When Darkness finds me

I can feel you. 

You don't have to shout any louder, run any faster, be any heavier or any more anything, not even lesser. I can see you from the corner of my eye and sense you with every beat of my heart, creeping towards me. 

Your grey vapours only chase me harder when I run so I chose, this time, to brave your wrath, to cross my fingers and wait for you to pass me by. 

I chose to believe the false promises I made myself and I chose to believe the false comfort every disconnected whisper offered me because I was hiding from you in plain sight. I was hiding from the person you are conjured up by the recesses in my mind not deep enough to keep me safe.

I hate that you caught up. I hate that you chose the brightest day, in a room most filled with love in a voice I cherish deeply to wrap your vapourous trail around me and inch your way up to my mind while I stood paralysed- without even a whimper in self defense.

You know your own ugliness. 

You know I will succumb to the power you have over me. You enjoy the chase and it was longer this time than ever before. I didn't miss you. Not one bit. If I could wish you away I would. I let myself believe that is all it would take but you have proved me wrong. I will congratulate you on your victory, ever the graceful loser. You have taught me from practice, I will even thank you, gratitude flowing out of the wounds you stab into me. 

I wonder if this will be my last memory of these months in the rainbow. I stand here immobilized by the crushing weight of the knowledge you bring. 

You call it the truth and I want to believe you but it is difficult to have my mind reconstruct reality to suit a whim while you are twisting your knife deeper into my heart making sure I can see you through the haze of tears I won't shed from pride.

After all that I have sacrificed- laughing little floaty bubbles and flitting through reality, my pride is all I have and if you asked nicely I'm sure I would give you that too, but not while you suffocate me and watch me bleed out so clinically. 

It won't do. I won't give you that satisfaction, not because I don't want to- for you I would give anything, but because my pride is the only oxygen I will find in the dark lonely grave you have dug for me.

I will dream of flight and wine and dancing and sleep through the worst of this. I will wake up in another season having befriended my nightmares again. Companionship more reliable than your promised smiles in the dark- I am blind.

My mother and her surprises

I have strange memories from when I was a child. The sun felt different against my skin and retrospect makes my vision clearer, the dust of wisdom gained from disappointment doesn't cloud my vision in memory.

I was listening to this throwback compilation by U-Penn's desi a Capella band and realised I'm a child of the 90s. I may have come chocking, kicking and screaming into this world in 88- and yet the music that makes my heart melt (unconsciously and embarrassingly) is from what the screen tells me is the 1990s.

Yes, this isn't where I started but I get side tracked by the opening dusty little rooms in my mind and the people who inhabit them, you will forgive me.

The memory I have listening to this compilation is, again, of my mother. Always my mother. She was and continues to be the greatest advocate of surprises. The small things would come gift wrapped in the bubble wrap of happy, the big things would shimmer and shine with a certain dazzle nobody else can conjour. My brother has picked up on this fascinating art but Amma is, without a doubt, the ruling queen of all things surprise.

Now, I was born a morose old soul who felt the weight of the world and lashed out in dark mood swings. It's quite a shame really to be born into a large family that is so energised by the thought of every breath and a life that has given so much, to find that the one dark unpredictable cloud in the room is really- the baby of the family. I like to think that it adds a dollop of the "unexpected" and spices things up in the family. That is far from the truth and I will be the first to admit it, but let's not pay heed to the truth for today, for today we will believe the version my kind family at their patient best will explain to me and I will get on with the memory that drove me back to this blog after so long.

Chennai is a very hot city. For a child with trouble being in a good mood, the heat that wrapped itself like a thick blanket around my mind filled with the worries of the world. This is bad news.
In Madras (yes Chennai now but we ignore that as we do my sullen demeanor) it is inescapable bad news. For a child sitting in the front seat of a navy blue Maruti van powered by an LPG cylinder and cooled by an AC that would only work on being fueled by acceleration... I can't begin to explain the tragedy. Nobody should be subject to such melodramatic tragedy.

