Reticent

I thought I was private and secretive,

and then I met you -

Mr. Reticent.

And a unique type of reticent you are:

seeming like an open book when in reality,

you are a quintessential example

of still waters running deep.

It's like there's a wall around you, impossible to penetrate,

and a door, shut tight and bolted.

You crack open the door occasionally, allowing me a teeny peak in,

but just when I feel like I'm getting somewhere

- in the grueling quest of getting to know you -

you shut it in my face, soundlessly, wordlessly, swiftly.

I try different keys to unlock whatever binds you,

but nothing seems to work, I doubt anything will ever work.

Every question I ask of you, is smartly evaded through humor,

or blown off into nothingness;

You're smart that way and I admire it,

but I wish you would stop for once,

and give me the answers I deserve.

I know there are some things better left unsaid,

and I totally respect your right to some space,

but do you not trust me even with the small things?

the things that would help me know more of you, be closer to you?

I long to know what lurks in your past,

the past you've stowed away

in places no one can find.

I know long stories lurk within you

I can see the shadows of their remnants flickering in your eyes,

your eyes that are so deep and dark and intense.

If I could have my way, I'd take your hand and lead you away,

far, far away, where there is nothing

but you and me and peace and quiet,

where we could talk for hours,

of all the things I yearn to discuss,

things that hang silently between us, from the gallows of love,

an unvoiced, unacknowledged love.

It makes me feel so helpless, so desperate, so restless, your reticence;

what wouldn't I do to just for once tap into your emotions!

I wish I could know what you think of me,

and what - if anything - I mean to you.

I wish I could tell you about me, and the million dreams I sow.

I'm sick of this charade, this facade of feigning indifference

to your silence and your distance and your coolness

It's as if your heart's under a military coup,

possessed, guarded, imprisoned.

And all I can do is dedicate a song,

a song hoping to serenade you...

77 Fiction #1: "Made for each other"

‘I have a confession to make,’ she said, as she lay cradled against his chest, the guy she had known since she was ten but had only just met again, after over a decade. ‘I’ve loved you since fifth grade,’

He laughed. Then said:

‘Me too,’

‘What? But you didn’t even talk to me then!’ she cried.

‘Yeah, coz I was too scared and nervous.’

They both laughed this time.

Fate.

It was such a magical thing.

p.s. I know the couple in the photo don't look in their early twenties but it was the best picture I could find and simply loved it! :)

The Person Who Will Never Read My Blog Again.

Someone has pledged to never read my blog again. Well, not exactly 'pledged' because I am the one who told them not to, in a fit of annoyance, and - as they often do - they took my words at face value. I should not have been annoyed, perhaps, because they did have a valid complaint against something I accidentally wrote, but it's easy to get annoyed with that person. In fact, they are the only person I ever lose my temper with. I don't know why that is, but I do know that friction and argument are the central characteristics of our friendship, a fact that I have come to accept after much difficulty.

This brings me to the question: do we only get truly angry at people we are really close to and consider our own? Do we go mad and say mean things to them in the spur of the moment because inside, we know that they will understand us and not judge us by whatever horrible things we tell them which we don't mean at all? Or is it the opposite, do we never lose our temper with those we love no matter what they do? Do we only say mean things to people we don't care about and wouldn't mind losing?

Well, for me it's definitely the former scenario: I only ever vent out or lash out at people whom I believe know me so well that they understand I don't mean to hurt them by my words; that when I get angry it's just the child inside of me seeking their attention and demanding their care. Other people who annoy me, I just give the silent treatment, because they are not worth my anger, not worth making myself upset over.

When I try explaining this particular trait of mine to The Person Who Will Never Read My Blog Again, they refuse to accept it and instead start telling me off for my childishness and immaturity and lack of control over my emotions and 'weird', fluctuating, contradictory behavior. And then, we end up fighting all over again. So, I've just given up trying to explain, because despite being a writer, I can't quite express myself to them.

On an aside, The Person Who Will Never Read My Blog Again is a pretty awesome friend: caring and mature and always ready to listen and talk about anything at all. They also give some pretty damn good advice and I'm glad to have to them around, even if we do spend most of the time bickering, usually over issues long resolved or issues that don't matter.

