.” “Really?!”, I was awed by the realisation. “Really”, he confirmed. “And one more thing, little girl… never forget this important fact- Fear is free-spirited. It knows no boundaries.”

Fear is free spirited. It knows no boundaries.

What a novel thought it was to me. I was hardly ever scared of anything at that age and to know that I might one day live in some sort of fear was strangely liberating, inducing delicious adrenaline and I subconsciously welcomed the emotion.

I stared at the old man. “It’s an illogical fear, though. You must know that! No room is going to gobble you up.” I wondered out loud. “Yes, I know that my fear is idiotic, but I can’t get rid of it.”, the old man sighed, and shut his eyes tightly as if in pain. I stopped my questioning.

It’s been some fifteen odd years later and I understand each word he had said. Irrational fears. The knowledge that your fear is irrational plays no part in calming you. While you might face and conquer your fears on a daily basis, what it comes down to is that in there is no joy in those brief moments where the world thinks you are pretty normal. You can’t hide away the tell-tale signs forever. You know that you are acting strange or worse, being pitied for the act. You know how much happier and easier the lives of the people around you would be if you gave up the irrationality. Yet, you fail. The longer you wait, the more addicted you get to your fear. Till you can no longer identify yourself without it.

Fear runs unbound, triggered by the mildest of stimulus or forgotten in a shock; lies dormant till an occasion or stays active in an irrelevant circumstance. It could be harnessed or controlled, doctored to never be visible to another, yet it never really goes away. It lingers and latches on to you as if it is your aura. And you are grateful for it.

I wonder if I am the only one who romanticizes phobia. I wonder if the old man did it too. I think he did, for only a man in love could call his mistress free-spirited.

“Fear is free spirited”, he had said. “It knows no boundaries.”

I agree.

Hand written letters of hope and desire
When just one look could set our hearts on fire
Where every moment together is a matter of chance
If only I could star in an old world romance

Flowers and conversation, more time it’d take
Nothing could redeem the longing or the wait
The lads be careful with words, the maids shy to glance
If only I could star in an old world romance

Disappoint yet, I belong to this day and age
The courtship I seek lies dying in a brittle, yellowed page
Of crass words and overtures, and moving to another just at once
I wait still, in the hope of an old world romance.

I wished tonight
that I hear your voice when you’d call
I wished not to miss you
or to have never met you at all

I wished tonight
that I could rearrange the past, to rewind
I wish you hadn’t shown me you
No other as genuine, as kind.

I wished tonight
upon everything I could see or know
for different last words said so offhandedly
for a chance for our story to unfold and grow

I wished tonight
with regret, desperation and fear
I wished a simple, impossible wish tonight
I wished you were here

Once upon a time, the universe created a baby girl of exquisite features and personality. She was simultaneously warm and cold, her sorrow was the rain and her laughter sunshine. Draped in the hues of green, brown and blue, she grew up to become an elegant lady, grace in her poise and endurance in her soul. And so the universe crowned her, with a tiara as graceful, as elegant and as enduring as she. As time passed, the lady became more and more coveted and wars waged in her name, for a piece of her beauty, for a piece of her drapes, for just the act of  war, or for her crown. Again and again, the battles ensued and her heart broke. She wanted peace. As she aged, her back stooped with the weights of her history where men tried to have their way with her, treat her like a ‘win’ to stroke their egos. But while the lady aged, the tiara remained timeless and yet coveted. I visited the crown, a few days back. The lady allowed me to hold her crown in my hands and see it closer than I had ever seen it, and for that I’m obliged and humbled.

Kashmeer. A land that’s been ravished, bartered and made infamous. A land so breathtakingly beautiful that it breaks your heart at the knowledge of the infamy. I never knew what ‘crisp air’ meant till I visited Kashmir and experienced the unique sound of pine and maple leaves ruffling together with the wind whistling and the nearby brook adding a rhythmic, gurgling applause; the nip in the air just right to make the nose go red and make the body shiver in pleasure. The air here is crisp, the sights – unadulterated, the sounds beat any music I’ve ever heard and the people are simple and kind.

