Chasing the Years of My Life...

"I'm ten years old. My life is half over and I don't even know if I'm black with white stripes or white with black stripes!" - Marty- the Zebra, Madagascar.

So, yet another year has come to pass. I don't grow up anymore; I only grow old. By now, I know a few things with certainty - like eventually you get over almost any crisis in life, no matter how soul-sucking and stupendously indelible it may have seemed at one time. Also, I know which are the things that really matter in life - like fun and friendship.

You were a good year, 26th. I'm almost longing for you to be back. I made amazing new friends, cut my hair, learnt Spanish, learnt how to cook, worked hard, partied harder, danced a little, sang a lot, wrote some, and dreamed many armchair adventures. I went on a vacation to frikkin' China! (Beat that now.) It was a year of reminiscing and forgetting, forgiving even - a year when you pick the pieces of past and reorient your life, little by little. It was the kind of year that gives you hope when you look back upon it.

I think about the past decade often - a succession of revelations. I went through years when I didn't like myself too much. Then through years when I grew comfortable with my imperfections and contradictions. Eventually, I learnt to live with myself. As a corollary, I learnt to live with others.

I learnt that knowing that expectations are traps just doesn't save you from them. And that true freedom lies not in their defiance, but in their righteous fulfillment.

And oh, I thought a great deal about love, of course. I shredded the concept to pieces - analysed it, experimented with it, embraced it, resisted it, condemned it. Once, I surrendered to it and let myself be comforted by it. Once, I simply walked away from it. Once, it was ruthlessly taken away from me. I learnt that it is difficult to move on without achieving closure, but that sometimes you just have to do it. I contemplated the nature of longing and loss and discovered that often one begets the other. And so I learnt to perfect the art of un-possessing, un-belonging; of severing ties and of letting go.

I learnt that you live some moments in life which seem perfect; and that you long to preserve them. I also learnt that these moments seem so perfect only because they are transient and because you cannot frame them inside a snow globe and hold on to them forever. I learnt that memories are one of the surest sources of joy in one's life.

These have been years of reckoning - of growing older and wiser; of growing richer with every experience.

In a few days, I'll have surpassed 26. I never imagined I'd be a 26 year old when I was young, but I had an inkling of what I wanted to feel like when I am a woman.

And today, I feel every bit like the woman I wanted to be.

Seasons of Providence

Fall; October, 2001; Ranchi:

I was returning from my physics tuition class when my "Lady Bird" got a punctured tyre.

The wind was strong, and the evening, dressed in colours of the earth: ochre, brown, yellow; golds and pastels. A bicycle is good company for a stroll on a lovely autumn evening. The trees are mighty and benevolent - they strip themselves off, to carpet the road below with their withered foliage - which crackled underneath my feet, welcoming, as I walked. Dry leaves caught in a wind eddy, danced in circular jubilation before me.

I tried to look ahead, sheltering my eyes with one hand, to see if I could find someone who could direct me to a cycle repair shop. When you're 16, help comes easy. Through the flurry of dust and leaves, I saw the silhouette of a boy approaching. A beautiful boy with a grand smile and mischievous eyes.

He decided to walk me to the shop. We found things to talk about - school, tuition, common friends. My cycle was repaired. I could ride it back home. But we walked instead. Back in the days no one exchanged numbers in small towns. We knew that we'd run into each other again and we did. Let's say, quite often indeed.

I did not know what love at first sight meant, before that evening of fall. And I will not qualify the last statement with anything cynical about growing up and knowing better.

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Winters; November, 2008; Delhi

My first Delhi winter was about to make its way into my life in all its fury. I intended to make good use of the last few days on which I could still flaunt some skin, and wore the little black dress. I hopped into a car with some strange beautiful ladies among whom I had a friend from my dance class, who had invited me over for a night of letting my hair down.

23 is an odd age - lacking in character, lacking in anything which can be considered a significant milestone during a girl's passage to womanhood. I had been in love, been heartbroken and gotten over it, several times already. A harsh winter in a new city can be a lonely time. I wanted someone to keep me warm.

