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Friday, November 20, 2015

You wrecked me.

It's funny, whenever I come here I write about the love that was. It's become a museum of unsolicited love. My personal museum of pain. I guess I am not eloquent with happiness. It doesn't become me, or my words. Or maybe I am a masochist deep down.

Hey, you.
I have let you in my thoughts, tonight. Maybe for the night, maybe my brain will be the harbour for our sailed ship a little longer, I don't know. It's funny how all things broken always have you in them. Broken glass frames, broken souls, even heart-broken songs. And this brokenness is my sanctuary. I choose this sanctuary, tonight.

Now that we have a premise, how the fuck are you? It's been a while and I don't think I will ever really know how you are doing. Doesn't mean I don't wonder. Doesn't mean I don't still talk to you in my head or imagine what you would say. I have good imagination but all I imagine from my end is... Silence. All the music and lyrics in this world are already doing a pretty neat job of expressing what I would say. I guess me talking is hence moot. Besides I have run out of words. Since well, my words did drive you away.

I was taught to persevere, not give up. "You're not a quitter" Dad would say. So I thought it applied to love as well. But, not quitting on you? I taught myself. I taught myself to keep dialing those digits in my head when I could no longer pick up an actual phone to do it. I taught myself to chase faint memories when we stopped making new ones. I even taught myself to hold on to your fading voice. But I couldn't teach myself to not want you.

Don't get me wrong darling, I don't want want you. I just... want to know that holding on was not a mistake. I want to tell the daughter that I don't intend to have, to never give up on someone she once loved. No matter how un-redeemable the lover's actions, not even if the whole wide world gives up on them.. I want to tell her to hold on tight because that's when they need you most.

But you... You don't need me at all. You're well and prospering and even though I wish you well I think there's no way to come back from the poison that has seeped in. However, I don't forget. We were almost good for a while; almost had ourselves convinced we were infallible legends. But legends have a way of existing only in fables and tales. We exist only in my thoughts. And words.

 My words will always keep you alive, darling. It may kill my writing but I will continue this library of all things broken, for you... for us. A writer owes her muse that much atleast. You, darling are my pen's favourite muse. Always have been. Hemingway once said, "There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit at a typewriter and bleed." You provide an endless supply of that blood I need to shed. No matter how many days pass, it is still as fresh a wound. I guess wounds on the heart never do heal. Maybe it's just me. Annoying cardiac tissue, mine.

Annoying playlist too that I keep making for myself, of all the songs that I would have sent to you.

"Mujhe lagta hai ki baatein dil ki
Hoti lafzon ki dhokebaazi..."

I will always find you here, you know. This is increasingly becoming a shrine to you. Despite not wanting your love, your thoughts will return I know. I have accepted that, just like I always accepted you, all of your rage and madness. But you know the one thing that has changed?


I will never say those words to my non-existent daughter anymore. You, darling lover, wrecked me. 

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Father's Laptop, Mother's Clothes.

Existential crisis.

I am about to turn 24 in less than fifteen days. Twenty-fucking-four. Usually this is when the countdown begins in my head (actually it begins on about 8th of May and I acknowledge it in my head around 8th of June and publicly around 10-15 days before 8th of July, depending on how busy the lives of people around me are at the moment). Twenty four is no mean number. I stopped keeping count post 21, and so all forms filled by me were invariably aged 21 or 22. And now, holy shit, here I am, about to hit my own personal quarter of a century. And what do I have to show for it? Nothing. Zilch. Nada.

I have all these outlandish dreams where I travel and write and work but quite honestly what am I really doing? Eating, sleeping and shopping. Then you will also find me whining about how I don't eat what I wanted to, or I don't get enough sleep or don't have quite enough of Zara heels or Armani perfumes. I write two sentences a day and call myself a writer. I work out for ten minutes and grow tired. I roam about the city in an air-conditioned car, the fuel of which is paid for by my parents, and take pride in the fact that I'm independent.

It's disgusting.

It's appalling that this doesn't seem to trouble people around me - people who have joined their family business and take Europe/World-tours on their parents' money without the zeal to work for themselves. We as a generation don't earn our breaks or vacations, we are born into them - some more than others; and thanks to social media even the few of us left who can boast of a spine end up feeling underprivileged in comparison.

