Curse of the Creative

I saw Dhobi Ghat and it's an interesting, creative film, which unfortunately most people won't like. That's because creativity is subjective and something 'different' is not easily accepted in the mainstream. Anyways, here's a story that's been playing in my mind for a bit but got some much-needed definition after watching Dhobi Ghat:

He sat at his easel, engrossed in the story playing out from his fingers and onto the canvas before him: his most ambitious piece of work yet, a sort of magnum opus, a creation he was sure she would love. She who was his muse, his dream, his desire, his beloved.

His heart fluttered as he carefully yet surely blended in the colors, taking time to get the shades just right, to ensure the play of the hues evoked just the right sentiments, portrayed exactly what he wanted to. He didn't usually work with colors; he found them too loud for his liking, he was more comfortable with his black and white and shades of grey, the dark tinges that allowed him to accurately depict his heart's dejection, his mind's depression, his life's devastation. Even in his earlier works for HER, he had used his dull shades, but she had not been pleased. He remembered the time he'd done a portrait of her, highlighting those big, haunting eyes he found so alluring, and her sharp, aquiline nose which set off her beauty; he had worked on it for days, never tiring, not eating or resting much till he had all the perfect touches in place. How excited he had been to unveil it to her, to present his masterpiece to its rightful, most natural owner; he had anticipated her face to light up in surprise and pleasure and pride, yet she had taken one look and spoken five words that had shattered his very soul into a million tiny shards of utter worthlessness: "That looks nothing like me." And she'd gone on to tell him how it made her uncomfortable, to be featured in his art. She'd rather he not do it. Even though she was always willing to feature in OTHER PEOPLE'S art, like that photographer friend of hers who had dedicated entire projects to her. She didn't seem to mind that at all. Then why did she mind our obsessed artist so much, why was she not at all flattered by all the effort he had put into the portrait that apparently 'looked nothing like her'.

But he had not given up, for artists always persevere and never give up hope. They're dreamers through and through, even when the whole world stands against them. She was just one person, he would manage to win her over in no time, he was confident.

"Why do you use so much black?" she always asked him. "Why is all your work so dark and depressing? I don't like it, you should be more versatile."

"Because that's all I know," he had wanted to answer. "Black and white and mixtures of the two, for without you by my side, my love, I can't even think of color, let alone work with it. You are my sunshine and prism, yet you are not MINE, you are only a desire that will never be fulfilled. And so my heart is full of blackness and emptiness and nothingness, which is what my art depicts. Come, give me your hand, and give my love a chance, and then you will see, how my work transforms, from dark to vivid, and dull to vibrant. Why won't you give me just one little chance?"

Instead, he had remained quiet, watched how she glanced over his work unimpressed - her adorable nose pinched in disapproval - and felt his heart breaking inside his chest. When would she ever LIKE something he made?

"I'm holding an exhibition." he had said one day. "Will you come?"

She had looked at him like he had made the most ridiculously out-of-this world suggestion. "An ART exhibition?" she had repeated. "I don't know... it's not really my thing. Give me a pass and I'll come if I feel like."

"Sure," he had mumbled, not bothering to voice how very much it would mean to him. That sort of claim never had much effect on her anyway; it was better he keep quiet lest she felt he was being pushy and decided not to come.

The exhibition was tomorrow, and he was planning to put up this newest piece - this work of COLOR - too. As long as she didn't mind of course; if she would love it so much as to want to keep it to herself, he would totally oblige, he would in fact be quite deliriously pleased. Which is why he'd called her over right then, so that she could come and see it before anyone else, because after all, he HAD made it just for HER. He was planning to name it after her too. Her name roughly translated meant 'Symbolic', and this would be perfect for his first ever colorful creation. After all, it indeed was very symbolic, of his love for her, his devotion of wanting to do something that would truly impress her, awe her, fill her with immense pride for being his muse. She would be arriving any moment, and his heart beat harder and harder as he stepped back to examine the painting once again. It had all the colors he could imagine: aqua and crimson and coral and bisque, and magenta and indigo and teal and lavender. There were more colors than he had ever seen or imagined, and yet, here they were in his work. Just for her. Yes, this time, he had surely done it right. She was bound to be pleased.

He heard footsteps behind him, so quickly turned, his heart speeding up at an alarming rate. There she was, looking as splendid as she always did, so effortlessly. The corners of her mouth twitched up in acknowledgement as she approached him.

"I'm here," she declared, stopping a few paces away from him. "What was it that you needed to show me so urgently?" She pulled out a cigarette from her pocket, stuck it between her lips, and lit up as she waited for him to respond.

