Saturday, October 4, 2014

Oktober again.

In another part of town, a friend gives birth to a healthy 3.850 kgs baby boy after a long, hard labour, and she comes online immediately when she is able to say, "It hurrrrttts, but my baby looks just like meeee".

In another, a friend mourns the loss of a father with whom she had had many clashes with, but whom she now realizes had the strength to never try to impose his will on her.

In another, old friends I have lost touch with got married; in another, family members learn how to cope with parenthood.

In another, old friends talk about paranormal events in their locality; in another, loved ones try to reconnect with loved ones, wondering why, like that song says, love sometimes just ain't enough.

 Its that time of the year again- my October- lingering breath of summer, beckoning glance from winter.

Of course the paranormal,or more accurately, the supernatural exists.
How else do you explain the pain that a young mother endures to bring new life into this world? And the bond that is formed when she sees that being which grew inside her for nine months. The clasp of her trembling husband's hand inside hers as she learns to breastfeed her newborn.

How else would you explain the lingering presence of someone who is irretrievably lost? How else do you find in you a deep well of love for someone who, in life, you thought had been your biggest opponent? How else would you explain that sudden knowledge of being loved, masquerading sometimes as a stifling protectiveness that inhibits you? How else would you explain the human ability to move on despite having your heart shattered?

How else, despite the statistics and the stories, would young lovers find the courage to go forth, to commit to making the same mistakes that countless others have made, to willingly go through the same trials and tribulations that others have gone through, all for the sake of love? How else would you explain that willingness to risk it all and believe that you can surmount all of that despite everything?

How else would you explain the illogical amongst all the logic in the world? How else would you explain what goes on inside the mind of someone who is willing to bare her most shameful, deepest darkest self to someone in the hopes that he would understand? And how else would you explain the fact that he does understand? And still keep on loving through it all?

Its October once again.
And hope springs once again that love can be enough.

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Thinking of youuu.

Hey there, A.

There's a rather thick layer of cloud covering the night sky over here where I am, so I can't see the stars. I don't even know if the moon is out tonight or not.
Ever heard of that romantic malarkey which goes something like, "I know you're not far because the same moon that shines on me tonight also shines on you"?
I don't care what shines, man. Far is far, whether something shines on both of us or not. The moon is a very very big object and it shows itself promiscuously and indiscriminately to people I care not one whit about, hence malarkey malarkeyed.

Today on my way to work, I stopped over at the cobbler's to retrieve my flats that I had had re-soled. RM-i wore them a couple of times, and I swear I don't know how that girl walks, but there's a gaping hole in the left sole, and the right one looks as if its being held together by a single strand of cheap glue. Anyway, I thought of you. Not in a "Because he is that strand which holds us together" way, but because thinking of you is what I do.

Then at work, I had to get involved into a bit of drama between a couple of students going through a messy break-up. I did not involve myself, okay? They involved me. And the girl student said the guy emotionally blackmailed her, and the guy said he could not un-love her. And I thought of you.  Not in a "because he refused to un-love me despite my drama" way, but because thinking of you is what I do.

And then after work I visited a friend who'd opened a store and I got this lovely handbag at a rather nice discount. (Subliminal message: your wife loves discounts; if you truly love her, always be supportive when she goes on a discount-athon) And we gossiped a bit about your past and then I thought of you again. Not in a "Because I know all his secrets and DANG if I don't accept them all" way, but because thinking of you is what I do.

Okay, fine. I blew Rs.1500 today on the handbag.
But if you considered the fact that I would be using that bag an average of AT LEAST 150 days/ year, then you'd realise Im actually getting a profit of about 14% p.a on the bag. I dont know how the math works but believe me, its accurate.

And I swear I thought of you the whole time I was buying it. And I will continue to do so everytime I use that handbag.

Tuesday, March 4, 2014


It isn't pretty or beautiful or glorious. 
When you think about the possibility of someone you love being sick, you imagine yourself being their rock- comforting them, supporting them, being gentle with them at all times.
Reality is a different thing.

Yes, you want to be all those things, and you try. 
But there is also fear, anger, guilt and a crushing sense of helplessness.

Fear because the doctors aren't able to pin-point what it is exactly that is wrong with her.
Fear because someone once so strong and vital now spends her whole day in bed, watching TV, barely able to change sides; that she can barely talk above a whisper.
Fear because someone once so fearless is now afraid.
Fear because you have to massage her limbs every night because they are always cold, and she can’t sleep unless you rub a little warmth in them.

Anger with yourself for not being and doing more.
Anger with the medical profession because why isn’t she well already?
Anger because she has taught you how to stand on your own feet, how to forgive, how to hold on, how to let go, how to fight and how to submit. You've never been a good student but you have learnt some.
But she has never taught you how to prepare yourself for this. 

And you take out that fear and anger on her.
She has always been the buffer between you and the world, unobtrusively in your corner, a tower of quiet strength. And you don’t know how much you have been leaning on her until you find that tower crumbling. You mask your own inadequacies and helplessness in anger. 
Why is it so much easier to show anger than sadness, fear or hurt?

You pray for the winter that you've always loved so much to end, because the cold makes her worse. You pray for early summer, for the heat to thaw some of the numbing cold that has paralyzed her. You pray and your prayers are not so much about her as it is for you because you pray for normalcy, for your tower to be restored, for you to be the nurtured, not the nurturer.

And there is guilt for all the times you’ve snapped at her, for all the times you knew she wanted you to stay and talk but you pretend not to know because you can't bear to see her this way, never like this. 

And more guilt because despite all of it, she remains gentle, nurturing, concerned.

But sometimes she forgets that she's a mom and she cries.
No child should ever have to see a parent weep in pain. 

No, it’s not pretty, beautiful or glorious.