Some of us sit around trying to define the depth of a relationship, some flirt with definitions and some are waiting. Waiting for the relationship as you know it to start.
We each course at a different speed through these confusing relationships, but what speed is it that we want? Why are we always dissatisfied at the pace we are at? The fast want to go slower, the slow, faster. The one's at the red light just want the damn speed to pick up and the traffic to start.
I feel like I am on slow mode right now. Waiting for the full throttle to burst. For the rush of speed to take my life by surprise. I am waiting for my life to start. I am done with laying the foundation for my life ahead, hell maybe I am not done with it, but i am done doing it, you know.
I just want life to start. I am tired of waiting for things to fall in place.. just so I know where my place is in this Universe. I know a few basic facts, and I am ready to take on the world on them. No more brick laying for me. Bring on the cars, and let's crank up the gears.
It's irritating when you realize that you have no control over your life right? very irritating. But what can we do, we are all victim's. Of the race that Life has set up. Some like it fast, they get it fast, some don't, so they switch to double lane driving. Now is now right?
The first time I was told I was ugly, it was my 11th birthday. I had worn what my mother had picked out for me, checkered shorts with a silver belt, and a black tee-shirt with something silver on it- I was quite skinny that time. You know you dress well in school for your birthdays, distribute chocolates? When I was doing that, my so-called brother Amey, pulled me closer and said
"I know I shouldn't say this to you today, but you look ugly. Why are you wearing that?"
I never wore that outfit again. I steadily gained weight that year on. Sometime when I was 13, I had my first crush, and the guy told me I was beautiful, and I did not believe him.
When I was 16, I was in a theatre group. I was one of the youngest there. The two other sixteen year olds were reed thin, I was, by now, plump and chubby, as everyone would call me. Obviously I never got the main part, until in the end I was given one as charity. One guy who was dating one of the reed thin girls, once remarked out loud,
"Girls just look so breath-takingly beautiful with wet hair."
The three of us had just come in from the pouring rain. We all had wet hair. We all looked at each other at this statement. The guy smiled and then after a pause said,
"But not you Pragni, your hair is horrible, how can you ever look good"
I have been out with models, a dangerous looking guy, an ok-looking guy, a gayish-looking guy, intelligent guys, rich guys, one player or casanova and one semi-celebrity too. But I have never believed myself to be worth them, physically or looks-wise.
I hate it, and I hate admitting it, but everytime one of the guys here tell me I look beautiful, I pause for a moment. That pause is to convince myself that even if I don't think so, maybe they do. They are not saying it to please me. They are not saying it out of any obligation. They mean it.
Till a really long time, everytime someone told me I looked good, my instant reaction would be "yea, right" or "Stop kidding around?", until one day, R got really angry with me and told me that he wouldn't say it if he dint mean it, and I d better start believing him or saying it out right that I did not trust him.
I said, "I don't know what other reaction to give!"
Said he, "Try thank you. It normally works."
I did not believe my thank you's after that for a long time too.
It's just recently that I have admitted to my being very very conscious about my body. About my self image. And admitted it in front of friends and now publicly. I know this is not going to liberate me. But maybe, somewhere along the line, I will be re-introduced to my self-esteem. Ironically, I do not lack in the department of self-confidence. Funny how I have made that thin line so thick for me.
P.S - Last two days of the pills. I promise this confess all mode will stop then and so will the sappiness.
"I can fall in love with someone because of their intelligence, its one of the three things that can get to me.." "What are the other three things?" Pause I knew there were three things.. I just hadn't really put my mind to it to think what those three things were, you know? And this was not a person who would let me change the topic at this point. "aah.. this might sound shallow but pampering maybe? I guess if someone pampers me a lot, I could fall in love with them." I have had cousins who have pampered me crazy, and I have adored them. So I guess, it could work... "And the way a person treats other people around him. The respect you give other people, the distance you maintain, the way you talk to them." Now that was the correct one of the two. I was sure.