That first day, the Maajhi steered us along the Dal Lake in a Shikara and pointed out the floating villages, where rowing boats to reach school, or to get other provisions was as common as driving a car on roads is to us. Just a mode of conveyance, yet so unique to me. I was the outsider here, yet how easily I could have been on the other side. During that shikara ride, I was acutely aware of how little of our lives we have in our hands, how easily I could have been born anywhere on earth and for the first time in a long time I was grateful for the life I have led and will lead, grateful for my family and for all those who take the time out to say a kind hello to me, when they don’t have to. I silently prayed and asked for forgiveness for my errors, because what better place to do so, than the place hailed as heaven on earth?

All those ‘touristy’ outings of horseback riding in Sonamarg, climbing three hundred odd steps of Shankaracharya Temple, buying Kesar en route to Pahalgam or taking the cable car at Gulmarg could not compare to the ‘evenings free for leisure’, where we took less trodden pathways. While my mother smelled the flowers, I loved the pungent smell of the leaves, the feel of icy cold water, the cool of the stones weathered by water, looking unendingly at the grassy meadows where horses and sheep grazed freely, undisturbed.

And then I would spot an armed army man. Every kilometer has an armed army/ Kashmiri police man keeping an alert eye out. It’s sad. I know why this crown needs protection. I just wish things were better. There are tell-tale signs of the unrest that has preceded my stay. Graffiti on street walls asking to free Kashmir has been loosely disguised. Banners have been put up to advertise the Indian Army as friends of the Kashmiri folks. The knowledge that ‘freedom’ is such a versatile word here disturbed my equilibrium.

The equilibrium, however was quickly set right by a fellow Kashmiri boy… a boy with such incredible eyes, I wanted to curl up and die a happy death in those eyes. A boy who while talking to my mother, kept glancing beyond her shoulder to me and whose this action caused a matched reaction from my end. During a brief three odd minute gap, while mother walked ahead, I gathered that he was a few years younger to me, seeing that he was in his second year of graduation. But who cared! I hadn’t had a crush in a long time, and I couldn’t control my increasing fondness! His face is still clear in my mind, the memory makes me grin uncontrollably, and who can control spontaneous combustion*, especially in the setting so spectacular?

Kashmeer. A land that’s ravished, bartered and made infamous. A land so breathtakingly beautiful that it breaks your heart at the knowledge of the infamy. A land that is worth all the poetry written to its name. A land that has kept a piece of my vagabond heart! A land you can’t experience just by the words of an amateur writer. Take a trip, go with an open mind and an open heart, have faith in unending nature’s beauty and visit a paradise on earth.

__________________________________________________________________________________

* Spontaneous Combustion -http://harsimrankapoor.wordpress.com/random-thoughts/spontaneous-combustion/

I am a drifter. I have never truly loved anyone. I have never felt passionate about anything. And I have never felt like staying.

Who am I?

“I am a writer” I reply. “Are you a professional one, a good one?” I fumble. I am unsure. “No. I am just a writer. Adjective-less and pretty aimless. Just a writer, nothing more.”

They ask me why I don’t write about love that has been found and realized. They ask me why all I write has a sense of loss, a sense of betrayal in it. I tell them, I could never be a writer of fantasy, and they quickly label me a cynic. But, I am no cynic. I wouldn’t know cynicism if it was standing in front of me. I would just see cynicism as a disgruntled person and maybe hope that it is a temporary affliction. They ask me again. Tell us something about yourself. The world is dark outside, the winds blowing at an illegal speed and I feel constricted and restrained.

Who am I?

I am narcissist. I sit here typing my viewpoints under the pretence that someone would read what I write. I am a pretender. I pretend I live the day dreams and stories I spin. I am a suspicious hopeful. Every emotion I have ever felt has a tinge of mistrust and Murphy’s omnipresence in it, yet I long to ‘live’ each emotion I feel and label it and write about it.

