Hadness

That feeling of hadness.

The inevitable low after the high.

That moment when everything is so beautiful, so perfect that you walk around with a smile on your face. But it falters, by just a fraction, as you begin to feel the tiny weight of a nagging feeling, tugging at a corner of your heart you’d have preferred stayed in the dark.

But the feeling grows, feeding off of your happiness, slowly but surely.

The feeling of hadness.

The feeling of fairy lights and balconies and perfect moments.

Moments never meant to be, moments that won’t be.

The feeling trying to tell you, that the happiness you feel right now, will soon be something you had.

The feeling when you wonder

Is this the last hug, the last look, the last smile.

The feeling that this will all be over.

The feeling warning you

To steel yourself

For the emptiness ahead.

Musings of a Frustrated Mind

You are special.

That is the one sentence that everyone seems to have grown up with. In my generation, if not others at least.

It’s weird because I don’t actually remember my parents ever saying that to me. It’s not like they would console me for not coming first, or saying that I was meant for better things if something didn’t work out. Quite the contrary in fact. What was expected of me is what I assume most Indian parents expect of their kids, study hard, get good grades, get a good job, work hard, and raise kids to probably follow that cycle again.

And I haven’t always delivered on the promises of that cycle to them.

Yet, somewhere in that cycle, in the middle of Jeffrey Archers and people that think differently, it came up and engrained itself, “You are special”.

And I’m not alone.

But that’s the issue, isn’t it? Not everyone can be special. At least not in the conventional way. Not every one can be an over achiever.

Not even close, in fact.

According to a study that had gone viral quite some years back, our generation grows up being told we’re different and special. And with social media around to ensure that we know about each and every person’s smallest achievement, we end up with bigger complexes about ourselves than any generation before us.

I was once told by a friend, who falls under the category of being 'special', that I was not considered by his group of other ‘special’ people, as an over achiever. I was, let’s admit it, normal.

And I couldn’t really stand it. It hurt me to the extent that it hurt our friendship, and I never really could open up to him as much anymore. But, was he really wrong?

I spent my Saturday sleeping all day, and intermittently checking facebook to see three different friends being called to speak at conventions as experts. People have been called back to our alma maters as guest faculties. People have their own companies. People have quit their jobs to travel and write. And I spend over three hours on the road each day, working my ass off for a job I don’t necessarily love (it doesn’t matter that I’m good at it), growing fat, and losing the skill of writing.

How does one get out of this rut?

How does one believe once again, that you are, in fact, meant to be special?

Or does one just accept, that maybe, you’re not? That you chose this.

And this is how life will be, always… Normal.

On Adults and Adulting

“We’re adults! When did that happen? And how do we make it stop?”

Meredith Grey might have her life’s hat on backwards, but she definitely managed to capture an entire generation’s thoughts into those sentences.

It’s funny, because technically, we turned into adults at the age of 18. But the actual brutal impact of it just doesn’t seem to hit you until almost a decade later. Because, you see, while you’re suddenly grown up enough to have a driver’s license and decide the fate of this country, life’s lesson’s haven’t quite rained down on you just  yet. (Maybe that’s what the much older Drinking Age limit is about, you know?). Because while you grow up hearing and thinking “Do that once you’re grown up…”, you never really are quite grown up enough to do most of those things. Here are a few examples of all the lies you’re told about being an adult, which reveal their true colours to you, a little too late.

“Party all you want, when you’re older.” You have zero amount of energy to party, when you’re older.

“Get a dog when you’re living on your own.” Sure, I can barely manage myself living alone. I’m sure I can completely be trusted with a sweet lil creature. Specially since even a bamboo plant didn’t manage to make it in my care.

“Make your life’s decisions on our own, once you’re grown up.” Yes I can. No, I don’t always want to. Will you figure out how and when to renew my passport for me, please, pretty please?

Sure, I love being an adult and being in control of my life. But some days, just some days, I just want to run home, hand over the reins to my parents, and let them take care of things. I don’t want to fire the maid (while she abuses me in Marathi and I stare at her blankly). I don’t want to go grocery shopping (Kanda kaisa diya?). I don’t want to coordinate what time the plumber and the AC repairman should come. And I definitely don’t want to deal with the fungus growing on my clothes in my cupboard after every bloody monsoon!

I don’t always want to be an adult. I don’t always want to be in control of my life, of my decisions, of the consequences. And when something goes wrong at work, won’t it be awesome to call your parents to talk to your boss and just sort things out? It’s so much easier to sit back and let someone else decide, and be responsible for you.

Some times, just some times.

Until the next Sale season comes, perhaps.

Because come what may, I do like being in charge of my credit cards!