I'm turning twenty-four and I don't even have twenty-four friends to call my own. As I left Philippines, I laughed in its face because I was going home - to my city, to my people. In less than two months I was told and retold just how wrong that notion was but I'm stubborn you see. I was relentless in my love for my people, even as they slowly but surely stabbed me in the back. I tried to tell myself it was situation-specific and removed myself from those situations, and yet, here I am, no situation, same dagger. It doesn't hurt as much ofcourse, because of all the already present holes in my body but I find myself furious that it hurts at all.

I'm furious that it hurts me when people behave in a manner contrary to how I believed they would. I'm turning twenty-four and I am still as naive and whiney as I was earlier. What is changing except the year on the calendar, tell me oh lord? I'm still a dependent, demanding, student for crying out loud!

For the first time ever, I don't want the dates to change, I need more time, I'm not prepared. I haven't accomplished anything and I need more time before I hit this milestone. I need more time before over-concerned aunties and uncles start bugging me about getting married and my ever-empty uterus. I need more time!

As an afterthought, maybe all I need is a cold glass of wine, life does seem better with a wine glass in my hand. But oh wait, I'm a girl. I'm not "allowed" even that privilege. For you see, log kya kahenge?

Friday, April 10, 2015

Oh, love.

"But my words become stained with your love.
You occupy everything, you occupy everything."
-Pablo Neruda

Today I'm going to write a story. A story about such powerful love that couldn't be broken. A story about the moon giving up his life for the sun to shine. A story about the sun loving another, and setting each day only to return with more heat and vigour. A story about the tangents of a perfect love.

Today I'm going to write about a love so happy it doesn't give you time to stop and reflect. A love so consuming that you give it your all - your breaths, your sighs and your life, one slow second at a time. A love so enduring that it doesn't hold you captive but liberates you and your soul.

Today I'm going to write.

I'm going to write because it needs to be written. The world could use a happy story - even if it is just a story. I need to write about a boy and a girl and a love that lasts, a love that conquers all, a love that is just plain-fucking-old love for a change. I need it, and I need you.

I need your love to begin my mornings, it's like the sunshine in my life. I need your love to get out of bed and face another day, it's like the propeller to my motions. I need your love to make it through college, it's my incentive for hardwork. I need your love as I get under covers, it's my only staircase to lalaland. 

I need this love and I need you.
Goddammit, I need you. 


Love is not equivalent to need though. It's quite inferior. I love a lot of things and people and situations and movies and artists and songs and books, you get the gist. However I do not need them. This need is obviously and undoubtedly based on love, but don't mistake it for anything ordinary for it runs so much deeper, it runs hot through my arteries and pumps blood in my body. This love, my love, our love, is beyond okay, beyond ordinary, beyond desire - it is need at it's most innate and natural form - a primary motivator. 

Today I'm going to write about a love that needs no drive or incentive, a love that knows no boundaries of age or religion, a love that surpasses eras and ages. A love that is mine. A love that is ours.

Today I'm going to create this love and share it, all of it, with just one person, you
Desirable, magnetic, addictive, you. 
Oh, you. 

I'm going to create it and you won't know because I'm stupendous at hiding my heart away. I'm going to build us a house and then probably live in it alone because well, I've driven you away. I'm going to write this story with one half of a broken quill and still dream of only one person reading it, you

I'm going to believe in it, 'til kingdom come. I'm going to give us a real shot and then let fate be the master of our destiny. I'm going to work toward the meant-to-be and then have a talk with whoever is up there, one-on-one, because this is something I really want. Really. With all my heart. And I know I don't say it often but it's the one thing that I'm sure about wanting and needing and aching for inside.

So I'm going to write about a love. A love between people who weren't soulmates. A love for people who didn't need to die to be historic. A love of legends.

And I'm going to pray to the heavens and skies that we are these legends.

Friday, March 6, 2015

Learning.