They aren’t satisfied. They call me vague and unclear. And when I agree with them, they call me defensive. When I call myself agreeable, they call me a prude. When I agree that I am a prude, they judge me as someone who doesn’t know what she is talking about. I look at myself. I am not bound by any ties. I can just get up and leave. But they would call me an escapist.

Who am I?

I am a caged spirit, who has tried too many times to break away. I have been unsuccessful. I am bound by my make, by my own decisions and dispositions. I am caged by the hint of the ‘damn’ that I give about what others think. I’m caged by other’s perceptions.

They ask me one last time, voices loud, cold hands biting the flesh on my shoulders, cold words cutting my insides, cruel tones belittling me. “Who the fuck are you?” The wind is ferocious outside. My silence is deafening. The room is too small. The question too big. I feel like crying. I feel weak. I feel lost and out of control.

Who am I?

Love is such an over-rated, misused emotion. It was just scorn about the fact that I wasn’t the leading lady in this story. It was the realization that I was just a vamp, a distraction, a mere extra in your grand epic novel. I was the narcissistic egotist who over coffee with you and your girlfriend, kept thinking you could do better than the sweet, innocent she… that you could, instead, be with me.

It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

It was just hurt and envy that you had her and I had no one. It was self pity. It was the pain of standing passionless and lifeless, holding my feet firmly to the ground to stop myself from running to you… running after you. I was the hypocrite who was single by choice, as if it was a choice I had made.

It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

It was just desperation cramping up my insides when I thought that it wouldn’t be right any more to call you up when I was drunk, or when I just needed someone to talk to…or when I just wanted to hear your voice. It was frustration that someone else’s smile had swept you away, while mine might as well have been a dog’s snarl. I was the wimp who missed every opportunity offered to her on a silver platter, and now blamed everyone else, anyone else for her loss.

It wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

It was just a weird, confused and bad-timed comprehension that I did not want to share you. It was the sorrowful appreciation that you were never mine to share. I was the girl in Gray at your wedding. I stood apart, aloof and kept repeating to myself that this wasn’t love. It couldn’t be.

Because, if it was… if only it was…

At Last

Storm’s coming

Rage anew

Closet full of skeletons

Curious, bones a few

In Satan’s fury

Lies deserved pain

Fears realized

Limbs slain

Myth or fact

You can’t decide

Up or asleep

In Secrets you confide

You shall pay

For stings inflicted

Judgment day today

At paradise’s gate

You stand rejected.

His half a sneer

You realize your fear

Welcome.

I know your mouth is parched, your heart is racing and your limbs feel rubbery as you step out of a comfort zone for want of something better, something grander without really grasping what that ‘something’ is. You are leaving behind a mediocre circumstance on the hope of a spectacular experience, an instinctive optimism propelling you towards the unknown.  You see the black pitch you need to walk into, and you see nothing beyond it. You panic, you falter, you question the logic, you reprimand the heart; the soles of your feet get stuck to the ground, you’re unable to place one foot in front of the other and you feel sick to the stomach.

“What the hell am I doing?” you ask yourself. There is still a chance.  You could go back. But the past was dreary. And if you go back, you know without a hope that it will be a lackluster existence.

So, I ask you, today to be fearless. Take that step towards the unfamiliar and embrace whatever change it may bring. You have won half the battle just by starting your journey, and now is not the time to stop. And even if the future isn’t better, at least it would be cease the monotony of today.

The people you meet along the way, those who inspire you and those who put you down, are ‘just’ people, mere flesh and blood like you. They have their own set of hopes, dreams, strengths, perfections and flaws. Your husband, your wife, your boss, your subordinate, your family, you friends, your beau, a stranger, the rich, the poor, the established, the vagabond are all but people under those labels. Learn for them, respect them but don’t treat them like God. They neither deserve nor expect your reverence. They are just characters in the story of which you are the protagonist. You are the reason why the story is written, the reason why it would be read. Don’t fear the people in your life and don’t seek to be feared. At the end of the day, the entire play of power is pointless. There is only co-existence, or the act of moving on.

