Eye in the sky

I was in school when I first fell in love with a cocky Gujarati boy with whom it ended badly. But I managed to get the last word in. A year after we broke up when I called him to wish him on his birthday he was mean and small. And I said knowing it was his birthday and this I remember oh so well because it just came to me - inspired as it were, 'Some people never change; they remain just as bad as they always were.' And promptly hung up on him.

He didn't teach me anything except to hate the word 'dumb' because when he started getting bitchy, he started calling me 'dumb'. When someone I don't like too much calls me dumb, to this day, I draw a little extra blood from them and feel vindicated.

The next time I fell in love with a man, it fucked me up. We fucked each other up as much as we could and even enjoyed it most times. From him I learnt a lot of nice things about myself - the gloriousness of my own body. And he is slowly learning even to this day that everything I expected and believed of him and his goodness was true. So we are still friends. And we still care a whole lot about each other in a quiet, non-interfering way. And we have decided never to meet because we are extremely scared that the fire-works that brought us together might explode in newer and destructive ways. So we don't.

From him, I got a story, my own novel in the making.

And then it was a man who started out as my best friend. I gave and gave and gave to him. He did too - purple perfume, purple pencil in burlesque, purple gem stones, purple candles and purple dreams. Then we loved and I resigned myself to comfort and love instead of fireworks and magic. And then he broke me. Or we broke me together because I let him. He said things I never refuted. I took it all in. I shattered and sickened.

And that's what he really gave me - too many auto-immune diseases to name. And every time, my RA flares up I think about him and wish that he suffers at least one per cent of what I go through every day in my hopelessly disabled life.

So I gave up on love-making and concentrated on loving instead.

Now I'm staring in disbelief that love - no matter in what form - can make you so vulnerable and can cause you so much pain. And make you feel so small. So infinitesimal that you might as well not live. But you have to. And so you do. And so this cycle of loving and knowing and hurting goes on.

Only now, there is no lesson to learn. Only now, I've heard the accusations before. Only now, I feel I can't take any more.

The day of the frown and the loss of the crown

It will be cruel if I don't document my morning. It will be absolutely wicked if I do. It should be evident by now to the readers which one I would pick.

So soon after blogging about teaching as I did, I'm going to blog about teaching again. And before you click that X on your screen let me tell you that this is hot stuff.

My classes A1 Part 2 level in French started this Wednesday. I walked in late to class to find that introductions (if any) were over and we were already working on Future Proche and Participe Passe. Just like that. That's heavy duty grammar for the uninitiated.

And it was so depressing to see that we had unfriendly, geeky, scaredly cats as new classmates. And there was a beautiful young lady called Supriya teaching us. Right off, I noted that she wrote very neatly, was methodical in her manner, and spoke beautiful French. But although beautiful she had the most severe of frowns I'd ever seen. And since my ex-boyfriend has a repertoire of frowns, I am very familiar with the concept, and trust me she looked scary. So this Indian beauty with the French accent was teaching us. Or rather not teaching us. But just frowning at all of us like we were worms and low-lives.

Then she asked 'me' to conjugate the 'etre'/be verb. I did. With ample help from my gorgeous friends in class. So she figured I didn't know much.

Then it got more boring.

I was incredibly indignant. This is the next 90 classes? With this c'est ne pas Priya (One who is not loved)? For this I will have to wake up at ungodly hours and ride in the cold winters/rains of Blondon? For this?

That's when she'd just finished asking a guy to conjugate some other verb.

She (S from now on) turned to me and said, 'Can you repeat that?'
I (B from now on) said, 'No, I can't.'
S: Why not?
B: I haven't woken up yet.
S: What?
B: Yes, I'm still sort of sleeping.
S: Why?
B (debating whether to lie or tell the truth that she's bloody boring; she can't teach): I don't know.
S: But you look fresh.
B: Yes, I tend to do that.
S: Tend to do what?
B: I tend to look fresh when I'm actually not feeling fresh.
S: Then go get some coffee. Go, get up.
B: Sorry, cafe isn't open yet.
S: Of course, it is.
B: Well, it's open but no coffee. I checked before coming in.
S: Okay then go for a short, brisk walk.
B: Pardon, Madame, I don't walk. I don't do things like that.
S: Go wash your face.
B: I won't.
S: Then repeat what he just said.
B: Only if he repeats it again.

So she made that poor sod repeat again and I recited the whole damn conjugation and that was class 1.
Day 1 of class had all of us shiny, happy people turning deeply dismayed, terrified, and horror-struck.