He proceeded to show her. And she gazed at the painting long and hard, as if captivated, mesmerized. Or so it seemed. He waited with bated breath as she took long drags and blew out the smoke in purposeful clouds as the clock on a wall somewhere seemed to tick louder and louder.

Finally, she turned back to him, with her mysterious eyes and prominent nose, - not pinched this time - fortunately, and spoke:

"Seen it. Is that all?"

He was dumbfounded. But managed to speak up when she blew a cloud of smoke into his face. "Err, y yeah.. yes, that's all," he spluttered, his voice small. "So what do you think?"

"It's just a riot of colors." She shrugged. "Even I could do that, why don't you ever try to be more versatile?"

And his soul fell apart all over again, for the umpteenth time at her mercy. His heart crashed to the floor and he knew that the work was definitely not symbolic. Deep inside his mind somewhere, he at last accepted the one fact that he always evaded: Nothing he ever did would mean anything to her.

He went over to the easel, dipped a brush in his favorite deep, dark, black, and made a careless swipe across the "riot of colors".

"Indifference."

That's what he would call this supposed magnum opus which had once again, missed the mark, missed by a long shot.

"Oh by the way," she said. "I won't be coming to the exhibit tomorrow, sorry, I've got a shoot with that friend I told you about. . ."

Some people just do not 'get' creativity. That's why it's best to just work for yourself and not aim at pleasing anyone, even if they are your muse or your inspiration, your dream or your desire, your love or your life.

As Paulo Coelho has written in The Alchemist: "When you possess great treasures within you, and try to tell others of them, seldom are you believed."

Same goes for "When you try to SHOW them, seldom are you appreciated."

Break ke Baad

This is a bit late to write about this movie but I couldn’t watch it earlier so...

It’s a flop movie which was attacked by critics and viewers alike.

But I LIKED it. I’m infamous for enjoying even the crappiest movies as long as they’re sweet love stories. :P

I can’t help it; I get so engrossed in studying the lead characters and putting myself in their place that I don’t mind a slow plot or things being all over the place or common exaggerations and over-the-top coincidences that otherwise ruin the movie.

So right from the super-cute, super-creative opening sequence, I was raring to know what happens Break ke Baad, though of course, it is totally predictable.

For the first time, I felt like Deepika Padukone can actually act. Usually, it’s just her sex appeal that carries a movie but in Break ke Baad, I think she’s acted really well IN ADDITION to looking absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.

I loved her clothes and her hair.

Meh, I want to be Deepika Padukone. Though I wouldn’t want Siddharth Maliya as a boyfriend/fiancé thankyouverymuch.

Wait, on second thought, he IS filthy rich. That wouldn’t be so bad. It would be pretty cool, in fact.

Nah, just kidding. Do you honestly think I’m the kind of girl who goes after rich men? Shame on you. I’m offended.

Anyways, I digress. Coming back to the point, Deepika is hot. Period.

And Imran… oh what do I say about gorgeous Imran. For the second time in his career (the first being in Janne tu…), he plays a character whom I would totally swoon for. To start with, he is supremely cute and I have a thing for cutesy boys. (The macho men are really not my type MOST of the time.) Plus, his character of Abhay comes across as the most sensible, sensitive, caring, loving, mature, and most importantly, committed guy ever. And that’s not all. He can also…wait for it…..

….

COOK! Indian food!

Honestly, why aren’t there any such ideal guys in the real world? And if they’re out there, why aren’t they single and waiting to sweep off my feet?

Speaking of the story, I’m sure you can make out exactly what it is if you’ve seen the promo. And if you haven’t, no big deal. It’s nothing great, just your regular new age Bollywood romance. What makes it special though is the colloquial dialog, which was also criticized by the critics (isn’t that what they’re paid for, all these critical critics!) but seemed refreshing to me.

There’s one part where Deepika’s character Aaliya makes plans to go abroad to study Mass Communication but doesn’t consult anyone beforehand, neither her mother, nor her boyfriend. (I so relate to that; I would do the same if fees and living expenses weren’t an issue in real life :P) And when she drops the bombshell, of course everyone freaks out and Abhay is arguing with her, obviously very hurt, and he tops it off with a punch line in the form of:

“Do logon ke saath communicate nahi kar payi. ‘Mass’ communication karne ja rahi ho!”
“You couldn’t communicate with two people, and you want to do ‘Mass’ communication!”

I was laughing out loud at that, especially because it echoes my own situation. I find it difficult to communicate with people close to me but want to study mass comm and communicate to the world. Irony of sorts, I suppose.

