Warming My Cold Feet.

See the thing about fear is that it can seem bigger than you.

What’s funny is that most fears actually start as tiny little thoughts. Minor what-ifs, really. They sit there, festering and gestating, coming and going, becoming bigger, asking for more attention and whining if you don’t give them any. Far from giving them attention, we ignore them. Ask them to bugger off and come another day.

And yoohoo, they do. At which point, we have the audacity to actually be surprised. We expect the another day, to be an other day that is not today. We act petulant. We keep asking the fear to go away, until such a time as when it becomes louder and more demanding, and then we try to negotiate with it about its it next ETA.

Like a deadline that we’ve forgotten, we’re astounded, annoyed, and frustrated when it shows up again. We then try to actively, and rather stupidly, run away from it.

Stupid, I say, because the one thing that we cannot do (and yet, most of us do do), is run away from anything in our own minds. The longer we run from it, or hide it under our beds, the bigger the imaginary monster gets. It grows in size, new and shiny claws pop out, and if you leave it unattended long enough, it starts to speak in strange, scary tongues, with added spooky background music for effect.

I had one of these episodes recently. Mine was called Cold Feet (here on referred to as CF). Unlike the most well-known type of CF (the wedding bells variety), this one was rather unusual, and therefore one that I took time to recognize. You see, quite contrary to the wedding bells variety, where you’re shitting bricks about committing your whole life to someone and wondering if you’re making the right decision, my CF was my fear of committing to myself.

Surprised? Yeah, me too.

Here’s the story of my CF—

A couple of months ago, I finally decided to do the thing I’ve been thinking about doing for a while now— live by myself. I had been running around house to house, broker to broker, landlord to landlord, on my new-house hunting expedition. I had done this before, but the difference this time, was that I had to do it all by myself. As I’ve outlined in this post, I’ve always had a problem doing anything by myself (or rather, without company—which if you really think about it, is a different kind of problem, really).

When I started this, I wasn’t sure if I was looking for the right things in these houses, or if I had been talking to the right people, or making the right decisions. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to answer the preposterous questions that landlords ask you.

(Example1: Why does a single girl in Bombay want to live alone?

Example 2: Will you have many parties in the house?

Example 3: Will you get married and move away soon, you think?).

I also wasn’t sure if I would know how to pick the right refrigerator, or know if I got duped while getting the carpenter to do some minor repairs (actually, this one I still don’t have answers to).

I was just beginning to realize what I’d taken on.

It hit me, full scale, one morning a few days before I was to move in. I was supposed to meet the landlordman that evening to give him 11 post-dated cheques, and sign a contract with ONLY my name on it (how adult is that!).

And hence came the full descent of the CF. Because, dear god, will I be able to, or more importantly— do I really want to do this! ALL.BY.MYSELF!

Eating by myself, cooking myself, handing all responsibilities- big and small- BY.MYSELF. And the worst of them all, SLEEPING all by myself in a house. Oh, the horror!

I’m feeling hot and cold even as I write this (a watered down version compared to that day, I’m pleased to report).

But here’s what I did to battle my CF (it was the plan for today anyway. I believe in baby steps)— I wrote. I wrote about how this felt.

As I wrote it, I felt like I was, in part, conquering my fear. Or rather, telling it, that it’s silly, by doing something that reminds me of why I’m doing this at all. I was reminding me of the good stuff.

I sat by myself in an empty apartment with a suitcase full of books (it was the first and only thing I brought there that evening :) ), and my laptop, and I typed away in a silent house. I listened to the trees rustling outside, felt the wind come in (I have HUGE windows in my living room, whee!), and reveled in the sound of the tippy-tap of the keyboard.

I realized that this was one of the things I’ve wanted for the last few months. Nay, this is what I’ve craved for.

I’ve wanted silence. I’ve wanted just me. I’ve wanted my words, and my very own world.

And so here’s the conclusion to my theory on fears— you don’t banish them, and you don’t even need a grand plan to conquer them. Instead, what would maybe work, is to just show them the good stuff. Tell them that while they are very much real, so is the good stuff.

   

The Problem Is

The problem is, always was, that I loved you too much.

They told me. Everyone told me. To not do that. To never love you like that. But see, I didn’t see it. All I could see was you. You were a high. Something I could sniff when my day went south. Something I could inject to make my day go north. Something I could wake up to, with a feeling of elation. The feeling that I had done something right.