Don’t fear mediocrity. Experience the shame and anger that mediocrity brings. Don’t fear failure. Experience the heartbreak and physical pain and seek to understand it. Don’t fear the perfect. Perfection is nothing but perceived reality. Don’t fear judgment. Not all battles need to be won. Some would be lost, and should be lost. Life wasn’t meant to be lived with just one flavor of existence. Go through all the zillion emotions that exist, and then some.

Lastly, I ask you to give up your inhibitions. Untie the ties that bind you. Let go of the past, the bad memories and the good. Stop worrying about what will come, it will come whether you worry or not. Live today. Act today. You could do anything with this moment…anything at all!

The world is your playground… all it asks of you is to be fearless.

Change Needed

It was just another Monday. I got up. I got ready. I went to work. I sent some mails. I took some calls. I pretended to understand the jokes my colleagues cracked. I agreed with the boss. I ate lunch. I pinged whoever was online on G talk. I called my parents to talk about nothing, really. I had coffee. I visited the washroom at mid-day to see how bad the brand new pimple on my face looked. I slyly checked out random photographs on Facebook. I listened to some employees grumble. I smiled when certain colleagues (tried to) flirt. I updated on twitter every thought running through my mind. And if the update exceeded the max limit of words to be put on Twitter, I decided to put it on Facebook instead.

I had been carrying out the above for the past nine months, everyday for 244 days, now. There was no new learning at my job. Nothing that kept me interested in what I was doing. There was no man I liked enough to give me incentive to come to work. And there was an increasing need for change.

“Change, already?!” My alter ego exclaimed when I first thought the wayward thought. By the way, I’m still looking for a name for the voice in my head and any and all recommendations are welcome. I tried to calm the voice. “I am just weighing the options”, I said. “Like how nice it would be to finally get to stay in my room. Like how awesome it would be to travel incessantly. Like maybe I can get a chance to write… wait for it… *for a living*” There were Godly chimes in the background as I thought that last thought. Now if only I had the courage to give up my current state of affairs, and be the ‘go getter’ I had called myself in so many corporate interviews and introductions.

“But, what about the pay cheques?” Sigh. Darned this money minded mind of mine. I needed to be independent. I needed to not depend on dad as an ATM. I could hardly imagine life without materialistic pleasures. The background music now transformed into a heart-wrenching gloomy Shehnai, and in my mind’s eye, my life (without the current job) turned into a black and white screen with me looking at an Audi with ogles of ‘want’ rather than ogles of ‘will have’.  I had just about five thousand rupees saved up even after 9 pay checks. I had one five hundred note in my wallet. Gloomy state of affairs, I tell you. I did not even have ten rupees besides that five hundred bill today. How was I supposed to buy the ticket to ride in the rickety Chennai train and get home. But no one would give me lesser denominations for the five hundred. Shopkeeper mentality reigns supreme. Bleh! Who cared? I was going to get out of here. I was too young and too fabulous to stay with my bum stuck to an un-ergonomic office chair.

“A bird in hand is worth two in the bush”, said the voice. Well, then I get to choose my own bushes, I retorted. There was a movie the next day. I needed to save about four hundred and fifty of that five hundred to watch the latest Twilight movie. (Yes I know. You can snigger at your own time.) See, I NEEDED to get out of this hardly paying job, and get into something more satisfying- emotionally, spiritually, artistically and financially. (I do believe in miracles, you know).I resolved to get the change that I needed.

While I was wondering about career change and while I was also still wondering where I could get a couple of tenners, Gulabo, a fellow team-mate bounded over to my cubicle super enthusiastically. “Simran”, he said. “Give me three fifty bucks, na.” “Um. Sure” I said, as I took that lone ranger out of my wallet. “What’s this for, though?” I asked. “Oh you know, Sara is leaving the company and his last working day was yesterday. So we got him a gift. It’s your contribution for the damages.”