I bunked class 2 owing to the fact that I have more wisdom teeth than I know what to do with. But my friends told me what happened. She sent a 31 year old man out of class because he was chewing gum. So he had to return to class only after spitting out the gum.

Today was class 3. Little, hardly any improvement from class 1. She made us play Chinese Whispers with sentences (French and long) taken from some obscure song. And she didn't even play the song! Fortunately, I was the one who had to start it. I swear, ours was the longest sentence. Then every one in my row fucked up. And she made me read. And I read, though I say it myself, beautifully (I do love that language). So she said, yes, she read okay.

Then a more rambling, difficult grammar exercise followed. I checked with the girls sitting next to me. They were also grumbling about how she really doesn't teach and just expects us to know answers. I asked them if they were sure they were finding her classes difficult. They said yes.

B: Pardon, Madame, but all of us have a problem with your classes.
S: (Shocked) What do you mean?
B: To put it simply, we were told when we were doing A1 Part 1 that we were still in Kindergarten and we'll make gradual progress. But suddenly it's like we are in the fifth standard after KG.
S: Do all of you feel like that?
Class shifts uncomfortably. Some teacher-pleasers shuddered and shook their heads. And you know all about Indians and head shaking. It didn't make sense. And there I was thinking bollocks everone's lost their non-existent balls, oh dear, now what; when one brave child called Madhu piped up. 
M: Yes, ma'am, we have many doubts when you teach, but we simply can't ask you because it's so difficult and you go so fast.
S: I have to finish my portions.
B: Yes, we get that, of course, but possibly just for the first week you can go a little easy and may be be a bit kind.
S: Kind? Have you all felt this way?
And then another girl called Josephine spoke. Trust me, it's only the women who have real balls; men are just chicken shit. Literally.
J: Yes, Ma'am. This example you gave us is very difficult.
S: Then why didn't any of you tell me in the first class? I'm not a mind-reader.
B: None of us said anything because you are scary and frightening.
S: (Laughing uncomfortably but quickly getting smug): I am inti-inti-...
B: Intimidating? Yes.
S: But that's how it is. I can only teach 20 per cent, the rest 80 per cent you have to study on your own.
B: (Mentally reeling and going, Wha Wha What?) We aren't saying, we won't study; but may be you can go a bit slower and ensure we understand what's happening in class.
S: I don't know how I can possibly change. If you have an intimidating, arrogant teacher, you have to deal with that. You have to learn to put up with that.
B: We know that. That's why we are here still, don't you think?
S: Then, that's all. I'll do some revision, but don't expect me to teach any differently. You have to deal with it.
B: (Wondering whether to launch into speech on attitude but postponing it for the future): Thank you, Ma'am, just your promise that you will try to do better will be good for us. Thank you for trying.
S: (And this the classmates later told me because I didn't hear it; I was too busy getting into a fine rage with the guys of the class by then.): You don't need to thank me. It's what I'm paid to do.

And that's it, readers, I felt unbearably sad somehow.

Teaching is a great thing, possibly the greatest thing after sex. When you are a good teacher and you understand your students and you know your subject - there is something magical that happens. When you suddenly see a student's face light up in knowledge and comprehension and when you know you put it there - that sort of high is inexplicable. And in teaching there is no 'you 70 - I 20' equation. You are involved for ever. And there's so much happiness when you say something funny and your entire class laughs out loud. And that's when they get creative and are interested and motivated. And yes, while you do teach because you get paid, the true reward of teaching is definitely not money.

But apparently young, intimidating Supriya from Alliance Francaise de Bangalore doesn't know that and will probably never learn that. And ain't that a bloody buggering shame, now?  

And in other news, even though I did right today (everyone, particularly the guys, thanked me after class for speaking up) karma came and bit me in the arse a little too hard. I think my fate said to itself  'Oh hang on, that Bhumika has been happy for too long now, let's fuck her over.' So after crying myself a sea, I'm now laughing. Because clearly I ought to have known. When something is too good to be true, it verily, is too good to be true. And really, I should have known better. I should have. I so should have. And really, sometimes love just ain't enough.

It's all right

It gets lonely at the different. And I'm not even gay! But I've had that 'different' word hurled at me so often today that I feel like an outcast and terribly, achingly alone.

It gets lonely at the different.

It gets so lonely sometimes that your only solace is re-watching Coupling series after series and laughing your head off and telling yourself it's all okay.

Show me the meaning of being lonely...