And the problem is, always was, that you played the part. To the T. You danced and pranced for me. You made me laugh. You made me cry, just enough to consider you an achievement. You made me feel like I was the only thing you lived for. You made me feel like a million bucks was tepid in front of me.

They told us. Everyone told us. To not to that. We may never stop loving each other, but what if we lost each other? What if something happened to either one of us? How would either of us get through it.

Well, you showed me how, didn’t you. You disappeared. You left me with a faith that I couldn't practice anymore.

The problem is, always was, that which they didn’t tell me. They told me not to love you like that, but what they should have been telling me is this – love yourself more. So that at least this way, when you’re gone I will still have had something left to love.

  

Ten things I’m terrified of in my 20s.

There are so many lists out there talking about the fabulous 20s, the puzzling 20s, and what have you. So I figured what’s one more. But this one’s about things that terrify me in my 20s about my future life.

1. I’m terrified that I’m losing out on time. Like the 20s are supposed to the best years- the ‘golden period’ if you must- where I’m paving, paving, paving the path for my soon to be illustrious future. And if don’t pave fast enough, I’ll never make that road, and then suddenly I’m 30 and then what will I walk on, omigod, I’ll be totally lost, and Omfg, omfg.

2. I’m terrified I’ll never live that travel dream I’ve dreamt of. People say travel young, travel young. And I’m terrified I’m making and saving all this money in my 20s only (not making that much money, actually) to forget the travel dream I had for later. I’m scared I’ll get caught up with other things like marriage, making money, and career paths.

3. Which brings me to... my career. I’m terrified I’ll never have the balls to do what I really want to do. I’m scared I’ll keep using the 20s to dream, dream, dream, stalling till the 30s, to do the ‘real thing I want to do’, and all that will end up being a sham because ‘logic’ ‘logistics’ or ‘reality’ will set in.

4. I’m scared that as I leave my 20s, I’ll become the person I always scoffed at- the person that always knows everything. That super closed minded person that probably thinks I’m a hippie, but he really, was the loser that lacked imagination. I’m terrified I’ll grow older to become that fool.

5. I’m terrified that post my 20s, I’ll want more, but in the most limited way possible. That my lists will grow longer, but only because they’re growing tighter. ‘I want my man to be a funny, non-smoking, open minded, non chauvinistic, scuba diving banker from an exotic country, who is generous and spoils me rotten, but also respects my independence...’ Or whatever, you know?

6. I’ve already noticed a lack of risk taking between now and when I was 17, so what’s to say I won’t become a paranoid person post my 20s, who’s like, ‘oh I don’t want to cycle through this gorgeous park because you know, I might fall and scrape my knee and it’ll be hurt for a whole week and the scab will be so ugly..’. You get the drift.

7. While I’m aware of the fact that I’m getting older, I’m acutely aware of the fact that my parents are getting older too. It almost seems like the minute I turn thirty, I’ll have to start giving serious thought to how to take care of them and make sure they’re okay. The thing about this is that, I’m not sure I’m ready to ‘take care’ of anyone, much less my beautiful parents, who I’ve constantly relied on for guidance and support. The thought of that role reversing is scary, more so because I’m terrified I might not not be as good at taking care of them as they have done for me.

8. I’m terrified I’ll always be selfish. So, this one is a little different- I’m terrified of something I am right now, that I really want to shed, and I think I may not be able to.

9. On the whole, I’m terrified of my entire identity changing when I’m not paying attention. I know it’s silly (which part of this paranoid list, isn’t?). Some people say we all evolve every 7 years; that if you look back seven years earlier, you’ll realise you were completely different. Still, I’m terrified of my identity changing and not having control over it.

10. Most of all, I’m terrified that the 20s might wear me down. That the disappointment I might face in this decade might make me cynical. Worse, it might cause me to settle, settle for less. And become that person that only lives from car loans to house loans, paying EMIs on everything I own and touch. Living a perfectly staid life, one that no one will remember. Not even me, when I look back at it. One in which I wouldn’t have realised my potential. One in which I’m just sheep.

The thing is though, I’m glad I’m terrified of all these things. Because that means I’ll try my damned hardest to focus on what I’ve dreamt for myself and avoid settling for anything else. I might change my mind, and I might change some of my priorities. But if I manage to retain my love for life and never settle for anything less than what I dreamed of as a child, a time when my dreams where the least diluted, then I think I’m sorted.