:D

P.S. I just realized how bloody girly and irresponsible this post makes me sound. But you know what, exhaustion gets to the best of us. Deal with it.

An Open Letter to The Girl With The Broken Heart

Today, you don’t feel like getting out of the bed. And it doesn’t look like you’ll feel like it tomorrow, or the day after. And you know what, you really wont.

He really was The One, wasn’t he? You spent years of your life on him, all those years when other guys were hitting on you, but you were just his, because it was true love, because he was the one you were meant to be with. And now, he’s gone.

And you’ve tried. You’ve tried playing hardball. You’ve begged. You’ve promised to go to the end of the world to change yourself and make everything exactly the way he would want. Just so he would come back. And your world would be the same again.

But instead here you are. In a world where getting out of bed is a task. Where the thought of moving even a millimeter without him seems like something so impossible, something you can’t imagine having ever done on your own. Alone.

And you begin to question yourself. It must’ve been something you did. Why else would he leave? You weren’t good enough. It has to be you.

And you remember all the good times. All the amazing times. Those memories etched in your brains, never to be found again. And that place where your heart is, there’s an ache, a dull heavy ache, ebbing away the last of your energy and will, making you wish everything would just stop. But your heart does the only thing it knows how, it keeps beating, dully, achingly, painfully.

But while you stay snuggled in bed, your pillow soaked with tears, just for a moment, try to reach past all those happy memories and pull out a few of those repressed ones that you refuse to remember. You know, the one where he shouted at you and said things that no amount of love can actually justify? The one where he promised to be with you forever, and walked away the next day. The one where he asked you to change, and refused to do so himself. The one which you’re too embarrassed to tell even your friends about, because you know they’ll judge you for still sticking around.

But you know what, there will be a day, months maybe years from now, when you’ll judge yourself, for sticking around. And that, will be a good day. But for that day to happen, you need to get up now, get out of bed, and go on and live your life. YOUR life. The one about YOU, without the need of another human being in it to make it good. I could say stuff like the right guy is out there, and you’ll find someone else. And you probably will. But of all the things you may choose to believe in, please believe in this instead:

If he was the one, you wouldn’t have anything to hide from your friends.

If he was the one, he wouldn’t have left you here in your bed, crying, questioning yourself.

If he was the one, he’d never leave you hanging.

If he was the one, he would be here, right now, with you.

I’m not saying relationships are easy, and that you’ll meet Prince Charming who will just be so perfect in every way, that you’ll live happily ever after. You will have to work on any relationship. But just how much, is something you need to decide.

I’ll end by simple words of advice given to me by a dear friend years ago, way too early for their time. If you don’t wake up every day feeling happy because of who you’re with, because of who you are, then there’s something really wrong with your relationship.

If you’re hoping to live a life with him, always with the feeling of hadness, then there’s something very wrong with the relationship.

So get up, get out of bed, and go get through the day.

It will be tough. So will tomorrow, and the day after.

But eventually, it will become easy, and then natural.

And you’ll look back, and judge yourself for staying in bed, crying, over someone who really wasn’t the one.

And you'll laugh.

Believe me.

Love,
Your Non-Judgemental Friend.

The Vacation Diaries - 3

I was drenched, for the nth time that day. Every time I felt I’d had enough of the rain, it rained some more. It was luck testing my patience, in a way she’s truly a master at. But I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction. Not this time.

The lightening made me look around the dingy hole I was sitting in. A scrap yard almost, built in the corner of the lanes housing some of the most happening places in Singapore. Yet here we were, sitting on discarded chairs, looking out at the boats dancing in the shimmering lights of the boat quay.

He let out a breath of smoke, the calm clearly spreading across his face. His face. He had changed, a lot. But then, so had I.

He breathed deeply again. I smiled, remembering how much I detested smokers. And how cruelly my life seemed to revolve around them.

For once, it was a relief, to not care.

It had been a long day. My feet hurt. My vacation was nearing an end, and the next day, I was heading back to everything I had run away from. And all I had was this, this moment, of looking out at the lit up sky, listening to the drunken laughter in the air, the sounds of music from the clubs throbbing at the back of my head, the rain thrashing against the make-shift roof we sheltered under.

We talked of our lives in the last thirteen years. We laughed at memories of games played back in sixth grade, looked surprised at how much people had changed over the years, and yet smiled, knowing, that so had we.

There’s a comfort in talking to strangers that can never be found in those close to ourselves, those who care. There is a sense of freedom in finally relaxing and being who you’re most comfortable being, because you know you really couldn’t care less. Because right now, at this moment, with this person you've met after years and will never meet again, it just doesn't matter. There is relief, in having no expectations, of making no explanations, in just, being.