As I stepped out of the car, I realized what a mistake it had been to underestimate the might of a parky November night in Delhi. Men joined us, and one of them noticing my discomfort, offered me his coat. Several vodka shots and car hops later, we landed at a bachelors apartment for some after party.

I hadn't spoken much to the man in question, since I had my eye set on another pretty boy in the group, who disappeared later. I took to a corner in the lobby to get a couple of hours of sleep before sunrise, when I could make my way home. As the effect of the alcohol in my blood wore away, the tip of my nose froze; my toes curled inside the carpet; I drew a cushion close to my chest for warmth and my breath spawned mist before my eyes.

And there he was again - anticipating my needs - offering me a large sweatshirt, a warm quilt and a hot coffee, along with a delightful conversation which continued till day light.

I spent the next year and a half in his T-shirts and sweatshirts.

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Spring; January, 2004; Chennai

This is cheating, you'd say - January isn't spring! But it is the closest you can get to "feeling" spring in hot, hot Madras.

I had left Hyderabad to attend the grand "IIT Saarang" with a huge backpack containing my prettiest dresses and loveliest shoes. (What can I say, I have a thing for nerds.) I eventually reached there only with my handbag, that had only my wallet and my toothbrush. What transpired in between is a story for another time.

I didn't have much hope for finding romance in the next three days, considering I had to manage in a couple of cheap T-Shirts and pajamas that I had picked up from a street-side shop, with whatever little money I had, before making my way to the IIT campus. Strangely, even after literally having lost so much, my spirit was intact. Must be the spring in my veins.

At one corner there were a hundred talented young men and women painting each other's faces - metamorphosing what was human into a motley of characters out of fantasy; at another, vast expanses of the floor lay covered in kaleidoscopic illustrations of Rangoli; further ahead, in the midst of a congregation, a bunch of vivid performers proclaimed social slogans and implored upon people to participate.

As I walked further ahead a bevy of deers bounced past the road, into a meadow of tall-grass, causing its culms to spray white tufts of tiny flowers into the settled air and then quickly disappeared into a thicket.

Spring is so much more of a state of mind, than a season.

I walked far and long - in my dirty jeans - nonchalant towards my disheveled appearance, content with the anonymity, till I reached an auditorium which announced a "Salsa Workshop".

"Hi, I'd like to register."
"Do you have a partner?"
"Umm, nope. Don't know anyone here."
"Dance with me?"

Well, what can I say, I guess nerds have a thing for me too.

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Summer; June 2011; Delhi

At almost 26, you'd think I know something about romance and love and butterflies in the stomach. But I am clueless, still. Not having dated for a whole year, is, going by past experience, quite odd for a girl like me. The seasons have passed me by, markedly lacking in happenstance.

However, I am a summer girl. I like trotting about in skimpy shorts and tank tops. I like crunching up my short hair before I make eye contact with the cute guy at the bar while sipping on a frozen margarita. When it is bright and shiny, I like to be a darling and a flirt. When it is bright and shiny, I am hopeful of providence once again.

By the way, the other day I ran into a very cute guy at the bar. He got my number. We have a date. You never know. ;)

That Summer of Her Dreams.

She kicked off the dusty ground with her feet - where the grass had depleted because of repeatedly being struck against - to launch her make-shift swing in the air. She clasped the rugged rope that fastened the swing to the mango tree with her tiny hands, stretched her little legs together and bent her body backwards to streamline it, in an attempt to make the swing gain momentum.

As she descended, the pit of her stomach sunk and a surge of thrill ran through her chest down her spine. She let the zephyr stroke her soft, fine tresses - pushing the stray strands on her forehead off her face. She observed the ground closing in. Her immediate ascension, just when she speedily approached it, made her body lean ahead and her legs to curl back. As she reached the highest she shut her eyes, and allowed the stray rays of the sun streaming through the fissures of the shady branches fall on her freckled face. A beatific smile spread across her countenance. If she could only open her arms and fly like a bird just then!

She swung back again causing the wind to usher the hair over her face again, as her heart filled with ecstasy and the orchard with her guileless chortle. She breathed in the still, summer air, heavy with the sweet smell of ripe mangoes. In her next ascent she would aim at swinging higher, to try and pluck that bright red and yellow one dangling from one of the lower branches. She could hear her mother's distant voice calling out to her: "Anu...Anuradha...not so high. Come down now, it is time to eat."