You and I.

o baby

aren't you tired 

of the games we play,

You and I?

don't call me now

because I don't want to do

that tom and jerry thing,

not with You and I.

we speak in riddles

we don't speak at all

why do we do this,

You and I?

then we say too much

and hide it with too little

two little freaks we are,

You and I.

some days are great

some days so crap

i want to hit someone when i think 

of You and I.

we want to be together

we want to be alone

but confused is all we have,

You and I.

we push each other away

we pull a lot faster

but can we make it work,

You and I?

we don't have a name
and we're both just the same

maybe we're worth talking about,

You and I.

Headcase- potentially.

You know that thing when you can't concentrate, no matter how hard you try or what activity you pick? I've been wondering why that happens. 

I'm sure there are several factors in play, but one of the most significant things I've noticed is a faint tick tick tick at the back of my head. Almost like those annoying carpenters in your head when you have a hangover, but not quite painful. Not physically anyway. 

I think I've finally understand what the noise is. It's like a puzzle is going on in my head and there's a timer that's tick-tick-ticking. The funny thing is, most times I don't know what the puzzle is- could it be Unscramble or Chess or Angry Birds? I can't really tell- it's a hazy picture, as if it's a puzzle within a puzzle. First phase: figure out what kind of a game it is, and Phase Two- Then figure out how to solve it before that tick tick tick becomes a large TONG! and time's up. 

This is a TASK and really, I have no more to say on this subject, except that being this state makes me one of the most unproductive people I know. I'm literally useless during these times. It's like I'm sleep walking through my day/s.

Just wondering if someone else out there feels the same way, or if I'm just a potential headcase. 

Black and white.

How do you separate the small from the big?
How do you ask for something that is not yours?
How do you scream when your voice is borrowed?
How do you stop losing against yourself?

Where is the sane whisper?
The sound that cuts through the silence
And burns the cob webs?

That sounds like your mothers voice
So gentle so deafening,
So quick and free.

That abracadabra to your problem,
The free in your spirit
The moo in your cow.

Dreams get spun by talking to yourself
Under the shadow of a tree
That's green and amber.

Where are my dreams?
Where is the tree?
Where is the shadow that I need?

I could cry and cry,
Till my throat is sore,
And my eyes are red
Like the sun that's screaming for release.

Because black is black,
And white is white,
And the grey is just a color

Made up by the mind,
To take you all the way
Into a fog

That is so thick and
Deep and colorless as water
Till it's all just a never ending ramble.

Find me my voice or my shadow
And my black
Or my white.

I write because I cannot not write.

This was assignment #2 of the course I'm doing- which asked us to talk about how our identities as writers connects with the identities of other artists/ writers.

“I write because I cannot not write.”

This is how my conversation with my writer friend had begun one random Saturday night. We were three of us friends hanging out, of which two of us were writers, and the third, a banker. I’m not sure why or how we began that conversation, but an hour or so into it, I think Banker Man was wont to throw in the towel, and run to Far Far Away. Here’s why- what we talked about that night, with a sense of absolute urgency, was how when the writing urge takes over, there is no going back. It’s a visceral feeling… almost as if someone had taken over your body and there’s no way you can ask it to pause.

It’s pure passion.

My observation this week, across the many articles I read, was exactly that. Every single piece I read came from a place that was personal, and really felt. Writers, as is the same for all kind of artists, have one big thing in common- the dire need to communicate what they feel. They say the world is split into left brainers and right brainers, and if you believed in that theory, you’d see that the right brainers are more ‘feelers’, rather than ‘reasoners’.

I’m certainly not saying that all artists, or writers, are loons who don’t believe in logic. No, no. I’m merely suggesting that they are people who feel first, and reason after that. Feeling is instinctive to them. And expressing that feeling becomes the next step- whether it’s through a painting, a piece of music, or through carefully designed language.

For me, and for most writers I know (including the ones I read today), this need to express is almost a burning desire. It’s sometimes not even voluntary. My favourite proof of this to myself (so I can tell myself that I’m not going completely crazy) is a TED talk I heard by Elizabeth Gilbert (author of the famed ‘Eat, Pray Love’). Amongst other things writer-related, she talked about the existence of a muse. The muse, she said, was an extension of yourself, or perhaps, it had nothing to do with you at all. It was just someone with all that ‘talent’ that came to use your body to express its creativity. She talked about herself, and several other writers in history, who had said that this sometimes inexplicable urge to write, felt like someone or something had possessed you, and you had to let it do its job.

