Wicked ways of love

Five stages of loss. They should have happened. I walked out of a well laid out future. They should have happened, right? Moment of clarity, tipping point, or just plain vanilla wake up call, whatever one calls it, but I missed the Denial memo altogether.

Stage 1- Rage. The blood ran. Anger lived. Kept away from grief (Only wets the face and dries up the soul. Mostly unrequited and undeserved).
Stage 2- Jumping out of a plane (Yes, symbolism can be a lot of fun).

Of course many a conversations happened afterwards. Sympathy was offered, empathy sometimes. Most of it largely superficial. "Better now, than later". Some more heartfelt. "Dodged a bullet". And then, I almost forgot about it till an email came my way from his friend to talk about "it". It's acting like a ghoul. Refuses to die. I thought : Thanks, but no thanks. Instead I talked to this other person.I won't use singular pronouns for them. Pronouns have inherent gender and, hence, provoke judgement. "She is a girlfriend, she's on the same team" (the whole "Chicks before dicks" shabang). "He is a GUY. Of course he'll say that to you" (he wants to get in your pants). Let's just call this person Anon.

Anon: "Are you okay?"

Me: "I guess. I have been indulging in some technically fucked-up Haiku. Other than that I think I am fine.

Leather-bound leather heart

I became in his

Contagious leathery hands"

Anon: "Yeah, that was terrible. Read something funny. Wait, let me send some of my positive energy to you. Meditate. Stop eating garlic"

Me (having spent a few hours in the darkness of Kafka abyss): "But, I am insulated. My nerves, they feel no electricity. My arteries are choked. Oh, I am wasted love. And I love my garlic naans"

Anon: "Stop being such a drama queen. Here, listen to Heartbreaker."

And that's all it took. Somehow, Robert Plant (God, my lord, I mean) bemoaning over heartbreak made me feel way better about constantly shattered and superglued back heart o'mine. Okay, it hasn't been broken THAT many times. Everyone saw it coming this time though, except us. It was not faith. It was just naive. Straw man arguments had become our drug.

नैनं छिन्दन्ति शस्त्राणि

Yes, weapons cannot pierce it. But, words do gash and slash the soul (you might as well wear your bib and nibble on it now). We were not ourselves anymore and yet we kept at it. Finally, I had decided to not be part of a binary world of "of use = keeper/ can be blamed = expendable". Apologies, but nicotine is the only vice I can handle for now.

My.. How do I put it? My nicest Ex. He decided to give me some objective, veritable, candid quality time. Passive aggressive- Yes (Thanks for the political incorrectness).Verbal lashing- You are kidding me, right? That's not you.

Well, my love, apparently I did become that.

So having decided to disappoint the said friend of the said habit, I am back to my Rumi. Hopefully, I won't be birthing any more amuse-bouche Haikus. I like my verses longer, more filling, life-giving, not teasing. Anon and I are going to enjoy a few more Proseccos while discussing "their" Gods and my Robert Plant. Impulse is ridiculously underrated and hindsight's a bitch. But, who's looking back?

Leaving home

This day, five years ago, I left home. I had ceased living with my family 4 years before that. But this, this was almost a renunciation. Left motherland, Ma, Pa, the smell of drenched earth in Monsoon, and everything that was familiar for a... I don't know what it is yet. I don't understand what I was running away from. I could have gotten great education, as good a job back there too. So what was I looking for?

This was written by M and given to me before I left. I have received many a love-letters. Some of them now only serve the purpose of reminding me my hostel's room number with their envelopes. I don't read them anyway. I can not empathize with the feelings of erstwhile me. This I read quite often. May be because M understood me better than most men I met. May be because I felt most hurt when she forsook us and this was the last bit that reminds me of her as I knew her.

No crayons and colors to wish you Happy Birthday

But words may play their vicarious part

So here I go drawing for you

With a little girl in pajamas, let us start.

Papa's pet, and Mamma's ladyship

A little doll sans dolls in her hand

Hiding in nooks and crevices of the ancient house

Breaking through into her own wonderland.

You look for her from dawn to dusk

And she's nowhere to be found.

For she's curled up with a perpetual book

Blind to the outside sound.

Now she's off on another venture

The Discovery of America, the big run

With hugs and kisses, her friends arm her

Bon Voyage they all shout in unison!!!

Wondering as an afterthought

When on the jet plane

Which book will be her companion

What wonderland will keep her sane.

I didn't open it till my birthday that year as I was instructed. And it turned out to be more beautiful a gift than I imagined. Much has been lost since then. Contact, innocence, hope, bits of our hearts and souls, a whole lot of tears. But, I have made my peace with it. I WILL see you someday. Hear this?