Amma would drive us, the world and God knows who else all over the city in this car. We had a music player that I think may have been more important to Amma than the gas tank. I can sing more RD Burman and Mohammed Rafi songs than I can explain to the people who catch me singing along, or in fact myself, thanks to the many car drives to music, dance, tuition, schoool, I-35, birthday parties and everything in between.  

I was just discovering going out with my friends when the film Na Tum Jaano Na Hum released. I can't explain why this was the movie we (and I don't remember who else was part of this group) chose to watch but I remember coming back and announcing that at some point of time we should buy the cassette (yes that is how long a time back this was, we bought cassettes). 
Given the tone of this post so far you get no prize for guessing that a few days later on our way back from somewhere, while we sat baking in our trusty Maruthi Van at the traffic signal in Annanagar's famous Roundtana, I announced that whatever new music was playing on the cassette player royally sucked and Amma had no taste in music.
I have always thought that Amma deserves a Nobel Peace prize for calmly telling me that this was music from Na Tum Jaano Na Hum before gunning the accelerator to cool, I suspect, my head.
I destroyed her little everyday surprise and it wasn't the last time.

The other time I remember with frightening clarity is when I was forced to move with the family out of one house to where we now live. I had my reasons, very many actually,that I continue to think are more than valid. I explained my point of view to my parents over and over again. I think I even went on a hunger strike and some strange version of mouna vrath  that only the two then villains in my life- my parents, were subjected to. The thing about my parents though is that they have never ever given into a tantrum, a lesson I am grateful (now, most certainly not then) to have been taught very early on in life, and we moved to this new house.

Unlike often before I suspect Amma felt guilty about this one. She knew what it meant to me for them to give in just that once and just how alone I felt for not winning. So one day I came back home to find Lalith and Amma working together to set up a Tata Sky Set Top Box. This was the year it was just introduced and Chennai unlike any other city in India could not access cable TV without a digital box. In that world I was one of the few privileged children, who despite my atrocious 10th standard results still had access to cable TV. I couldn't be less impressed. I was too upset, or so I let her believe.

I'm quite sure I'm screwed now. Karma is finally catching up.
Amma I still love the surprises, nobody shall ever know but it is true. Whether it is the surprise of a special dish at dinner, kulfi in the freezer on a hot summer day, a note in my suitcase when I walk into yet another new life, an elaborate party, the not-so-surprising-anymore surprise-birthday-party or a carefully and secretly thought out gift, I will always love all of it not because it is about me (ok, maybe a little) but because it captures who you are- the master happy maker.

If you've ever met my mother you know what I'm talking about.
Tarun Menon, sharpen up those skills, if you've got all the good genes you might as well make the best of them.

Here's the compilation that started this up
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lErtjguuvSw

The last 24 hours of being 24

I turn twenty five soon. In a matter of a few minutes I will officially cross the line I drew myself to find all my dreams and make them real, and at that line I will look back to the 8 year old me, convinced of happiness and success and say, “I’m sorry love, life didn’t turn out like we planned and I haven’t found what we are looking for, but what a journey!”

It all starts with a ridiculous plan to travel ten hours for a hair and one ridiculous friend who decided to make that journey with me.

24 has been many years put together. I have seen myself succeed well beyond my expectations, or anybody’s for that matter and then watch everything crumble. It was April and I had decided life could not get more perfect. I had almost everything I wanted and what I didn’t have was tied up in ribbons to arrive soon. I was as happy as I have ever been and thanking the universe for aligning the stars just for me. 2 months later life caught up with me and bitch-slapped me like never before.

I hit my lowest yesterday over something as stupid as speeding over a speed-breaker and crashing near a sewer. I stood up gathering the shreds of my dignity, my bicycle and phone (that I shouldn’t have been using while riding) and resigned myself to the life I now found myself living. Every single thing had the unpleasant odor of failure, even something as seemingly trivial as riding a bicycle home. I wasn’t looking forward to the stupid trip to Delhi. Given the course my life had run since June-July I just couldn’t bring myself to believe things could be anything but rotten.