We talked, some more, of lives which had never crossed paths and never will. He smiled, and took a deep drag. I smiled, remembering how much I detested smokers.

And it rained, through the night.

How can one not be a feminist?!

How can one not be a feminist?

When in one of the most developed nations

Politicians are anti-abortion

There has never been a woman president

And the perfect man is a dominating vampire / millionaire

When you read the newspaper every day

When our politicians say women should not be given phones

When chowmein gets the blame for turning men into beasts

When you see your maid come covered with bruises from the night before.

When you have your ass grabbed in the bus

When you’re too scared to stop to grab a bite after a late-night movie

When the clothes you wear are not what you choose but what you must

When you carry a pepper spray in your bag.

When you think twice before smiling at a colleague

When you grit your teeth at your client’s crass comments

When you let go of self respect and dignity

When you’re told how you must behave.

When the most common words used are

A slut

A whore

Easy

And blonde.

How can one not be a feminist?!

This post was inspired by my cousin, who had put up this question as her status message. And the depth of it just didn’t hit me enough at the time. But then it did. And the question seemed just that simple, just that frustrated. In this world, how can one possibly not be a feminist?

Memories and Some Randomness...

Where the hell is time going?!

No, that is not a rhetorical question. I am genuinely asking, where the hell is time going?! And what the hell is happening to this world?! Like seriously?!?

In Meredith Grey’s scripted words, “We’re adults! When did that happen?? And how do we make it stop?!”

And just by the way, three people, yes you read right, THREE people in the last few weeks have told me Meredith reminds them of me. I don’t know whether it’s a compliment or whether I should be deeply troubled. Like really. But knowing me, I’ll take it as a compliment. Even if it is just the dark and twisties. But, I’m really not dark and twisty anymore (I buried that Shreya in some deep dark dungeon quite a few years ago), so it has to be the pretty, ambitious, and fun-loving Meredith right? Right???

Oh, I went off the topic. But take it as a warning, that might happen rather often today.

Yes, coming back to time and things changing. A few days ago, I found myself walking down the lanes of North Campus with an old friend, after ages. Lanes we had traversed a gazillion times during our three years there. Now, I’m madly, like madly in love with North Campus. I think I had some of the most amazing times of my life there. Just the thought of all those old buildings, the winter mist, the cheap food, the independence, the shady Chinese restaurants…

Except... wait. What the hell happened to those shady Chinese restaurants?! Remember the Soho’s, Noodles, Momo Point, Bon Zai’s in that tiny dirty naali wala lane behind bungalow road?? Remember the awesome shake’s at Keventer’s?? Like…WHERE????

That particular walk was depressing, to say the least. We ended up eating at Bercos (which from our student days we remembered as this AWESOME Chinese restaurant, where we could eat once in a while, if we were feeling very very rich). What we got was the slowest service on the planet, crappy food, repair work drowning out our voices, and music (the playlist was still from our school days…Bailamos…no, not kidding) turned up even louder in the hope to drown out the repair work.

Oh. Well.

In other news, there have also been times when the clock doesn’t seem to move. And getting through a day is an achievement in itself. But this blog no longer pays attention to that. Ok? Ok.

In the last few months I’ve met a lot of old friends, and made some new ones. There have been fun times and boring ones. And most importantly, a LOT of people have been making me get off my lazy and depressed butt and get out and actually have fun.

And, at this point of time, I would like to declare to the world, I am in LOVE with Vir Das. Really. Seriously. No jokes.

Oh, what an oxymoron.

And now that I’m back in Delhi, I’m finally beginning to see the actual city. For I have spent my whole life, well, at home, or north campus, or, well, at home. And there’s so much to see! I think I know more of Mumbai than I do of Delhi, so it’s like getting to explore an all new city. Just that this time around it’s not as a broke kid…and that helps.

And I never realized how much I missed Punjabis! I realized it once, after almost a year in Mumbai, when I was spent and disgruntled, I saw a sardar uncle once, and felt some weird amount of happiness rush through me. It seemed like such a rare sight, and made me homesick. Then of course, I realized I must look plain stupid grinning at him, so I walked off.

When I talked about moving back to Delhi, I was scared. So was everyone else. I have a pepper spray in my bag (Except I’m scared that when needed, I might spray myself by mistake!), and a constant painful vigil in my head. Except for one simple realization.

I missed my Delhi friends. I missed Delhi. It’s like coming home. Except, that’s exactly what it is.

I’m home.

P.S. I know, this post had absolutely no point or direction. But sometimes, neither does life. And you know what? It’s ok.

My December

I sit, and I wait.

As the clock slowly ticks, crossing away each second, each minute, each day, slowly edging towards that time.