In this vein, I came up with an analogy to describe us, an analogy that The Person will not like even though it's quite beautifully written, if I may say so myself. But since they are anyways never going to venture here again, no harm in posting it:

"We are like the sea and shore, you and I: You may relentlessly crash against me in waves that vary, from being angry to disturbing to plain mocking; and you may recede from me completely at times; you may lash against me tirelessly, molding me into something new, and sometimes you may simply be still and silent, but always, we remain connected. For that is just the way we're meant to be."

p.s. I was told not to write about them and yet I've done it once again. When have I ever been one to listen, right?

A premature, immature mid-life crisis

*I would have written this post in third person but I write more naturally in first person. That doesn't mean that everything is ACTUALLY related to my own life. It is based on personal experience but contains several fictional elements too.

When I was little and the other kids wouldn't let me play with them, making me feel like there was something wrong or inferior about me, I retreated into a shell whose walls have still not been completely demolished. When they laughed at me, picked on me, bullied me, all I wanted was to be left alone.

Growing up, when I realized how people ogled at me on the street or at the mall or anywhere at all, and my family made it worse by pointing out this obvious fact to me, I wished I could disappear into nothingness. All I wanted was to be left alone.

While attending loud, boring family get togethers where my Mother would force me to talk to cousins I had nothing in common with yet was constantly compared against, and when irritating little kids would ask me irritating albeit innocent questions, all I wanted was to be left alone.

At college, when I found my environment strange and the people stranger, and then faced rejection from the first person I truly loved and worked up the courage to confess to, I retreated into my old shell again, in a whole new way. All I wanted was to be left alone.

When the online social networking fad caught on and I received at least five random friend requests every week from weird boys who spoke weird English, all I wanted was to be left alone.

When friends ask me why I seem upset from the inside or why I never ever get angry or express any negative emotions, I shrug and smile, a little wryly. I'm not the talk-about-your-problems type; I prefer to just be left alone.

And yet, being alone isn't all that great either:

Looking at pictures of old friends' exciting new lives; the places they go to, the adventures they have, the moments they relish, I long to have the same liberties - to do what I want when I want however I want. I long to have company that will join me in cutting loose and going wild, just for the thrill of it.

Seeing other people's relationship statuses regularly turn from single to 'in a relationship' on Facebook, I wonder when it will finally be my turn to do the same. I wonder whether things will be so bad that I'll one day end up changing it directly to 'married.'

Feeling awkward when someone I'm with suddenly smiles when their cell phone beeps a message from their better half, I yearn to experience THAT feeling of knowing that you're missed, that you're on that special someone's mind, all the time.

Noticing guy friends admire random pretty girls at the mall or the movies, I look around me to see if anyone's noticing me too. No, I am invisible, it seems. Isn't that what I'd always wanted as a child? Then why doesn't it make me happy now? Why does it cause a dull ache that never quite goes away?

Overhearing a younger sister whisper and giggle into her cell phone late in the night, I feel hot tears of shame and embarrassment well up in my eyes, all of their own accord. I am supposed to be the older one, yet SHE is the one who knows all about what it's like to be kissed and touched and desired. I feel jealous and angry and let down, and then guilty when I realize that it is somewhat juvenile of me.

Staying signed into my chat messenger all day and several hours into the night, I yearn for a conversation window to pop up, for someone to take time out of their busyness and let me know that I matter. Why must I always be the one putting in the effort, to keep friendships going?

Comforting a friend who's been through a bad breakup, I wish to feel their pain too; to have the chance to learn from relationships, grow from them, even if it hurts.

Reading the stuff he writes for his ex and comparing it to the smooth, mindless flirtations he uses on me, I feel stupid for ever meeting him, trusting him, dreaming of him, and angry for knowing that I am just a passing limerick of his present, a 'time pass', with no place in his future.

Numbed by how life has come to a standstill in just my early twenties, I stray down a path I was once sure I would never turn to: the cigarettes and booze give me respite, a much-needed high, and the dramatic plans of running away or ending it all, give vent to my frustrations.

Inside, I feel myself slipping out of control, going insane, bit by bit. All because I so don't want to be left alone anymore, not one moment longer.