Did they get him a baby elephant? Three fifty per head??!! And who is this Sara guy anyway?

“Who?” I asked, meekly. “Oh you know Sara… Saravananarayanan Gopalakrishnan Krishnamoorty Rajagoplan.” “There were… four people?” I was confused. Gulabo laughed and patted my head, messing up my hair. I hated it when he did that. “No, Simran. Don’t you know Sara? He sits on the fifth floor. He reports into P.K. Girpade in the finance department. Curly hair… hairy arms.” I shook my head to say no, my eyes wide with the knowledge of stuff I was supposed to notice about this Sara person. Gulabo returned a hundred and fifty rupees back to me. I accepted it.“Weren’t you there when we all went to Saravana Bhavan for dinner?” He asked. “No” I said. “Oh right. You weren’t there. Of course you don’t know Sara.” I gave a tolerant smile. “Well, thanks for the contribution, Simran. You’re a gem.” He patted my head once again.

I sat there, stunned. ‘I need to get out of this office and away from these strange people’, I thought. I looked at the one hundred and fifty rupees in my hand, and heard the voice say. “Well, you did say you wanted change.”

More Than This

Open Road

Anna Nalick

2 AM and I’m still awake, writing a song
If I get it all down on paper, it’s no longer inside of me,
Threatening the life it belongs to.

And I feel like I’m naked in front of the crowd
Cause these words are my diary, screaming out loud
And I know that you’ll use them, however you want to.

But you can’t jump the track, we’re like cars on a cable,
And life’s like an hourglass, glued to the table
No one can find the rewind button now
Sing it if you understand.
and breathe, just breathe

- Anna Nalick.

Be Fearless. You have no choice, anyway.

Robert Fritz said, ‘If you limit your choices only to what seems possible or reasonable, you disconnect yourself from what you truly want, and all that is left is compromise.’

The belief that we have a choice is a fallacy told to us as a practical joke which some ancestor of ours played on us some thousands of years ago. And till date, we have not realized that it was a practical joke. Choice! As if we have a choice! It is said that the right choices lead you to the right opportunities and the right ‘success path’. What they don’t tell you is what makes this path right, in the first place. It is said that only you can make the choices in your life, based on what your head and heart tell you. What they don’t tell you is that rarely do you ever make a choice where the head and the heart are in perfect sync. Can you remember the last time you did something that felt right to both, the head and the heart?

Logic may tell you to get married. The heart may ask you to stay free. Logic may ask you to find a career. Heart may ask you to give it up in the name of vague art. Logic may tell you to conform. The mad heart will ask you to run wild and liberated.

So what happens when the heart almost always starts to trump logic? What happens when you willingly give up a logically pretty good situation for an uncertain one, in the name of excitement and adventure? Well, then the society looks at your life and says, “She is fickle. She doesn’t stick on to anything. She is pretty aimless.” And you could very well choose to ignore society, but if you choose to see your family happy and they choose to follow societal norms, your choice of ignoring society becomes pointless, really.

The problem is this. We have been cultured to think that over ambitious people are better than non over ambitious ones and that ambition is only work related. And only that work qualifies as work that gets you fat paychecks at the end of the month. If you take this social conditioning out of the picture, then the plan to follow your heart is the best plan in the world. But if you can’t take this social conditioning out of your system then, even if you think today in a moment of epiphany, that sailing away with carefree winds is the best option, when tomorrow comes you’ll again be second guessing everything.

It’s a universal issue. It’s idiotic human nature. The fight between logic and feeling is the most consistent and most draining one. And no matter what you do, all you are left with is compromise.

Let Go

One meets too many people in a small lifetime and too few of them remain in the turn of the mind. It is the extraordinary moment that lingers on, becoming a part of your soul, like the cool that lingers when wind blows through the sieve of your fingers. That moment when unknowingly you allow a person to stay on, to remain.

You did. You remained. You stayed. You thrived. You created a small corner of comfortable existence in my mind, quick to resurface and tickle my thoughts with your memories at any given scintillation.

