To the man in the pink slip

To the man in the pink slip in the metro,

You were wearing a pink slip, jeans, rouge and a matching pink lipstick. You were merrily singing along to songs with your earphones plugged in.

“Next station is noida city centre”

As you moved towards the doors, the horde of people (mostly consisting of young men) moved to one side giving you a wide berth. And you kept singing along. They laughed at you, and conspicuously started talking amongst themselves. You just exited the doors and made your way to the exit gates. As you were doing that, two old couples expressed their anger at your attire.

I also saw you two weeks ago, in the same metro. I was making my way to the coach nearest to the stairs. You were in that coach, arguing. Or defending yourself, I later realized. You were wearing a shirt which had an open back. (This is relevant because I only heard snippets of what followed.) A man raised an issue with it. And this time you replied. It came down to abuses flung your way. Horrible words spoken by callous morons.

But they aren’t to blame, no, not entirely. You were vigorous in your defense, sir. But you were alone and I was a bystander. I am sorry.

You were cornered. You have the right to express yourself. But you also have the right to my support. It’s not asked of me by the law but by the nature of sheer humanity.

I am sorry. I am so sorry.

I was silent and I am responsible too to an extent.

You don’t deserve this. No one does. I am happy that you stood up for yourself, a feat that I haven’t accomplished. I prefer to ignore.

You, on the other hand, inspire.

I hope there isn’t a next time but we live in a country that outlaws the very expression of your existence so there probably will be.

I am sorry.

 

How do I write when there is nothing left?

Let’s face it, I am not a writer. So stating that I have writer’s block would be blasphemous.

My refusal to categorize myself as a writer is not a sign of my already diminishing self esteem. It’s just a conscious decision to distance myself from those who are passionate about the art. Since I have such respect for those who do (write) it would be sacrilegious, if I compare these previous penned “thoughts” with their amazing pieces. Take this as a weird love letter to them, if you will.

Books have been my world. And the funny thing is that the previous statement is literal, no, not metaphorical (for all the Ted Mosbys out there) but literally books have been my world. I loved being lost. It was so thrilling even if the book was a sappy romantic princess whiny thingamajig; engrossing even if it was Ayn Rand’s larger than my head novel on being a true rebel and what not or Harry Potter, because who doesn’t love Harry Potter- “always” man, that line kills me-.  Was it just a cheap escape (the expensive ones being drugs)?  Or I just wanted to fit in? How could I have when the rest of the teen populace was busy discussing what happened on the previous day’s episode of Balika Vadhu (on the morning of the exam, no less). Although it would be wrong of me to generalize just because of a (maybe) minority (like “hardcore feminists” do with the male population, but that’s a debate for some other time). I just didn’t meet the right people.

Regardless, I was happy.

Well, mostly.

Books were good to me. They helped me create a perspective that was broad and accepting for the most part. It was, well, nice to live with stories that had no end. I could take the last book in the series anywhere. Maybe Potter became the Minister of Magic, or died (or worse expelled-sorry, couldn’t resist-). Just the whole aspect of it being infinite and conclusive thereby defying the concept of an oxymoron really, really captured that chubby little kid.

Did I lose my childhood? Would my time have been better spent frolicking in the playground? I don’t think so. Sure, I might have been thinner but then that’s anybody’s guess. I mean, I did eat those barfis by the dozen when I was little ( I am kidding, well, for the most part I am, I promise).

This leads me to now. Because as I am writing this, I have A barfi in my hand. Purely coincidental, I promise, again.

Because I’ve stopped reading.

I don’t feel that ‘need’ to read (that rhymed) anymore. And it pisses me off sometimes. I have dozens of books lying around. Waiting to be opened. None of them beckons. And I am lost once again but this, this is a different kind of lost. The kind that leaves me with nothing to say and nothing to think about.

Bare.

 

Everything’s not lost

You are not

getting rescued,

So don’t wait

to be saved,

And that world

in your head

isn’t real,

but they are.

The mother with

worry in her face,

the father with

hope in his eyes,

the sister with

innocence in her smile

Your demons

will subside,

your mistakes

will fade,

your regrets

will recede

And you will

exist.

 

In conversation with.

Talk me off a ledge
you’ve put me on
Let me breathe
free from you
You are a struggle
and I want to win
So I keep trying
until I give up
I could be happy
but are you?

You will always
exist in my shadow
Can’t let you go
do I even want to?

……………………..

Happy -Congrats, you squeezed out of a vagina today- day! Tra-la-la-la

This is one day out of three sixty five when I feel obligated to be happy.

The kicker? I am not.

Shouldn’t chirping birds awake me? Accompanied with a glorious sunrise, a picture perfect day and being surrounded by loved ones? Yet I feel more alone than ever. I used to revel in it. The disconnect appealed to me.

As I grow older(sadly), I have surmised that the cliche ‘No man is an island’ is somewhat true. But I have also realized that people are not my boundaries.

I have changed and I hope I reach a point of time in the near future where I learn to be okay with myself. I am certainly closer to that state than I ever was.

Here’s to being slightly weird and anti social! Here’s to still singing 90s songs in the shower!  Here’s to being miserable intermittently!  Here’s to defining a new normal! Here’s to an updated 15.0.3 version of me! I hope there are many more(versions) to come.

The thing I’m more perturbed about is the apparent lack of chocolates I received today.

Happy Birthday to me!

Doubt v. rationality

She feels like putting a bullet through her head. She doesn’t know why. It’s just one of those days.

She knows that emotions are a by-product of her hormone addled brain. This feeling to self hurt is temporary and it will pass but this time she’s afraid. She always finds a way to avoid “discomfort”. Bordering on the irrational, her mind wanders far away, lost in thoughts of a better day. But they can’t satisfy that nervous energy building up in her gut. She feels utterly miserable and helpless, a queer revulsion at her state. Her attempts at progress and change lie defeated, fresh atop the ever growing pile.

“Help would always be given to those who ask for it. “

This time, there is no escape.

She knows that she’s losing herself and Janus is right outside the door. She’ll have to stand up and confront the two-faced god this time.

Life is not a box of chocolates

No matter how careful one is, being hurt is inevitable. Yes, one has to move on but that doesn’t make it any less painful. Be it love, family or friendship, each relationship leaves a mark.

It becomes harder to move on when there is no closure. Subtlety isn’t my strong suit. I can never be subtle or understand it. So, I hate when things are left unsaid. Why put on a show? It’s not going to help anyone. Just rip the band-aid off and let the wound heal.

Life isn’t like a box of chocolates. They have  everything written on the back! Flavour, ingredients, the presence of nuts, manufacturing address and other such things we ignore.

Life is like a big box of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Yes, the little grey one looks funny and smells fishy but you eat it anyway. Life is a series of weirdly delightful and artfully obscure experiences.

Let curiosity kill you. You still have eight to go!

The End Of The Road

I’m struggling through an If-Then scenario currently. If I fail, then I…..

Two years without even a semblance of a suicidal thought balanced on a precarious ‘If’. Unbalanced more like.

 

And why shouldn’t I? I see no choice but a choice. I hear no evil but only the truth and that is the evilest.

Yes, it is my error and no, I absolutely refuse to carry the burden.

After all, existence is an arbitrary notion.

 

“On me dit que le destin se moque bien de nous
Qu’il ne nous donne rien et qu’il nous promet tout
Paraît que le bonheur est à portée de main
Alors on tend la main et on se retrouve fou”
Carla Bruni – Quelquun m’a dit