I don't want to run anymore, like I have all my life, I don't want to hide. I want to put myself out there and let life wash over me, knock the very 'life' out of me.

I want out from the all-consuming sense of emptiness and dread and pointlessness that plagues me, day in, day out. I think of that one time that this depressing feeling had almost vanished and how happy I'd been to think that things were about to change - for the better - and I smile, a little sadly, at my own naivety. '

'Move on', people say. 'Be happy.' The words are simple yet their implications so complex. How does one move on from awful experiences that have torn one up from inside? Where do we find the strength to put on a brave face and take on the world when all we really want to do is curl up into a ball and wail like a newborn? How do we accept that people change, that their personalities mutate inexplicably, irreversibly? How do we detach ourselves from people who mean the world to us even when they don't care much about us?

A close friend posted on her Facebook status: "I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they're right, you believe in lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together." It is an inspiring thought, but difficult to accept and imbibe in life, like all inspiring thoughts tend to be. Especially when you're down and low and feel like everything around you is a pretense, a facade, a never-ending circus that has long ceased to be amusing or entertaining.

When life stretches ahead of me as one long, bleak, vision of uncertain terrain, all I really want - for the first time in my life - is not to be left alone. All I really want is someone to help me along the difficult path, to fill the journey with color, every color of the rainbow: Red for love, and yellow for friendship, and pink for freshness, and blue for calm, and purple for splendor and orange for zest and green for fun. All I really want is someone who brings every color together simultaneously, to form the glaring yet peaceful beauty of stark, brilliant, pristine white.

'Desperate', you may call me. And I shall totally agree, seeing nothing wrong with it. For all I want is not to be left alone.

Drum-roll, please!

Well, well, I'm so totally honored to present to you my first ever Blog Award! Thanks a lot Mahesh for making my day! :)

I am supposed to pass it on to my most loyal followers, so here goes (in alphabetical order):

Anonymous Someone
Chanz
Laddu
Sushobhan Roy
The Quaint Patchworker
The Wandering Minstrel
Vaudeville of Exhilaration

Thanks guys, for reading my stuff and always giving honest feedback! :) You can copy and paste the image onto your blogs and pass it onto 5-10 of YOUR most loyal followers...

Starstruck!

Cute. Hot. Sexy. Dashing. Heartthrob. Rising Talent.

He must be so used to hearing every one of those words. He must also be used to 'I love you's and 'You're the best's and innumerable other compliments, gushed out by crazy fans, intoxicated by his charm, his magic.

'The critics' are beginning to warm up to him too. He's someone to 'watch out for' in the coming years, he shows all the signs of a 'bright, bright, future.' He is a firecracker shooting across the star-studded sky of glamor world, and he'll leave a permanent mark against it.

I flip on the television and a music channel plays back-to-back tracks from his recent back-to-back hits; another channel plays an older song from when he was just a gawky teenager, unknown. I had loved him then too.

One news channel is busy speculating about his supposed link-up with his pretty-young-thing of a co-star, for the nth time since his much publicized breakup with a top actress, and a sports channel shows him performing live at a closing ceremony of a major glitzy Cricket tournament, driving the crowd insane, naturally.

A soap serials' channel runs ads featuring him between segments. He is the face of an mp3 player brand, a fairness cream aimed at the metrosexual man, as well as a range of designer travel bags. He is also the guest judge on a reality show, where contestants are awe-struck to see him right before them. Had I been amongst them, I would probably have fainted of sheer thrill.

An old movies' channel is screening his debut film, for the umpteenth time, and another channel is playing his other, more recent film which tends to be screened almost every other weekend. It was just such a SUPER DUPER hit; nobody tires of watching it. Ironically, it was his first and last successful film with his real-life ex-girlfriend. She ditched him for an older, richer star before the film's release, when he had been out of the country, working on his next.

Another channel airs a repeat telecast of an awards function where he presided as host and bagged an award too. and yet another channel is featuring him in a random list of the film industry's most eligible bachelors.

He is in the modern remake of an old song promoting national harmony, and he is in the little tit-bits of Bollywood news that run at the bottom of some music channels. He is in interviews and in promotions, in social causes and international functions.

