I'm Done With My Dying

As I get older, I get braver -
with each year, I have less and less to lose.
Tragedy isn't sad anymore, just comic relief.

Are you stupid? Well, yes and no.

I have noticed the proclivity of those who know me, to talk to me like I'm three. You know that voice? The one a parental type reserves for a shifty-looking child when they're trying to understand why the dog no longer has hair on one half of his body. It's a mixture of incredulity, bemusement and the overriding feeling that it's their responsibility to be your voice of reason since events clearly indicate you do not have one. And when said child is actually 26 years old and a peer, there tend to creep in delicate harmonics of superiority and disdain. And for the most part, I get it.

I'm impetuous and often regrettably so. Outrage comes to me as easy and frequently as total amnesia in my interactions with people and even if I can get a good, solid grudge going, it's nothing a superior meal won't magic away. When I'm around people who make me feel vulnerable, I take to my heels and I don't even mean that figuratively. I am pointlessly defiant. In fact, currently I'm not talking to a friend because of a conversation about hypothetical fall outs and I resented how sure he was that I'd give in first. Mind, we haven't actually fallen out, I'm just making my thoroughly unnecessary point. And you see I realise this, but I still won't give in because then he will be right hypothetically and I'd rather rip my nails out than have someone be so sure they know me. Even though they probably do. With me still? Oh and the hair, I just do not have sensible hair. So I get why when people regard me with a certain sense of "Here's a nice project to take on/ befriend".

But. A chubby, hairy But.

I wouldn't have it any other way, believe it or not. My mistakes are what I like about myself the most. They always leave me with laughs (when enough time has elapsed), stories and scars both emotional and physical (Best not to happen upon a sleeping dog, if you didn't already know that) that I'm very fucking sentimental about. We're always cautioned about The Hard Way, this supposedly terrible fate that befalls those who don't have the good sense to have good sense. Well I've been there a time or thousand and if today, I know exactly why I should not attempt to straighten my own hair with strong chemical products 'For Professional Use only', or why I will never again attempt to possess a man I love, or why I will always hold my peace most when I'm viscerally angry, it's because of The Hard Way.

So if my laboratory lifestyle should make you feel relieved about the organisational miracle that is your reality, so be it. I have just a few things I need to tick off my list when it comes down to it. That I am alive, with my various appendages in working order, having managed it with a little bit of grace, a little kindness and with no serious physical or emotional cost to anyone/anything I know. That I do my job well and I am liked well enough by a sufficient number of people who matter to me, and animals. And that every once in a while, I too can become transcendent, whether witnessed by another or just during a long, solitary walk, where I am perfect and godlike for a few moments before once again I am not, and I return to my bungling ol' self.

In short, I'm doing serviceably well, thank you.

Things I Will Never Tire Of...

- Little old Japanese ladies wearing visors.
- Meat and potatoes. You know how you once looked at an obese person and thought 'geez how'd they let themselves get that way?'? I'm understanding slowly - I don't recognise the hanging gut and billowing thighs in the mirror at all. (I am very worried about this actually, but more on that later).
- Looking at candid pictures of celebrities
- Buying tonnes of eye make-up I'll never use.
- Watching (often shamelessly gawping at) people. The shapes of their silences, the way they shuffle their feet, the way their fingers grip a spoon and the way they arrange themselves around life's awkwardness in general.
- Wondering about my place in the scheme of the world. Actually, no, I don't enjoy this. It pummels at my brain endlessly, questioning questioning all the time. I've forgotten how to live in the moment. In fact, when I suspect I've met someone with a proclivity for living in the moment, I try to get as far from him/her as possible. I don't want this, but that wont do either.
- Stewed peaches. Finally I have an answer to at least one in the spectrum of 'What is your favourite _______?' questions. My favourite dessert is peach compote. This is progress.

And for (badly taken) picture of the day...

They stopped kissing when I walked by & he asked if I'd take a picture. He showed her  off and she was shy & mock embarrassed. <3

Slumped Shoulders

I suspect I have what my mother calls a 'black tongue' when she's feeling particularly provincial. A black tongue, for the uninitiated and the minimally Mangalorian, is the 'mooh' in 'Tere mooh mein keedey, tere mooh mein dhool'. It is the harbinger of inauspicious, unfortunate circumstances and its proprietor is roundly decreed by all, a bloody nuisance. Folks, I have a sixth sense for the awful.