But mother's voice was drowned by the loud screech with which the early morning bus came to a halt before the pavement on which she slept. It emitted odious black fumes all over her and made her wake up.

Rude awakening to reality was something she had become used to. There had been worse days. Once a mutt had pissed all over her feet while she was asleep under a flyover. Another time when she had managed to sneak into the swanky metro station to get a good nights' sleep, she had been hit and chased away by a potbellied policeman, who seemed to be devoted to serving his country by keeping her parks and public places clean of her hapless and destitute citizens.

She scratched her tacky, brown hair which had tangled itself in knots with her dirt filled nails. Then, she rubbed her dirt-filled eyes which stuck to each other with her small blackened hands, before she sat up and looked at the bored, sleepy faces peeping through the sealed, misty windows of the air conditioned bus.

The mango orchard of her memories appeared in her dreams often. The girl had been her own age and had a classic name - Anuradha - so much more important sounding than what she was called - Guddi. She had come from Dilli, to spend her vacations at her ancestral home in her village. How Guddi had longingly looked at Anuradha's soft, shiny hair and her Minnie-Mouse shoes, when she had accompanied her mother to their house where her mother cooked and cleaned for wages. How she had longed to be Anuradha and often was, in her dreams.

She had been told that they were both five years old that summer. The following autumn she had run away from home, scared that her mother's man would beat her to death in his state of inebriation after her mother had died of a pernicious disease. It is easy to lose the concept of time, when living on the streets. In the coming autumn, it will be two years since she ran away from her village and came to Dilli. She knew it by keeping track of seasons.

That summer with Anuradha had been the best days of her life. The beautiful city girl had had no qualms in befriending her. She had allowed her to take her turn at the swing. She had told her fascinating stories from her little book of fables - stories of lovely princesses and charming princes; stories of adventures embarked upon by brave travelers. And she had let her eat that divine-tasting fruit freshly plucked from the sprawling tree. Guddi remembered feeling its sweet, squishy pulp squirt into her mouth filling it with its savor and making her smack her lips in delight.

She liked the streets mostly - she was free here, and most days she managed atleast one small meal. But sometimes she missed her mother and sometimes her thoughts returned to that summer of her dreams.

But she quickly cast these thoughts aside. It was a new day. There were things to be done - rags to be picked; palms to be stretched out for alms; food to be foraged for, among the garbage disposed away from the restaurants.

She wondered though, what it was that the bade log - the "big people" - the rich people, dreamed about.

The Girl who Lives behind Picket Fences.

At her best she is shallow; for shallowness is the rightful virtue of women who are darlings. Beautiful women are the burden bearers of all things lovely and ought not to be buoyed down by meaningless depths.

At her worst, she is profound, for intellect never fails her. And she is often at her worst: forever discerning epiphanies while believing none existed; trusting instincts while knowing premonitions were apocryphal; fathoming intensity while assuming sentiments to be delusional; searching for love while fearing vulnerability. She is aware of her contradictions.

She reserves her best for the kinds of you: who she knows she runs the risk of falling for. She reserves her worst only to herself. Indeed she lives behind her picket fences and she has no intention to be understood by you at all.

You'd notice her if she walked past you, though she's not your idea of an ideal beauty. You could spot her wearing a red silk dress in a sweltering summer bazaar, where she would unmindfully look through you and breezily walk past you - leaving you wondering if she'd come alive from the pages of the classic novel you'd been engrossed in. Or you'd see her standing with a bottle of beer in hand, wearing a pair of battered blue jeans that hung limply to her tiny waist, and the hems of which have been worn out by use, at an up-street high-tea party. In fact, you could run into her anywhere - where it appeared as though she didn't belong. And yet if she ever let you meet her eyes, you'd notice her silent pride in her intentional irrelevance.

If you talk to her, you'll ask her why she is single; and she'll ask you if that is a trick question. You'll ask for her number and she will oblige.