But Nivi had booked our tickets and it seemed more of a pain to live with my ridiculous hair and cancel my tickets than just suck it up and go. So go I did and how very glad I am, I can now see that it might just get better, my faith in humanity is restored and I have the best bloody hair cut I have had since leaving Bombay.

Today, things just worked. We found an auto to take us to the station-easy peasy. We got the best damn seats on that beautiful double decker train- the one across a table with ample leg room. As if that wasn’t good enough there were army jawans on the other side of the table. I will apologise at this point for not doing anything special to show them the gratitude I feel for all they are willing to do to make sure I’m safe. I hope they know, I wish I had, in some way, let them know. I’ll forgive myself knowing I woke up at 5.45 (thank you Anju) after a late night.

I reached Delhi and realized the man I wanted to cut my hair (the entire purpose of this 5 hour journey, remember) was on holiday. Given how I am now used to having things not go my way I made my way to option two- this place called Looks in Khan market where Deepak (man number 2) had taken the day off. It doesn’t help that I didn’t have an appointment but then the guys at the counter suggested Nicky, and thank God they did.

They say a hair cut can change your view of the world, Nicky seems to have worked his magic on my day. A brilliant hair cut, cinnamon roll and a few book purchases later we walked around Khan market to some random place called Mamagoto because we weren’t in the mood to travel to where I wanted to eat lunch. Oh Mamagoto… how happy you made two girls craving sea food in faraway land-locked places. I love you.

Ne, Sashaa and Kaka… it was so blood good to see you despite the madness of Sarojini Nagar market. Ne and Sash, you were absolutely right- bad call, we should have just stayed in Khan market’s blissful laziness, but now I have a beautiful lamp, you’ve met Kaka and I have discovered his cool Ninaja skills. I’ll be sure to recruit you if I’m ever on a manhunt Kakkey. 

I will now take the time to thank the strangers who made this day everything it was.

1. Strangers on the road who told us three times to not listen to an auto man. They told us (three times I remind you) to get into the auto and then tell him where to go and insist on going to the police station if the meter wasn’t turned on. You had no reason to help two very lots very adult women but we thank you. I love how happy you looked when we got into the auto and I stuck my head out to flash you a thumbs up sign.
2. The auto man. We didn’t need to pick a fight.. You took us where we wanted, without driving around Delhi. I know because I turned on my Map-app expecting to be over charged. I love how you joined in when Nivi and I were sounding excited like every other tourist about how gorgeous the Rashtapati Bhavan and India gate look. I love how you then showed us every sight there was without a single detour. When we got off at Khan market at 11 something you even cautioned us about not being disappointed about seeing the shops shut because everything only opens at 12.
3. Auto man 2: You made zero drama outside Khan market when I insisted you drive us through an absurd route to pick up Ne befor heading to Sarojini Nagar. I didn’t put on my app but honestly, auto man 1 and you are part of the same brother-hood, and you were so patient even reversing on a road you knew better than to simply because we asked.
4. Bubble gun man: We were at a signal racing to the station when this man selling the coolest bubble making device ever passed our auto. I saw Anju gift even before I saw you. I thank you for giving us a new bottle of the funny liquid we need pointing out the leak. We wouldn’t have known and were very confused till you told us why. Nivi and I love you even more for telling us there was time enough to show us that it worked fine- clearly you know what can be done in 40 seconds better than either of us.
5. Uncle on the road: We came back to Jaipur and with very little sense sat in an auto despite suspecting our driver was drunk. He was pulled up by a cop, sped away after an argument and like stupid ducks we continued sitting in the auto all the way home. Drunk auto-man and his friend then picked a fight with us about how much to pay him and we saw you walking towards us. I was sure you wanted the auto or were walking to the shop until you came up and asked us if we were ok. I love you even more for turning back around and walking home as soon as you found out we were safe. Thank you, in this lonely city that shuts down at 8 and can’t be bothered with strangers (other than stare at them like aliens) I love you for going out of your way to make sure we were safe. You didn’t need to- you and I both know that and that is precisely why your gesture meant so much.