I’m going on and on about this passion, and this need to express feeling, because not only is this the one thing that identifies us as artists or writers, but it’s perhaps the most important thing to keep in mind as we write or express. It’s our USP. Indeed, it’s the ‘research’ to our business- Looking deep within ourselves, and our experiences and converting it into words is what we do. Like Hemmingway once said, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”

It’s almost like we’re in the business of converting our emotion through expression, while touching the hearts of the world, and saying to them, “You felt this once too, you remember?”. Because you see, all emotions, all feelings, all thoughts, on one level or the other, are universal. At some point in their lives, everyone has felt something you’ve felt, and making them feel this once again through your expression is the goal. That is why expressing these feelings, ideas, and emotions in their purest forms are essential to us and to our success. It is the gift that has been bestowed on us right-brained people to give to the world- especially those logic-driven left-brained people who sometimes are in desperate need of getting in touch with themselves!

Even personally for us as people, it’s therapeutic. Sometimes the pen and paper become our shrinks. They let us channel our questions, our surprises, our grief, our happiness. What I’ve discovered (much to my surprise), is that it’s not always related either. For example, I don’t necessarily write angry or sad poetry or prose when I’m in a negative state of mind. In fact, the book that I wrote last year, was written during what was probably one of the hardest phases in my life. And yet, the book talked about sunshine and happiness. I’m beginning to think that maybe that was my way of letting myself hope.

Whatever it may be though, it’s important for a writer to be real, to delve deep, call on himself or his muse, to come spew out the story that needs to be told. Notice I said, needs to told, not should be told. Grammar, style, or other rules of writing, are merely different tools that help with your craft- just as the pen, keyboard, or paper do. The real secret to being a successful writer is to tell a story that needs to be told; indeed, a story that needs to be read.

Because you see, you cannot not tell it.

On Writing

So I finally decided to get my act together and do something about the writing (see this for more context). Apart the renewed push I've had to give Bacon Bits (the book I've written, for those who don't know), I've also enrolled myself in a cool course online. Ya, ya, no need to giggle at the mention of online certification, because, a) I'm not in it for the certification I actually just want to learning anything it'll teach me to better my writing b) It's a pretty cool course that's being taught by faculty from Ohio Uni and the website offers a whole host of cool courses by some pretty rad universities and faculty (coursera.com if I've managed to intrigue you).

So, anyhoo, since all this writing is coming out anyway, I figured I might as well post it out here. Here's the first of the assignments that asked us to describe ourselves as writers. Enjoy, and for those of you that are more proactive and cooler than the rest, leave me some comments :)

The three times I met the writer in me.

#1

It was the summer of 1994. It was hot. It was so hot that the adults in the house insisted the children wear nothing but flimsy, white petticoats, so that they didn’t have cranky kids on their hands. It was my favourite place in the world. We were spending the summer at my grandparents’ house in Udupi- a small, south-west, coastal town in India, which almost kissed the Arabian Sea.

My story begins here. I was nine that summer, and like most summers, my parents, tired of having to deal with two kids all year, had shipped my sister and me off to my grandparents’ house. To my nine year-old mind, there was no place more beautiful than their house. It was constructed badly (or so I kept hearing the big people say), with no running water (only a well), hardly any room for natural ventilation (although it was a humungous house), and almost no natural light entering it. But I loved the darkness of it. Actually, more than the darkness, I loved it for the little shafts of light that came from small glass planes in the otherwise tiled roof. The dust mites would catch the light and dance all around it; I could almost hear the music that they were making with the light.

It was by one of these shafts of light that I remember writing for the first time. It was a fake newspaper. Why, you ask? Well, because I was nine, I had nothing to do for ninety days of summer, I read a lot of books, and I suppose my curious mind wanted to see if I could replicate something, and a fake newspaper seemed like a stellar idea.

I remember my father reading this paper, and I remember a grin on his face- growing from a tiny change of lip shape, to a really big smile that reached his eyes and becoming pride.

“You wrote this?” he asked, with disbelief in his eyes.

When I nodded, he hugged me. This is probably when I knew that maybe, just maybe, this was something cool I could do. That maybe, just maybe, I have this other cool person living in me- my writer.

#2

Sixteen years later, in the summer of 2010, I was sitting in a café in Bratislava, Slovakia. I was on an all-expense-paid trip to Europe (yes, you read that right- it was a real free trip that I had actually won through a contest). And this was when I had the pleasure of meeting the writer in me again.