I pick up a magazine and his face stares up at me from the cover page, promising an exclusive interview. He was the sole reason I had blown 50 bucks on the otherwise useless reading material. It will go into my box of collectibles, wherein there are more such magazines and cuttings and clippings of him.

I open the newspaper and the celebrity gossip page features his name in big, bold letters along with a still of him from his upcoming release. An entertainment supplement carries a full-page poster of the same movie on the front page. This too, shall end up in my treasured collection.

I turn on my computer and he smiles back from my desktop background, an older picture when his hair was longer - a style I liked better; when my cell phone beeps a message, it is his face that adorns my screen there too, and the message is from a friend, asking whether I'd like to catch the upcoming release with her the coming Friday.

I smile. Of course I do -first day, first show! He IS my favorite actor, my first love! I turn on the radio and a song from the same movie plays; when I change the station, a special entertainment teaser is on, with a faux interview of him, something I've already heard an umpteen number of times, yet listen to again anyway, for I so absolutely love his voice!

I lay in bed and look across at my closet. He is there too, on not one, not two, but several posters. I grin back at him, rather stupidly. He seems to be here, there, everywhere. He is on my list of 'likes' on Facebook and I'm one of the over one lakh people who follow him on Twitter. He is in my conversations and in my thoughts, even in my dreams and ambitions. I fantasize of writing a movie just for him, knowing full well that it is a silly thought.

And now, he is on my blog too.

Perhaps THIS is what it is: super stardom - to rule over so, so many hearts!

As if on cue, my cell phone beeps again. It is the service provider this time: "Download Shahid Kapur wallpapers, videos, songs! Click OK to connect now!"

I make a face. How stupid! As if I don't already HAVE all the wallpapers, videos, songs, movies, and everything else there is out there featuring him! He is MY star, after all, my Shahid! :)

*This post was recommended as a Tangy Tuesday pick by BlogAdda on 25th May 2010.

Love-shtruckk!

And sometimes I write cheesy poetry that is supposed to be sad but turns out quite funny and cracks me up!

Disclaimer: It is a piece of FICTION and should hence be taken as one.

When I get lonely, I think of you,

and end up feeling lonelier,

and depressed too.

I thought you were my sunshine,

when life was so overcast.

You shone through the thick rain,

but heck, why didn't you last?

I remember how I avoided you at first,

afraid of where an association would lead...

And I remember how you persisted,

giving my coolness no heed.

Then how did the tables come to turn?

Now why do I miss you? Why do I yearn?

I opened up so much when I finally let you in,

So easily, so quickly, you did my heart win.

But now you are silent,

and distant, and absurd,

it's as if you came and went swiftly,

like some sort of bird.

I hate to sit staring at my phone, begging it to ring

I hate all the sad songs I somehow, automatically sing.

Will I ever, EVER see you again?

That's one question that brings so much pain.

It's not right; it's not fair, what's happening,

why is our friendship falling apart, just when it was blossoming?

I have so much to tell you,

but somehow can't find the words.

And I'm a writer; trust me, that hurts.

I know you told me to not be emotional,

and you gave me a 'warning'.

But even cigarettes come with alerts,

that don't stop you from smoking!

55 Fiction #11: "Destiny"

His heart soared as the crowd grooved to his rock beats, possessed.

He was at the Premier College of Engineering, performing on the same stage that he had feared once.

Funny how he would never have followed his dream had he not failed and been kicked out all those years ago.

Full circle, indeed.

Not so bad Badmashi!

Ah, I hate missing people. It drives me insane. And apparently, it also makes me sick because somehow - inexplicably, strangely, ironically - I've ended up with the worst cold and sore throat right in the middle of a hot, hot, summer. Seriously, I don't even get such a severe flu in the coldest of winters...:s
And it's so weird because inside, my body feels cold, but outside, I'm all warm and I can't decide whether to keep the fan turned on or off or slow. And my nose hurts and my throat aches and all I feel like doing is sleeping. I wish a particular someone would call me; i'm pretty sure that would make me feel quite a lot better! :P
Right, I shall cut the crap now. :P

***
I have a script to write. Knowing me, you won't be surprised when I say it's a tragic love story. But I feel so lazy; I don't know when I'll get down to it.