The eerie darkness, sunlight in perpetual hibernation, each breath condensing in the thick air, falling short of its purpose, yet creating beauty before its expected demise. The chill permeating your skin, entering your bones, making each movement an effort, yet an accomplishment in itself. Your sight, blurred by the constant fog. The shivering, the chattering of the teeth, the sharp pins and needles, and then the sudden calm as the pain gives way to numbness, a numbness that slowly spreads and consumes each inch of your body.

But most importantly, the numbness that consumes you.

As you step outside in the freezing night, where nothing dares move, lest it be identified as the wind’s prey. As each emotion fights its way through, fighting for survival, for the warmth, to be let out and dance through the world. As the chill slowly suffocates each, in its own relentless brutal way.

And then, you finally smile, feeling the stretch of your face from the effort, and yet it’s beautiful. You feel the chilling wind hit your face, freeze your nose, sting your eyes, so hard that it almost hurts, before you feel it no more. Before you feel, no more.

It’s a beautiful season.

Depressing for most.
Liberating for some.

I sit, and I wait.

So What’s the Craziest Thing You’ve Done Lately?

You might have asked yourself that question on a day you were bored out of your wits. Or after watching The Girl Next Door. Or simply reminiscing the past.

But whatever the case may be, nothing, believe me nothing, prepares you for the day your Mom asks you that question.

Now, you would imagine your Mom being troubled by how crazy and wild you’ve been, and hence asking it. In fact I do remember my Mom’s last ‘talk’ with me before I headed off for my MBA to a slightly, let’s say, notorious college. Her exact starting sentence was, “With your sister, I didn’t worry, but you, you’ve always had a slight wild side…”. And I guess I have over the years given her more reasons to worry than my sis, so it was all cool. So the question really shouldn’t have shocked me, right?

Except my mom wasn’t worried about my wild escapades, she was more worried about the sudden lack thereof.

If your face just contorted into a huge ‘O’ with a thought in your head that just sounded something like ‘Whhoooaaa????’…well…I know.

Background perhaps, would help.

I have spent most of my life in Delhi, in let’s say a pretty conservative modern family (as weird as that sounds, you would be surprised by how many of them exist). So that also means I have had, let’s say constructive discussions with my family which usually ended up with my parents giving me a stern ‘No’, and me being all grouchy and pouty in my room. I was also called a rebel by them a few times. Though with all due respect to my parents, I really was a good kid, given what rebels of our generation really are.

But I did have my share of fun. I did have a group of random crazy friends, throughout school and college. I did colour my hair red randomly on an impulse. I did make out with a 007 Pierce Brosnan poster in the middle of Barista on a dare. I did sit on the Metro floor and sing songs. I did walk through the most beautiful misty foggy roads of North Campus in the middle of the night. I did attend parties. I did dance till the DJ stopped. I did get a tattoo and only told my mom after. I did smell a ghost.

Though mind you, through all that, I also slogged and studied my ass off.

But it was kind of worth it.

And well, now, I crib about work, am literally always tired, I sleep on weekends and decided to sleep early on New Year’s Eve. My hair style has been constant for like a year, and the colour has remained its natural self. Tattoo #2 has not yet made its appearance, nor has a belly button ring. I seem to have disappeared from the world, become anti-social, reticent, and I seem to be liking it.

In my mom’s words, I’ve started behaving like an old maid.

Well, maybe I have grown up.

Or maybe it’s just the calm before the storm.

Or maybe, you just don’t know  ;)

P.S. Dear Mum, I’m guessing this post didn’t make you feel any better than you did before…but don’t worry… All is well :D

Err...a little warning never hurt anyone, now did it?

An Open Letter to Mr. Claus

Dear Santa,

I don’t usually write to you, but then I just realized, that I have been trying to have quite a few conversations with Karma in my head, and she being the archetypal bitch doesn’t ever bother responding, so I thought maybe I could reroute my conversation through you.

Followed?

Well here’s the deal.

You know how they keep saying that whatever you do, it will one day come back to you in some form or the other, with interest even? Well, my question is, who is the authority to measure whether what is coming back to me is in fact equal, and if the interest calculation is accurate, and if in fact Ms. Karma isn’t taking out some personal vendetta and just adding a few more notches here and there for fun, you know? What are the controls around this particular process? A maker-checker system in place perhaps? Because in general in my life, girls have found it tougher to get along with me. But that’s changing. So I just wanted to let Ms. Karma know that, you know, maybe we can be friends now.

