I am writing a letter to life for the #DearZindagi activity at BlogAdda

Dear Zindagi, 

I know I haven't even reached a quarter of a century in age yet. But this I can say, it has been one hell of a ride. And this moment right now I have been compelled to look back on all those wonderful moments which you've given me, opportunities you've showered me with, kindness you’ve showed me and all the wonderful people you’ve had me come across. No matter how little or big the problems were and no matter how bad the times were, there was always something to be thankful for at the end of each day. 

It's difficult to comprehend all the little details of the concatenation of things which make me thankful. But it's deeply felt; the gratitude. You’re indecipherable yet simple; your intricacies enthral me every day. There must be some twisted logic behind all that follows a good day- that smile, the laughter, the wind, the dogs, the butterflies, the leaden sky, the shore, the eyes of your lover, the touch, soft bed-sheets, rain- which is never ending. I know it’s entirely arbitrary and this isn't even the apotheosis of you.

But I am thankful for all the sublime moments and I am thankful for all that you've taught me in my abject moments. As overwhelmed as I might have been, as "unlucky" and as deranged as I might have felt, I've always gathered the strength you've somehow instilled into me, to get back up to you again. And in those moments, I believe that I've lived you before I even existed. I guess such is your magic. To just know, when to do the right thing, when to escape from a dangerous place, when to say hello to someone, when to look in time to catch them looking at you, when to stop talking or when to go to loo. You’re an austere grandeur, unique in all your exquisiteness. Mine, yet connected to hundreds and hundreds to come.

And from being completely clueless and having no idea as to where you were “going”, to finding the patience to connect the dots, I’ve learnt to live you pristinely, genuinely. And now as I cascade though my elusive thoughts, I could almost discern a fact about you, a fact which always seemed to have whizzed past me in moments of utter confusion and indignation – that you were never complicated. That you were as easy to live as you were to rewind, that you were as chaotic as I made you out to be. So, I’m sorry. I’ve always had some twisted idea of perfection about you, that you should be orderly and neat, easy and sweet, all the time. But they say that you don’t come with instructions and that we’ve got to make our own. You’re laughing, right? I guess you must. You only know what sorts of instructions you’ve hidden in a cryptext somewhere.

But I love you. I love every little feeling, every blush and every touch, every dance and every song, and how you’ve managed to interconnect delicately and gradually, with everything and everyone. Remember, not even a quarter, but oh so many subtle and good times. And I don’t know which the right way to live is or if I’ll ever know or if there even exists a right way; but I know I’ll be as true to you as I possibly can, until the very last day you’re with me. The love I feel is strong, what I show to you is just a mere reflection of my exterior, so I’m sorry if I show too little and if I am dingy too often. And thank you for loving me right back, no matter what. 

Thank you. Love you.  

Yours truly

  Dear Zindagi Take 1: Life Is A Game | Teaser | Alia Bhatt, Shah Rukh Khan | Releasing Nov 25

How old would you be if you didn't know how old you are?

I probably read this question somewhere on the internet some time back and it hasn't left me ever since. I have an uncanny urge to ask this question outright to everyone I know, both young and old. Not that I am a purveyor of moral values or even consider myself to be one, it's probably an inexorable curiosity which seems to be reaching out for the past. Or maybe it's because I can probably guess at what the answers are going to be, so my cognition is abetted by my curiosity. I know grief when I see it; I feel it myself too, it deftly amalgamates into my subconscious, while happiness and love ooze out and rarely need explanation; grief always does.

And I know, every time I ask this question to you, you'd go back to that exact moment where you could've gathered a little more courage to dignify what you had back then, to have it now in all its glory. Mistakes. Regrets. You're always under the haunting shadow of them all. And you'd give anything to get rid of the reminder of it all which is your age. Rewind, pause, rectify and replay or perish. If only it didn't slip away. If only you were...Edward Cullen? Forever young. The mere thought of it is exhilarating, isn't it? But then your life would always be at stake (pun intended). 

We don't realize it often that what's passed is past. Moments come and go; all you can do is reflect upon them and keep on moving forward. And perhaps age is nothing but a number and all you ever do is stop, rewind and reflect. That's how I've always felt about it, age is a disconnection from all that I could be or could've been; a jagged edge to my otherwise unruffled exterior which cuts bits and pieces of me every time I go back. And then I have to hide the bleeding, hide the pain. It's self-annihilation at its best. But some people have the remarkable resilience to embrace age with grace, some whose point of view is anything but awry. 