***
I saw Badmash Company (but naturally!) and it was a fun movie, albeit unrealistic and quite stupid at parts. The songs are pretty jazzy - I like! Shahid is absolutely delectable - you HAVE to watch it if you're a Shahid fan - and Anushka looks hot but doesn't make a good match with him coz she is too tall and I don't know, I just don't like her (Maybe because she is super hot! :P)
Chang was super cute and the story has a nice young, urban feel to it, so makes a good one-time watch.


My favorite line of funny dialog was when this guy speaks to Anushka for the first time but is actually staring at her chest rather than looking at her face, and she haughtily tells him 'ye bolte nahi hain'(these don't speak)! Lol!
And my favorite line of philosophical dialog - 'waqt bura ho ya accha, ek na ek din badalta zaroor hai.' (Whether your time is going bad or good, one day, it surely changes). With any luck, my time will change too sometime soon and someone will finally think of me and CALL! :P

p.s. It just struck me how very boring my life would be without Yash Raj Films. I mean, people can make fun of and trash talk them as much as they want but for me, nothing beats a YRF production when it comes to some complete entertainment!

55 Fiction #10: "Love lost, yet again"

I skipped 55-fiction last week and it almost slipped my mind this week too. Almost! Here goes:

“Finally,” she thought, on looking into his eyes. “Here is someone who will surely understand me, not judge.”

But alas, he turned out like all the others before him had, and blamed her for the plight she confided to him.

And then he left, calling her immoral, for having been a rape victim.

Shame!

Tamanna: The confused girlfriend - Part 2 of 2

Here is the second part of the weird story written from a guy's point of view. Please read Part 1 first. We ended at:

I grabbed my phone and speed dialed number 2. Surprisingly, she answered.

And all hell broke loose. I demanded to know what the fuck was going on and who the fuck she thought she was and why the fuck she wouldn’t give me the explanations I deserved. Of course, I didn’t actually use the expletives.

She said she didn’t love me anymore.

I refused to believe it. Love doesn’t just evaporate without rhyme or reason. But I didn’t argue with her, simply hung up with a dignified silence, my hand trembling slightly as I mustered all my strength to tame the fast-building avalanche of fury inside me.

Fuck, I thought as the tears came like a mighty wave and obliterated all other perception. No, I am not ashamed of crying. So what if I’m a man? I still have a fucking heart. A heart that girls seem to break over and over again. The string of failed affairs flashed in my mind and I wondered, not for the first time, what the hell I’d ever done to deserve such raw hurt? I mean, ok, maybe I’d broken a couple of hearts myself – several, rather – of all the girls who had had crushes on me ever since ninth grade, but i couldn’t really help it if they found me attractive, could I? And I always turned them down politely, never hurting anyone’s feelings. And I was ALWAYS completely loyal to whichever girl I did get involved with. Only to end up like this, mercilessly let down. How could she do this to me, my beautiful, wonderful princess? It was maddening, depressing, numbing.

But I survived. Perhaps it had something to do with all the other pretty girls I was surrounded with – the ones who were my best friends and whom I could confide in and talk to for hours – but I survived.

I still thought of her, a lot, and she featured in the weird dreams that made for my nighttime entertainment, but the feelings were muted, almost gone. I was ready to move on.

And then, three months down the line, my cell phone beeped a text message at ten p.m. and I looked at the number and froze. A number I had long deleted but would recognize even in another life.

My eyes widened in surprise, - or shock, rather – as I read.

‘Hey, baby, it’s me, Tamanna.’ (As if I needed her to tell me that!) ‘I know you probably don’t want to hear from me but I’m so sorry baby, I really miss you. I need you. I want you. Please message back, sexy. Can we meet up? Right now? At our special place?’

I read it over a few times, letting the words sink in, and then, a devilish idea took form in my mind. I replied in the affirmative and grabbed the car keys off my desk. I told my parents a friend needed to be picked from the train station and drove like a maniac through the empty streets.