I could relate to Aaliya a lot, the way she frowns at marriage and all things conventional and just wants to fly for her dreams. There’s a part where she describes herself as a kite, which can’t help flying because she loves it so much, and I was nodding in agreement. I’m also impulsive and turn to lies like her, and can let a fit of anger get the better of me. And I found myself envious of her carefree nature, the ease with which she did everything her own way without batting an eyelid. I was even more envious when she flies off to study in Australia with full scholarship and lives on a beautiful cottage on a spectacular island, and has still has money to fly back home and all. If only life could be as simple and sorted as Bollywood portrays it as. Even Abhay flies off to join Aaliya or win her back rather, and just like that, he ends up starting his own restaurant business there and achieving great success. Sometimes, I think movies are to blame for over-glamorizing life abroad and convincing people that they’ll have a dream run as soon as their feet touch foreign land. Why don’t movies show the depressing reality of how tough it actually is? Well, I guess that has an obvious answer – they wouldn’t do as well. Especially since they already flop even with the mega alluring locales and fairytale-like stories.

Man, I am digressing too much today. (As usual. :P)

One thing I totally didn’t get about the movie though is why Aaliya calls her mother by her first name rather than saying ‘mom’ or any of its synonyms. That was weird. I wonder what they were trying to portray through that. There were a few other peculiarities too but on the whole, I connected with the movie and will probably be watching it over and over again. Just to drool over Imran of course.

And to get some motivation from Deepika’s go-getter, ‘I can conquer the world’ attitude. Even though it eventually leads to her mom getting hurt by her actions and saying something which is definitely one of the most stellar dialogs I’ve ever heard:

"Log tumhe isiliye pyar nahi karte kyunki tum special ho, balke tum special ho kyunki duniya main kuch log tumse be inteha pyar karte hai, sometimes despite the way you are."

"People do not love you because you are special, but rather you are special because a few people in this world love you immensely, sometimes despite the way you are."

So true, isn’t it? I was so impressed I thought it must be a quote by someone famous so I Googled it but didn't find anything so hats off to the script writer. I know a few people who definitely need to be reminded of this simple fact. Their sense of self-worth is just a tad too inflated.

Lastly, music of the movie is pretty good too, with this being my favorite song because of its inspiring lyrics:

Barish Hai Khayalon Mein

Sab Dhul Jayega

Roshan Rasta Naya

Ek Khul Jayega

Beh Jayega

Tinka Tinka Kal Ka Silsila

Chalo Mil Jayega

Aur Ek Hasin Kafila

Motherland

Despite all the million things I complain about, and all the things that piss me off; despite all the heartbreak and turmoil I have faced here; and all the times I just want to run away to foreign lands; despite all the things that are just so WRONG, and all the cynicism and negativity I usually feel, despite not growing up here and at times feeling like a foreigner; despite all of this and more, deep down inside, I love my India, fiercely and irrevocably. And today, instead of writing the cynical post I had originally planned to, I will simply say that I will do my best to make my country better, to fix all the problems, one step at a time, I will 'be the change' I want to see for a better future of better systems, better setups, better people, and better lives. A future I can be proud of.

And no, this is not just talk.

Happy Republic Day, fellow desis. Let that flag fly high and let your spirit and your dreams soar with it.

Jai Hind

A Tragedy of Seasons

First came spring, when he was nineteen

A long-distance affair, an unlikely pair

She was lively and fun, the party-hopper type,

He was more subdued, didn’t fancy too much hype

Yet they got close, through phone calls and net,

Didn’t make a difference, that they hardly met,

He would sing to her at times, late into the nights

It was the sweetest way, to resolve any fights

Light and breezy, the romance brewed,

Until one day, betrayal spewed.

She found someone else, someone closer to home,

And our hero was ditched, left brooding and alone,

But as they say, everything’s got reason,

For soon came along, another season.

Dazzling and bright, she was the summer sunshine

So sweet, so alluring, like the finest wine.

He was soon intoxicated, high on her love,

She was his angel, his beautiful dove.

Sultry and torrid, there passion was wet fire,

Neither had ever felt, such lustful desire.

So wonderful and warm, she lit up his life,

And he began to dream, of making her his wife.

But alas this too was a passing phase,

For in time their relation, began to haze

She slowly slipped away, like a setting sun,

And in her aftermath, he was bound to burn.

Till at last again, the season changed,

And he found respite, as winter gained.

She was hot and tempting, like a steamy mug of chocolate

And he cozied up to her, over the internet.

They Facebooked and Skyped, sharing tales of heartbreak,

And in so doing, baked their love cake.