There comes a time in every mother’s life when she has to let her son go and have new life experiences that do not include her.

You can only look after your son so much. You can only protect him from this much hurt. You can only watch him from afar as he grows and evolves from a boy to a man. You see him fall in love, change, become someone who is deeply involved in another person. You tell yourself no matter whom he brings home, you will love him/her anyway. But you still hope that the person he brings home to you is someone you can love as your own too. And even when your are lucky enough to have that happen, there are only so many times you can say you love him more than anything in the world. Because that is called overkill. And you don’t want to cringe seeing that embarrassed, exasperated look on his face when you do. So you don’t. So you don’t pull him in hard for a hug and kiss him. So you swallow all the love and all the worry (it comes with the job) and just stand there, help him clean-up/pack, and smile, and may be cook. Even when you hate to cook. 

Every sister is aware that the mad physical fighting with the crazy, annoying sibling is going to stop soon and accept that his loss will be one she feels keenly. 

Siblings know the joy of fighting over nothing and everything at once. Pillows on the bed are dangerous missiles you hurl at each other. Nothing is more shameful than being a girl and fighting like one. Nothing is more equalising than having your brother discount your chronic pain and say, ‘Hey, you messed with me, I will twist your arm.’ And then you pretend you are hurt and then pretend to cry and then watch his disgusted, guilty face twist with love, hate, and concern all at once. And then to laugh – joyously, like mad. And land one on him. Fighting like a girl and winning. Because he’s the only one who will let you get away with it.

Every girlfriend has to bid adieu to her best friend. 

The one who knows exactly what song you will like and what man most attracts you. The one who will analyse television series with you and who will tell you honestly that you need to push yourself and get out there and be the woman you once were. The one who will yell at you when you cry thinking stupid thoughts. But when you really sob, he will hold you so tight and love you so much, that you feel warm all over. The one who helps you select your gadgets and understand latest technologies and trends. The one who says honest wows when you look good. The one who lets you sleep on his arm and shoulder for really long distances on a bus journey, or gives you soothing foot massages because he treats you like a queen - sometimes. He is the guy who knows the perfect gift to buy you, the perfect way to make you laugh. He is the only guy you think of when you are in trouble. The friend who is always there for you even when he’d rather be ten thousand miles away. The one who watches you break up with your boyfriend of over two years and watch you crumble and dissolve and who effortlessly picks up the pieces and plans the next two years of your life. He is the man who will indulge all your whims and fancies and not label you. He is the only one who grumbles but enjoys you for the mad and complicated person you are. The one who pays your bills even when he himself might be a little less than broke because…

A woman can be happy to say good-bye when she really knows she is sending a loved one to good and better things. A woman can cry for herself and still be happy for that special person. A woman can love and let go. 

A woman can let a cheesy song become a favourite memory because it was shared with people whom she is crazy about in a place that always brought her only happiness. 

For the right man, a woman can do the absolutely impossible and smile endlessly at the airport till his flight takes off because she promised him that she would not cry. The right man will anyway know how she is going to sob herself senseless after the plane has taken off and send a message to melt her and make her laugh again. 

A woman can break open her first ever bottle of champagne and toast her son, brother, and best friend and get beautifully drunk even as she tells him, ‘Don’t drink too much, sweety. You have an early morning flight.’

A woman can love a few men so much that the love, and the sorrow of parting, kills her on the inside. 

A few men can, even when they are miles apart, love you, cherish you, annoy you, and exasperate you so much that without knowing it, they shape you and they make you – beautiful, committed, fulfilled, peaceful, happy, alive!

For us, kutti naai. You know you will always be the flowers in my window. 
And here's wishing you all the love, all the learning, and all the lightness of being in the world. Muah. Muah. Muah. Muah. 

Or in other words, 'Woteva!'

Meaningless ménage à trois

Growing up, Yeats was always a favourite poet. He was mystical and magical and lyrical and full of unrequited love. He still is a beloved poet for just those reasons. All I need to do is read these lines and the tears come unbidden to my eyes. Still. After over 8 years.

We sat grown quiet at the name of love; 
We saw the last embers of daylight die, 
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

In college, Ms. Wendy Dickson, our beautiful, passionate lecturer taught us this poem. And after she'd made us think hard and long about the nature of life and beauty and how life is usually full of suffering and how we must labour to find even the smallest of joys, she asked our silent class - Why has he used the word 'trembling'?

She didn't really wait for any of us to respond. All she did was read the poem 'Adam's Curse' again. She is a gifted reader, she makes the words leap off the page and show us what they mean.  