Thing is pessimism is my chief defence mechanism. I fetter my expectations to the bleakest eventuality and figure it can only be good news from thereon. I'm the Worst Case Scenario girl. The girl that, when everyone's chirruping about how we're going to have a big posy of an outcome, will go deathly quiet and nod weakly.

Grimacing and scorn... "What? What? Just say it."
Sheepishness and shame... "I don't know what you're talking about."
Irritation and exasperation... ". . ."
Hijacked and pleading... "WHAT IF IT'S AWFUL? WHAT IF IT SUCKS SO HARD WE'LL NEVER RECOVER? WHAT IF IT REDUCES US TO EMPTY SHELLS OF HUMAN BEINGS IRREVO-IRREVI...I-R-R-E-V-O-C-A-B-L-Y?"

Glaring and subtle gulping. Resumed chirruping but now a touch uncertainly. Setting down the plate extra hard when I ask for the bread to be passed.

Mercifully, I've been wrong every time it has come to other people's potential misfortunes and this led me, quite foolishly, to risk some optimism in my own affairs...
Last year, I lost seven phones in a span of 6 months, each within 2 to13 hours of thinking 'Hey, I've not lost this phone in a while."  Or "Wow I'm really growing up, I'm so responsi... WHERE THE HELL IS MY PASSPORT?! I'M GOING TO BE STRANDED IN THIS AWFUL COUNTRY I'VE BEEN PRETENDING TO LIKE." OR, and this happened twice, "I think this might be it, he's the one. Yep." Next day/ week, relationship kaput.

Now when I feel optimism or self-congratulation threatening to ruin things, I quickly distract myself until the feeling passes. I've been disaster-free for a couple of days now. It's quite dull, really.

Well, hello again.

I think this is the longest I haven't posted on this blog in about a year and a half. I just haven't had a lot to say somehow. Been pondering life, work, weight and love with no iron conclusions, only ironic ones. I have also been under the weather, then travelling some and otherwise mucking about with work, not doing, mucking. I have recently discovered a love for cooking...potatoes, so far. I believe I am keeping the tater industry afloat in my part of the world with fried potatoes, potato pakodas, potato salad, potato vegetable and potato parathas. Correspondingly all weighing scales are being avoided with great care. This may seem most mundane and it is, just not in my world. In my world, it's like the collective relative brigade can now take a great big shit of relief - "she can cook, she can be married". Now if I'd just start combing my hair and giving a toss, I'll be well on my way to being hitched in no time at all!

Anyhow, that's about it really... here's a little more about how I've been spending my time. These pictures are about as organised as I am.

The potatoes I made today. They turned out quite well in that they were edible with no muffled gagging sounds emanating from the bathroom thereafter.

The wizards of UU have decided to play football and a dangerous orc is the appointed coach. Except he will not tear his team's heads off as is traditionally expected of his community but will scare them into compliance with his frightening erudition. As is Pratchett's own tradition, the book is a poignant scream. I did notice that he has begun to resort to puns that are cheaper than some of my friends (you know who you are) and I did stop to wonder if this is him degenerating or me starting to outgrow him. Scary thoughts both.
Sam sand dunes, Jaisalmer, Rajasthan.
En route to Mehrangarh Fort overlooking the old city, Jodhpur, Rajasthan.


Hotel Pushkar Palace, Pushkar, Rajasthan.


Feisty granny showing me I'm not the only one with a camera around there. They're not in the picture but her grandkids were facepalming furiously :)
Pushkar, Rajasthan.

This is exactly my mum's expression when I break out my threadbare harem pants. She's hoping any one of these days I'll get real. Joke's on her.
Pushkar, Rajasthan.

My monkey friends outside the popular Gayatri temple. Getting up here took a 30 minute trek and the nice corpulent pandit asked if I could read or not when I took my shoes off in the wrong place.
Pushkar, Rajasthan.