Small, inconsequential things remind me of you. Like when I write. Like when I hear music. Like when I see red roses. Like when I think about joining a gym. Like when I see curly hair. Like when I hear your name pegged to someone who isn’t you. Like when I hear free laughter.Like when I look at my phone and don’t see your number. Like when I look around and I don’t see you. Like when I look around and do see you and I know that you’re not real.

Last time, to hold on to sanity, I finally let you in. But this time, to hold on to reality, I have to let you go.

It’s time.

Belief in Love

“So, you don’t believe in love, do you?”

I am sick and super tired of this question which is invariably posed by the strangest of people in the most unrelated of situations. I should simply get a tattoo of an oversized teddy bear hugging a heart shaped cushion with a ridiculously happy smile. I should probably get this tattoo on my forehead, where it is hard to miss. I should wear pink colored T-shirts with glitterati and those “Love is’’ quotes. (It would, ideally not have quotes like- ‘Love is… Pretty Hormonal’) I should have a badge on me all the time stating ‘Yes! I believe in Lou!’(And I should whack anyone who dares to ask who Lou is!) Maybe that will ward off this irrelevant question which was an utter invasion of my privacy.

Of course, I can’t say that. No girl who blogs about anything personal has any right to claim privacy. Maybe if I got married, people will stop asking this question because everyone just assumes that married people believe in love, and ARE in love. (Social pressure, anyone? No? Ok.)

Question remains, do I believe in love? Yes, of course I do. Do I believe it’s an overrated concept? Yes. I do. Do I feel lucky that the emotion exists? Yes. It gives me ample to think and blog about. Am i fond of the idea? Yes. I believe it makes for a happy existence.

Clearly, I believe in love.

(Un)related fact is, I also believe in suspicion, hate and indifference.

Holding On

Good ol' whiskey to make things risky

Like every relationship, it did not start out this way… In the beginning; it was beautiful and charming, mysterious and alluring. The city flirted with me with its exoticism- the language rolling off the tongue, mispronounced, funny and sweet… the scents, all striking, arousing headiness by aroma of jasmine and coconut… the sights were all novel, unabashed and bold, making me feel like a foreigner in my own country.

Today, the language irritates me, just because it’s the toughest language to learn and I haven’t had the time/inclination to learn it. The scents cause a headache, like when you are stuck in an elevator with a person who has accidentally or intentionally emptied a bottle of mediocre perfume on herself. The sights are all the same. And all three aspects together make just the right concoction of annoyance.

But, it is not in my nature to fight or call off a relationship in anger. No, anger does not take a part in the decision making at all. I much rather brood over the actual possibility of a relationship working, ticking off all checkpoints on the notepad of logic. Yes, Chennai and I were never going to work. It was destined to be. I had known the facts of the matter, and heard the little voice in my head .Yet; I had just turned a blind eye to the facts in my infatuation. And I had given it a year, just like I give every affiliation a chance. And finally, Chennai proved unsuccessful in having a hold on me.

Divorce is a sad word. It implies time wasted, emotions exhausted, possibilities lost. But with Chennai, the divorce is different. I swear I will never come back. Yet, I will always be fond of the memories that it gave me. I know today, I struggle to tolerate every single thing this place has to offer. Yet, I will always be thankful for the experience, because to know is always better than to not know.

Chennai is that fling that should be had, just so you know that it would’ve never worked. It’s that short affair that you must have just to educate yourself and make yourself aware of certain traits and qualities of yourself. It is that ‘silly thing you did’ just because you could.

Chennai and I are getting a divorce. I’m moving back home.

I shrugged on my jacket and braced myself for the ride on the bike, with the rain lashing on my face like a thousand pin-pricks. The coffee shop I had to go to was all the way on the other side of town. 45 minutes later, I was there. She was sitting near the entry, absently looking at the menu. Now, that is the kind of girl I should be with. It’s been 15 days since we’ve been engaged and she doesn’t remind me of you, even a bit. I sit next to her, with an arm around her. She orders a green apple soda.