There have been times in my life that I haven’t been the nicest person on the planet. Or the second nicest. Or the third nicest. I can go on, but you get the gist, no? There may have been reasons, or not. I may have hurt a lot of people, I may have hurt myself, I may have never realized, or I may have realized just how much and suffered as well. I am in no way making excuses. I apologise. Damage done = ‘x’ (let’s say)

But then let’s recap to the last two years of my life, shall we?

I have been lonely. I have been depressed. I have wasted eight months against my will. I have gained weight. After giving me the prettiest skin for all my life, I have pimples, now. I never get autos. My merus never turn up. I lived with cockroaches. My next door neighbor is a drummer who likes to practice quite a few hours in a day. I work for the one person I really have no respect for. I spend more than four hours of my day cramped in trains and buses while I travel across the world to reach a client office where I sit alone all day. I have been made to repeatedly realize how insignificant I really am in the scheme of things. I now seem to be nearing the randomest eating disorder on the planet. My stomach reacts to my brain. I now know I am not perfection personified. Not even close. I have shed enough tears to unknowingly contribute to scientist’s concerns of rising sea levels. 

I am scared, Ms. Karma, and it’s not a nice way to be.

The past year has been beautiful in so many ways. I have been my happiest during it. I loved my job. I loved the people I worked with. My hair turned nice and wavy when I woke up one day, and stayed that way. I love my new apartment. I’ve written more in a year than I have in my life. I’ve written happy stuff. I actually believed in happiness and love and Captain. And I’m changing. I’m learning. But then, at all times, I know that there are these days, when you wake up all grumpy and I become your CSR project of the week. You give back with all your wrath. And while I know I must get my due, but could you perhaps once go back and check your excel sheet, run a few pivots, some summation formulae and just check, just once? Are we by any chance past ‘x’?

If no, kindly provide me your PMS-ing dates. I shall be prepared with my shield and armour. Or at least be prepared to be broken. If one can ever really be prepared for that.

I have learnt a lot from you, and I know why you are important in the scheme of things. But perhaps, one day, I would like to know that I have paid my dues. And neither me, nor people who love me, need ever suffer again, unless warranted afresh. I’d like to live peacefully. Without a karma-named axe over my head, if possible. So could you maybe put a little reminder on that date in your BB? Just let me know, please?

So all I really want for this Christmas, Santa, is your help in passing on this plea to Ms. Karma. I heard she’s a bitch. But hey, I changed. And continue to do so each day. Maybe there’s hope for her yet.

Love,

The nicer, more loveable, and learning to be more sensible,

Shreya

When The Shoe Fits...

We are always in search of that perfect pair of shoes. That unique pair which combines beauty, grace, elegance, and somehow comfort as well, into two pieces of divine material, encasing your feet like soft flower petals, protecting it from the muck out there in the world.

The only problem is that, that perfect pair we keep dreaming about, is almost always in hiding.

Some might go their entire lives in the hope that one day it will finally be their turn to put on that perfect pair. What they don’t realize, is that unless they get out there into the world, and demand them, the shoes really are never going to fall into their lap. You may find it in your first visit. Or your hundredth. You may choose to try some on, or just look. But they will not come to you.

Because there is no such thing as the perfect pair of shoes.

Don’t roll your eyes and scream “Cynic!”…hear me out (read me out?!?!), patient reader.

So you go to this expensive shop, where you only ever window shop, because simply put its way beyond your pocket depth. And as you move along, humming to yourself, ignoring the snobby salesgirl’s annoyed looks, your eyes suddenly fall on them…those beautiful heels…nothing like anything you’d ever seen before in your hum-drum life. You tip-toe towards them, excited, yet apprehensive at the same time, that they might just not fit. You wonder for a good few minutes, if perhaps it would just be better to dream about them, than know that they weren't for you. But finally your heart gets the better of you, and you lift them, and gently place them on your feet. Lo and behold! They’re a perfect fit!

You look in the mirror and think… “Perfect!”

And somehow the price tag doesn’t matter anymore. You love the shoes, you even love the box and the stuffing they come with. Just the thought of them on your feet makes you smile in the middle of your work day.

And so, on the first occasion you can find you excitedly put on your new pair of heels. They make you look tall, chic, and your legs look like they go on forever. You love the looks of adoration and jealousy that come your way. You finally found them, what everyone was looking for all their lives, what you didn’t even know you really wanted till now…that perfect pair of shoes.

But then you start to notice that just at the back of your ankle, just slightly, it’s starting to burn. Every step you take, it rubs against your skin just that little bit more, causing a pain that is almost impossible to catch, but not really possible to ignore. But you do try to ignore. You keep walking. Because you paid a lot for those pair of shoes. And it isn’t humanly possible that the shoes aren’t perfect. I mean, look at them!