She was his comfort and his peace,

Like a blanket of fleece.

He basked in her affection and snuggled up to her care

He’d been through so much, this was only fair

But one fine day, the chocolate cooled,

And our hero realized he was being fooled.

Her warmth proved superficial, as he caught a chill

And so he escaped, before winter could kill.

Anticipating spring once again,

He began to shed, his layers of pain,

But don’t you know, climate change is real now?

And so it rained, and it rained how!

She brought cheer and hope to his tormented heart,

And he prayed to be hers, to never grow apart.

Together they frolicked, reveling in each other,

Completely in sync, they were birds of a feather.

She showered him with praise, and drenched him in joy,

In her fascinating company, he was an innocent little boy

She replenished his soul, and enlightened his mind

He saw her as perfect, so precisely his kind.

But rains are intermittent, don’t you know?

Sooner or later, they’ve got to go.

So again our hero was left high and dry,

But he was so used to it, he didn’t even cry.

For by now he knew, the weather’s play,

Thus let time have its way.

Sure enough another summer slowly emerged,

Her freshness took over, and the past purged

She was unlike anyone he’d known before,

And now he was sure they’d have something more.

Despite differences and distance, they remained committed

She was the only girl so far, his love befitted.

Her soft husky voice, was melody to his ears,

And her pretty face, it rested all his fears.

She was a delicate red rose, whose thorns didn’t prick

To defend and protect her he was oh so quick.

It seemed like this season was finally one to stay,

And their love grew stronger, day by day…

Yet all this time, there’d been another girl too,

The one he didn’t notice, never mind woo,

She’d seen him through it all, all the seasons of his life,

But all she ever got was never-ending strife.

Why is so love so unfair, so incorrigibly mad?

Why is she destined to be eternally sad?

She makes it through the tears, hanging onto his mere presence

To all else she is oblivious, even to his irreverence

With difficulty, she’s accepted, they were never meant to be,

Yet she prays one day, her love he will see.

True Life Tales - 2

A while back, I had started a new category called 'True Life Tales' but then never got around to writing anything much in it. Maybe I was worried none of you would be particularly interested in random experiences from my life or maybe I couldn't decide what to write about. Either way, seeing as I'm running low on inspiration these days, I thought I'd attempt another true life tale:

We met on Facebook, through a mutual friend. I commented on a 'note' he had written which, because of the mutual friend being tagged in it, appeared in my News Feed and I found interesting. (I love reading people's notes on Facebook since they're practically like blog posts.) And he replied to the comment and added me. He is a writer too, which is perhaps why we got along so well. (He is also of a zodiac sign that complements my sign but ah well, astrology is to be taken with a pinch of salt!) The first time we chatted on Yahoo, it was for three hours straight. I'd never had such a long conversation with a stranger before. And we spoke of everything: books, movies, our experiences, our lives, even sharing some things which we claimed to not discuss much with other friends. Now, before you start forming any inaccurate notions, let me clarify, there was absolutely no element of romance here - we were just two writers who had a lot to discuss and had even crossed each other's paths years before when we'd not known each other.

So a new friendship got started, and how. For those who don't know, I don't really have a lot of guy friends, I tend to be intimidated by the male gender, though things have been improving over the past few years. So it was nice to have him as a friend; and even nicer when we met up once and I got to know him better. I began anticipating more meetings, and was glad to finally have a real-life writer friend rather than an online one. (No offense to all of you who are my online friends, by the way, I value you equally.)

But alas, one meeting was all we ever had. Because just days after it, he joined college and got busy with his life. It had never crossed my mind that that would stop us from talking or further developing the friendship, but sometimes, people get caught up in changed routines and everything else fades in significance. Being an outgoing, friendly person, he obviously made a lot of new friends at college and somewhere along the way, the bond he had formed with me (or so I thought) fizzled out and withered away. We stopped texting, chatting, or even reading each other's writing anymore.

Occasionally, we exchange a mundane message citing vague intentions of meeting up, but I doubt anything will ever come of that. It strikes me as strange, how for a few days, we were so close, and just like that, we drifted apart again. It's been almost two years since we met, though we bump into each other at routine collegian hangouts sometimes. And we still have a couple of mutual friends, though I don't really fancy the idea of meeting him through them. I value that brief time I had him as a friend; I look back upon it with a smile, for I've never experienced anything else like that, and I think it taught me that sometimes, God sends us angels who stay for a while to teach us something, then flutter away to teach us something more. Does that make any sense? It does to me. And I wonder whether he ever thinks of those few days that we talked so much and got to know so much of each other's lives. There is one thing in particular that he said which stands out in my memory, something about the future, and I'm just going to wait and see whether it proves true after all. It would be a miracle if yes, but won't matter if not. For what matters is that we had that friendship and friendship, however brief, is always a blessing.