So, here I was, at The Café (apparently the Slovaks weren’t too innovative with names), taking a breather from the wild euro-trippin’, sitting by myself with my journal. I was trying to encapsulate the last week of being in Europe (Prague, Munich, Budapest); telling the story of the amazing people I had met so far, when suddenly, I had the inexplicable and the irresistible urge to abandon what I was writing, and write another story- one that had been in my head for a long time.

To set you a quick context to this- Post that summer of discovering the writer in me, I had continued writing, with starry-eyed dreams about becoming a novelist. But as I grew older, my writing dream became smaller and smaller. Making money and having a stable life became the priority. You see, my father was an artist, and my mother a designer, and although they had lead creatively fulfilled lives, the regular monthly paycheck was missing. Over the years, I realized I wanted a more stable life than theirs, and urged the practical part of my brain to take over. I finished university and promptly started working in a space that would bring me a great paycheck, although it had not a thing to do with the thing I was actually cool at. My writer must’ve have been rolling her eyes.

However, that day in Slovakia, armed with the journal in my hand and that idea in my head, the Writer in me re-emerged, and hijacked me. I don’t know what inspired her to make the grand comeback- it could have been the place, it could have been the starry sky above; hell, it could’ve been that she was just tired of being ignored. All I know is that she jumped at me with a force and a precision that hardly left me a minute to recognize or acknowledge her.

I wrote like a person possessed that evening. I began on a new page of what was an almost empty book, and wrote, wrote, wrote. About thirty pages in, I remember my hand aching, and wishing I had had the foresight to bring my laptop- a word processor would’ve been a great solution to beat the angry marks that were developing between my thumb and my index finger. But she (my writer) couldn’t give a damn about the physical stress she was causing. She just partied on.

#3

Fast forward to a year and something later. The year is now (end of) 2011, I am in New York- the city of dreams, where I have come to spend the two month break I have taken from my life, to write the beautiful novel I started that day in Slovakia. Where, in fact, what actually did happen, is that I’ve ended up with a big, fat, broken heart.

I had quit my job, and invested all my savings to go to New York to finish my book (I’d realized that travel inspired me like nothing else). I was on a roll. In the first three weeks, I had worked laboriously, punching out an average of 4000 words a day. I only had the last leg to finish.

One chilly morning, my boyfriend (who I lived with in India), called me to tell me, very abruptly, that he needed to leave. Both me, and our life together. I could hardly process the words rushing at me across the phone from India. It was almost as if the physical distance between us made me not fully comprehend what he was saying. I spent the next three weeks wandering, lost, and unable to understand what was happening around me. I was in a new world, with new people, and a new situation that I could not comprehend. I was that girl sitting on a bench in a park in the rain, whose tears and the rain on her face looked the same.

My world felt torn in the middle. I was lost. And my book, my words, my story were lost with me.

My last day in New York I met Gina. If my writer could have a face, it would be her.

I met Gina at a coffee shop, sitting by herself, painting little nothings on a piece of cloth. We started talking across tables. She was from the city, and wanted to show me around. As we walked across Upper Manhattan that day, we talked about nothing in specific and everything that mattered- we talked about how the November light was fading so quickly across the yellow and crimson trees. We talked about the tall, never-ending columns of a church we were passing by. We talked about a squirrel that was running through a patch of grass in a park.

Without meaning to, I started thinking about how I would describe this. I started imagining what all of this would look like as words swimming on a sheet of white, white paper. My writer came back to me that day, to rescue me from myself. I realized that day, that my writer and me, we’re one.

How well do you know yourself?

Isn't it strange that the person you see the least in your lifetime is you? Literally and otherwise. 

Sure, you see pictures of yourself all the time- and if you're a narcissistic person, you end up seeing it more often than most- but that doesn't quite tell you anything right? I mean, the complex facial poetry, the tiny changes in body language... you know what it feels like from the inside, when you're saying something or portraying a certain feeling, but you haven't seen those expressions ON yourself. For example, when my mother is just about to scream at me, I know exactly what is coming my way just by looking at her face. For years and years, I've watched her facial muscles change in a million small ways- pain, happiness, discomfort, a grin, a squint, a confused look etc. In fact, I know her so well, I can tell her sub-emotions too- like a mixture of disappointment and relief, or a combo of excited, proud and slightly anxious. With people who you know so well, they don't even have to say anything most of the time, you just know it from all that internalisation.