You'll think you'd fallen in love with her, but you'd merely have been enamoured by her mysterious ways. And she will never reveal herself to you, or to anyone else, subconsciously striving to keep love at abeyance.
You'll want to hold her. You'll want to spoon against her small frame in a soft bed, shrouded among satin sheets. You'll want to brush the careless strands of hair off her face when you wake up next to her in the morning. You'll want to spend hours sitting next to her under a cherry tree in full bloom, familiarizing her with your hopes and dreams and aspirations - painting for her a vivid future together with you, persuading her of your intentions. She'll hear you out. And true to her shallow self, she'll look into your eyes like she meant for herself to be yours. Maybe she'll even allow herself to love you briefly. Yet she will invite you not behind her picket fence.

And deep inside you'll know that someday her steadfast profundity would get the better of her. And then, she'll look through you unmidfully again and walk past you breezily again - as if she walked back into the pages of the classic novel you'd once been engrossed in. And she will silently pride herself on her irrelevance again, and that of yours.

And in stolid abandon, you'll let her go back behind the picket fence - to the realm of un-belonging, where she belongs.

How 'bout that ever elusive kudo?

One of the reasons I haven't been writing is that I never intended for this blog to be a "quick-update-about-how-cool-my-life-is" kind of a blog. So this post makes me feel like I'm cheating on my ideologies, since I am going to be giving you snippets of all that transpired while I have been away.

But I promise that I have a point. That is, if you have the patience to stick with me till the end.

I have been singing. And making new friends. A song brings people together like a dance never can. While a dance may say "I'm into you" or "we get along well". I song together says "I like you" or "I feel you". And really, nothing makes me happier than singing out loud. It started with my landing up at TC, for a beer after work on a certain Thursday. They had karaoke going on, and I got hooked. Since then, I have been living my life, one Thursday at a time. So, one Thursday I'm Alicia "Off-keys", the next I'm "Lady Marmalade", yet another time I'm tutoring everyone to "walk like an Egyptian". If you happen to be in TC on a given Thursday, look up the small girl with a loud voice.

I have been working hard and partying harder. Literally. Even though it came at a cost of sleepless nights and I am pretty sure that at one point of time I had more Red Bull running through my veins than blood. I also got a much awaited appraisal. I am a sucker for good beginnings and I have a good feeling about 2011.

The hair's growing out. As someone commented earlier on my post, maybe I'm making peace with my life now.

I'm back on Facebook. *sigh* I know, let's not get started on that. But it was good to know that I was missed.

I haven't yet met anyone special, but then I haven't been trying awfully hard at it either. Not that companionship is not desirable, but it seems to require such a tremendous amount of effort to "pick up" a new relationship, that I have sort of put my hand off and grown out of it. So I haven't been asking for anyone's number, and I haven't been allowing small talk to reach a stage where a man asks for my number. And that is such a relief.

China was great. No; that is an understatement: it was abso-fuckin-lutely awesome! In fact it was like "the small cherry on top of the regular cherry on top of the sundae of awesomeness" (as Barney Stinson would have put it.). Okay, that was lame. But lame can be true. Right? It was good to ultimately take the vagabond out of the armchair. Beijing deserves a post all to itself, so I will save it for another time.

I have almost nailed that elusive feeling of belonging to Delhi. Almost there, I mean. Though the escapist in me is trying hard to convince me against planting flowers in my terrace, I bought new furniture; at least. I can almost call Delhi as home, though not just yet.

Bottomline: I am happy.

This is where I begin to have a problem.

I can't do "happy" anymore without feeling guilty, or fearful, or panicky.
There was a time; I am not sure how long back, but it feels like eternity; when I believed that I deserved to be happy. That life owed me all such.

So since when did I start touching wood every time life gave me a little treat? Since when did I start holding myself back every time my heart began to swell with exhilaration? Since when did the feeling of contentment in life inevitably start giving way to the mean reds? And since when did I start believing that no "ever after" would ever follow my "happily"?

To my mind it doesn't make sense to have too much of something you are so scared of losing: too much love; too much joy. Too much of anything that makes me want to touch wood immediately thereafter.

Have I become wiser or just cynical? Or is it plain paranoia?

