The veritable reality of the reasons that once clouded her judgement, and played her as easily as a game of cards, became as clear to her as a crystal; there is no yearning now, to get back what is gone. But there is a wish, to get back that mental peace, which tethered her to him. There is a vulnerability, which is not more than an effect of a humiliation, by the ignorance of a man she held in high regard and spurned the likelihood of him ever, ever hurting her. 

As she declared her feelings to him, she started to shake to the hysterical throb of her heart. It was an extremely cold feeling, of being abandoned by your own flesh and blood. The emotions were so overpowering, that she was stricken into a sobbing mess as he said "It's ok". 

"I just don't understand this", she said.

"I absolutely know how it feels." He said.

"I don't want to be a part of your life anymore." She said angrily, as she cried her heart out, but not meaning a word of it. 

And he abandoned her, just like that. 

Wasn't it the cruelest thing, to awaken so much love without any intention to do so? What a tragedy it was, she thought, to perceive things as they were. A bright conniving smile, tales of the memories that revived love and hope, and signs, that meant everything; yet, nothing. She wonders, if the language that he spoke had a different dialect than what she had interpreted. And if all along they were not only on two different pages, but also characters of two unquestionably antithetical stories. That love was never hers to keep. Because the girl he loves is not her. And this is a sublime echo of a past that lingers on for hours, the one that she wished to return from, but would not dither to get back to at the first gesture. 

And now she must live in a world where she would be triggered by the memories where he would tender the best advice, and cry sometimes, knowing that he is never going to be there ever again. All that she did now, is going to be...just different. 

It was in these moments that she learned what made her bleed, what tattered her soul, and what tainted her cheeks. She was not flushed this time or hardhearted as he called her. She was standing tall at the altar, engulfed in a funereal atmosphere, ready to sacrifice; yet again. It was in these moments, that denial pervaded every neuron, every cell of hers, that hope became inevitable. It was in these moments, that there was bewilderment so strong that no question matched its answer. 

She had been part of a movie for the better part of these 4 years, and the theater had been eerily empty all this while. Because who would watch Sisyphus rolling a huge rock up a steep hill? It wasn't worth it in the end. 

And now, two angels have fallen to the ground. 

But the thing she should remember is that, love just happens, and that loving someone is the most beautiful thing in the world. But sometimes, people part their ways. Their stories change. And eventually everything transforms. She longs to die, if only she could rise again, like a candle in a pouring rain, transformed, to a flickering lamp in a pouring rain. 

The music inside is still ringing; she is in disbelief, because things that mattered once, don't now. And she is sorry, for what was, and not is.

Idee fixe

Ten thousand words, are stretched upon the vast expanse of time I've spent revising what is lost. And I’ve discovered the gems of past time, encrusted deep within the memory of my machine, unfiltered, and undoubtedly me. They follow the bliss, just like a summer song. These words take me back to a time germane to the voice that rose and fell in the deepest, darkest crevices of my heart. These are the gaps I could fill with nothing more than edifying words - I am a goddess, you are a heretic. When has it ever done any good? 

Though the silent accusations spilled hastily on 23rd September, followed by intense happiness on 24th, makes me wonder, if anything that is put out in haste, true or just a negation and that's it? Are words only exploited to satiate an insatiable cupidity for life?

There are ten thousand deleted bits, and a hundred half finished stories - all lost to restiveness. I'm caught in a never-ending maze of unreality, for I fail to come up with something that is real. I have a fixed idea of what I should be feeling, no matter what the situation is, for facts fail to faze me. Just like you fail to faze me with your pronounced weirdness, trying to obfuscate an idea that is so inherently engineered into your being that you end up being nothing but ordinary. Just like my words. You're trying to hide what is real, and substantive. Press delete, and do it all over again?

You're incomprehensible, just like a really tough reading comprehension on an English test. Are the answers even there? 

Ten thousand words have been fixed on an idea or two. And I've sketched my whole life in a paragraph; mostly in the space that is void of any words. Because how can I ever, ever, figure out what goes there? I am complicated, and vague, and a hypocrite. I move in circles with my words, in a garden inundated with my impatient thoughts. What do I pick, when one is synonymous with the other? 