Flight

She eyed the packed suitcase, and looked at the ticket in her hand. The moment had arrived, at last. THIS was what she wanted, and finally, she had it. Yet, inside, she was petrified of what was to come. Was she doing the right thing? Did she have enough reason? Reason to want out, to leave like this and ditch the people she loved? Reason to seek a new life where she would live by nobody's rules but her own? Reason to set out on her own, without much of a plan? Reason to not feel at all guilty about it? Her mind reeled....

"You are an adult now," her mother said. "A grown up young girl."

That sounds like an oxymoron, the "grown up young girl" thought.

"You must wear a dupatta to cover your body. It doesn't look good when you go outside without one, it draws the attention of males. You must dress modestly. Make it a habit from now, before tongues start to wag."

In simplified terms, this translated to: "Cover up your boobs; or men will stare and women will gossip and our 'cultured, traditional' society will collectively label you 'disrespectful and modern."

As if she cared a damn, the young girl. The concept of the dupatta seemed to her the stupidest concept ever invented. Were all the men in the world really that jobless and that desperate to be hanging around waiting for a glimpse of her curves? If yes, they'd obviously never heard of porn, which was of course impossible so they probably didn't have access to it, which was not her problem. If no, then why should she bother with the stupid piece of material that slipped and slithered and threatened to fly away in the wind and felt like a strangulation cord around her neck, especially in the summer?

Because she was expected to by her hypocritical, gender-discriminating, sexist, stupid culture and her family and her society. And in this and other pointless demands, lay her reason.

***

"Be back by 6.30. Don't be late, you have to be home before it's dark."

Knowing well the answer she would get, she still dared to ask: "Why?"

"What do you mean why? Because it's not safe, of course. You're a girl, you must be home before sunset. It doesn't look good when you come in late, you know that."

She held back a retort that would turn into an argument that would result in her not being allowed to go at all. It was four o clock already and the curfew would give her barely over an hour to be with her friends whom she hadn't seen for weeks now. When boys in her family went out, they returned even past midnight and no one told them anything for 'boys are boys, after all'.

It was SO not fair. And in that injustice, lay her reason.

***

"What time should we come pick you?"

"Eleven, please don't come earlier. It's no fun then. I only go out on one night every year, it's a college reunion, there will be so many people to catch up with."

"O.k, o.k, but what is that you are wearing?"

"What?"

"Your top is too short. Why don't you wear that kurti your aunt gave you on your birthday? It's such a lovely shade of pink. And will look so decent compared to this thing which doesn't even cover your buttocks!"

"I can't wear a kurti today. It's Executive Night. Besides, I hate pink. And this is my favorite shirt. Let me wear it at least today; it's been lying in my cupboard so long."

"Yes, because they are not worth wearing. So bad they look, showing off your backside like that. All the boys stare at you girls who wear such vulgar things. Don't you feel ashamed? And what nonsense is this Executive Night? As if executives don't wear salwar kameez... wear that black salwar kameez you wore on Diwali two years ago. It's so beautiful and so expensive yet you never wear it. And you look so much slimmer in salwar kameez rather than this pant-shirt which make your hips look so wide."

She fought back tears of frustration and hurt as she tried to block out the voice and focussed on brushing her hair.

"You will tie up your hair, right?" the voice continued, taking a different course now."It will get spoiled by the way you leave it open all the time. And it looks too attractive that way, people will put buri nazar on it. You should tie it up neatly the way your cousin does."

It was a never-ending infringement of personal freedom and space. And in the resultant feeling of suffocation, lay her reason.

***

"Who was that boy?" she was asked as soon as she got into the car.

"A friend, he used to be in my college."

"What was he doing here?"

She mechanically intoned the well-rehearsed excuse she had in mind: "He had come to see the movie too, we ran into him... My friends were getting late so they left, and when he saw me standing alone, he came to ask why. So we were just talking for the past few minutes."

The rebel in her was urging her to stand up for once and blabber out the truth - that she had lied and come to see the movie with him rather than her friends and that she didn't see anything wrong in it. But she resisted the impulse for being honest would cause more damage than good. She would never be allowed out again, even to ACTUALLY see her girl friends, so it was better to sneak around, even if it was such a huge effort - spinning a complex web of deceit just to see the one guy she so genuinely cared about.