And that's when we felt it - three people - a man and two women (sisters) sitting and idly making conversation. Only, the man is madly in love with one of the women. The woman knows it but finds herself unable to respond. And the talk veers towards love - how he loved her - all that he'd done to win her over. And there it was - the woman felt responsible and may be she even felt twinges of guilt, her sister would've known and she would've felt uncomfortable sitting there between them. May be she wondered what lessons love would teach her. But Yeats, he wouldn't have just been still. He would've looked at the sky to hide the tears of despair and frustration and love from the women. And so the moon in the sky would tremble because he'd be seeing it through his tears. 

And when we had this answer, a few us cried. And I still can. 

Over the past two years I have been deeply in love with two men - all at once. (Yes, it is possible. Yes, you can love them both equally, most times. And yes, it was good, thank you for asking.) I thought that I could be in love with them and it would keep me safe. Because our relationship was like that. I could love them endlessly and they would love me back the same way but because it was mostly platonic, almost courtly, and highly idealistic; it would not hurt - it could not cause pain. And I didn't love them because they made me feel complete. I loved them because they were so irresistible. 

And just the day before, I told one of the men I love, 'I like being in love with you. It's easy and light. And you know just what to expect from me. And I know just how to feel. And you never label me as needy, emotional, intense or whatever it is lesser men tend to do.' 

He laughed at me and said, 'We all know you. And we love you for who you are. Even the annoying bits. What is the point in labels?' 

There were no labels. There was no point in labelling even our loving. There was no pain at all. Love without pain has got to be the best sort of loving because then it has a lot of laughter. And finally thinking about what I'd found, after a really long time, I was happy and I was at peace. When I returned home yesterday, it was with such a smug feeling that finally I'd found a way to love and be happy at the same time. And that I'd found men I could do that with. 

And today I am sitting and weeping over Yeats poetry again. 
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

Just a few waves receding against sand. A spasm of laughter, just till the quickening of a few heartbeats, just till you feel that ah, there is order in the world and there is meaning even in a ménage à trois. That's how long happiness usually lasts.

But when reality strikes and really our humankind cannot bear too much of it, you learn that there is no loving without pain. There is no caring that doesn't bring its own bloody concern. 

There is a behaviour that we must learn. 
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still. 

Only no one can really teach you that. I know many men and women who do that so very successfully. And they really live. And they never labour. At anything. They are not cursed. They laugh and they kiss and they make love and they move on. They never think. They never really bleed. They never believe that they are in love. And even if they do, they slide out of it like it hardly matters.

You have to be born with it.

Or like me, you must suffer for the folly you made - for thinking you could love and it would help you get away. For thinking you could love and it would be okay. For thinking it would all be the same - that they would all be there, the lovers, just like they always were. The people leave, one at a time, to fulfill their own destinies. And there is change and chaos. 

Only words remain. Some carelessly spoken, some dramatically uttered, some confidentially whispered, some desperately discussed, some that made you laugh which now only make you cry. 

Because Love is so short. Forgetting is so long. 

Nothing remains. Not even the right to love. Only words that wound. And a few dead poets.

High Hopes

Hear the strains of a psychedelic song

encouraging me to get comfortable, stay numb.

Feel the whiff of nostalgia.

Cigarette smoke curling up towards a dark and purpled ceiling,

while we held hands and nodded at each other. 

When I was in school may be the ninth or the tenth standard, Anu gave me a birthday card that congratulated me for being a non-conformist. I was thrilled. It spoke volumes about the way she understood me. After all, the best sort of understanding is when someone sees you just the way you see yourself, no? And the card in spite of being made at Archies/Hall Mark, I forget which, did not conform to an idea of a birthday card. There I was, young, with a friend who understood me, poised at the edge of the world - ready to take it on, ready to change it.

Change the world

Love and music and literature will show us how

We are each so special. All of us so unique

Let’s make our own path

Let’s really let our light shine!

Later in life, there was nothing I wanted more than to have that perfect man who made me laugh, who made me immeasurably happy and with whom I would make plenty of babies. And may be I would teach and empathise with writers, have gender and queer debates, snug and comfortable in my own world - celebrating normalcy, enjoying the mediocrity of existence. A career woman I never wanted to be, a super woman I could have become. Like a typical Bollywood heroine with a man by her side. 

Blue funk engulfs me or as a friend would call it -

'Did you still not get your flow?' Is that what it is?