But as the day goes on, that small tiny annoying pin prick of a pain keeps growing, keeps rubbing deeper and deeper, till you’re almost certain that another step can’t possibly be taken without you screaming out loud with pain and your shoe almost certainly filling up with some impossible amounts of blood.

You run home in tears. You hold your shoes in your hands and look at them with loving accusation, “How could you do this to me? I thought we were meant to be!” And with a tear barely contained in your eye, you put the shoes neatly back in their box, and push it under your bed. And you look at your pretty pedicured and now wounded feet and apologise.

Or you don’t.

There is no such thing as the perfect pair of shoes.

You give it some time. You let your feet heal. You try on your shoes again. Just for an hour this time. And the next day for two perhaps. And then a little more. And some more. And you start to realize something. The shoemaker wasn’t dreaming of your feet when he was making shoes. But now, with time, the shoes feel different. You notice how the leather seems to be adjusting just a bit more. How your toes are no longer cramped up. How the ankle spreads out a little more easily. And surprisingly, you notice how your skin is slowly adapting to the contours of the shoes, the ankles, the heel.

And you look pretty, and tall, and chic, with legs that go on forever.

And you’re happy.

In the perfect pair of shoes.

Except, there really is no such thing now, is there?

Journey

Friday evening. That beautiful time when you finally put the horrendous week behind you, and look forward to the weekend full of promises of laziness, sleep and fun all in a span of 48 hours.

Friday evening. When everyone runs early from work if possible. When everyone is in a hurry to get home and move on with life.

I wrestled my way through the crowd, found a comfy spot in the middle of the train, and mentally surrendered to two hours of drudgery. As the local pulled out of the station and began to gain speed, a disturbance ran through the crowd, enough to snap everyone out of their busy dream worlds. Women standing near the door suddenly started screaming hysterically. Next thing we knew, we felt the train jerk slightly. Then everything was back to normal. Everything except the hysterical women at the door.

It took a few minutes for the full story to come out. A man had tried to get onto the train, slipped, and got sucked under the train.

And our bogey had gone over him.

The thuds we had felt.

There was stunned silence in the bogey as the realization slowly sunk in. We had just gone over someone. Someone was probably dead. We were on the train that killed him.

Everyone looked shaken up.

Slowly, people returned to their books and phones, albeit slightly zombie-like. The train stopped at the designated stations. More people got in. Chatter filled the bogey again, as it chugged away from the spot that had changed everything. I spent a restless night reliving those bumps on the railway track, the jerks we felt, the futility of it all.

For the next three days I woke up early in the morning and ran to the door to get the newspaper and scan through it for any news of the person. Was it an old man? Was it a young boy? Did he survive? Were there loved ones mourning somewhere? What did he do? What had his life been like? I desperately wanted to attach some identity to this person, something more than just a bump I felt while standing in the train.

But nothing.

A lot of other important things had happened in those few days. Tata’s announced their new heir, FDI in retail increased, politicians were being politicians, Sachin missed hitting a century. But nothing about a train going over a man at Grant Road. At this point I would like to believe that somehow all this was some huge confusion. Maybe he just slipped and didn’t actually go under. Maybe the jerk we felt was just his bag or something. Maybe the women at the door were mistaken. Maybe someone was plain tired and crazy and hallucinating. Right now, I’d rather believe anything, than the fact that his life was just that insignificant.

I’d rather believe that it was all in our heads.

That the train didn’t continue like nothing had happened.

That life didn’t just go on.

For all but one.

Two Hours of a Lifetime

 I sat at my desk, glaring alternatively at the late hour proudly displayed by my watch and my excel sheet which adamantly refused to pivot the massive data. As the cells slowly began to get hazy and merge into meaningless data, my mind wandered off to the question which had been naggingly poking me at the back of my head for quite a few days now, just because someone asked, just because I didn’t have an immediate satisfactory answer.

What would I do, if I had two extra hours in my day?

I blinked, and refocused on my excel sheet.

Would I finally find the patience for my ailing laptop to hurry up and finish the work in those two extra hours?

Will I actually meet my deadlines two hours in advance?

Will I finally join those dance classes I’ve been eyeing for months?

Or actually work out?

Will I, in all probability watch more tv?

Or just chase that ever-elusive sleep?

Sighing, with a last forlorn look at my watch, I finally shut my laptop, and stepped onto the busy streets of Mumbai. If there is one thing this city teaches you, it’s the art of walking right into crowds, without really looking into anyone’s eyes, elbowing people and making way for yourself. Survival of the fittest, they say. And it has its ways of pulling you in, and drowning out your despair in the waves of crowd making their way to the next minute of their busy lives.