She was utterly sick of it. And in that exhaustion, lay her reason.

***

Yes, indeed, she had enough reason.

All it came down to

was her thirst for freedom.

His Kind of Girl

There was a time when she'd longed
to be that kind of girl.

The kind he calls at 1a.m. to talk with for hours,
joking, laughing, flirting,
enjoying the sound of her voice.

The kind he likes to be photographed with,
and subsequently tagged on Facebook,
receiving a dozen compliments on how good they both look.

The kind that looks just as sexy
in shorts or a saree
Or just as easily stylish in jeans or a suit

The kind he treats as his muse
clicking pictures that enhance their beauty,
showcasing it to the world.

The kind he talks about with a sense of pride,
for they are his best friends,
so pretty, so smart, so prized

The kind he drops off home after a late night out together
Or picks up at train stations and airports
whenever its required.

The kind he buys presents for and makes a point to meet
the kind he shares his birthday with
and gladly claims as 'his'.

Oh, how she'd longed to be that kind
knowing well she'd never make the cut,
and finally years later she just accepted, her eternal place in the rut.

She would always be the other kind,
the kind he called just once a year - on her birthday
Well, at least he remembered that, things could have been worse!

The kind who always asked him for pictures together
not caring of the strange silent looks she got
SHE cherished the memories, to hell with whatever he thought.

The kind he didn't like to acknowledge
on Facebook or elsewhere
the kind that looked the same, no matter how she did her hair.

The kind who had been promised a pretty photo
from his snazzy new camera
but never got any, as expected, for they 'never got a chance', la!

She was the kind who was jealous
of all his other friends,
the insecure psycho who at times seemed dense

She was the self-proclaimed underdog, angry and bitter and low,
for she wasn't the kind that had him,
the kind he'd never let go.

But at last she was okay with it, what did it matter anyway?
She was sure to be someone else's 'kind',
most definitely, some day!

Unplugged but not Uncensored

This post was going to be 'Unplugged, Uncensored', but for the first time in my blogging life, I forced myself to edit out some censor-worthy elements. (Don't ask why.) Anyways...

I just watched two great movies called Before Sunrise and Before Sunset. Obviosuly, the latter is a sequel to the former. And trust me, if you like intellectual, thought-provoking cinema, you have got to watch these movies. The story is basically about two strangers, a guy and a girl who meet randomly and spend several hours together, talking of random things as they explore a European city, Vienna in the first movie, and Paris in the second. Ah, so romantic! Though, the movie is definitely not a typical romance, mind you.

And I must mention my blog friend, Imroz, who was the one to suggest the movies in the first place. He is a brilliant writer and you MUST check out his blog here: link

Anyways, inspired from the films, I got thinking about what I would talk about if I was ever in such an idealistic situation: alone with a handsome, smart guy in a beautiful European city, conversing about everything under the sun and more. I came up with a monologue of sorts, which may be boring and is extremely self-centric, so you are free to leave halfway if I start to babble too much. Here goes:

“I’m a writer and I like writing about love and relationships, though I’ve never actually been in one myself, a romantic relationship that is. And the only time I was ever in love, it was with someone who didn’t return the feeling, not at all, but still, I feel unrequited love makes you more of an authority on the subject because then you see both the beautiful side and terrible ugly side of the emotion all at once and all on your own. You realize how special it is yet question its validity because it seems to be based on something as fickle as looks. I mean, do looks define what you can mean to someone? That’s kind of depressing. And it makes me so self-conscious, you know?

I mean, right from when I was a child, I’ve known I look ‘different’ from my family and friends and ‘different’ of course is never ‘beautiful’. And I hate it, despite all the philosophical crap about ‘beauty coming from the inside’ and all. I mean, if I’m cross eyed, I’m cross-eyed, and then no one is going to care whether I have a heart of gold or whatever. Not that I actually AM cross-eyed, thank god, but I do have problems with my eyes. You must have noticed. And I hate it when people point out the obvious to me. I hate it when I’m struggling to read something, or leaning close to a computer screen and some absolute idiot asks me why I’m behaving that way. Why do you think, I’m behaving like that? Because I like to pretend I’m blind? God, it’s exhausting, explaining to everyone that I really do have a major problem which can’t even be corrected with glasses.

But then I guess it’s not people’s fault. They are bound to be curious. Sometimes, I think if I was someone else, looking at my own self, I would ask the same questions. In fact, I would perhaps ask even more questions and irritate the hell out of myself. Does that make any sense? Gosh, I’m babbling so much. I guess it’s because I’ve never said all this to anyone even though I’ve wanted to. Most of the time, I’m a very private person. I never say my true thoughts or feelings. I like to maintain a certain element of mystery about myself, it makes me feel less vulnerable to getting hurt. I think when people get to know you too well, they hurt you too much, so I hardly let anyone really know me, you know?