My faith in humanity is restored.

Bring it on 25, I’m ready. Could you though, make an effort to beat 24’s highs and never ever drag me down as low as your predecessor?

Lots of love and the happy bubbly feeling of the world not being such a shit-hole,
Me.  

Reposted from: http://sitaramenon.wordpress.com/2013/10/06/the-last-24-hours-of-24/

Some days

Some days I wake up convinced I will be fine.

I'm woken up by the ring of my alarm instead of another dream of you. I'm chained to no memories- not good nor bad. My clothes- washed over and over again since you last saw them, bare no smell of you on this morning. I don't feel the phantom of your touch every time I feel the wind on my skin nor hear your sigh in every rustle of leaves.

I know for certain on days like this that I will be fine; that it will get better. I have reason to believe that with time I will find every shard of my crushed soul and glue it together transforming into somebody more breathtaking and complete than you ever knew.

On days like these I'm told there's a skip in my step and a tune to my laugh.Nobody asks about the colour of my eyes or why I won't smile. They ask instead of my childhood- whether I climbed trees and pulled pranks. I laugh in response, my love for the universe bursting out of every pore of my being- gratitude for the many gifts I have received that I haven't earned, the many opportunities that seemed gift wrapped with my name on the label. The world is perfect under the bandage I've plastered on and I feel the mile deep gashes in my soul begin the slow process of healing.

Just as I settle into my peace, a corner of my mind unlocks- I see an image of the inevitable future. A future I want with all my heart for you to have of happiness, success, joy and most of all, of peace. I see that future without me and that isn't what reminds me I will never heal, it is seeing somebody else in every dream we shared. And so I begin again, from the very bottom, tying again to forget, not hope, not believe and to stop praying to Gods who won't listen anyway.
---

I'm listening to Wish You Were Here by Pink Floyd

Of parks, bubbles and the life you deny yourself

There should be a word for it, somebody should make it up, the word to use when you can sell sorrow for companionship.

We live in an ugly world. What we see around us- the greed, the selfishness, the need to protect nobody but oneself- doesn't help cover the aesthetic flaws of the broken pavements with hungry crying children on it. We are so numb to every human suffering we see that, now, one feels worse for the dead rat being torn apart by a hungry crow than an old woman too old to lie on a bed, crying into her own naked shoulder begging for a morsel to eat.

We grow less patient and more numb with every day living the busy lives we do. We feel protected by the bubble we build locking out anybody who doesn't seem right. There is a sadistic joy in differentiating between the us and them; the them can be anybody- that boy who won't take the nail paint off his little finger, the woman on the train who can't contain her excitement about a new day. But that bubble gets empty. The people you surround yourself with echo the hollowness you build into your life and so you reach out, you let one hand slip out of the bubble and your wandering nervous hand has many takers. The ears in that hand are filled suddenly by those stories you chose to ignore, those wails you tuned out of.

Everybody has a sad story and suddenly everybody wants to tell you what it is. You pat yourself on the back for building a life free of such suffering and yet you watch doing nothing while that somebody will tell you of the horrors he suffers. You will watch every gesture he makes, listen to every changing tone in his voice, you analyse, critically, the truth of his story- the value it will bring to your next drinking session. You let your cold heart thaw and take in his suffering putting the colour back in your cheeks while beginning to realise that to this man, his suffering is his ticket into your bubble; a space you know you will not share with anybody who is not an echo of you.

You hand slips back into the bubble. Some disinfectant and a walk into a park with children who can count out money but can't do arithmetic drains out that story you heard, there is a babble of discontent that is so loud, it drowns out any truth you learnt. You laugh at the prospect of a person as broken as him finding his way into your everyday until you realise just how broken you are. You realise you traded your pain with him. You suffered his agonies as much as he suffered yours and your bubble is not safe anymore, fragile and easily shattered by the tears you fill it with.
------

I'm listening to Jee Le Zaraa

Magic bus

In a comforting world there would be a midnight bus; A bus for the broken, lonely and dispirited. The bus would have no destination it would invite neither conversation nor silence. Nobody would compete, not for the happiest nor saddest, nor bravest stories. We would drive around and around knowing we are united among strangers; That heart break and sadness are not lonely, inescapable little cages.