Or have I simply lost that loving feeling?

On Beauty, as Substitute for Love.

"Beauty is my hobby."

As she spoke these words, from behind my closed eyes I could feel her soft, nimble fingers and probing eyes examine my face for effects of malign toxins on my skin. There I was, barely 21, on my first trip to Singapore, lying on a comfortable bed in a dark corner of a nondescript little beauty salon in the West Avenue Market of Bukit Batok. I had gone there placing my trust solely on the recommendation of my aunt, and I could see why she adored the little woman who was in love with beauty.

"You have nice skin." she said. "But you're still young, lah." She added, with that expression so characteristic of Singlish. "How old you?" she asked me and I replied. "How old you think I am?" she asked, and still with eyes shut, I tried to picture her face and estimated. "Maybe 27-28." I could imagine the smug smile on her face as she said "No lah, but I will tell you. And I will give you tips."

Over the next couple of hours, as she proceeded to give me a facial massage, efficiently and painlessly stuck needles over designated points on my face, wrapped my face with therapeutic herbs, covered my eyes with a cool vitamin C pack and my face with sweet smelling face pack; she told me her life story. Her husband had abandoned her 10 years ago, for a young Vietnamese girl. And now she was a single mother of a 11 year old son. I tried to picture her face again. Could I have missed a detail while trying to estimate her age? Maybe I should take another good look at her when I open my eyes, I thought.

Through the entire process of the facial treatment, I listened to her talking about her daily beauty routine. She had given up food which caused toxins to accumulate in the body, including most of meat based products, hot spices, what we in India know as "Tamasik" food. "I love my chicken too much to give it up" I mused to myself. She kept giving me "tips": "wash your face with cold rice water every morning and night", "dilute the shampoo you use with water before applying to head" or "don't let the shampoo lather touch the skin of your back or your arms, always wash hair facing down". Though I listened patiently, and quite curiously, I doubted I would ever be so dedicated to my "beauty routine".

Then she said something that caught me off-guard: "I became beautiful after my husband left me." I was 21 and not nearly half as experienced in the matters of love as I am today. But I understood what a heart-break was. It doesn't take much imagination and experience to understand pain; it only requires you to be human. I sensed that even 10 years after being abandoned, this woman was still vulnerable enough to share something so personal with a complete stranger. However, I found her take on loss of love, interesting, to say the least. To me it seemed that she had substituted the pursuit of love in her life, with the pursuit of beauty. I had never before imagined the two things to be comparable even, they operated on different spheres, from where I saw them then.

At the end of the routine, when I finally opened my eyes, she showed me a photo of hers, as she was 10 years back. Could it be! I thought. This woman had lost almost 15 years. She was nearly 40, and now that I could see her with my eyes wide open, I would have bet she was not more than 25, had I not known any better. Gone were the puffy dark patches under the eyes, the slight crow feet and beginning of wrinkles at the corners of the mouth. This could be straight out of the "before-and-after" ads for age control creams. Except, this was real, and was achieved not with a miracle cream but after consistent effort over 10 years.

A few months back when I was suffering from hopeless post-traumatic stress, one of the days while I was crossing a road I found myself wishing for a truck to come and hit me. At a level of mindfulness this shocked me in fact; for even at my worst, I have never been the suicidal kinds. Desperate to save myself from the clutch of those dementors, I got myself an appointment for a facial and hair spa at my favourite salon. By the end of the day, as lame as it may sound, while I looked at my radiant face in the mirror, I was once again convinced that I had reason to live.

When I dress up, I am a different person. Once someone from office even remarked after seeing a photo of me from a party that I had attended the night before, that it was "such a deceptive photo." I laugh it off; for the 'me' in power specs and corporate attire, with no makeup and bed hair that refuses to settle down, is probably more fake than the 'me' in a little black dress, wearing eye makeup and plum lipstick, flirting with a man over a glass of martini, and devising for myself a fake name, identity and phone number to give away to him by the end of the night, simply for the fun of being able to hide behind a face that no one recognizes by the day. I find the shallowness of beauty to be as compelling as the depth of love. Ask any drag-queen and hear them concur with me.