Red blood runs and ruins the hope of creation

I wouldn't have had this sense of desperate urgency had it not been for him -

'You may never have a child and I cannot be with someone like that.' 

There is comfort in myths because we believe them to be true. Kannagi did ruin a city, and closer home a fertile land became filled with sand and generations of kings had to resort to adopting their heirs. They would never have a child - not them who wounded with their words and did worse deeds. Dishonest. Hypocritical. Disloyal. Go look. Seek and you will find. Exactly what you deserve. 

  

Feverish, seeing visions without drugs with lips stuck together

Mere hunger must be triggering the spells oh you dumb seer, poet, or just an impotent writer!

Blue funk comes in psychedelic strains

There is an urge to run like hell 

away from my own thoughts and their seductive tales. 

Just to be contrary, I ask myself what is wrong with mediocrity. In settling down? After all, that is what is celebrated always. Remember the corporate world of congratulatory mails for work that just met expectation? Geniuses lurk in shadows and simply go mad. And die inglorious deaths swimming in thoughts so deep, they actually drown. Look at Virginia, and think about Van Gogh. May be we should all cut off our ears. May be that's what the world wants us to be - mere broken busts when alive - unfit for fame or prayers or hope. What use are we to the world if we can't make money, if we can't make ends meet, if we can't take a fucking holiday? If we can’t have a mate or make a child? If we can't be like the rest the all-knowing cogs, who still run the wheel?

There were men then - all blending into one

It took three or sometimes four to make that perfect one.

And they had to be of a kind - they had to be the ones who let me see me

The way I was - broken, maimed, but full of potential still. 

Fucking fertile still even though I never had to fuck them back. 

But I love even when I don't need to. It verily is a bitch. Who can stop the flow of love? Love has never been poly cystic, has it? Love flows strong and turbulent (and yes that ghastly word) intense - towards my friends and all my men - my blue-eyed man, my light-hearted puppy, my twin soul, my best friend. All the people who made me again - stand, laugh, dream. And finally love. 

It shines in me now like a diamond in the sun

A new beginning, a new hope

Dreaming about sounds

A baby that cackles as we all look at each other and smile

A family forged by non-conformist bonds.

They tell me now that I am blazing a new trail. That it is unconventional thought. Choosing not to have a man? Don't lose hope yet. Don't give up so soon. And the other thought? Why, that is unheard of! And once done, it simply cannot be undone. I am again the non-conformist at work, frustrated with health and the binds society ties and caught up in a double bind. What is it - yea or nay? Will it? Won't it? Good? Bad? Right? Wrong? Selfish? Just another way of life? And to hope that way again, and to want something so badly again? What lessons have I learned after all, then?

So I just wish you were here

That you'd hold my hand, laugh by my side, lighten my pain and ease my confusion

It's not only the psychedelic music; it's the same high hope again and the same old fear again 

Will I still live like the Queen I am? Or will I simply die - unfertile, unhealthy, unsung and unheard of?

That's blue funk in mute times.

Behind Blue Eyes

In Palace of Illusions (which is a brilliant book, by the way) Panchaali and Krishna have a very strong, very desperate, very intense relationship. Often at odds with each other, yet completely in love - not the love that demands you to strip off your clothes and make mad love, but the love that transcends all understanding. As I was reading it, I was like I know this. I've felt this. I have someone just like this in my life. And now I know. 

Awake past mid-night and grieving about good-byes.
How will I ever say bye to his bright blue eyes?
How can we not share Nutella and toast and quips anymore?
How can we not effortlessly rile each other and just as smoothly ease each-other's cares?
How can we not worry together about our boy? And our other friends? 

The first time I saw him cry, it broke my heart. And yet I didn't want him to stop. He was so beautiful crying
My own impressionistic painting. Come to life.

The first time I saw him ever, I was charmed. I remember thinking 'Not bad for a white guy'. Struggling with English. Saying no to swearing.

The first time I went out with him, I was tempted to cheat. How could he make my heart beat so? Why did my gaze linger on his too pink lips? And why shouldn't I kiss that perfect face just because my then no-PDA-boyfriend was holidaying with his family in America?

The first time we held hands, I found someone more than a friend. A connection surely from a past life.
Trust, unusually for me, at the very first touch. I could let him drive me in a tiny car making dizzying turns, I could trust him to help me up a mountain. I trusted him always to comfort me. And he was always there. Never saying what I expected him to but always giving me the truth. And the strength to be myself when I felt I could not. 