So I probably can't answer this question astutely. I know I am a child if I claim to know everything but know nothing at all. I know I am mature if I am wise and have a high emotional intelligence to make life-changing decisions. And that's how I can be as old and as young as I want to be.

But still, tell me, I’m intrigued- How old would you be? Would you go back to being 5 and experience watching the rainbow for the first time? Because that’d be breathtaking. 

Best friends forever?

“How would you like your coffee, ma’am?” the dreary waiter asked.

“Hot.” She replies without paying attention to his face.

But she likes the coffee cold. In fact, her favourite coffee is the Devil’s Own with Vanilla Ice-cream on top.  Somehow it’s not a great day for her to be indulging in something that she loves and every choice she makes today would be a forlorn attempt to escape that. It’s going to be hard for her to be herself today, she thinks. And to aggravate her misery, a hot coffee sits right in front of her. She picks it up and dejectedly takes a sip; just then a haze of steam covers her spectacles. She laughs, shaking her head, remembering the time when a certain someone laughed at the same site like a little child.

Somebody she used to know, in fact, still knows. But she also knows where the reality lies, nobody ever stays the same. Even though you might have known a person dearest to you for years, suddenly they change, suddenly there’s a void, between you and them and it’s like you don’t know them anymore. Maybe time sweeps them away from you, maybe distance doesn’t necessarily strengthen bonds or maybe some friendships aren’t supposed to last long.

                          Cause nothing lasts forever and we both know hearts can change.

Skullcandy banging in her ears, she wallows in a misery so tenacious that she knows will grow into something splendid as the day advanced, to lift off the penumbra of confusion, to reveal the shame. After all, she was the one who let go; the one who relinquished. In retrospect, it was a bond which would’ve kept on blossoming with love, unbroken and enigmatic, emancipated and glorious. A bond which would’ve reminded the world of its voracity, mend the broken bones of the damaged soul, revive memories of lost love, eradicate the abject misery from the minds of young and give hope to the bodies which have been famished into despondency.

But the conversations started to wane, the charm lifted off and the bond broke from places which undermined the impertinence, held her back from being the happiest girl and relegated her to her worst. Maybe it was all a matter of losing interest. She still wonders why she could never bring herself to share the most exciting happenings of the day with her best friend and more so, how she was always scared to talk to her when she was happy. It seemed to her, that her best friend wasn’t interested anymore. And soon, she could say the same for herself.

She’d be incandescent, she felt lonely and belittled. She knew that it has started to fall apart. Broken beyond repair now, fallen into decrepitude, gracelessly, ahead of its time. And if the bond persists for any longer, it’ll become the cause of annihilation of two beautiful souls. Forever had come to end.

And it was a million times worse than any of her break-ups in the past, letting go of a best friend, the other half of a complete idiot, a soul sister. Now what is left is the plethora of bittersweet memories, laughter, jokes, photographs, letters, gifts and old messages. Her best friend had defined her and will never cease to do so. Maybe that is why they call it what they call it, BFF. Maybe they’ll meet halfway, on their way back home. But for now, it has come to an end, no more walking in the dark.

She sighs in relief as she takes the last sip of her coffee. Steps out of the cafe, the sun is indifferent towards her and shines like it would on any other hot afternoon. The world doesn’t stop. Because the world doesn’t know that a best friend has been lost.

FUCKWITTAGE!

It makes me wonder if I really have reached the culmination of singleton or if I really should start counting my calorie intake or start smoking 28 cigarettes a day.

Have I been fraudulently flirted with? Yes.

Have I psychopathically stared at my phone and waited for it to ring? Yes.

Have I been barraged with questions on my singleton? Hell yes.

Ah, but I’m not thirty. I don’t even have a boss who is unnervingly sexy or is fraudulently flirting with me over the telephone. I don’t need to worry about my social network which consists of merely six people. Bridget has set the record and I mustn’t break it. But I do wonder, when I am thirty, will I fancy my singleton the way I do now? Will I be able to survive without silk cut or without turning my blood into alcohol every time things went haywire?  Will I be obsessed about my weight and worry incessantly about a man!?