Yes I read her second book based on the first. Does she always make sense? No. Can she be a tiresome statistic-spouting paranoid idiot often? Yes yes. Is she razor-sharp, funny, tart and do her words sink like hooks into me anyway? Yes, they do. What I like about her is she belongs only to herself. Her work is self-indulgent but it always tries (and often fails) earnestly to be something more. I like that. Read Committed if you want to journey through somebody else's premarital neuroses so you feel better about yours.

Hannibal Luca. He was attacked by a couple of dogs a few weeks ago when he pranced up to them for a friendly butt sniff. Has to be kept muzzled so doesn't lick his battle wounds. Enjoys wearing it entirely too much if you ask me. Freak dog.

This is my foray into Dickens' world and already I'm breaking out in sweats. A very dehydrating experience. Let it never be said that my sentence construction is too long and cumbersome to keep up with. For I will show you Charles Dickens. Stand down.

One of us is physically sick here and the other one is just sick in an everyday overall sort of way.

You want to gently suggest I take another lengthy hiatus don't you?

A Row of Stiles

There's an aching I feel inside these days. It doesn't matter where I am - lying in bed in the dark, on a yacht in the South China sea, or drinking beer in a ramshackle Shetty bar somewhere. The mind deflates, the hearts sags, yet another place I'm only passing through.

Don't believe everything you've heard

Sometimes I feel like I've, in some misguided attempt at chivalry (a signature of mine), taken on everybody else' share of pessimism. I mean I think I'm being realistic, but placed against vox populi, my opinion's always the one closest to the floor.

You'd think I'd gone through some deep psychological trauma that had caused me to be diffident, wet blanketish, cynical, annoyingly even and whatever other euphemism people use when they're much too cultured to use that word that rhymes with 'runt'. And I can only hope that that is true.

Maybe some day, that epiphany will come. Maybe it will be on one of my travels. We'll be in the airport terminal awaiting the exact same flight, this serene-looking older gentleman and I. Suddenly he'll notice the spot on my chin, grow visibly pale and say, 'You...you're not Wanda are you?" And I'll be all "Ew, no." And he'll go, "You didn't by any chance used to sing O-bla-di O-bla-da at every single school talent competition till you were asked to stop...?" And I'll turn horrified and twitchy, my pupils would dilate and I'll say "Hey! You're just trying to freak me out. There's no way anyone could know that." And he'll sink into the vinyl and clutch his head in despair saying "Wanda, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry." And I'll shrug and say, "Well it's not your fault, I really should have had a wider musical repertoire..." And he'll stare at me, thrown by just how much I've repressed and say slowly, all ominous-like, "I'm... Dilawar." I'll turn to him slowly, tears springing to my eyes and say, "Oh my god, that must be tough." And he'll start to get agitated and say, "No! You stupid girl, it's me Dilawar. I was your backstage hand?" And I'll start to guffaw because my mind is a bit of a toilet and only stop when I realise how silent Dila...the man...has gone. He'll look at me meaningfully and I'll say 'No, no, no." and he'll says "Yes," and I'll say, "so then two bad things happened to me that dreadful night?" And he'll nod ashamed, but say quickly, "I had nothing to do with the O-bla-da O-bla-di bit, I only diddled you. The rest was your doing." And I'll sit down weakly. "So.. my affinity for double entendres? M-my...wariness of boys... my unexplained nightmares about a certain Molly and Desmond Jones were all...?" "Yes," he'll nod morosely. "What about my alarmingly low levels of faith in humanity?" I'll say. "No," he'll shake his head, slightly indignant. "That's definitely just co-incidence." "Oh," I'll say. "Well this was totally unnecessary then, wasn't it?" "Yes," he'll says. "Yes I suppose it was."

OR!

I'm just used to calling things as I see them. Haven't you ever been to a party that everyone else thought was 'INSANE!!!' and you thought was only okay? What about the first time you had sex? Was it everything Joanna Trollope said it would be? No, stop lying, it wasn't. And Tina Fey. I was in danger of riding the general orgasm over her when a friend stopped me in the nick of time. She isn't all that. In fact she's not very funny at all. And that's what life can be sometimes - it isn't all it's cranked up to be. You're not all you cranked yourself up to be either. Hey, I thought I'd be a 'loyer' or a 'none' and all I ended up being is a 'no one'. Life isn't all rainbows and Follow Fridays. It's disappointments and split-ends and boys liking you pending what you weigh and the few people you care about thinking you're disgusting.