I have written a story, which is riveting to only those who are ethically compromised. And I don't mind this moral failure. How could I? But they know why I don't simplify myself; because I'll fall apart if I did. 

But let me remain so. Let me keep pilfering notions from my own banal philosophy of life.

To collecting new treasures

I’m the haunting presence on a lonely road, and a dramatic warm feeling on a cold and windy night. I am the unexpected ignorance. I am my own judgments, my own constraints. I am the sad related content. I am the failed experiments, unimportant and incomplete. I am a reflection of grey mornings; I am a hot and humid feeling. I am the rude one word reply and the indifference that comes with it. I am full up to the brim yet empty within. I am so very cliché and meaningless, like the canned phrases on happiness and success. I am the gaudy one bedroom apartment, and the shiny party tinsel in it.

But  I’ve been athirst for an escape from it all, to find the long lost self; to find a kinder more magnanimous side of myself, to find the brighter and uncontrollable contortions of my face, to find those inscrutable and seemingly furious yet innocuous fancies of mine I’ve always been too afraid of. Just like ending sentences with a preposition.

 I want to end everything by dissolving into the background inconspicuously, and with it- all the self condemnation, all my judgments, all the unkind conversations, and all my doubts and apprehension. I want to live with the propriety of my eight year old self. I want to bloom again, unchecked, yet more aware. I want to be loved by the people closest to me, and love them, almost foolishly.

“But if nothing changes, what could happen?” Nothing will change with a preternatural speed. I’ll have to plant my own roses, and accept the thorns too. It’s a hard earned fact of two days which are exactly the same; like consecutive integers whose difference offers nothing interesting, and ironically nothing different. My wants and wishes keep flourishing as my body breaks under the weight of time. And up until now, it has felt like I’ve waited all my life, for someone to tell me...something. Out of breath, I’ve been searching...for something...a stepping stone, a starting line, the origin or the center...I don’t know.

No wonder then that the starless black sky is so alluring, beckoning me to open up, creating an illusion that everything is as calm, as quite, and as beautiful as it is. But there is a kindness in nature which is so welcoming, so harmless, and so accepting. And two exact same days can be patently distinguished by the charming full moon, obscured by grey clouds. So charming it is that everything down below on earth starts feeling illusory- a contriving complication!

So, tell me. Tell me that all that I write and disguise means much more to me than the brazen and unnecessary facts of my dear life. Tell me that for all my contemptuousness that stays so hidden yet not at all, I haply betray my sensitivity. Tell me that I should forget what came before me, and explore several beautiful places for myself; the ones with heavy rainfall, the ones with the most beautiful azure skies, and the ones inside of myself- the very places I keep exacerbating with the garbage I garner from outside. Tell me that I shall not to get too attached to people. Tell me about the ecstasy and the agony of unwelcome decisions, unknown difficulties and distresses. Tell me that home is nothing but a sensation of being whole, and wanted. That it is the place whose environs give you warmth, and shade. That it is the place where you feel comfortable taking a dump. Tell me that reciting a windy paragraph of a classic novel to my crush is something I’ll laugh about in years to come. Tell me that it matters not how happy I make them feel, but how happy I myself feel. Tell me that what I am not is exactly what I am.

And like this, I know myself so very clearly, yet not at all. The difference must be in the contrast, even 0.25 is a lot – blurry or clear, I must decide.

“It’s your perception. For some 0.25 is absolutely nothing”

That was a good way to know how much of a histrionic I was. I need to go on an adventure and find small treasures again, like I used to when I was a kid. I need a new collection. I feel like I’ve exhausted every single fiber of my older one.

My heart goes cricket

What a nail-biting, highly strung, cricket world cup final! How many days has it been? It seems like it was only yesterday. I’m not a cricket romantic, because I only watched the matches where India played and highlights of other matches. Because gosh, it’s time consuming and heart-breaking at times! So I always sat with a book or two to watch the matches, for 6 long hours on 9 different occasions. That is 54 hours of cricket! What’s wrong with me? I could almost hear my teacher’s voice, saying “Practice your guitar!” But you’re sitting in a different city, leaving me striving. I’d hear my dad say, “Prepare for the exam that’s coming” but no, that’s precisely what made me a worse guitarist. And all these things always ran in a loop! So I came out of it!