When I meet new people, I look forward to getting to know them better. I'm excited about learning the little expressions that become familiar to me- their adoration, admiration, confusion, alarm, boredom, restlessness  and the like. Sometimes I like predicting it and finding out if I'm right- like for example, I know when a friend is going to throw a slight pout right after she says something funny, or how my sister will pucker her eyes just before saying cheese to a picture.

I pride myself on being intutive with people and reading them right (I try!), so it brings me a ting! of happy when I discover I'm right. With the people I care about, I feel especially proud- like these people are mine, ya know? And those little things about those people become a part of me forever. In fact, when I have fall-outs (romantic relationships and otherwise), this is the part that is hardest to let go, the part that becomes the hardest to leave behind. Such is the intensity with which we (or maybe it's just me?) observe and absorb people's expressions and portrayal of themselves.

Which brings me to the point I was making earlier- it's strange that the expressions we throw out are the ones we're least familiar with. We can feel it from the inside, but our best imagination will still fall short of how it actually looks. By the time we've conjured up a look- some image of what it must look like- it's gone, changed, or mixed with another expression. If we had to step out of our body and our mind and just observe ourselves, would we be able to guess what an expression meant- a little scrunching of the nose, or the bite of a lower lip, eyes lowered or palms twisting? 

It alarms me to think of the answer- perhaps I won't recognise what I'm thinking or how I'm about to react. How little we know of ourselves in a lifetime, if we don't even know this. This is coming from the fact that we're supposed to know ourselves best- better than anyone else. 

And yet, we know so very little. 

2013 Wish List

This is a little late in coming, but better late than never, I suppose! Besides, I'm intrigued because the year before last the first thing I put on my list in the beginning of the year, is that I would like this to be a travel year. And for some very odd reason, it absolutely was. And HOW.

So here goes my wishlist for 2013. I'm putting it in my palm and blowing on it, hoping it gets to the ears of the universe and it's feeling a little generous the day it reaches them :)

1. I will write, write, write and write till I swell with pride when I look at my writing

2. My book will be published

3. I will save and travel again this year

4. I will make sure I think things through before I do things (minimize the drama- but I'll still do impulsive things from time to time, because I don't really want to change me entirely!)

5. I will find more of myself and have the courage to make a real career move

6. I will learn a new language

7. I will create cool things for the house- DIY lamps, posters, cups etc.

8. I will read, read, READ (all kinds of different books) until my cup runneth over and I'm all read out.

Someone (who I met recently, who I think is pretty cool) said to me- "If you want something, like really want it- purely from the right intent, not with the other this-is-what-i-can-do-if-I-had-this intent, but from a I-just-really-really-want-it kinda place, it will happen". I really, really (with the right intent, obviously!) hope that this is true, and I really, really want the above (esp points 1, 2 and 5), so I'm going to keep wanting and I hope, next year this time, I'll be writing here about how all of the above happened!

After The Chase.

Boy and Girl meet at a ball (or in today's scenario a club/ coffee shop/ office/ college), boy is mesmerized with Girl. Boy asks Girl to dance. Boy is even more under-the-spell after dancing with Girl. Girl blushes, but, alas, it's 12am, she's gotta go. She secretly wants to stay, because after all, Boy has flattered a thousand butterflies into her tummy. But her fairy godmother told her boys can be treacherous liars, so please to be back by 12am (even fairy godmothers probably had their hearts broken/ flattered into bed, only to find out it's a one night stand). 

So Girl comes back almost in the nick of time, but she cleverly leaves a clue for Boy. Boy goes all around town, state, hell, country, galaxy, starships... climbs grand mountains, picks the lone orange-purple flower off a edge of a cliff, travels to a star, eats rotten cheese, meets Yoda, and asks him what the hell this clue means. After answering 16 of Yoda's wittiest riddles and jumping through varied sizes of rings of fire, Yoda gives him the answer he seeks to go get his woman. 

Boy returns and tells Girl of his grand feats. Girl is thrilled, flattered and convinced that this boy really, truly loves her. He's her The One. Girl's mummy, daddy, chaachi, granduncle and his nephew give their consent and the couple are married, walking away into the sunset... happily ever after.

But what happens after the sun rises again? The chase is over, the girl is won, and home and hearth have been set up. A year or three down the line, peek into that house to hear thunderous fights between Girl and Boy. The story is one you've heard before- Boy is spending too much time on the x-box and at the local bar. Girl is missing all the over the top adoration that was thrown her away in the initial part of the romance and is crying, no, screaming her lungs out about feeling lonely. Boy looks confused and confounded, as if to say, I did go to that star and climbs those mountains for you, yo know- can't I just play God of War with my boys now?