How can you say good-bye to someone who is a part of you? Again? So many have left already. And when you know that parting is imminent how can you sleep? 

My golden-haired boy; my capricious-contrary cat, my best-friend, the only King to my Queen, it's not good-bye. It can't be. Behind Blue Eyes. Walking down Baker's Street in Pondicherry and singing it together, clutching hands and understanding without words every time our favourite songs played at the pub. Seeing San Francisco through each other's eyes. There will be more. Europe. Germany. India. Why then, the world will see us together again. All of us. Laughing, fighting, touching, being friends, being intimates. 

Because we have many more things to do in this life-time and meet again in others. There is a Krishna and Krishnaa in you and me as well. This post is just for you, Kitty Cat. (Not that you will ever read it.)

About a boy

Here I am, in a dry month,
reading about a young boy, waiting for rain,
and wondering what went wrong.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

In the book, the boy finishes his journey,
makes love to a woman.
I watch my little jacaranda bloom
and remember journeys - didn't you tell me that
purple would always remind you of me?
But it is only I who remember now
in this endless summer.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

Here I am, remembering when forgetting would be better
watching the heat rise in waves on tarred roads.
The trees are bare like our conversations in the end.
But what happened? What went wrong?
In this sterile heat, how can babies be born?
Perhaps you were right.
Why get married if we can't have children?
Sweat slowly drips down my cleavage.
(She covered it for me - our friend - my cleavage from disinterested eyes and they all laughed.
'Show instead the nice pattern of the clothes'- she said. And they all laughed again. Disinterested.)
In this heat, everything hurts.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

The boy is irreverent just like I used to be.
Remember that?
But the sun, it makes me religious now
Sometimes even fanatic.
Why is this summer so long?
Where is the comfort of your cold voice?
Where is the spooning and falling asleep of winter?
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

Here I am, watching a jacaranda bloom,
waiting for rain and marveling at the purple blossoms
Does the jacaranda not feel the heat?
Or the abject aridity of this season that has lasted so long?
Here I am reading about a boy
Who is now a man.
Things change for the better everywhere except in this life.
Summer wasn't supposed to be so hot,
nor last this long.

Baby's got the blues

Last year I had Estranged that told me why I could not be blue. Only 28 and I was much too young to let love break my heart.

Time was I'd start getting excited about my birthday the moment we entered a New year - just 5 months and so bleddy much to do! Select a colour, plan the look for the day, buy gifts for myself, budget so I would be a little less than broke on the D-Day. Go to work if I loved my colleagues else take an off for three days. One to prepare; the other to celebrate; the last to recuperate.

There were so many things to be grateful for! So many people to enjoy! 

And now again, they tell me I have to do things for my birthday.

So while the heart behaved just fine last year, the pain travelled all over my joints, played havoc with my hormones, and left me big, bulging, and broken.

And now it's to be a birthday again. They want me to buy clothes, plan a party.

At 29 there will be no defense. No song to sing; just that ceaseless chant I've always heard at the back of my mind.

Blue funk, blue funk, blue funk.

My pillar of support

There is always such an unreality surrounding death. 


I recently lost the lady who was like a grand-mom to me though I never addressed her like that. She was always 'Aunty' - from the neighbouring house built with pillars - 'Pillar Aunty' from the time I was almost two. 


I realised very early that my own granny was a washout. (Like all my other relatives; except for a few stray redeeming cousins, of course.) When I was five and my gran had come down from Mangalore for a visit, I asked her to braid my hair. I used to have really short hair - what used to be called 'boy cut' in those days. And all my gran did was say, "Oh my child! I don't know how to comb hair." And in my head I remember thinking, granma fail, granma fail. What granny worth her salt doesn't know how to comb a grandchild's hair! After that we never clicked. 


Growing up was mostly in Aunty's house. I even had lunch/dinner (cooked and packed by mom) in Aunty's house. Her oldest son, Chinu, who was then studying to be a Chartered Accountant was my first friend in the locality. We always fought like cats and dogs. (We still do.) He'd try to bully me and I'd answer back and then we'd have a full-fledged fight (usually about who'll drink tea/water from the smallest tumbler in the house- a tumbler that Aunty always kept aside for me) and then I'd complain to Aunty and she always, always yelled at him - never me. Her daughter (who was in college then) unlike Chinu was my best friend. And her other son who is a master in gentle irony and I got along really well as well. Her nephew and I played brother and sister as kids - roles we continue to play. Uncle (her husband) regaled all of us with tales of temples when there was a power shut-down. Aunty and my mom were the best of friends. Now I know it was a special mother-daughter relationship. My mom met Aunty or spoke to her every time she needed support or advise, long after we'd moved from the locality. 