I’ll probably be a diffident thirty something who survives on a platonic friendship and fruits and hopefully is too much of a health/fitness freak to smoke a fag and die of a spasmodic cough by choking up on her own saliva. The obscure reality of the thirties is still very attainable, which makes the whole thing much scarier. It’s the reality of dealing with a fuckwittage or becoming one, which is worse.  It’s the reality of dragging your arse to boring and over-frenzied office parties and having to go though the complexity of choosing an outfit which makes you look like a floating angel. It’s the reality of rolling your eyes at the man who called you frigid and malign and old, because it just warms the cockles of your heart. It’s the reality of falling over and over again for a man who’s a tease (I hate him. I love him. I hate him. I love him.). It’s the reality of your friends slinking off the minute you’re crestfallen. It’s the reality where you’re merely an achiever in a family full of over-achievers or vice-versa. And it’s the reality where your relatives and family friends just cannot give you a fucking break.

What’s good?

The good is that the good always stays the same. No matter what age you are.

The heart gives the same lurch whenever you fall for someone new. The Ice-creams never seem to go out of style for late-night trysts. Your girlfriends are always by your side, it’s the same old jokes, the same old laugh. It’s the same old theory and the same old list of reasons about why you’re still single. It’s the same old happy single time being enjoyed over a glass of red wine but now you just have to hold your breath because your friend is lighting a fag. And you’re still preserving the self-annihilating habits. Well, so far so good. That’s not my thirties talking anyway, or is it?

Picked for "Tangy Tuesday Picks" by BlogAdda: http://blog.blogadda.com/2016/08/30/tangy-tuesday-picks-august-30-2016-best-creative-stories-by-indian-bloggers :) 

Almost

Oh, the insolent voice in me cries. The cruelty oozes out and everything I touch miserably dies, turns to dust. A silent wind blows, an implacable evocation proliferates. The eyes they search, for love, in the tumult of lies, in the desolate abode of past lovers. The heart flounders in the ocean of possibilities, the mind remains indignant at the uncertainty. Lies. A Long lost autumnal passion, now an evanescent memory. Now an impudent unreality masks an elusive reality, a reality which is vulnerable to the past, incongruent with the present, with itself. A stagnant confidence crumbles and obliterates at one touch, one touch to the heart. The body slumps and falls numb, easy to break now. A languid cadence fills the space; the cronies recite the poetry on the intransigent woman with a heart of gold, stuck in the labyrinth of her contradicting reality, furiously confused and timid. Lies, again. Indignation grows. The body twists and turns, tears they fall on the floor, enchant the abode with their purity. There’s the reality, in hurt, in tribulations. There’re the cronies, there’s that one person, but not in reality. They welcome you and love you, in the pestilential unreality, in the universe of nostalgia, in corruption and in lies.

But there’s the enchanted reality, beyond the bounds of possibilities and memories, in hurt, in instant happiness, in rain and under the scorching sun. In reality, the trembling confidence tardily grows without ever being pointed out or scolded. It grows, with the truest of souls. And a touch to the face would placate the indignation forever as reality discerns itself from unreality.

But almost, a hand reaches out to the face. Almost. And I’m by myself, in my enchanting reality, forever. 

Disconnectedly disconnecting to connect again

I wouldn't blame myself for being taciturn but I rarely pick up the phone when it rings, sometimes I leave it on silent so that I'm not aware of it ringing, I'm not guilty, I'm free.

At times I do the same with texts, see the preview of it and leave it at that. Get rid of the notification, even if it is from a certain someone that I love. Then tell them that I’ve been out and that I’ll call as soon as I can. (When I’m ready to?)  

It’s not that I want to ignore the person because I can’t. I wouldn’t label myself as an ignorant person, for the most part. And it’s not that I don’t want to talk to them either. It’s not as if I’m too busy to talk to them yet I’m hesitant to get into a conversation.

I might be an introverted extrovert, reluctant and self-centred. I might make other people suffer with my mood swings. And they do suffer as a multitude of texts reach them when I’m happy, late night prank calls and my uncontrollable laughter helps me gain an image of an evil mortal. Though at other times when I’m over my head, I simply can’t bring myself to connect with anyone. The world outside of my own seems unbearable. Heavy. Almost wishing I didn’t have to talk to anyone at all, explain myself or ping them up with the bullshit I make up in my head.

It’s a strange contradiction, a two sided story, an irony, a misunderstanding. Where I may not want to bother someone when I’m down, the other person might get offended. Where I just can’t seem to explain to them how nothing is wrong but how everything is. Where I’m afraid I’ll be asked to get over it when I’m just not ready. Where I can’t bring myself to be involved in someone else’s happiness, the achievements they’re telling me about. I almost feel unworthy and unmerited for such tête-à-tête.