...And on and on they fight every night, until one day, girl packs her bags and walks out on Boy. OR Girl meets other Girls whom this has happened to and has kitty parties with them, where the primary topic of discussion is the fact that all men suck and the most oft repeated sentence is, 'Yes, they're all the same- it's always about the chase".

Recently, I've heard a couple of my girlfriends (some married, some in long term relationships) complaining about this phenomena- The Lull After The Chase. At first, this had me depressed. But then my analytical mind took over- or tried to. Why does this happen? Are women unnecessarily needy? Or do men over promise and under deliver? To begin with- is this whole Chase thing even real? Or is the whole concept of the Chase a figment of everyone's imagination?

Most men I spoke to laughed at me (trying to be obtuse?), and the few brave ones who decided to speak up told me that the Chase was not a myth. It was as real as anything else. And yes, they consider the first few months/ years (duration is apparently dependant on several factors) highly exciting, because they're so caught up in trying to impress the girl and convince her that he's indeed worth it. One even said, 'So, yeah, once the chase is over and I have the girl, why would I want to do anything more? I can't keep bringing her the moon, can I? Besides, I don't know why she doesn't understand that was then and this is now."

So my grand conclusion is... well, I have none. As one of my roomies used to say,  "Boys are stupid, throw rocks at them."

Resilience.

Being consumed by a bitterness
That is not me.
They are the beasts of yesterday,
A semblance of the demons that were.

I struggle, I beat, I scream
I cave... and I try to breathe.
I give in, scramble, I swim.
Always up, towards a silver line.

I won't be trampled, no.
Because you,
You cannot tell me who I am.

What is this place we call home?

In the last nine months I've had 5/6 homes. 

1. My original home (the one I was living in before my life took that 360 degree spin) 
2. My friend's home in New York 
3. My parents home in Bangalore
4. My in-between guest house in Bombay 
5. My best friend's house in Bombay 
6. My new house in Bombay.

They say home is where your heart is. 

But that's kind of confusing, isn't it? My heart is here today and somewhere else (and maybe even with someone else) any other day. It's a fickle fellow, that one.

Some people really like the idea of not having a 'home'. They love moving houses, cities, countries; never being in one place for more than a few months. They thrive on the difference in scene. They call it 'exploration'.

It seems more like running away to me. 

Because if I wanted a change of scene I'd take a vacation. For a month, or six.

Then I'd want to come back to my home, my bed, my people, my pets. Things I call my own and people that call me their own.

There's something about belonging that's addictive and endearing :)

Nightly Rambles

Sell your soul
To only that which shakes it.

For there is no shame 
In bowing your head,
To that which mends the cracks in your spirit.

Nightly Rambles

I've always thought that my most poetic moments come to me when I'm just about to sleep. I usually think ok, nice, I'll write it out tomorrow (I know, lazy me- I bet my muse doesn't feel good about that), but inevitably the next morning, I always forget my profound thoughts.
Last night however, staring at my fan, unable to sleep, I whipped out my phone and decided to write out the four-liner poetic ramble in my head. Here you go. 


I let my pain wash over me.
It looks like a picture whose colors are fading.

For only after the rain in the middle of a sunny afternoon
Does the rainbow shine like the only star in the sky.

When I'm older.

When I grow old

I want to have been

The woman the sun has kissed 

And the moon has seen.

There are many stories of mine

Yet to be told

I wonder what the lines

On each palm may hold.

When I grow old

I want to have been

A woman both wise and bold

With the heart of a girl who's sixteen.

Quotes I love

I found this one recently- it perfectly matches what I'm thinking about right now.

"The final mystery is oneself."

~Oscar Wilde

Thanks, Mr. Wilde. You didn't give me the answer to my 'mystery'. But just by mentioning it, you made me feel like less of a head-case. I can now publicly admit to pondering over this for a suspiciously copious amount of time, without being judged as loco!

(More thoughts on this in my next post)

Things I wish I could tell my ten year old self.

-Don't wish you were older. Responsibility is big deal, not necessarily a happy deal.

-Do everything you can. Go to singing classes, karate, diving, fencing, dancing....anything in the world you can find. You'll only be this brave and uninhibited when you're ten, at twenty it'll halve and and at thirty it'll seem silly. Oh, and you won't have time for it.