I almost didn’t watch the final match, being sad over the fact that MS got run out by Guptill and Matt Henry taking wickets after wickets! But I’m glad I decided to watch the match, and in the end, not even question the fact that Kane Williamson is a superhuman. And even though I was supporting New Zealand half-way through the match (upon being triggered by the fact that people were underestimating New Zealand!), I was still awestruck by Ben Stokes. He really fought like a warrior, didn’t he? But oh future people! Don’t just memorize the fact that England won the men’s cricket world cup 2019, because NZ definitely has one hand on that cup.

You wonder, when Trent Boult stepped over the boundary line after almost getting Ben stokes that is there such thing as fate and destiny. The overthrow by Martin Guptill, the substandard umpiring, awarding of 6 runs when 15 were needed from 6 balls, when NZ had everything going for them, their world crumbles. The smiles wipe off, the scores tie.

I’m an emotional fool, but I’m not being emotional because it was the “underdogs” who lost, as technically, no one lost. So why does one team get to celebrate while the other rue the day? Then the dreaded super over, just six balls to decide who wins the world cup. And even then, both teams showed their resilience. Especially New Zealand, instead of feeling dejected, when Jimmy Neesham hit that six, I honestly thought that nothing can stop this team from winning that cup. But well, the scores tie again. And a very unsound rule regarding the boundaries did shatter that dream of NZ.

Why am I so sad for them? Because they don’t deserve to lose! This humility, perseverance and their kind-heartedness is so infectious and so rare that I can’t stop wondering what and how in the name of god have you preserved such good qualities in this dog-eat-dog world?! One bad person ruins my day, one stupid conversation – and I start drowning in the whirlpool of my problems!

I know all is said and done, but I learnt that it is important to do what you love to do. Regardless of the failures, regardless of what anybody says, regardless of the probability of you making it. And most of all, realizing, that nothing is certain. Not even winning, when you ARE winning. You keep holding on.

Tar of memories

Yesterday, I decided to accompany Joy out in the balcony while he waited for our mother to come home. I carried the book which was coming near its end, making me read every line of its last few pages, twice. Believing that on doing so, its words will graft onto my memory, like mathematics formulae which have never left me.

The weather was a bit gloomy, and the air had an eerily nostalgic smell to it.  And the flecking paint of the balustrade eerily reminded me of our derelict house in Delhi, which is now partitioned and divided.

It had a similar balcony, the house. And as kids, I and my brother would spend an inordinate amount of time hanging from it, watching the passers by walk through its extremely narrow lane. Joy watches every person passing by with the same inquisitiveness of a child, shifting glances from one person to the other, searching for a familiar face. And I guess that euphoria of finding a familiar face in a sea of unfamiliar faces has never left me. It has interwoven itself with intangible things which do nothing but make me feel nostalgic. A complete waste of time it is, I’m told- to live in the past, to seek familiarity, to search for smells, to search for places, to search for love.



And so Joy waits, while I’m overcome with nostalgia- of what will never come back to me, will never be mine and pacify me. A text jolts me out of my reverie; it’s the same as ever, now come to join in the mire of my own complacency and lassitude. I’m stuck in a rut, a cycle that never ends. And he must inevitably be a part of it, an interloper I’ve so carelessly fallen in love with.



I’m jealous of this little soul, who tirelessly waits for my mother to come back, without any promise that she will. I’m jealous of the house that stands beaten in the middle of a market, capable of igniting a forgotten past. Because here I am, being overpowered by it all, hiding behind the book lined walls of my room. I’m collecting these memories, as evidence of what I was denied, of the promise that was never kept, of the harsh games of reality, to be shown in the court of life. But Joy waits loyally, expecting nothing, wanting nothing. Maybe that is why humans are sad little creatures, stuck in the doldrums of memory.

Joy, as you wait, I’ll wait with you. And we’ll forget everything else (and I literally did forget the INDvsSL match yesterday! Caught up with it later, phew!).