Maybe that’s why I’ve never had a boyfriend, or maybe not. Maybe I just don’t interest anyone, but that’s so sad, right? Sometimes I feel so afraid that I will never meet anyone who loves me and that I’ll end up dying all lonely and depressed. Not that companionship is a must in life. I guess I could be quite happy alone too. I would love to travel the world on my own, and write books, and get really rich. But it would be nicer to have someone to share all that with, don’t you think? Of course, there are downsides to having someone too, like you have to adapt to their faults and you sometimes have to compromise your own happiness, and you have to get over the embarrassment of somebody knowing EVERYTHING about you. Your mannerisms, your quirks, your body, your mind, your secrets, everything. It would kind of freak me out if someone knew me that well. I’m such a bundle of contradictions, aren’t I? I definitely feel that way. Every single day, on one hand I’ll be blissfully happy, but at the same time, inexplicably sad. It’s weird, like I’m bipolar in a way. Do you know what bipolar means? It’s a psychological disorder, manic-depressive mood states….

I studied psychology at college. I don’t know why though. I initially wanted to be a doctor. But I think I would have made a terrible doctor. The sight of suffering and pain totally upset me. I can’t stand it. That’s why I didn’t become a clinical psychologist either; I would never be able to tolerate seeing people who have difficulties much worse than my own. I’m a bit of a softie that way, I guess. Though people never think so. Just because of my detached exterior attitude, they think I’m cold and emotionless inside, and nothing could be further from the truth. On the contrary, I tend to FEEL too much and too many things. I’m always overwhelmed with FEELING, it’s a terrible state to be in. perhaps that’s why I’m a writer. I just need an outlet for all the million things I keep feeling in my heart and can’t express any other way. And the worst part is that I keep craving more feelings, however weird that sounds.

I crave to know what it would feel like to fly, free in the vast sky, with no sound around me except that of the wind. I wonder what it would feel like to live in space, or on another planet, or in another civilization, in history. What if I had been a Jew in Germany? What would that have felt like? Would I have written a diary like Anne Frank and then gone on to be a famous writer posthumously? I wonder what modern famous writers feel like, like my favorite, Paulo Coelho... he writes such brilliant books. I would love to meet him some day, though I don't know what I would say... I would love to meet J.K. Rowling too, and Judy Blume. Gosh, I admire successful writers so much. And I dream every single day that one day, I'll be a huge success too. And I wonder how that would change my life. I wonder if lost friends would suddenly get in touch again, if I became famous, or if anyone would pretend to fall in love with me for my money, the way it happens in movies and books, of course. I think I'm too influenced by movies and books. I think that's irreversibly messed up my mind a bit. I believe too much in idealistic concepts, and when they come crashing down around me, I crash with them. Like love for instance. I think I've stopped believing that love exists now. It just seems superficial to me, the way people have boyfriends and girlfriends and then go on to fool themselves into marriage and end up complaining about all the things that they'd have liked to do if it hadn't been for marriage. I think love is just a deliberate reason created for the purpose of being physically intimate with someone because, ultimately, that's all that anyone wants. And that's all that explains our existence. Which is again kind of depressing. There are too many depressing things in the world, don't you think? Yet, we are meant to ignore them and consider the 'good stuff' and 'enjoy' life for it's 'too short'. I don't think it's too short. Well, most of the time it isn't. When young people tragically die then of course it is short - and depressing - again.

And I hate how uncertain life is. In one moment, so much can change, yet when we most want things to change, they don't. Of course, the uncertainty can also be exciting but most of the time it's just frustrating. Or maybe I'm too much of a negative person and that's why I think like this. Life is all about perspective, after all. My perspective often gets me into trouble, especially with someone I really care about. They never understand me and I never understand them and yet I can't stand the thought of being away from them because that would be excruciating. So we have a million arguments over a million pointless issues and I suppress a million things I want to express to them because I just don't know how to express them and even if I do, they won't understand, and so we just go on that way. And every day, I worry about when things will finally snap and we'll no longer talk to each other because life is bound to put distance between us. It always does that, separates people, makes old friends grow apart, and old memories fade, and even though new friends come along to make new memories with, sometimes it's just not the same anymore. And yet, we can do nothing to bring the past back, or even relive a single moment or take a small step to fix something that was ruined. Once again, so utterly depressing...."