She was there when I reached and oh god, she was beautiful. In the skinny jeans that hugged her long, long legs and the pink top that complemented her fair complexion and matched her pretty lips. Without a word, we were in each other’s arms, she saying sorry, as I inhaled her gorgeous scent and buried my face in her neck, clinging to her like a dying man holds onto a lifesaver.

‘Fuck me,’ she whispered in my ear, her voice husky, irresistibly sexy.

I loved it when she talked like that. All guys love it when a girl is bold enough to talk like that.

And of course, I obliged. I had come prepared; it was The Plan.

We were noisy, we were aggressive. The months of being apart had worked up our drives to voracious levels, it seemed. I made a quick call home to say I would be staying at a friend’s place, and the night passed in a blur of heat and passion and pure, blinding lust.

The days that followed were filled with more steamy sessions. I was so happy to have her back, to feel her skin against mine again, to breathe in her lovely, unmistakable, flower-fresh fragrance that I felt like a new man. Of course, we were not making love anymore, we were just fucking. But it was great. She loved it, I loved it, and neither of us saw anything wrong in it.

Until she told me about him. Her boyfriend, supposedly. She was cheating on him, by sleeping with me. She ought to have been ashamed, but she wasn’t. Instead, I was. Ironically. So I finally decided to call it quits for good, but with no hard feelings. She said she was sorry; I reassured her it was all good, and that we could still be ‘friends.’

She left the country soon after, for postgraduate studies abroad. And our interaction is purely virtual now. And rare too. She has fizzled down to just another name on my Facebook friends list, transformed into someone I barely talk to or know much about anymore.

Though sometimes, I still think of that day, that day I saw her for the last time. It may be my imagination but I could swear I saw a hint of moistness in her eyes as she’d hugged me goodbye. I wonder why, but I guess I’ll never know.

From ‘acquainted strangers’ to friends to lovers to friends to strangers to fuck buddies to ‘acquainted strangers’ once again. Surely, we’ve come full circle, my Tamanna and I.

Tamanna: The confused girlfriend - Part 1 of 2

This is a weird kind of story that I wrote from a male point-of-view (for a change!). It is not even actually a story because it doesn't end very conclusively (I should warn you) but I still felt it was worth posting. I'll post in two parts for it is quite long. So here is part 1 - hope it doesn't bore:

Beautiful. I rarely use that word for a girl, but it is the only apt description when it comes to Tamanna, my Tamanna. Of course, I could go into a lot more detail about her expressive, thick-lashed eyes and her satin-soft, flawless skin and gorgeous lips and the straight, silky hair that I loved to play with, but I’m no writer and I don’t want to risk understating her matchless resplendence.

I knew her for a long time before we actually got to know each other. We’d always had mutual friends but had been little more than strangers. ‘Acquainted strangers,’ I like to think of it now. It was only after online social networking caught on and we ‘found’ each other on Facebook that we moved on to being friends. I was at once taken by her photographs; she looked no lesser than a model with her well-toned body, not a curve out of place, and the dazzling smile that set my heart ablaze. It took a lot for a girl to really catch my attention – I had too many vying for it all the time – but Tamanna accomplished that seamlessly, like no one else ever had.

She was smart and talkative and fun-loving, and we had a lot in common, like a love of fast cars and Hollywood action movies and all kinds of cuisines. I remember the first time we met, just her and I, we’d talked for hours at a popular café and then gone for a long drive, never once running out of things to say. It was fun being with her, and easy, things just flowed so naturally. Which is perhaps why it didn’t take long for us to fall into being ‘a couple’. Neither of us expressed our feelings outright; we just got closer and closer until one day, we kissed – in the car, after another long drive, as the rain poured outside and the heat flowed between our bodies.

After that, it was almost like we spent every waking moment together, not physically but mentally and emotionally connected, constantly text messaging, talking on the phone every night, for hours, and drifting off to sleep dreaming of each other. Life felt like one long, never-ending, happy love story. Not that I read any love stories but I felt sure that mine was the stuff books were made of. I was “in love” in the truest sense of the phrase, in a way that I had never been in love before. The handful of short-lived high school romances started seeming incredibly juvenile compared to this. This was the real deal, I was sure. And so was Tamanna. We wanted a future together, and would often plan it hypothetically, while lying cozy in each other’s arms. We would have two babies, a boy and a girl, and live in a big house with a couple of our most favorite fast cars lined up in the garage, and a beautiful garden where the two of us would curl up every evening and watch our children play.