Finally, reunited. And I'm eternally stuck in the tar of loving memories.

Deathly hallows

Like shinning stars,

Dead inside,

Like wilting lily flowers,

The depicting story of death resides,

In the cankerous urban towers

Pallid, ashen face smiles,

As the tides of anger ebb,

The midnight train is passing by,

The weight of hope is shed.

Hopeless, dejected, she roams alone,

In the bleak mid-winter weather, 

Alas! A part of her is dead!

As the other is put together

For the fire within is still burning bright,

She is fighting under the raging light,

To claim what her body denies

And live until the fire survives.

  

So when she's gone don't mourn her death,

For every flower that once bloomed,

Should die,

Mourn as she withers fool!

Mourn as you deny her, her right. 

Happiness.

Will the tattered pages stay tattered forever? What good will these fragments be when the mind is too old to think for itself and the heart remains anchored to the past? Lying crumpled in a corner, when every touch hurts, do you think it’ll do good to dwell on dreams then? So get down from your high-horse man, it’s time you realized that your little world is not our little world.

Dad, I won’t be just another branch in your family tree, your benign insinuations and seemingly innocuous opinions have eaten at my every nerve and sinew like termite. My aspirations are shrouded by the guilt of having done something terrible; the ignominy of being a misfit. I’m not playing the blame game; I’m just laying out the signs of a society which is so obsessed with awards that it oversees the fact of the matter. Yet, I’m overcome with shame, because you have sacrificed your life for us, and I want to repay you with the very same sacrifice.

“You’re an all-rounder!” No, I’m not. I don’t intend to integrate everything that I do, just to be given this trite tag. I’m compelled to be an “all-rounder”, in an Indian house hold, where being just one thing, isn’t enough. Failure is an absolute feeling that persists as cancer to your confidence. So no, I’m not modest. I was made to be modest.

So clearly, I don’t want to be the good girl anymore. I don’t want to fall in line with millions others who live to earn and die. For getting a nice car, a nice house in the suburbs, travelling abroad once a year, a gym membership, honor and respect of being “important” in this society, is not happiness to me. And never will be. I shall perish before I have to “settle”, in some way or the other. But I shall. I shall be like a phoenix, rise from my own ashes. Die, before I have to live again. Shan’t I?

Oh happiness, how you live in fissures now that the bulwark of innocence has been broken. Afraid, of the fear that lingers over you, fear which exhilarates at every chance it gets to come close to you, constricting the throat and distracting the mind by erupting butterflies in the belly. But the heart is not a fool. It shall protect you, whenever it has to. And when it gets hard, it shall bleed in tears. And let me know, that I should try harder to keep the forces away from you.

Until I have to rise again, happiness, please stay .

Freedom

Feeble sunlight streamed through the windows as soon as she retired to bed. Murmuring the tasks she had set upon herself for the day, she snuggled down with her blanket; in the hopes that she falls asleep before her dog comes gamboling into her bedroom, or of course her mother. 

She fell asleep in minutes, entering a world entirely her own. And how bizarre a world she enters; just like a puzzle whose pieces are hastily put together. All of her thoughts during the day, misunderstood by her own conscience. You see, she's not a good Quidditch player. 

The strong smell of Jasmine and Rose agarbati woke her up. Shocked to see 11 am on the clock, she rolled out of her bed instantly, and fell down. Her mother who now stood in the doorway, laughed. 

"This smell gets up my nose." Kaya complained as she lay down on the cold floor, not bothering to pull herself up. 

"Here, have a Jasmine, fresh from the garden." And her mother dropped a bunch of Jasmines near Kaya's face. She got up, seeing her dog come running towards her to eat up all the Jasmine flowers. 

Kaya sat back down on her bed, and told her mother of her night's adventures.

"Get some sleep! Only warlocks work at 5 am!" Her mother billowed as she looked down at her daughter.

"I'd prefer witch." Kaya mumbled.

"Well, you do look like a witch. Look at you, you've become so gaunt!" Her mother said, frowning,

"Ma, I was reading a book on Mata Hari." Kaya said, her eyes now accustoming to the brightly lit room. 