I would like to think that it would be a magic bus. An open top bust that will let you see the stars through your tears, magical because no matter where you are it will always feel 12 degrees Celsius  You could wear a sweater , hold yourself, maybe cry into your sleeve and believe what you will.

I would wear my hair down, find the darkest spot and wrap my oldest shawl around me. I'd snuggle into my shoes and cry as though it were raining. I'd carry some music, the kind of music I'm too scared to listen to on a regular day because of the truth in the writer's sadness. Maybe I'd whisper along. I would love my sadness on this magic bus, I would know it's a part of who I am. I wouldn't need to find excuses then and we would all drive round and around for hours until we stopped counting. I wouldn't carry a phone, or maybe the magic bus would jam all signals.

Airports are much like my magic bus. Everything is temporary- A collection of strangers who don't belong, so much left incomplete.

Spicy Bombay

Another Life

In another life, we would still be friends.

We would sit on a terrace talking into the night of an escape into a better world; one where we would live free, stay giddy, be happy. We would make up lands where brave heroes would fight for honor and truth would keep the world safe. We would tell each other the darkest whispers of our crooked minds, keep our promises to each other.

In that life we would sit together and laugh at the failures that my life is and wonder at the occasional victory, making up stories of the world we could conquer. We would live our lives and share our heartbreaks. In that life I would see you and know you still. In that life, I would be less bitter, feel less betrayed, be in less of a hurry to distrust. I would believe that friendships must last forever, that anything that can change you must be special. 

But we aren't friends and the long uncomfortable silences between us is filled, layer by layer, by the ruins of every universe we ever dreamed of. In the life we live, as I pack my bags to leave again, I can't tell you of my plans, we can't make a joke of my fears and I not allowed to wish anything for you. In the world we live in I smile and pretend you don't exist, knowing that to you I truly don't.

I hope that one day it will be possible again for me to think of you without feeling betrayed by myself, to trust you as I would a stranger. I hope that your dreams will come true that your heart be less broken that you be less bitter from the lessons life forced on you. I hope for you the happiness we dreamed. I will always miss the person you were and I hope with all my heart that true happiness finds you, that someday, when I hear of you from someone who knew us, what I will see is not the worlds we destroyed but a space in time we could be ourselves. 

The promise of today

The promise of today

She woke up that morning knowing it was going to be a beautiful day; determined that her day would be beautiful. Today would reflect the image of the rising sun she saw.

No not today, not today for the endless dreary depression of the dead being tossed in a heap with other unidentified bodies. Not today for children dying without seeing the life they were promised, and most certainly not today to watch bloated bodies with organs ripped off by the sea float to the shore.

Dr. Nita Shankar was on holiday for a week. She may be alone but that didn’t change the fact that she was on a holiday to forget the harrowing days she lived through. Dealing with the victims of Tsunami was most certainly not on her list of things to do today, in fact, never again would it be on her itinerary of the day.

Today she would get a massage or, maybe, read the book that had been lying in her bag for months now; She could finally go on a much needed shopping spree and eat in the new restaurant, not so new anymore of course, but new to her. She could splurge today. You’re a rich woman when you have done nothing but tend to the dead or dying for 3 months on a regular income that you didn’t have the time or heart to spend. Who could eat a sizzler after holding a child’s intestine in her hands?

The dead or dying... When would Nina learn to switch her brain off and stop thinking! It was just a job wasn’t it? To hell with that stupid oath she took. It was meant to be just a job. Tending to the sick is just a job! So what if they were dying? So what if they struck by a tragedy of unimaginable proportion? It was high time to stop. People did not land up on hospital stretchers to die, Not in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital anyway, she decided with a violent mental shake up.