‘Lovers’. The word was barely sufficient to describe us. We were ‘soul mates’, ‘destined to be together’, ‘made for each other’. And we let our families and close friends know too, so that we wouldn’t have to keep any secrets from the people who mattered to us. We didn’t tell too many other people, though. We saw no reason to let anyone else into our private little world. I remember how deliriously happy she used to make me, with her sweet gestures like dropping in unannounced when she knew my parents weren’t in, and cooking my favorite authentic Indian food, affectionately feeding it to me herself, and the surprises she planned, like my twenty first birthday party, which remains the best birthday I’ve ever had.

It was on our six month anniversary that we took that crucial step towards ‘sealing’ our relationship. Sex. I’d never imagined this three-letter-word that most guys obsess about could hold so much deeper meaning than the obvious physical pleasure. I had heard stories of first times being awkward, but nothing could be further from the truth for the two of us. It had been out of this world, fantastical. So had every other time that had followed. We’d found our own secret place to go to, - our private love shack - and I had never thought that life could feel so perfect, so right. I loved making love to her, not because she was beautiful but because she was the one person I was truly attached to, emotionally. She was my princess, the combined axis and orbit of my universe, and I found it symbolic how her name meant desire, she was my one and only desire. What made our intimacy most special was how it too had come about naturally, without either of us expressing our desire to initiate it. Of course, we used protection; I had been carrying it around for some time, in anticipation. Guys are always prepared for stuff like that; we’re a practical bunch.

What we’re not prepared for is abrupt, unexplained decisions.

I was baffled when she suddenly said she wanted to go back to being just friends. I tried to get her to talk about it, but she didn’t offer much explanation. So I decided to wait, thinking that perhaps she was just a little apprehensive that things were going too fast too soon – girls are like that – and I completely understood. She was bound to come around soon enough and recognize how we were so totally meant to be.

But she didn’t. Instead, she started going cold on me. I was clueless about all the unreturned phone calls, the unanswered text messages, the reluctance to meet up; I couldn’t imagine what was behind it all. What had I possibly done to upset her? Why wouldn’t she talk to me? At first, I worried whether perhaps I’d knocked her up while we’d been physically involved – that would have been enough to scare any girl – so I asked her outright. But she got mad and hung up on me. I felt stupid then. Obviously, if she had been pregnant, I would have been the first one she would have told. After a countless attempts to try and get her to open up, I gave up. From all I knew of girls – and I knew quite a bit, mind you, what with the string of casual relationships behind me – I figured the only way to evoke a reaction was to cool off too.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months, and we barely spoke. As much as I hate to admit it, I was disturbed, despondent, distressed. I rose every morning with the hope that perhaps, today, she would call, and I lived through the day like a robot, my mind clouded with anticipation as I persistently checked my phone and my email and my Facebook.

Nothing.

I couldn’t eat properly, or sleep well, or focus on anything at all. I somehow managed to act normal around everyone and nobody ever noticed anything amiss, but when I was alone, especially at night when the outer world went silent, normalcy ceased to exist and I could feel myself go insane as my inner world came crashing down around me as I thought of the past and all that could have been.

I stalked her Facebook page, monitoring every activity, wondering whether there was someone else, still puzzling over what the bloody hell had burst our cozy little couple bubble, until one day, I noticed a change in her profile.

Her relationship status was back to being displayed as single. We had both kept it blank ever since we’d been together. And seeing that six-letter-word staring back at me like some sort of red alert just did it. I grabbed my phone and speed dialed number 2. Surprisingly, she answered.....

(to be continued)

Escape

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 10; the tenth edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

Escapist: the one word that's always described me best.

At birth, I wanted to escape from my mother's womb, hence arrived a week earlier than anticipated, after an easy labor, oblivious to how I would soon long to escape back to its cocooning safety. In vain, obviously.

In infancy, I wanted to escape from people trying to hold me, cuddle me, touch me; I didn't like the look of awe on their faces and the blunt questions they asked of my parents. I wanted to escape being dressed up in pink, like some sort of doll, and I wanted to escape other children and their stupid games.