Most of the times it’s me spending an inordinate amount of time being alone, spending more time in taking a bath than usual, cancelling the incipient plans and those dinner dates just so I could be alone and watch F.R.I.E.N.D.S. Go to the coffee shop alone, with just a book in hand, never feeling the need to invite a friend. Ignoring the first knock at the door and timorously hoping there isn’t a second knock. On seeing an acquaintance in a crowd I turn around to change my direction, just so I could avoid small talk. It makes me sick now that I acknowledge how cowardly and self-centred I am. But I’ve unwholesomely gotten used to it, thinking of time as a precious commodity that I’ll ever own. So here I am, avoiding the outpour of emotions from a different being other than me, avoiding the misunderstandings, avoiding the heartaches, avoiding the 20 questions, avoiding the awkward silence between conversations, avoiding the unfriendliness, avoiding the tension of whether they like me or not, avoiding the hate and avoiding the loss.

I do close my eyes for a minute when my phone illuminates with a new text, a call or an invitation. There’s a risk I don’t take. There’re the messages I don’t choose to read. I simply wait for the screen to darken. I play it safe. I play it dumb.

But then I open my eyes, thinking why someone would ever want to talk with me, share with me, their sorrows and happiness, their achievements and failures. And the way they’d laugh with me on the silliest things. Thinking why I’d over think such an innocent connection to ever exist. And when at times I’m downhearted, a text from them is the only thing which lifts up my soul. Makes me crack up and shake my head at how utterly insane they are and how utterly lucky I’m to have them in my life. And when I talk with them, I never want the conversations to end. And how stumbling upon them in a coffee shop turned out to be the best thing to have happened to me that day.

I do worry though, about the transience of what exists in form and shape, scared of referring to someone as somebody that I used to know, scared of the everlasting connection, scared of the memories, scared of love so I'm always seeking for a forever in the brevity of a moment. (How selfish, yet again.) And at 2 A.M, more awake than asleep, the question lingers in my mind – Is it worth the risk? I guess I’ll know with time, as I disclose my feelings, feel the frown turn upside down as my phone illuminates and feel the smoothness of the screen upon my fingers as I reply. Feel the warmth radiated from the phone as I talk to them. Feel guiltless when my phone goes untouched for days and ecstatic when I still find them at the other end of the phone. For those people, I surely think it’s worth the risk.

Ineluctable facts of my life

The feelings have percolated to the surface. Here I am, face to face with the ineluctable facts about myself which I’ve refrained from acknowledging hitherto, for the fear of being too much or being too little.

I am an unpredictable person with different sides. It’s always an inadvertent revelation. What is it going to be? Which side of me are you going to see?

Most of the people believe that I am always chirpy, gloomy, incredibly shy and lost. They know me as the girl who gives evasive answers or someone who doesn’t answer at all, who is scared and light-hearted, doesn’t get attached to anyone and shrugs, feigning indifference. I seem to have a personality which can be easily defined in the first meeting if there's never a second meeting and I am almost never taken seriously.

These are the labels which have been put on me but they have only hindered my approach at other things in life, at other labels. And I’ve accepted them as the harsh reality of my life, never raising my hand to question them but nodding whenever someone told me who I am. And not correcting them was the only thing which oddly invigorated me, gave me a sense of superiority over them.

But it’s true that I am a capricious being where the real me continually vacillates between the several different sides of my being and cannot handle not being taken seriously. I fall from grace with a loud thud and I take pleasure in depriving myself of happiness but overburden myself with it at other times. I make audacious attempts and I am courageous enough to start all over again at any point of time in life and dedicated enough to keep on going even after being told it’s not worth it. I am crazy, reckless, and indecisive. I'll love you and I'll hate you at the same time. I am North and South in one. I am the monsoon and the drought, all in one. I am not renowned for my loquacity but sit with me over for a third cup of coffee and I’ll tell you. I wallow in silence but also know how to pull myself out of it.

There are layers which are slowly peeled off with time, by those who are willing to do so. And I am aware of how some people may dislike me because of these baffling sides of me, people who’ll end up defining me with different adjectives. 

I wish I could bring out the real me, utter my real feelings as instantly as I was put face to face with someone. But most of the conversations happen inside my brain, with the real me. Who is witty and charming, caring and comprehends every sentence said to her. I try though, but she just shrivels back inside when showed the slightest of movement from the other side, never persists but leaves me striving for it. 

Only if there weren’t any people around or if there was only that one person around, she would break free and see the world herself, as she wants to see it and free from any sort of labels.