As I stood in the local train, stuffed like a sandwich spread in between other sweaty passengers, my mind went back to those two beautiful extra hours. Maybe I’ll take a cab and sit like a queen, instead of standing in a way that seriously questions the concept of personal space.

An hour of standing later, I pushed my way through Andheri Station, onto the next hurdle…finding an auto back home. After sundry rejections, I finally manage to find one, and rush up the stairs to reach home. Maybe I’ll spend the two hours actually bothering to report the errant rickshaw-wallas. I chuckled to myself.

Home. That sweet relaxing place. Apart from the few troubles like food and plumbing and bills to be paid. I checked the reminder on my phone and groaned. Friend’s birthday party tonight. If only there was a way to get out of these social conventions.

There’s work to be done…hours to be slept…people to be met…time to be wasted…

And I stopped, disgusted with my own thought process.

And then it hit me.

How I should spend those two magical extra hours in my day.

Maybe I’ll be less of a machine and more of a human being. Maybe I’ll walk at a pace that humans were intended to, and not the PT Usha contenders that we have turned into. Maybe, the next hour in the train, I won’t just sit there listening to music and minding my own business, maybe I’ll actually look around me and really see the others in the train. Maybe I’ll ask them their stories, realize that there is a life that exists outside of myself and my worries. Maybe I’ll look into their eyes and try to imagine their stories. Maybe I’ll look outside at the world passing by, and finally see the beauty of it all. Maybe the next time I see an accident, a person in distress, a road fight, I’ll actually stop and help. Maybe the next time when the man with the luggage bangs into me at the station, I’ll actually turn around and confront him. Hell, maybe if that man had an extra two hours in his day, he’ll actually stop to apologise. Maybe I’ll take the time out to smile at random strangers, in the hope it makes their day better. Do you really remember what the sky in Mumbai looks like? All I remember of the sky in this city is high-rise buildings and construction. Maybe I’ll go outside, and just spend some time looking up at the sky, and the stars and the moon. Maybe I’ll take some time off in my day, time which is not about me, about money, about work, about commitments, but instead about time, and life, and space. Maybe I'd be less cynical. Maybe I’ll be a better person, and live the rest of the twenty four hours in my day in a more humane way than I do now.

Maybe so will others, with their two extra hours.

One can always hope.

When Life is a Reality Show

I just spent an entire day in bed. It wasn’t just lack of good health, though that was the main reason. It was also to quite an extent a lack of will. I’m not sure why. I think I had nothing to look forward to in the day, till evening. So it somehow never occurred to me to actually get out of bed till evening. Don’t ask me why, even if your mouth just fell open, that’s just how it was.

Except, when evening came, I realized what I’d been looking forward to wasn’t happening after all.

And then it hit me.

Harder than the crazy freak lightening outside my window.

I just wasted my entire day.

And I will never get it back.

I got out of bed, still in a bit of shock, and headed straight to the shower. I needed it. I needed to clear out the sudden avalanche of thoughts that had hit me when I was least expecting them.  And in those fifteen minutes in the shower, I went through a quick recap of life, just the way it is.

I am twenty four years old, and don’t necessarily have a lot to show for it.

I am anti social, to say the least, at the most important of times.

I currently live a life hidden from most people

I’m currently not in love with my job, circumstantial as that may be, and suddenly treat it as something I have to do, to get that sum of money that pays the rent at the end of the month. Because you see, one day eventually, I’ll be a writer, and I’ll sit somewhere on a beach or in the mountains writing my next novel, being at home, naturally decently rich, and just enjoying the company of my family.

Reality check. I have a job that is nowhere close to me one day being a writer. I’m not even trained to be a writer. I don’t even write that well, and the term is simply a self proclamation. I have one blog which I killed, one blog that is struggling to live, and one blog that will never see the light of day under my name.

Don’t get me wrong, I am wonderfully happy right now. But because of something completely different. In fact, I am so happy, that it overshadows any circumstantial crap that happens, a job not going well, a blog not being followed, a story never told. There is no self pity. Because right now, I consider myself luckier than I’ve ever been in my life, happier than I’ve ever been in my life, with a clear thought of one thing that I know for a fact I’ll devote my life to, if allowed.

There is no self pity. But I think perhaps I’ve forgotten to care about some aspects of my life. Or maybe worse, I’ve actually gone a stage beyond self pity, and into a land where I’ve just learnt to ignore them altogether. Because you see, one day I’ll be a writer, with the love of my life, and it just won’t matter anymore that I didn’t manage to finish my project on time and got my first bad rating.

Maybe I need to get back to reality.

Maybe I need to get out of bed.

And do something.

P.S. The evening plan is finally happening after all, and I can't stop smiling. But, either way, I’m glad I got out of bed. Before I get into some real trouble. Like get thrown out of that thing that pays the rent at the end of the month.