-Homework is not the worst thing that can happen to you. There are bigger and worse things you'll need to face, and no, I'm not talking about a zit.

-Enjoy your time with your parents. Your parents are young when you're ten. Play with them, ask them a million questions and exhaust them! They'll only get older as you get older and their time with you will keep getting more and more limited.

-Don't be in a rush to fall in love. Spend as much time with yourself as you can. There is a time for loving another person and when that time comes, you'll find there is lesser time and love you can give to yourself. 

-There is a different freedom at every age- make sure you enjoy it.

-Wisdom comes at a price, enjoy your innocence. 

-Whatever you do, as you get older, keep fighting cynical people. Happiness is yours to claim. 

-Don't ever stop imagining or being curious.

-TV is evil. Go out and play hop scotch. 

-Eat as much as you can, your metabolism will suck when you're older!

Oh and quick PS to my 35 year old self:

Don't wish you were 25 again. At 25 you wanted to be 15 and at 15 you wanted to be 25. Shut up and enjoy yourself.

My Dumbledore

It feels like I'm in love again.

It's not what you think though. This is a bit unusual. This is the kind of love that is like a feeling of pure inspiration and awe.

I met this lady at a conference/discussion setting in New York and I thought she was strange and eccentric looking; I almost didn't even notice her. She had a quiet but under-the-surface bubbles kind of a demeanor about her, that makes you almost miss noticing her.

Luckily, she wasn't as shortsighted as me. She caught my eye across the room and smiled at me and so I felt compelled to at least say hi (I was feeling peculiarly anti-social on that day I think). We exchanged a quick hello-whereareyoufrom dialogue and then I confessed to her that although I was visiting the city for a short time, I was madly in love with it.

When she said what she said next to me, I instantly knew I wanted to see her again. "New York is like a famous king. And all kinds of people come to his amazing court- entertainers, artists, bankers, lovers, dreamers, actors, bakers... And they put their best foot forward and show the king what they can do best. If the king likes it, he asks the person to stay and show him more. If he doesn't like it, you will have to leave, but you'll surely be back next time, to try to make it in New York's court once again!"

____

And so we met two weeks later, at what has now become "our place". It's a little coffee shop in uptown NY. She took me there when she heard I was writing a novel, because this place is special to writers- people who have written their books there, frame the cover of their book and hang it up on the walls of the cafe. It has covers of books written there for the last fifteen years hung up on its walls. It's quite overwhelming and fascinating at the same time.

And that is exactly how she is. She is overwhelming and fascinating at the same time.

When I decided to get on this journey, with my sabbatical, writing a book, being away from everyone I love in a new city, I didn't realise how much it's going to change my world. I didn't realise that I was walking in to a new phase of my life, transforming and becoming a new me. 

And transformation is always hard. Especially when you're not expecting it. But I really do believe that every five/seven years every one us evolves- with or without knowing it. All of us learn one big lesson, and fight our way against all odds. God knows, those days are hard while you're re-discovering and re-inventing yourself. It's literally like peeling out of your old skin and coming into a new form. Shedding all the rubbish and carrying only what is absolutely needed for the next five/seven year phase.

So it couldn't have been better timing for me to have met this woman. I don't know what I bring to her, but she's helping me through my metamorphsis without even knowing it. At a time when I am searching for my new self, she's showing me the world through her eyes.

I call her my Dumbledore. 

She has that eternal naughty/mysterious/wise twinkle in her eye- like she knows the secret to life, but she won't tell you because she knows that it's much more fun when you discover it on your own. What I also love about her is that she takes pleasure in looking at everything- she epitomizes the phrase 'it's not about the destination, it's about the journey.'

We went to a chapel that she wanted to show me the other day and I was stunned by how much time she spent looking at everything, even though she had been there a million times before. Even for the millionth time, she expressed and felt the fascination for every little thing she was looking at in the chapel. At one point, she made me hug a pillar!

And I realised just hugging a pillar made me feel better- it gave me five minutes to truly understand and appreciate what I was doing. I realised in that moment that I giving to myself and, my, my, what an important lesson to learn!

I understood my next challenge- she told me what to do next without me asking her! I wondered how she even knew, but she answered that too, without my having asked her.

She giggled and casually remarked, "It's like we were given to each other isn't it? Two kindred spirits!"

Oh, she's quite something, my Dumbledore :)