We were less neighbours and more of a family. 


When my mom tried to discipline me (and she used to do that - a lot) I'd cry for Aunty through the kitchen window and complain about my mom. She'd ask us to come over and then she'd place me on her lap, take a comb, and comb my hair. I'd complain about how mean my mom was. And my mom would complain about how I talked so much and before long, they'd move on to other adult chit-chat. And all the while, lasting well over two hours, Aunty would be massaging my scalp. And I'd eventually doze off - comforted, happy, loved. 


Not much changed over the years except the frequency. We moved house, but every time we visited or she did, it was a ritual Aunty and I kept - combing my hair. And complaining about my mom. She'd ask my mom - "Why did you do that?" and tell me, "But aiy, why don't you do..." 


A few days back, when we went to Chennai to see her in the hospital, she looked frail and weak and had an awful headache. And her only concern after seeing us was, "Did the child (meaning me) eat? Did my daughter-in-law make you any tea?" I asked her if I could massage her head for her. When she let me, I ran my fingers through her hair and bravely chattered about everything that was happening in my life. The last thing she told me, "Get married. I want to see you married and happy."


Yesterday as Chinu and I were cleaning the house preparing it for the last-rites pooja, we continued to snap at each other and exchange snarky comments. My mom and the rest of the family watched, smirked, and sometimes laughed outright. It helped. Because families are made in the strangest of ways. Only sorely tested, when I almost shouted "Aunty", I realised that she was no longer there to take my side and yell at Chinu anymore. 
  
There is always such an unreality surrounding death - especially when it's the death of someone you love. 

What does it matter?

What does it matter if you have a new life?
Make it alone or with one lover or a hundred more?
What does it matter that your kin is happy?
That you might be a lot less or a lot more kinkier than you were?
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep you?
That you were never true?
They told me living well is the best vengeance. 
I have Italian dinners, travel the world, swallow pills. 
And I wonder whom I am avenging.
And does it matter that when I listen to a few songs in the middle of the night, I can still cry?
And that I still lament that there was not even grace when we broke me?
What does it matter that I can feel glad it's over.
Or that I still wonder 'what if'?
That I cannot look forward to any new experience?
What does it matter that my birthday no longer makes me happy?
That yours haunts me with hurt and hate in equal measure?
In the distance, they show me a future.
Children with curly hair, naughty eyes, bright smiles - a different life.
Looking into the distance, I stare at the past.
Shed purple tears and smile a violet smile and say - 
What does it matter?
I live and so do you. 
That is all.   

Zebra crossing

You know that feeling you get when you know you are poised at the edge of something waiting...

and all happy things happen and you feel blessed?

All it takes is for some stray thing to take you back and push you down.

For me it was the zebra crossing. I was crossing the road decently when suddenly it was just too overwhelming. It all came back to me like it had happened yesterday. And I had put it very firmly behind. But may be not.

Strange, you can talk to someone endlessly and not miss them when they are gone.

Strange that the one person you trust to treat you right, does you so wrong and doesn't even apologize. When all your worst fears about yourself are confirmed oh so callously.

Oh bugger it. I'm funking it blue.

And I so don't need it now.

Argh.

In Memoriam

So on Sunday when my friend from primary school, who used to be my then best-friend and hence was part of/responsible for much of the drama in the formative years, bumped into me at the mall, I was extremely blase.

A mere, "Ah look at you, how are you then?" and I stopped. She was probably a little nonplussed. She answered. I nodded all happy and said, "Okay then, see you around" and walked away.

I didn't used to behave that way.

My usual behaviour included but wasn't restricted to jumping in place, waving my arms all over the place, pulling them in for bear-hugs and even planting a few chaste kisses all the time screaming, "Tell me everything, what's your number? We have to stay in touch now that I met you again!"

In fact, she had previously once received just that treatment.

Now I know friendship and most other relationships have a sell-by date.

And people move on.

It's a good thing.

Especially when you realise you have nothing in common anymore.

Especially when you lose respect for the person they have become/are becoming.

Especially when any conversation you have involves merely putting someone else down in the guise of being clever and funny.

Especially when you no longer trust the person or the relationship.

Especially when meetings involve a lot of liquor and mindless laughter and little else.

Especially when they start to think, act, and may be even tell you to your face that they are no longer interested in conversation but in just having a good time.