P.P.S. I just realised I called this blog Life Unlimited, and I spent my whole day in bed. Now I'm just plain ashamed.

Of Pinky Woes and Other Things

So here’s one of those completely random disconnected posts that I truly believe one day I shall become the Master and the Queen of (Weirdly the only thing I’m wondering currently is whether Master and Queen should have started with capital M and Q respectively or not, huh?). Actually, to understand the genesis of such posts, the most basic explanation that I can offer at the root of it all is simply that I suddenly think of way too many things to write about, all interesting enough to feature in my head, but not interesting enough to actually stick in my head for an entire post. Whew, that was a long sentence, wasn’t it? But made sense, didn’t it?

Anyhow, my head’s recently been nice enough to point out the tiny little changes that have been taking place in my life. You know, those little changes that some annoying part of your head notices, and you sshhhh it up, because, clearly, that part is demented. So what if I suddenly have a love for shoes, and happen to own a few pretty pairs. And oh well, thanks to my flat mate’s generous donation, I have some rather flowery tops, and well, they’re obviously not black. And well, my room currently has stuffed toys. And some cute red things.  And I like dresses. But hey! That’s called looking good…has nothing to do with changing from being a dude, to well, you know, err…a girl? Oh wait. This blog is currently pink. Which is totally the latest most masculine colour ever. *rolls eyes*

Oh, and talking about pink…you know that farthest little finger that you have…that rather useless thing you never pay attention to? Specially the one on your left hand, unless you’re left-handed, then your right-hand. And if you’re ambidextrous, well, take your pick amigo…Anyway, coming back to the point, what I really wanted to say was, PAY ATTENTION TO THAT LITTLE PINKY! It happens to be rather important. And you happen to notice it only when it’s in a plaster and out of action. Don’t believe me, do you, you cynical fool? Well, you will one day, when it’s gone, and you realize that the hand bidet in the loo happens to be on your left. Or when the zip of your dress goes all the way up in the back, and the only way to zip-unzip is to squirm your way through it and use all the flexibility of both your arms and hands. Now, try it with one hand. Hah! (Sigh, yes, I know, you might want to go and Google ‘bidet’. It’s ok, I’m not going anywhere. And yes, I know, you were probably more intelligent than to buy a dress with a zip at the back. But. Oh. Well.)

My cupboard is rather overflowing right now and begging to be cleaned and organized. Me, the supposedly awesomely organized person, is going to let it beg till Sunday, I think.

Oh, ever played the game of LIFE? I happen to be a fan. But somehow in my version have lost quite a few of those pink and blue pegs signifying people, and hence always end up running rather short of the correct gender by the end of it. Thus enter same-sex marriages. Advanced, my game of LIFE is, I tell you.

Now, I had something else to write about, but somehow in the middle got distracted by someone posting the Twilight – Breaking Dawn trailer on Facebook. For those who haven’t read the books, and those idiots who actually like the series, here’s the summary of this part in not so many kind words: Bella marries vampire. Werewolf angry. Vampire+human go for honeymoon. Vampire regularly breaks the bed, the wall, everything while concentrating on his fun-time during the honeymoon, because well, he’s sooooo strong, and little-human-Bella could be torn and broken into two. But hey, sex is important, so he exercises super mind-over-matter-type-yoga control and ends up breaking everything but her during it. Oh, and of course super vampire sperm impregnates her. And this being a super vampire-human mutant baby grows rather fast, and oh, in the process starts eating Bella from inside, and breaks a few bones kicking around. Awesome sauce, no?

I’m sorry, but that book series just took feminism back quite a few decades. Stephenie Meyer hit the nail so hard on the head that all those wannabe feminists drooled and fainted on the spot. Truth is, I’m no one to judge. I did after all read the whole series, even if I was scorning it throughout (Couldn’t get past the really bad acting in the movies though). But apart from it being my supposed ‘research’ for why the hell girls fall for this book, well, maybe I did enjoy it one tiny little bit somewhere inside. It really makes me wonder. Are all girls by default wired deep in their heads as helpless and clumsy little things that need a sexy vampire to save them and make life worth it? And then we grow up and bury that deep inside and pretend to be all strong and independent and subscribe to the women-of-today type crap?

While in reality, maybe, all we really want in life is our own perfect Edward Cullen.

After all, this blog is pink.

*Groan*

P.S. While I just infuriated the feminist world out there by that last thought, please do note, I’m just pointing out a few hypocrisies in myself. I did almost puke a few times in those books. But I did read all four. *blushes*


P.P.S. Ok, so the blog isn't pink anymore. How long did you expect that one to last now, really?