*This post will make a lot more sense if you actually watch the movies - please do, please do, please do!

The First Setback of 2011

Today is the second working day of the New Year, and unfortunately for me, it's just been one of those days when I hate everyone and everything.

To start with, even though I had lots of work, I overslept and so got into a big rush in the morning which ended up delaying the plan I had set myself so that I only managed to complete a small proportion of what I was supposed to before lunch. To add on, I got a call from an Aunt who has family in Hyderabad and she was supposed to find out about EFLU for me (which is a place I was planning to pursue my master's at). She spent half an hour telling me how Osmania University and the adjacent EFLU are in the grip of the Telangana Movement and the entire environment is negative and very unlikely to change for the better anytime soon. Which of course means I will not in a thousand years be allowed to set foot anywhere near there. So my Hyderabad dreams are more or less crushed before they quite took form. (Okay, they did take a lot of detailed form in my mind's eye, which is perhaps why it hurts so much now. Moral of the story: Never count your chickens before they hatch. Yes, I always knew that but oh heck, whatever.)

It's funny how until yesterday, or actually until today morning, 'Telangana' was a mere word I remembered from the newspapers and didn't think about at all; and now, it has affected my life in a major way even though I am not in the remotest way associated to it. As much as I love my country, I am quite fed up of India and all its ISSUES. And I shall hold back a long stream of cuss words here because cussing is not going to change anything. Telangana, Telangana, it's sounding in my head like a hammer. Telangana. (And just for the record, I mean no offense or insult to anybody here, so please do not lash out at me if you happen to be pro-Telangana or anything.)

Anyways, this one bit of news screwed up the rest of my day because of course, I am not in the best of mental states yet had an insane work load which - incidentally - involves helping other people reach for their dreams (while mine of course, just turn to dust.). Point to ponder: If you help make other people's dreams a reality, does anyone help you with yours? (And 'God' is not an acceptable answer here, mind you. Especially coz I'm not feeling particularly loving towards Him today.) I tell you, it's days like these that make me think I should just give in and get married and resign myself to a life of dissatisfaction and pointlessness, in servitude of some guy who will judge me based on the sole criteria of whether I can look after his home and family and bear him a couple of kids, preferably sons.

Okay, forget I said that. I didn't mean it, obviously, but at times, it's like everything I want and everything I work for is just totally forever out of my reach. I had tears of frustration and defeat in my eyes towards the end of the day, even as I continued editing and proofreading and rechecking draft after draft of the essays I'm working on. It's on days like these that I just want to curl up into a ball and die because nothing else seems worthwhile, even though inside, of course, I know very well that I'm over reacting and being ridiculous.

Maybe it's okay to be ridiculous from time to time. Especially when I have never done anything bad to anyone (okay maybe once I did, but that was because the person really deserved it) yet keep getting stuck in bad situations.

Dear God, please sort out Telangana before March so that I can have enough time to re-convince everyone to let me go study in Hyderabad. If you decide that Hyderabad is not for me, then at least be kind enough to point me to something that IS for me. Something nice abroad, would be fantastic, but I know you never give me what I want, so I won't ask. I made a compromise and gave up my study abroad dreams, so why can't You return the favor and give me Hyderabad at least? Please.

P.S. I know there are other cities in India but I can't find any place I like as much.

Oh well, time to leave things to time.

Here is a poem I wrote yesterday night when I couldn't get to sleep past one a.m.:

Residues

They lurk like dark shadows,

in places no one will find.

Deep within your soul,

in the crevices of your mind.

They are marred memories

and injured thoughts

that ail your heart

like little blood clots.

A familiar face

you should never have known.

Bitter words,

a sarcastic tone.

Repressed feelings,

you couldn't express

So much stuff,

you were afraid to confess.

Misdeeds and mistakes,

they plague us all.

Remember the flight

before the fall?

Dreams and desires,

they turned to mist.

For life's not a movie,

there's no third act twist.

A trove of memories

you long left behind.

Still so sharp,

when your head hits rewinds

Who are those people,

the ones you laughed with?

Were they truly friends,

or some construed myth?

Is that you,

in the fading old picture?

Funny how it's got

its own strange allure

What's it about the past

that always draws you in?

In the battle to forget,

why don't you ever win?

Indeed they stand the test of time,

like scandalous bits of news

They are insurmountable,

these clingy little residues.

p.s. I shouldn't even be writing because I have work to finish off, but my brain is tired now, so instead I will watch The Hangover for the millionth time because it is one movie that always makes me laugh and gosh, I really need to laugh today.