I learnt the art of pretense at a very early age. When everyone in class would narrate stories about their parents, or sketch a perfect family, I would pretend. I would pretend that theirs still fell short of the dream that was mine. Some dream it was indeed.

Over the years, I mastered the art of faking happiness until I didn't know my real laugh from the fake one - until a friend pointed it out and I couldn't even believe it. Until I learnt to believe that there was no such thing as happiness because no matter what I did, I would always come home to this - this mess of an affair.

I learnt how to stew - how to let the rage rise inside of me and boil over and destroy me. I would break apart and howl and scribble furiously until there was nothing left - no anger, no hate, no tears - nothing - just a tortured sleep.

I learnt how to hold back my emotions - most of all my tears. I learnt how to hurt myself just so nobody would get the satisfaction of getting there first. I would take the blade out and make a two-inch long scar every single time those tears threatened to spill over; then I would wash my oozing blood under a stream of water so it'd sting - sting enough to distract me from the pain inside of my chest.

I learnt how to run away. I knew how I couldn't stand another second in the same room as you so I ran - at the first opportunity I got and as far as I could possibly go. I thought I'd put enough distance between us to drown out your screams but destiny found a way to bite me in the ass and how.

I learnt how to hold back curses - how to not wish ill for the damned person that you are. I would come this close and tell myself I was better, that I wasn't going to be like you, that my love would run on love and not hatred and loathing.

But the lesson that took the longest and sucked the most ?
That no matter how much I learn, you'll still find new ways to break me and teach me some more - that I'll forever be learning... At your mercy.

Thursday, January 8, 2015

Mashhoor hai, fir bhi badnaam woh.

Another year has left us behind and I'm still grappling to get hold of my days and dates and calendar in general. So much has happened in 2014 and so much remains to be done. The upcoming year is going to be bloody important is understating the obvious. Somethings however have remained unchanged over the course of the past twelve months and whether good, bad or ugly - are worthy of a mention.

Many a friends have been done away with. Friendship for the sake of friendship has been forsaken. The silver lining to this is the fact that bonds withstanding are now stronger than ever, more valued and well genuine. However some losses did hurt more than others and I wish learning gets easier as we grow older.

Family is the ultimate respite from this messy world. There's been unconditional love and unprecedented fights but there has been growth. Marriages have taught me about growing up, more than anything else did this year. The real face of many people came forward and the garb of innocence or oblivion was shed. We've welcomed new family members into the fold and some old bonds have been refurbished like ancient buildings we adored but had allowed cobwebs to settle on due to changing circumstances.

Love has managed to conquer all, atleast metaphorically. It has improved performances, dedication and inspired perfection. It has given a reason to keep moving forward, never looking back and achieving all along this journey that we've found ourselves on.

But the one thing that has been almost unique to this year is that the number of times my heart was broken has hit an all time low. I've been the heartbreaker and not the breakee. Phew, what a relief that is. There is an upside to emotionally shutting yourself off afterall. Hallelujah! Refusing to care is a sureshot way to safeguard yourself against a world of pain. The lesser people you 'connect' with, the less exposed you are. And after a lifetime of vulnerability, I think I quite like it this way. My way or the high way misters.

I've learnt that reinventing yourself isn't so hard. You'll find supporters in the places you least expected and the babble of critics can always be drowned with a song or ten playing at full blast in your head. Better still, their nonsense can be used as a driving force to prove them wrong. But nothing works better than wanting to make your parents proud. And nothing short of being the best will ever be enough to do that. That's the thing about perfection.. Once you get addicted to it, its a drug much like the others.

The goals for this year are set clearly in front of me. Now I just need to slowly yet surely find a way to make sure they are achieved. Easier said than done especially for a procrastinator like me but well. What is life if not fighting odds - the greatest one being myself.

Also, to all those who have been around.. Mumma&Papa, Doll, Chuttaks, Shu, Ad-mad, Adi, Aditya, Rastogster, Little J.. stay the year ? I promise you nothing but heaploads of drama and excitement. All of the rest will flow.

So here's my twisted version of a happy new year greeting. To myself and the world. Let's make 2015 count. It does add up to eight afterall - the perfect infinitic loop of perfection.