For my Faultmate

As I speed down slopes on my bicycle with the cold wind biting into my skin I am transported to dark alleys in a different part of the country. We didn't have a bike then and we certainly weren't in any hurry. I remember then that my mind wasn't filled with questions, a to-do list or a mental inventory of what is in the fridge to fix a meal with, it was filled with the sound of your chatter as we walked down lanes like tributaries off a road that was mistakenly called loafers lane. I still hold the opinion that it should be called rat lane to warn every other 17 year old about what on first sight looks like an earthquake but is actually a rat pack on the same prowl as us.

I haven't forgotten any of it, or maybe my mind reconstructs the portions that I have forgotten. However you see it I will always have a memory of us silly 17 year olds heading out as often as we were hungry looking for the latest to eat in the little shops that dotted Vasanth Nagar. How brave we were setting out into cold, dirty, often dark streets,  looking for meaning on the pretext of finding a good meal. By the end of our year I could navigate the streets better than any auto driver, a habit we carried into the discovery of lanes behind RT Nagar filled with the mouth-watering goodness of fresh kebabs (that come to think of it I never ate!). I wonder if they would be surprised, our 17 year old-full-of-faith-in-the-future selves, that though our lives turned out nothing like we expected, so did our friendship, across geographies that span continents and multiple oceans.

Oh we were silly weren't we, forsaking the surety of a meal every night for our adventures on that little strip of networking hopes. I wouldn't change a thing. Not from that year at least.

We have come a long way from that simpler time where our greatest worries were managing a princely rent of Rs. 3,000 and waking up in time for class, or in your case convincing people that I really wasn't addicted to drugs- that sleep was my poison of choice. They wouldn't believe the horrors we now tell each other of or the depth of anger we can feel for other people who caused those stories to be each others' truth.

I still have our book of meticulously kept accounts. They remind me of a happier if frugal time, times that neither of us would have sought to add a descriptor to, consider a benchmark.

We're so pretty I couldn't pick just one picture :P

I can still hear your voice when you sent me that message- "His loss. He has
nothing. No spine, no you". It was the first time I had laughed since that great tragedy that we let seep into our lives then. I remember you telling me later about you, my all consuming worry that you laughed at and even got mad at me about. I worry because I can't confuse you with the anger I feel on your behalf, I worry because you will walk into structures with your heart on your sleeve making friends with people whom you love more than yourself- with people who love themselves more than they appreciate you and your distinct brand of care. I wonder if you remember that time on the terrace. I had just walked in and saw you crying about somebody who wasn't fair to you and took off in a range about just what would be done to that person. What I remember most bout that night, other than the biting cold, is your confusion at my anger and how that night turned into you calming me down instead of the other way around.

We have our memories don't we, that nobody else would understand; The very best and the very worst. So here's to you dear flatmate/faultmate and our plan of retiring at 30 to explore Africa as we did once Karnataka.
You bloody well make it that far if I will, we have vineyards to explore and men to heap hate on.

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/

To be ugly

When I was a child, I was a professional dancer. I don't think anybody who has seen my stiff response to music in the last few years would believe me but it's true. I was a professional jazz dancer, or something like that anyway.

I was part of a group called the <insert famous dancer whom I will not embarrass'name>'s Junior Dance Company. Stage shows, music videos and dancing with South India celebrities was part of my everyday as a 10-11 year old. We wore shiny sequinned clothes, spent endless hours every week perfecting choreography and even left school early every once in a while.

I guess I was living the dream. There was a purpose to my life, however trivial, before most people discovered there was even need for one. I didn't grow up with social media, I wonder if it even existed then, but there are pictures in a trunk somewhere of a group of 15 awkward adolescents, our faces full of make up posing with confidence that only comes from being a child.

It wasn't such a happy run though. In a world that demands perfection- manufactured or otherwise, it doesn't matter how young or innocent you are. I knew I was ugly before I even knew that was the word to describe me.
I loved dancing. Every bones in my body would thrill at the sound of music and I would dance because it was my natural reaction to music but when you're a professional dancer, that is not enough. The popular girls, the pretty ones would always get to dance in the center where they weren't tripping over cables or breathing in smoke from "smoke machines". Us uglie-s tuned out of the world, tuned into the music and filled space.

I didn't hate it. I don't remember ever realizing I was being slightest despite family and friends asking all the time why I wasn't dancing in front. Truth be told, I was glad to dance in the second row. I didn't have to remember any of the steps really.
But it was upsetting when people would walk into rehearsal asking to "audition" for something or the other and the instructors would only point to a few people. It isn't nice, knowing as a child, that you're ugly. That you- because you are too skinny, too dark, have weird hair and buck teeth, don't deserve every opportunity to shine.

I stopped dancing in the eighth standard. I can't remember if I missed it, I was too busy sailing to notice. I can't remember if I felt different for being seen for more than my scrawny adolescent body.

I wish I could still dance. I wish I could forget I'm ugly but more than anything I wish I could erase my ability to see people as ugly and pretty.    

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.
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I'm listening to Jee Le Zaraa

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. 

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