अंत

All she left in her vapor wake 

Is the stink of my singed heart and 

The aroma of her sugar and roses

She lived a 100 years. I had not seen her in a long time and she finally lost her patience a year ago. I heard about it from V with hints of distress on the phone. No one was allowed by Dad to display any more. I was all alone here after all. "No mourning allowed if you are alone". So I didn't cry in front of him. I found my solace in her full life(whatever that means), I imagine, of happiness, grief, leaving home, re-establishment, and a painless, peaceful departure.
Death, and it's finality are eternal truths and all other cliches. But, she was a devout Hindu. The finality of a Hindu death is even stronger. There are no promises of meeting again in a different world or a different life. All everyone strives for is Moksha, leaving behind all moh (desires) and maya (illusions). So every time it comes up my esophagus,  I try to swallow it back with some salty water. Nothing will ever make me feel as guilty as not having been with her right then. And it is never going to go away.

We, the people of India, having solemnly resolved...

Aah, a unicorn!
I found her last year. While we sat submerged in it, she was only dipping her feet in the hot tub. I stared at a few D-cups in front of me. Scared, and a little tipsy. 
"I am hearing things. Am I drunk already. This is only my second". 
"That's true."
"Wow. So, you survived India (quite literally sometimes) without having gone through foeticide, infanticide, child sexual abuse? You weren't beaten up outside a club by our moral custodians? And you want me to believe that you were never even manhandled in public even though you were totally asking for it being inebriated and loose and what not?" 
"I just had a protected child-hood"
"I wasn't particularly on the streets either, you know"
"Hmmm.."


I never thought this day would come. All my confidence in our grand democratic republic is now shattered, and with each falling piece I realize how much I miss the ogling eyes of men (so many men) on the streets of Delhi. While our police, law, and politicians can give KKK a run for their white hats when it comes to prejudices, general junta of the city- the proud owners of the y-chromosomes, are pretty indiscriminate. They would bestow any pretty, young thing with their completely unwarranted attention, no-bias-attached. How, you ask I see. Well, that PYT doesn't even need to be pretty or young. They will grope anyone/thing with a general female form regardless of age, beauty, length of hemlines, state of mind etc. All that equality gave me sniffles any time I traveled in the DTC bus or walked down in "modern clothes". Natasha Smith could have taken lessons on how to feel self-disgusted from any woman in India, instead of feeling wronged. Now that I am safe, it feels weird. The phenomenon of walking in the dark with sudden increase in visual and aural senses' acuteness largely remains inexplicable.


And I haven't even talked about the liberty of thought, and freedom of expression yet. So naturally, I asked a Dude who actually exercised it. "You see all these women with dheela character in the pubs, or for that matter even juice shops? Forget even those, see these women from the north-east, they roam about in Delhi like it is their homestate, with their fiercely free attitude which just screams I need to get some right now. I need YOU baby. Yes, their eyes scream that out." "How do you know? I don't see anyone even looking at you. Are you going to go talk to her?" Obviously the Dude is not going to be bothered with making small talk-shalk. Not like the women can ever say no to him. "And anyway, no is yes said with just eyes." Even in his village adjoining Delhi, all the women present (albeit invisible) at the village meeting voted to give away their rights to own mobile phones or marry with their own choice. Face it, honor killings are just expressions of dissent and disapproval. "Arre, Dhoble and Shri Ram Sena are not the only saviors of morality and decent women. We don't even need these outsiders for safeguarding our women here above the Vindhyachals." Surely, self-censorship is not an issue here. And this is India and not the US, where calling a woman a "slut" for asking insurance cover contraceptives on the radio would in any way be penalized. Women are killed for much less here. Freedom of expression for the win!


If you thought that unity in pluralism was a mere political rhetoric for grandiose thumb-waving in front of Pakistan and to keep Rahul Baba in business, think again. Through the ranks, the urban and the rural, the elite and the masses, everywhere the thoughts fuse together to form a beautiful harmony. Screechy altos or coughy tenors will simply not be tolerated. These men would put frat brothers, from party schools here, puking into each others mouths to shame. They stand together and stay silent together. So lest you want to lose a life or limb by interfering if a girl is being molested or paraded naked in full public eye, be like Gandhi ji's bandars. Better still, go get a camera to record it all. The entire charade afterwards is so wonderfully choreographed that it goes exactly the same way EVERY time. The cops say the loose woman asked for it. The media screams "no fair" and insists on asking people on the streets. People blame law, society, and indulge in some social-media activism (of course no protocol followed).  All this while the Fab India saree clad representative from National Commission for Women hides the woman's face and ensures her own matching pearls are seen clearly on the tele. One needs to give the judiciary due credit though. With half the laws for women not codified for they fall in the realm of religious freedoms and the other half just plain shitty, they fall back on known guidance of choice wherein lie the eternal truths. So where a Muslim woman can be divorced anytime with no rights whatsoever, a Hindu woman can be completely denied inheritance from her own father's property (Oh might I remind, she was also not given any dowry because it's against the law). In cases involving fuzzy logic (ha) a judge may look at Ramayana and decide that the wife should follow the husband wherever he goes. Umm, except Rama was a crappy husband (yes, Uma Bharati, I said that). So if you are gonna be damned if you do and damned if you don't, you might as well do.