Growing up, I wanted to escape from school and the bullies who made my life hell. I wanted to escape swimming lessons in which I was terrified of the water yet forced to enter it, and laughed at when I just couldn't learn like the other kids. I wanted to escape math class where I couldn't read the board and didn't understand anything and kept failing tests.

I wanted to escape the report cards which always mentioned how I kept to myself and needed to interract more with the other children, and I wanted to escape the parent-teacher meetings where they talked about me as if I wasn't right there, listening to every word of complaint, catching every mangled look of concern, tinged with annoyance.

During high-school, I wanted to escape phys ed lessons because I sucked at sports, and always got picked last for teams, and I wanted to escape the science lab sessions because I didn't have a clue about the strange experiments and was deft at spilling things or breaking apparatus or causing mishaps and earning the scorn of both classmates and teachers.

I wanted to escape the adolescent pains of my body changing shape and attracting the not-so-adoring attention of boys who would twinge my bra strap through my shirt and pass rude comments about my acne and crack disgusting sex jokes. I wanted to escape the jealousy I felt when other girls got boyfriends and looked beautiful and started experimenting with make-up and fashionable clothes.

I wanted to escape the pressure that came with being top of the class and the unwanted career advice doled out by anyone and everyone, wherever I went. I wanted to escape the claustrophobic school environment where eveyrone seemed to know me too well, had seen me through all the embarrassments that marked my life, and I wanted to escape far, far, away where I could start afresh.

College brought respite, but it was short lived , for soon, I wanted to escape that too. I wanted to escape the mediocrity of the infamous university that I had been forced by fate to attend, and I wanted to escape the rubbishy education system which didn't seem to do justice to my years of hard work at school. I wanted to escape the friends who didn't understand my big, big dreams and the abundance of people who would comment upon what I ought to do with my life. I wanted to escape the devastating, defeating hurt of an unrequited first love, and the agonizing effort it took to keep the feelings inside, and appear strong and mature.

At graduation, I wanted to escape to another country, to a new identity all over again, but destiny once again got me stuck at home, under the constant, suffocating supervision of parents and frequent presence of relatives who would continue to inquire about my 'future plan', mockingly, almost.

I landed a good job but then I wanted to escape the hectic, mundane routine, the stress and the heavy workload, and the total lack of free time. So, I took a few months off, to dedicate to a dream - a dream of penning a novel. But alas, now too, I want to escape; from the writer's block and lack of inspiration, from the sense of futility and the dwindling self-confidence. I want to escape the shackles of family life and the imminent danger of a possible arranged marriage in the near future. I want to escape the lies I am so often forced to resort to, and the guilt that they evoke, and I want to escape the disturbing realities of life - and death - that tirelessly gnaw at my mind, day-in, day-out. I want to escape the lack of love that makes my inside ache with hollowness, and the abundance of superficiality that makes me seethe with poignant irritation. I want to escape the hot weather and my monotonous daily routine, and I want to escape from rules and responsibilities and all such burdensome things. I want to escape memories - the good ones that make me nostalgic, the bad ones that continue to haunt my dreams.

Yet, deep down inside, I know that escaping is not the answer. Always, I have wanted to run from things that made me uncomfortable, sad, angry, hurt, situations that frustrated me and made me feel all alone - depressingly lonely - but now, I realize that in doing so I have tried to run from life itself. For, in the words of one great writer, R.K. Narayan:

'The law of life can't be avoided. The law comes into operation the moment we detach ourselves from our mother's womb. All struggle and misery in life is due to our attempt to arrest this law or get away from it or in allowing ourselves to be hurt by it. A profound unmitigated loneliness is the only truth of life.'

There is thus no escape from the feeling that I am alone, and so I decide to accept the law of life and

embrace everything -good or bad - that comes my way.

I hear life sing to me, a slightly modified version of a popular song - "You can run, you can hide, but you can't escape, my love!" (Notice the extra comma before 'my love' Get it?)

For someone has rightly said that life is an adventure - an exciting escapade - not the long, tiring 'escape-ade' I'd made it out to be.

*This is a FICTIONAL piece of prose

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