Like my favourite fictional cynic says "Think white and get real."

I'd felt we could be something.

Yes I liked your slanted features and you, my nose ring. But our bodies were ancillary, a nice side effect, a welcome addition, nothing more. The first time I saw you, I felt my stomach flip, your force field blazed and inside it and close to you was the only place I knew I should be. Common sense slid off me and cynicism understood what it was up against and dried itself up quickly.

Every syllable that dropped from your lips collected in a pool in my mind, not one anecdote lost, not one pause forgotten. I kept my gaze trained away because I don't know what falling in love is supposed to look like and I embarrass easily. Still there was a taut sense between us that physical touch would only dilute. The jokes got you at exactly the same time they got me, the other faces at the table blurred and the alcohol had only half to do with the night's intoxication.

Usually I have my game face on but I couldn't muster it this time. Because if ever there was someone who had to be shown what lay beneath, it had to be you. I'm not excessively clever, never read the classics and am not even alluringly damaged. I'm quiet not because I'm intense, I just don't know what to say. Truly, I have never had a sense of occasion and supposed-tos have been my particular failing.

And even while I'm trying to show you all of this, I know I'm being that guy who's telling a joke his audience has heard before and they're humouring him anyway. Because you do right? You know me already and I don't know how that could be. Scares me to the bone, too much time I have spent staring from safe distances and your nearness is closing up my windpipe and if I don't get out, I'll choke.

Wriggle free.

The world we're living in, by now we should've been gloriously scaling the acme of individual courage.

Think about it. We have next to no socio-cultural restraints left to speak of, just about anything goes. We've got all sorts of technology doing our work for us, whittling down our actual physical effort to a series of finger clicks. In fact we're a generation whose biggest legacy will be its ability for The Grey Area - we've rallied against stereotypes, sometimes even when we weren't sure why - don't laugh at a sensitive, philosophical biker dude; that lady is just attached to her flannel shirts and billowing leg hair, it says nothing about her sexuality.

And only recently it has dawned on me what our other big legacy is going to be - pussyfooting. Excuse my Truck Driver.

We're going to go down in history for our sheer wealth of cowardice. For our talent for talking endlessly in circles without ever concluding with or even intending a solution. For being victims of our personal histories and for recognising that and continuing to stay that way. We've learned to say everything it takes to say nothing at all. But most importantly for turning the Appropriate Thing To Do into Whatever's Easiest.

Don't get me wrong. I will never trade the loosed leash I have today with what my mother had at 25. I love that my dark jeans can qualify as formals and sex before marriage no longer occupies a top place in Fallen Woman 101. But the things that require heart, you know? That require a strong stomach? They're gone. Buried under layers of diplomacy, suffocating self-consciousness and a misplaced sense of modernity.

Invisible mode on Gchat, silent mode on your mobile phone and accumulating lightweight, feel-good, micro relationships on Twitter are all the totems of our generation. "All touch-me-nots" says my mother, blunt, brave lady that she is and always has been.

But I don't want to end this as a rant. I want to make a choice, I want to take a decision. Any decision. I want to start saying what I really think. I want to start telling strangers they helped me without worrying that it comes off as needy. I want to tell a man I love that I'm going to be there forever without worrying that I'm overstating. I want to tell a joke and then be okay when noone gets the punchline. I want to stop scaring myself every day.

To that end I will start with one truth. Here goes. I have been meaning to write a book for four years now but have still not managed it. I have written untruthful samples that were bad. And truthful samples that were worse. And I still don't even have an outline yet. The real reason is that I am terrified that it will bomb catastrophically and that I will never recover from my own awfulness. So instead I sit and rib on Chetan Bhagat. But as of this moment, I want it to stop being my concern. I feel I have done my part and issued the world a sufficient warning. I am now free to start writing My Great Big Failure Of A Novel with reasonable abandon.

There, all better. Now you tell me something. I am a stranger and I'm asking you to tell me something. I realise you might think I'm due my stay at the funny farm, but I'm asking anyway.