The waiter looks expectantly at me. I glance at the menu. I haven’t had one espresso since you left. I remember clearly how you almost choked on that first sip of my black coffee. I order a cappuccino. That was your preferred drink, wasn’t it? I have grown fond of it, too. The sugar soothes me.

She just cracked a joke. I’m not sure what it was, but she is laughing. I laugh too. It must have been funny what she said.

It’s raining still. “To hell with you” I think, as I turn to face her, with a smile plastered on my face. “I don’t miss you at all.”

He was the moon to her sun, orbiting her under the pretext of orbiting someone else… anyone else, but at the end of the day, all he wanted to do was to orbit her.

She was the star. The sun is a star, after all. She was fiery and strong and spurned whoever came too close; that whoever however did not include him.  He was the cool to her ardor, the calm to her thrill, the sliver of silver to her gold. Their team was perfection, if you took the entire demographical factor out of the equation, but then 150 million kilometers is chickenfeed. What did mushy love know of distance?

I have always believed that the hardest people to come across are people who are kind to you. They are the people who make time for you, who make up silly stories to see you laugh and who are willing to have babies for you, even if they are men. They are the people you must hang on to… no matter what.

I did not understand how anyone could give up such a person, once they found them.

Who was I kidding? I did understand. Us, women:  We are perfect in everything except when it comes to men. Men may be rumored to be simple, but the emotions they cause in a girl are not. Put the most sensible woman in love, she’ll resurface as a breakable, vulnerable and befuddled lady. Who would ever want to be in that situation?

“She does have a point, though.” I told Fourohthree, as I took another heaped helping of Vadilal’s dark chocolate. “What if it doesn’t work out in the long run? What if it becomes messy and blotchy and ugly, later?” She looked up and with a look that made her wise beyond her years, said, “And what if it does work out? What if it works out spectacularly?”

I looked around for my magic mirror that enabled to look into the future. I did not find it. There is no magic mirror. Love is largely a gamble. Life deals you a hand of cards and much like poker; you can either fold or play. If you fold, you might be safe, but you won’t ever win. You’ll sit at the bay line and watch someone else win. It’s better to play. Play shrewdly or naively, but don’t stop playing.

This universe has a mind of its own. It creates at will and destroys at whim. No amount of planning can ever stand a chance in front of the universe. All you can do is to have faith, believe in idiot-luck and respect every sign that indicates that you’ve found someone awesome. The love story between the moon and the sun may seem a implausible one, to the untrained mind. But it is also the most breathtaking love story one can ever hope to see, and one which should be fulfilled just because it promises to be so stunning.

I looked up from my Ayn Rand. I was on page 3 for over an hour and had not yet understood one thing she had written. And now you were rambling about semiconductors. I put the book face down on the table, with an expression that said, “Fine, I’m listening to you. What new cock and bull story do you have now for our failing relationship?”

We had decided to postpone breaking up for a week, so that we could figure out what could be done to not break up. Your idea. You always had crazy ideas. So here we were, in the coffee room of the mess. I was still very fond of you. But I still did not see this working out. This was mostly because I did not know how to make you the center of my world and you did not know how to make me the center of yours. It did not change the fact that we wanted each other around, though.

“You know, a conductor is just that – something that conducts electric current. Romantic couples are conductors. They conduct love without resistance. Us, we are semiconductors. We have been doped with elements that cause us to not love helplessly. The amount of dope can be monitored so that it causes little resistance, or so that it resists gooey, romantic current flow completely. We just have to curb our urge to overdose on our respective dopes.”

I was confused now. Were you talking about physics or weed? I looked blankly at you.

“You remember semi-conductors, right? Chapter 9- 11^th Standard Physics”

I loved how you had so much of useless information. And that you could use it in such unlikely contexts.

“Anyway”, you continued, “Your dope is your irrepressible need to be on the move and not talk much. And my dope is my irrepressible need to go out party and hang out with my guys. If we reduce the influence of these dopes, we can successfully conduct romantic currents.”