"What about her?" She asked, sounding interested.

Kaya sat up straight on her bed, and recited the story of the lascivious Mata Hari, cogently. Her mother gasped as Kaya told the tales of Mata Haris' dances, her libidinousness, her freedom, and her unfair execution. 

"What freedom is there in being lascivious?" Kaya's mother asked disparagingly.

"Mother, it is more about our choices, and them being respected. People fear women who are free, in every sense of the word. People fear women who are just human, so much so that they retaliate with assault." Kaya replied tritely, fearing her mother won't understand otherwise. 

"What kind of freedom do you want?" Her mother asked, inquisitively. 

Remembering the dream she'd had just hours before, Kaya smiled her widest, and said, "Freedom to be whoever I want to be, Ma, without being put on a pedestal." 

"You want to be average at everything?" Her mother inquired.

Kaya knew her mother would say that, because that was the truth. We tend to move from one thing to the other, paving our way to what we believe is the much cleaner and greener pasture, because we see everything that's within our reach, forgoing happiness and satisfaction, as doable. But for Kaya, these weren't entirely her choices; rather they were handed down to her, in pity when she wasn't even drowning. Her choices weren’t respected.

Yet Kaya knew that it ill behooved her to drop the baggage of blame, which in actuality kept her afloat, it attested to her an important mission- to save herself.

"I'll be on the cusp of everything, until the day I decide to let go of the person I'm not. But you see then it will be my decision, since I'd have gained my freedom." Kaya articulated, feeling a sense of pride in living an ambiguous life, led by the dictum of the sun shining on the righteous.

"You have the freedom." Her mother said dismissively. 

Kaya laughed, almost derisively, and said, "Not yet, Ma. When I'll have it, you'll know. Because then, I'll glow, I'll laugh more, I'll love more, and I won't be gaunt anymore!" She threw her hands up in the air and fell back on the bed, closing her eyes to the upsurge of emotions that made her heart beat fast.

Her mother never understood. Maybe the subtle derision to her freedom was too subtle and recondite for her mother to understand. Or maybe, ignorance is bliss. Any which way, Kaya couldn’t help but respect Mata Hari, for her boldness and her pride.

"Be whoever you want to be" and with that, her mother left the room, chanting “Om” as she went to offer the few left Jasmines to the deity.

Kaya opened her eyes as soon as her mother left the room, and once again, she was dreaming. If only it was that simple, she thought. She wondered what price she will have to pay for her freedom. And soon, her thoughts were swimming, in the uncharted vastness of her mind. Whereas, dreams, real and unreal, danced upon the ship that remained painfully still. 

Of inheritance and her definition of love.

While driving home from office, her mind filled up with such chaotic and penetrating thoughts that she thought it was going to explode. She was failing, scattering behind the pusillanimous display of bravura, the irony of her life. Her father’s aspirations for her, her “love” life, her own aspirations and failures, all lined up for the dance of death.

Her father has been drinking again, leaving her alone with the weight of inheritance, which was proving to be more of a curse than a blessing. Money is not easy to come. What an asshole he is, she thought. Leaving her without the choice to heal and achieve something significant.

And just recently, her “love” asked her out for dinner, she had felt first happiness, only to be replaced by a frown. Maybe he was the reason why every other problem of hers seemed so solemn. She had had a passing thought over oh so many years of friendship that maybe he was the kind of man she would fall in love with, followed immediately by the thought that maybe...maybe...romance is an inheritance too. And even the kind of romance or a relationship that she would want is something that she was to inevitably and imperceptibly adapt from her culture without even questioning it.

She became irritated, and in vexation, slammed the brakes of her car near an isolated spot. She threw her head back, remembering herself. What an ardent romantic she was, how much she thought of romance as something which was inevitable, and more so imminent.

But is there a chance, a fragment of light
at the end of the tunnel, a reason to fight?

God, she didn’t even know if they were friends anymore. She’d never thought that love would be as disempowering as this. Though every atom in her body craved love, she was beginning to be so very skeptical that it was just an oblique idea for her. She’d told him she couldn’t come for dinner, wanting to achieve something with her free time. He didn't pursue her thereafter, she stopped letting the conversations consume her.