Gypsy soles, wondrous souls

Six months too late, but here nevertheless. Featuring my beautiful (first too) Moleskine. 

Florence, Italy. 2011.

Venice, Italy. 2011

More to come soon. 

Dilli

चार साल की मिठास से थकी हुई ज़बान पर नमक की तरह है

झुलसाती गर्मी में चले जाने वाले बादल के साए की तरह है 

बस घर है

तसल्ली तब भी कितनी है 

Of peace, and not armistices!

This is odd. I write this while listening to a very soothing tick-tock of my clock and sipping beautiful red wine. I am not outraged, or sad, or in any way trying to purge any emotion out of myself. I am, in fact, happy. Happiness shows too. In a paunch, full of days worth of "real" mozzarella. In my toasted skin. In my (for once) big, tousled hair. 

But, this ain't a travelogue, and definitely not one of the post summer vacation essays we were expected to churn out about each museum/monument/mountain/beach visit. Not yet. This is just a first. In a series of, hopefully more to come, inspiring times. 

I crossed half the globe for this one. For Italy. Italy of glorious espresso shots and equally satisfying Chianti moments, of heat that burns the insides with every breath in and of Gelato that cools it all off, and of women so beautiful, even bad ideas seemed great (read going out bra-less and jumpsuits-that I was almost willing to spend EUROS on till I remembered warnings from SH of not getting carried away, fashion-wise). But, come on. I was on a vacation. Well-deserved, after 4 years of grad school + unemployment + job. 

I met Caesers and Boticelli in Rome. I touched a forgotten street-dwelling Michaelangelo. I tasted the sunshine and the sweat, that they tasted right there. And then, I saw a million paintings of “Bambi and Madonna”. I was teleported right away to second grade moral-science classes. Resonations of “He died for your sins” came screeching through the quiet hallways of the gallery. “What sins? I am 7 years old. I am a HINDU. Pagan/Infidel/Kaafir. Non-kosher. I have a billion gods to worship. What on earth are you talking about? If I see another cherubic, blue-eyed, blond-haired baby and a blue robed mother, I’ll effin’ scream (yep, 7 year old me was uber profane and bi-polar). Where is the well-preached religious austerity, damn it?” Yeah, it is difficult to remain neutral when it comes to art. If it doesn’t evoke any emotion, it is a big failure. Right? I saw all the angels, with Morton’s toes at that (Seriously, what’s the deal with that? Eve, Madonna, Destiny, Venus. A disorder common amongst ALL models from the era? And after I had noticed a few, I couldn’t not find them in EVERY painting.). I left hungry for the characters. Where are the mistresses and the harlots? Where is the darkness? Where is the humor? Would I have to re-visit France for that now? Then I came across the ghetto-est train I have ever seen, and it made my day.

I found my anarchical humor. And then some blues.

What “Yesterday” are we talking about? I can negotiate for some. Am I going to be unemployed again? Or worse, would I have to sit for competitive tests again? I want SH's hundred Reservoir Design stories (that I cried through before exams) worth of “yesterday”. I want my futile attempts at harmonizing with AM through Antaras and Alaaps worth of “yesterday”. A yesterday to encompass all times of hope and exhilaration, of peace and not just armistices. That is what I want. Else, ça va bien, merci.

I had forgotten how a city can have 2000 years all wrapped in a few square miles. Reminder: Need to visit Delhi soon. But, wait. That’s not where the similarity ends. How can I forget the men? Yep, didn’t miss Delhi for that. Making way through catcalls, whistles and very inappropriate propositions, I felt completely home. I have lived in the US for the past 4 years. My sister thought I was naïve again. She handled them well enough while I stared dumbstruck at being asked by a couple of 38 year olds (who assumed I was 22) if I wanted boyfriends for the evening. Yeah, creepy much. Pedo much too. Europeans, I say! When did she grow up to be the older, protective one? I thought I was the older brother. Nevertheless, I realized I am now soft in spite of being the fittest in years. Walking 8 hours a day doesn’t just get you drunk faster. So to all that is Rome, to its founders, preservers, and re-founders, my fantastic- looking calves would be eternally grateful. 

Ave Maria.

You know, fuck that.

Ave Caeser!