After this holiday she would be paid lots and lots of money to tend to people who, she decided, would live long. There would be medicines for everybody. There would be no fight with politicians over where the funds are going. People would live. One in thousands would die every year instead of one in thousands surviving everyday. Oh no, not in those swanky, disinfected Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital beds with their clean white sheets that smell of the sun and Dettol.

It was a new beginning and oh yes, the sun had set on those dying people who would cry. Who were they to cry anyway? They only had to see one person die, see one house washed away, one child die slowly of starvation while watching helplessly. No it was she who deserved the right to cry! She saw the endless lives wasted away. She saw how only the drunks and no goods were safe from harm. She saw the endless bottomless sea spit out disfigured bodies. She saw money for antiseptic and glucose being spent on a flashy BMW for the mayor. What did everybody else have to cry about?

Of course, who cared about the silly graduate from some medical school who decided to spend half a year tending to the hopeless dying? What was the purpose of her job anyway? Make the dying see truth? Help their family (if they found any that is) deal with the grief?

To hell with all that! Not ever again!  It was high time all the melodrama ended. She was looking at a new life now- one of great riches. The dying poor could do just that-die! If it wasn’t the Tsunami it would be poverty or something else, entirely, that killed them. Why waste her life on them? Something had to kill them anyway right? All better now, praise the Lord for natural calamities, they proved to be the fastest way to get rid of the nation’s parasites didn’t they!

Oh she would never have to deal with that in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital. No siree, she would see people pay happily in Rupees and Dollars and Pounds. She would watch as people got better every single day. She would help and be helped and she would never ever have to perform three surgeries at the same time ever again. It was time for change and it was going to come soon.

Oh but dear Dr. Nita Shankar. When world she grow up and take off her rose tinted glasses? She never asked, so the interviewers never told that if a patient who suffered an accident was wheeled in she couldn’t touch him with a barge pole till the police came in. So what if he died?

What the people at Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital didn’t tell the silly, idealistic Dr. Nita Shankar MBBS, was that even the poverty stricken landed up in Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital. She forgot to ask, so didn’t tell her that if a poor woman walked in with her child who could be rescued she couldn’t a thing till the deposit was paid for. Oh no, the thalli that the weeping mother would violently yank off her neck simply wouldn’t do. She must, yes she must, with a grim face, tell the woman, watching her child die, to pawn her oh so precious thalli for her little munchkin and come back with the money because till then, well until then, Kasturi Bhai Private Hospital would not recognize the child as its patient.

Foolish,foolish Nita Shankar. What could she possibly know of the business health care is? At 25 straight out of medical school and Tsunami relief work Nina Shankar didn’t realize that every rising sun was followed by a setting sun and that the dark doesn’t get any prettier with money. 

An afternoon learning

I like to think that there is goodness in this world, that unlike the movies, even bad people have their reasons, reasons grounded in goodness. I blame my parents for this silly belief despite trying to take owness for my delusions.
My parents are a good middle class Indian couple who worked very hard to instill in us the best of the values their parents and life's learnings gave them. They worked very hard to give my brother and me the many privileged we have had, one of them being a safe environment to grow up in where people look out for each other.

I, only recently, started exploring the world outside my bubble and what a horrifying journey it has been.

Our cities are not very kind to pedestrians. Between the exposure to heat/humidity/rain, broken pavements, angry bikers and hawkers, I have discovered it takes a special kind of strength to walk down Chennai's road. I have made it a game, every thing worthy of disapproval, and the list is very long, gets a special face, there is even one for the not-so-occasional flasher. My game keeps me occupied most days and protects me from everything that I don't want to be affected by and yet some things still make it through the armor.

Through the famed Kathri Masam I have walked under an umbrella shielding myself not only from Agni's obvious anger, but also the many sights that are hard to walk past otherwise. Perhaps I should have turned on the music that day but I didn't and I heard instead an old, weak cry for help.