Oh fuck it; she breathed a sigh of relief. 

If there is love, it has to be bigger than this. It has to be stronger than this. It should let her put herself first. And maybe this kind of love doesn’t really exist. But she knew one thing for sure, that she didn’t have to inherit the kind of love that the world loves. She smiled, and said “It will be my solipsistic love”.

Pieces of me

I said everything,

Yet it wasn’t enough,

As my words betrayed me,

The corners came untucked,

Your words grew to hurt me,

I tore myself apart,

On the road I once traveled,

I lost pieces of my heart.

Every rose grew its thorn,

As I concealed my fears from you,

I wasn’t supposed to mirror you,

Look at me now; and the life I once knew.

I took your advice, took my fall,

Guilt is the gift of defiance so I took a call,

To serve you with my reliance,

I gave my all.

The difference was what had made us,

Yet, you left me without a choice,

The innocence that has left me,

Will soon find my voice.

So, the child in me hates her, as the girl in me says, “Hold on”

Don’t get corrupted by the evil that men do, else it'll live on.

Have I experienced something that could not be logically explained?

 ‘This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’ 

This is such a good question. Partly because I'm a fool, and as much as Elon Musk says that engineering is magic, I agree to disagree. You know, even if you trick your brain into believing otherwise, your heart just denies it. It fazes me, my heart.  

And if somebody were to come and tell me that they truly understand me, I’d feel elated. Because it is not as if they have got the algorithm for my heart off of the internet, or copied the algorithm from somebody else, or that a teacher has come and taught them it. There’re no scientific explanations which apply to each and every person, right? We’re different, and that’s the only explanation. Unconditional love, understanding someone, is what makes my heart flutter.

Heart, is where all logic fails. So, I’m opening the curtains wide, and diving for those desires and feelings which just can’t be explained! Nothing explains this dreadful feeling of the imminent prospect of taking exams, when I have been reading Harry Potter all this time. Have I been in denial? Because harry has said, “What good is theoretical knowledge in the real world, anyway?” so, more like inspired, right? But he doesn’t exist. Why don’t I get inspired by my teachers?

Nothing explains this fervent desire for the day to just end, so that I can wash the dirt off my body. Why? Why is my heart so set on future activities yet at the same time fearful of it?

And love? What kind of twisted game is that? What are these feelings, and why don’t they just go away? Why do I feel bad about something as great as love? Why do I feel guilty?

The blinding sunlight cast the city in a dizzying and gloomy look, it was sweltering hot. The whitish look of the sky made Rue keep her head down. Moving through the crowd, she came to a halt. She found shelter under the shadow of a tree and kept looking at her watch. Her phone rang, she picked it up.

 “I love you.”  The voice at the other end said

“What?” She said, completely shocked at the confession. 

“I really do. I have been trying to reach you since morning. I was worried. And it made me want to wish I’d said it sooner.”

“I...what?  You’re so weird. I’m the most imperfect girl in your universe.”

What is imperfection anyway? Are the things that pertain to imperfection to one, perfection to another? Or do they accept these imperfections? Or they don’t care and just ignore them? How does it work?

Maybe the answers lie in some psychological jargon, maybe you’ll say that if you love somebody, it doesn’t matter. Then why does it matter to the other person?

You know, sometimes even scientific information becomes unreliable because we don’t understand it.  Is it the same with people when we look at them with bleary eyes? Because I do that a lot, but I’m also always right about my judgement, but that is just probability, right?

Oh, love! I should be studying. Signals. Just theory. What explains my lack of imagination in one sphere of life and abundance in another?

This is never ending. You get the point.

Spring: A paroxysm of celebration within my heart

The extreme satisfaction, security, and love that I derive from the weather, the trees, and the empty roads, is something that probably no other love will attain. The spring is the catalyst to the bounce in my step. Yet I feel most grounded but free and unbounded. My heart swells up, as I awaken to the cold breeze after a long sleep, from within myself. Every masquerade is dropped, shellacked. There is romance, there is laughter, and there is kindness- all within myself. The indifference and disappointment of every-day life that limits such emotions, unties and unfurls, and I can see, beyond that reality to what is actually real, for me.