I couldn’t believe I had sat through that particular monologue.

“Romantic currents?” I asked, as eyebrows rose.

“Romantic currents!” You agreed, grinning like you had just made everything right.

I shook my head, smiling. I loved how enthusiastic you were about this entire exercise. I knew we were making memories that would stay with us for a long time to come. I loved that grin of yours. I knew I’d miss it, if I let you go.

“What if we are addicted to our dopes?” I asked quietly.

You looked up from your make believe golf pitch where you were practicing how to putt with your invisible golf club.

“Then, we are screwed.” You said.

4 simple words had summed up our entire situation.

That night I lay in bed thinking about your absurd semi-conductor theory. If your theory was correct, you and I would never love anyone completely. It was a sad thought. Who would’ve thought a physics lesson could be so depressing.

No ring tones blared that night, on either phone. No sms was transmitted wishing sweet dreams. I dreamt of science examinations, while you were mysteriously missing from the most happening party of the year.

Mostly, we both were put off 11^th Standard Physics for life.

It’s a magical land, Kerala. And though the million colors of the flora and the rolling tea gardens of Munnar are a sight to see, it is no match for the wilderness I’m currently being exposed to at Thekkady. I’m staying at a place called Wild Corridor, and at this very moment I’ve had a brief window of calm and quiet. Everyone has gone off to get ready for dinner… no TV blaring the wrong done to a so-called saint, no one making conversation to fill in the quiet that I so love in moments like these, and no feeling of being rushed to the next must-see place. It’s just calm, and so am I in the balcony that screams that I’m in sheer ‘luxury meets nature’s’ lap.

It is dusk. The clouds are moving east. Maybe they’re going home after their day’s job of nourishing and drenching God’s own country. The crickets and birds are singing me a symphony… well, it’s actually a cacophony, but don’t tell them I said that. It’s almost the same call as street vendors selling their wares- Unadulterated, unstoppable sound. A slug is making its way towards the small wall towards my left. He’s been at that journey for the past half hour. “Hang in there, buddy”, I say to him, “you’ll get there.” He doesn’t care for my ranting. I don’t mind. I like this slug. He’s my type… slow, silent and going nowhere fast.

My mind is doing 500 miles a second right now. Smoke like daydreams form in a vision, and vanish before I can fully comprehend them or even catch a glimpse. I have lived most of my life in a day dream, in a semi conscious stage of what can be, rather than living in what is. Kerala, this balcony, this moment is such a perfect ‘what if’ moment. My slug has almost reached its destination. Its funny how in half an hour, my affection for this slug has increased to an extent that I see it as mine.

The chill has started creeping up the tips of my toes to my ankles. I love this feeling, of being warm inside and cold outside. This feeling is one that only nature can provide, weaving magic with tiny dew drops and sharp cold bursts of wind. My slug has reached the wall. What will it do now? It has reached where it wanted to go, right? Maybe we all are slugs in our own way, slowly going nowhere. And when we reach that wall, it’s hard to understand why we started on this journey in the first place.

“Now what?” I ask him. He still doesn’t care for my ranting. He takes a right and slowly starts going nowhere again, in no hurry and in no apparent worry. I really like this slug. He is teaching me the way to live. “Relax; take it slow, it’s all in the travel, anyway.” He’s right.

Dusk has now given way to night. All I can see are silhouettes of trees, branches and leaves which I could see clearly and in great detail only minutes back. Maybe this picture is a drawing of the days to come. Maybe everything that is crystal clear today will only become a dark shadow upon a navy blue canvas, tomorrow. Maybe I should stop day dreaming and start doing, before I lose precious time. “What do you think, Slug?” I look at where my slug should be. It isn’t there. He was a figment of my imagination, anyway… just a strong character in a day dream. I wish him luck. May he reach nowhere fast, just like he intended.

And so, it’s easy to see that I love Kerala. It relaxes me and my make believe friends come to life. But, ever so soon, the time for reality is back. Luckily, I can dream at night.