Especially when it involves throwing a lot of needless "you bitch" around and covering all the negativity with "I'm joking, ra".

Especially when the thought of spending time with "friends" begins to feel like an ordeal.

Especially when you start going prepared for scenes.

Especially when you begin to feel that you are being invaded and thrust upon.

Especially when lines are crossed and then shoulders are shrugged and what's the big deal or whatevers are uttered.

Especially when you are made to feel guilty for feeling. Like somehow it's your fault - too 'serious'; too 'stuck-up'; too 'needy'; too 'clingy'; too God-forbid 'intense'.

So it's fine. Life goes on. Happier, less negative. We all make newer friends who come with their own shelf-life.

Only sometimes I wonder if all my ex-bestfriends miss me.

I know I do. Sometimes it even hurts.

But sometimes it hurts even when they are around and that's just so much worse and then you know it's time they became the ex.

Praise the Lord, it's now dead. And I... I grew up.

.

Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

What have we given?

What have we wrought upon ourselves?

With the thousands of people, I wonder too about what sort of minds would do this to cities, to other people who are all grappling with life just the same as them.

What have they done to my Bangalore?
And now that they have, how do we make sense of our lives?
How do we ever feel safe again?

I love this city. It is in my blood. I spend two days out of it and I am hankering for the smell, sounds, and the arguments in Kannada that you can only have with the auto drivers here.

And now, everything feels violated. Somehow raped.

One simply doesn't bomb Bangalore. It's just not done. It's such a happy, thriving, grumbling city groaning under the weight of its traffic, just minding its own business and software and shopping and coffee joints and pubs. Why would anyone want to harm it?

But they did. And it's done. It was.

Even writing this feels somehow fake, shallow. You cannot really understand such subversion, or deal with such terror. Hearing about blasts even in places you are familiar with, doesn't really curdle your blood. It doesn't really feel real. I am still looking forward to farewell parties and worrying about my income tax returns form and time management on Monday when I have so many errands to run along with a regular day at work.

But at my back, I always hear...

... how a friend sounded reporting about the blast at Madiwala on the news; how worried I was about my driver who stays around there; my friends, my family who work further up the lane.

And feel that somehow it's just not right. There must be something I can do. But what? And I turned to history when wars were simple and you had two visible sides.

You fought with swords or sabers, you dug trenches, you shot people, you fought upfront for whatever side you had to be on.

But how does one fight with insidious terrorists?

And I wondered what Eliot would have written were he still alive? And then, I realised, he already had. I turned to The Four Quartets and understood that we can't really make sense of life, of deeds our own and those of others, and of the time we are in.

Krishna's, that great god but the better strategist, and Eliot's words did echo in my mind.

We just keep on, we do what we have to do, and hope to have humility. I'd amend that to - be decent while about it. A megalomaniac like me finds humility a tad bitter to swallow.

And while we live... (Oh God, this is just so beautiful, that wonderful man who knew so much...)

And while we live...

Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die. Words, after speech, reach
Into the silence. Only by the form, the pattern,
Can words or music reach
The stillness, as a Chinese jar still
Moves perpetually in its stillness.
Not the stillness of the violin, while the note lasts,
Not that only, but the co-existence,
Or say that the end precedes the beginning,
And the end and the beginning were always there
Before the beginning and after the end.
And all is always now.

Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

All shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Not fare well,
But fare forward, voyagers.

And by giving, by being compassionate, by controlling all that is vile and evil in our natures, we might perhaps in our own lifetime find the peace that transcends all understanding.

Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.
Shantih. Shantih. Shantih.

I'm not sure if such philosophy is an answer, but it helped me. And I hope that if you read till here and didn't get turned off by some of the sanctimony and the being-responsible-for-your-own-actions part, it calmed you too.

I'm now feeling less guilty about being happy that I have good food and better friends waiting for me tomorrow; and that I'll still dread this Monday and look forward to the Friday; and worry incessantly about my family and friends in Infy and the rest of Bangalore and pray that they get to live and experience all that all of us are still to.

The worry in someway, proves that it's not as shallow or fake as I thought it was, and that the truth, however unreal it might feel, is still true - they violated my city, and I am afraid for my people.

But the city and I will go on, because that's how you spit on faces you can't see and who mean you harm.

Faces that are invisible but mainly pathetic, of people who haven't been able to control their evil and vileness; or be compassionate to others; or give of themselves - no, not even to what they claim to believe in - and so they have no peace - no, not even a hope of peace.

So there.

Blessed be.