I seemed powerless to do anything but turn around looking for the origin of that voice and found an old bandaged man. He told me in his failing voice about being a construction worker from Trichy who fell off the second floor. He said he had no money to go home and had nobody to care for him in Chennai. His story took time to tell and in that time my pedestrian armor had re-built itself. When he finished I politely told him that I couldn't help and scurried across the road to ensure he couldn't ask me again.

While crossing the road and walking away I could only think of this man who was so alone in a city unfriendly to people who can't afford it's luxuries.I thought about the ice candy I was craving and the clothes I bought the previous day. I thought of my father who isn't young anymore and works away from home. I thought of myself being lost and being turned away by a skeptical pedestrian. I picked up the pace and my thoughts seemed to follow on cue.

I'm not sure what did it, perhaps it was a sudden breeze I didn't notice but I felt such a deep shame in myself and my scuttling figure on tat hot afternoon. Instead of shrugging off my thoughts as I had taught myself to, I felt compelled to cross back and look for this man, still shuffling down the same road, well behind me looking forlorn.

I walked up to him and apologised for walking away earlier and offered him my phone to call somebody he knew. He turned down explaining to me that he had lost his son's phone number midway between the second floor scaffolding his slipped on and the ground that caught him. I then decided, while patting myself on the back for my goodness, to ensure he gets home. I checked my wallet found a little less than Rs.200. With my experience now I know that a ticket to Trichy can cost about as much and started guiding him towards a local bus stand from where we would travel to the inter-city bus stand from where I would buy him a ticket to get home safe. I explained to him that I would take him till CMBT and buy him a ticket on the next bus to Trichy.

I know I have taken long but this is where the story gets interesting.
This old frail man suddenly looked at me quite intently and explained to me that it was hot and that I had no business making him walk or even walking with him wasting my time. He explained to me in a tone that sounded much like an order, that I must give him the money to get to Trichy and leave him alone. He accused me of being the worst kind of help because I didn't believe him and accused me of being a cheat. While making his speech, he turned around quite suddenly and stomped off in the opposite direction.

I know I have no business being shocked. I have spent a large majority of my life in cities and I have been warned of this scam a number of time. I know as well as you probably do that it was silly of me to agonise over this episode for almost two weeks and yet I can't help myself. I can't help but think, with much bitterness, that people like him should be locked and punished severely. I can't bring myself to forgive him for that betrayal, of proving to me that I truly shouldn't stop and help a stranger, that the human race deserves no kindness. I hate him for having taught me this lesson, of the many many he could have. My mother and many friends have hinted that I should thank him for teaching me a worthy lesson and be grateful it didn't get worse, and yet, I cannot help feeling that he stole a part of me that was good, a part of me that I am unlikely to ever find again
------------


The man in the picture most certainly is not the man this story is about.   

My stamp collection

I woke up to the realisation, today, that I am crowded by people.
I know lots and lots of people, lots and lots of people know me too. Some of those people like me, a lot of them are related to me and there are more than I can count who hate me. All of that totals to knowing a lot of people.

Yet, I feel alone.

I don't feel the kind of alone that is tranquil; This is the kind of alone where you scream and nobody will hear you. Perhaps what I can finally see is that when scream nobody will care.

I used to know people who would talk to me and whom I could talk to. I collected confidences as a child collects stamps- some rare and exquisite, most simply to feel a purpose. I would meticulously collect them and file them away making contact to let their energies flow into me in my most private hours.

Over time have felt more lost and alone.
I wanted different things, I abandoned my once prized collection. I chased dreams that weren't mine to live. I return now to old friends and find my neglected collection a confusion. The sequences are lost and I open my book staring at strangers. I feel muted by the faces my mind's eye sees, I feel deaf and numb to the stories I once so meticulously laboured over. In panic I scream endlessly to be heard and yet, I see faces, once loved, drift by sporting masks of shock and annoyance, sometimes sympathy but never, anymore, of companionship.

It is lonely staring at an empty book once so full, so familiar.

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Listening (in my mind's ears) to Buckets of Rain- Bob Dylan