Isn’t it lovely, I wonder how all the good memories are played in your mind as the wind sweeps your hair, and you move into it, smiling. There is no one who would interrupt, no one who would distort the images in your head; just good daydreams in the blooming passion that is spring.

This is not how I clicked it, but pictured it.

“I hope life only goes uphill from here!” I said to myself.

But even in the atmosphere, nothing stays the same. Nothing is constant. We live in the troposphere, where temperature falls as we go up. And as soon as the troposphere ends, and stratosphere begins, temperature increases as we go up. There is no spring in space, only blackness. Life is weird, and unlike science, there’re no explanations about why we feel the way feel, or why what happened happened.

Oh, I was talking about spring. My mind drifted to another layer of the atmosphere. But it’s certain, that nothing is set in stone, right?

So when spring comes, embrace it. I hope one day I can find ways to enjoy a sweltering hot weather too. Until then, spring will be my respite; winters will be my pause. And summers, my rush!

Yes, I change with the weather, capricious, and susceptible to the glow of the bright moon, the dark colours of the sky, and the chill in the air. And clinging; to every bit of what anything that is good

The most important question

'This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda.’

Why is choosing a road less traveled poetic in theory but baleful in reality? Why do I have to straighten up my upper lip every time I’m out alone? Why is going to the gym my only strength when I’m mentally strong too? Why isn’t that enough? Why do boys always stare at you? What is my body and why does it even exist as another entity altogether? What are my legs if they’re not walking away from threat? Constant vigilance, Professor Mad-Eye Moody would say.

These are the questions that young adult women like me have today; among many others. The one most important answer to these questions is that my life lacks a million characters of a good fiction book, and so it is not.

It is so easy to lose all temptation to acquire knowledge, to settle for vapid frivolities, to bury the hatchet of curiosity; and live forever, in the transient paradise of defiance. Chill, relax, they say. Look up at the sky, why is it serene to look at the color blue but then it is associated with depression and sadness? What is the fracture point in the stress-strain graph of a human mind? When did you last stop believing in the existence of a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow? What makes you, you? What makes your heart flutter, and your chest swollen with pride?

We had a plethora of questions while growing up; we looked up to adults for the know-it-all giants they were to us. Who is god and where do we go when we die? Why is learning tables more important than the diorama of a kitchen set? Why are some things, and some people, placed at a higher value than the rest? Why do I have to be of that age, to do that? Who gave love a bad name? Why do we fight wars?

I wonder what would be the answer to these questions, if they were asked by a kid. But then again, kids are very smart these days, most of them are. Innocence is a rare gift; it shouldn’t be exploited with half-assed truths. But as we grow up, we glean information. We open several tabs. We clear our histories. We become aware. We satisfy our curiosities and begin to consolidate answers for ourselves.

Limitless, you do NOT have to be of that age, to learn that; though I still think that only prodigies can do that, maybe because of the embedded fear of failure in my mind. But I like to believe the former, and do most of the things based on words sewn together to form my life mantra – I can be whoever I want to be.

Equity, being a jargon in the world of finance is also the part and parcel of life itself. Equity is imperative. Hierarchy is status; order which is relevant, though not permanent. Atheism, feminism, nationalism, patriarchy, all resonated within me in a similar fashion. At times the answers I was being given seemed incongruent with the reality, so much so that I was being propelled by a great desire to just let go of everything. Every little doubt was relinquished for peacefulness. Several tabs were all closed, at once. I felt it to be important that I do not get pummeled for my interest in history, so I hid it. And escaped the chaos it was so famous for brewing. So I did bury the hatchet, did I go back to it? Who knows?

“Dad! Sparkling! Wires!” I screamed at the glow of electricity in the air.

“It’s Sparking, kiddo. Not Sparkling.” He laughed

I remember being upset for being wrong. I was so bad at English; I still am just ok at it. I was disparaged for my English. So I made words my best crony. I asked questions. These questions were nothing, but meaning of the words I found in the texts that I read. And that meaning has been important for me; it has been the driving force for my not so fictitious life.

*Winks*

What is your most important question?