Over the years, the versatility of beauty, has helped me use it as a substitute, albeit only temporarily, for love, hope, happiness and sometimes even truth. When I feel ugly, I get a facial. When I feel unloved, I paint my nails a fiery red. When I feel unwanted, I get a bikini wax. When I doubt myself, I lose those glasses, pluck my eyebrows, wear cat-eye kohl and look straight into the mirror at myself with a fresh resolve. When I am tired of the disappointments in life, I get a head and body massage. When I feel hopeless, I wear my white dress and pearls and the future suddenly turns bright again. When I feel low on confidence, I wear those 3-inch high heels and my esteem stands taller. When I feel charmless, I wear a dainty silk scarf and large sun shades that give me an air of eminence.

You must have heard Desree crooning "love will save the day." Well, I simply can't wait around for love to salvage my days for me.

Beauty, is my saviour.

How to Identify an Emotional Mind Fucker or a Pathetic Loser.

Now let me tell you, it hasn't been easy.

But I have finally developed the "Loser Alarm". Yes, that one which starts beeping and blinking red inside your head, and which blares the warning "Don't go there!", every time you listen to that smooth, emotional, processed tin can of crap being dished out at you. Ever been there?

Now, here's a bit of a tutorial. Because honey, if I've been there, use my experience rather than going though the pile of crap to figure it out for yourself. As for any men who may come across this post, and have been fortunate/unfortunate enough to meet the female counter parts of the two prototypes I am going to explain hereafter, just think of these caricatures in terms of altered gender.

In my experience they come in two kinds: the Self Degrading Mind Fucker and the Guilt Inducing Blame Gamer.

Mr. A, thrives on your sympathy. When things don't go his way, he tells you emotional stories from his past, or whines about the instability of his present and uses them as an excuse for the "monster" he has become. He will tell you he can say such things only to you, for no one else understands him. Don't even try to argue with him, it's a trap! For this man accepts his mistakes before you can even point them out. And no, this does not mean he takes responsibility for it. Taking responsibility for a mistake means that you do everything possible to rectify it. But no, what this man does, is that he very carefully and strategically disarms you, while putting his own hands off. And then comes, *Dhan-ta-Nan* the "self pity" act, till you crumble, because ofcourse you like him, maybe love him even. You think that it's cruel that someone should punish themselves so hard, and feel so miserable for having committed those mistakes. Don't even think about this ladies! The only way out of this: throw him out of your house, all bags and baggages, but before that, gift him a tampon and ask him to stick it up his rear.

Now, while Mr. A was just pathetic (though manipulative in his own way) Mr. B is a sly, calculative manipulator. He thrives on your guilt. Almost nothing you do is good enough for him, and worse, you "make him act" the way he acts. He will turn your statements around; bring up past acts which you did not even know were an issue till then; all just to make you believe that you had an ulterior evil motive behind the way you acted or maybe you're just a bad person overall. You can't get away from this person, unless you can stand up to him and say "Fuck off. It's not my fault that you're such a dick head." and really mean it. The strategy to deal with this kind, is to simply refuse to allow the guilt to eat into you. Trust me it's a lot better to be a bitch who walks all over 'em than to be a door mat who's walked all over.

Every once in a while, if you're really God's favourite child, you'll run into a certain Mr. Duplicity, who seems to have perfected both of the above mentioned mind fucking techniques. If that Mr. A+B has been unleashed upon you, then God save you. Simply. Run. For. Your. Life.

I can smell a piece of crap when I see it and sometimes even when I can't see it. A turd is a turd is a turd. Even if they paint it pink and spray it with perfume and garnish it with little heart shaped pretzels. If you go ahead and eat that shit, the joke is on you.

Ladies (and gentlemen, if there are any here), if you ever need someone to tell you that, your "Guy" or "Girl" is being a total dick-head, an ass-hole or a vapid and sore loser, just holla at me. I promise to say it as it is. You'll get no "but maybe she's confused" or "maybe he needs some time to figure things out" bullshit out of me.

Trust my Loser Alarm. I henceforth stand proselytized to a Heartless Bitch. Fuck you very much.