But pampering? I thought about it all night. Can I really fall for someone because they'd pamper me crazy? And then some instances came to my mind. Pilot insisted on me taking the diamond ring he got me. I refused, he actually went up to the sea to throw it. I took it. I love the ring, I had designed it. But I din't fall in love with him.
Pilot always always pampered me. If I saw a toy I liked, it would be sent to my place in a few days, twice in a week, fresh flowers would be delivered to my place, fancy dinners, and coffee every other night. I did not fall in love with him. And then he started hanging out with my parents. He respected them, took advice from them, revered them. That's when I even started thinking of him as someone who I might be able to be with. He wanted to them help out with the summercamp kids. He was beautiful with them, strict, scary but lovable. That's when I realized that he is worth a lot more. If things would have continued a bit, who knows I might have been in love with him (if love is possible). But end of story, I did not fall in love with him. Inspite of all the pampering, and inspite of all the respect I saw him give others.
I think the respect he gave others, made me respect him. And respect is very important for me. To give and receive. But it did not induce love. And pampering just made me feel nice, but I always knew it was a materialistic nice. And I guess seeing me feel nice, he felt nice. He never did it to make me fall in love with him. I hope.
Since intelligence is a must in people around me, I should have been in love with Dhum, Pinki, Petrovski, Veeru, Jats and looking at intelligence from a different angle, Pilot too.
But I am not. Which effectively negates my dialogue above. I cannot fall in love with anyone just because they are intelligent, or they pamper me, or that they are respectful. I can just be a little pleased with them for it.
I guess love just happens right? Without a reason?
** So since you are reading this, I shall retract my statement above that I made to you. And rephrase it. A bit. "I don't know how to fall in love with someone. I don't know what can make me fall in love with someone. I don't even think I can define love. But yes, these three things that I listed? They make me think highly of a person. They make me realize that the person cares, for himself (intelligence), me (pampering) and others (respect). Which matters. I guess."
I have been often told I think too much and too far. This post is a result of that.
Browsing through youtube videos I came across the videos of Chote Ustaad, a singing contest between kids. I started with the grand finale episode, two really pretty girls singing beautifully. One had the most beautiful, sweet and melodious voice. The other had the most grounded, husky and fabulous voice.
One had springy curls all over her face, a clear face and expressive eyes. The other had straight luxurious hair that fell in a cascade around her face, sparkling eyes and an attitude to match.
Both had the public fawning at their feet. Both are less than 13 years old.
What happened to have pimply faces, an unsure attitude, that awkward age when you look your worst for that certain time and not knowing what you want to do with your life because you are not even 13!!
I am scared. Scared for my children when I have them. Because either they will be one of these talented children, or one of the not talented ones. If they are like these, they will be under this constant pressure, which I am sure these children are under. They will have their life decided for them, no matter what it is that they want to do, how it is that they want to live.
If they are not, they will grow up watching these talent shows, wonder what their talent is, why they don't have a voice like that, or a flexible body like this, or a figure like that one. Or they might know someone who is talented like that, and feel inferior to them.
The summercamp where I teach dance, constantly has parents coming up to me asking me to hone the dancing skills of their child because they think that the kid has the ability to "enter and win boogie woogie". Or I have even had one come and boast to me about how her daughter has such an amazing face that she has already featured in 12 ads and won around 2 lakh rupees. The girl was 9 years old.
I have had mothers come and tell me "Look, look at my child dance. She goes to Shaimak Davar's classes every day to train" and when the girl dances, she swings her hips, but not to the rhythm, she looks ahead with her eyes all small and scrunched up, but blankly, and she says, "my favorite dancer is Isha Koppikar and Sameera Reddy".
I once choreographed a dance for one student for a talent contest in her school, and she was pretty good. We did on the song Remix, which is based on school life. We hunted all the markets to get an awesome costume for her, a black corset, with a leather jacket, a leather skirt with knee high boots and a school tie. When we reached the hall, she pointed out her rival to me. She was a girl dressed in a yellow bustier with chiffon strips for sleeves, and a chiffon transparent harem pants and her hair all curled up and heavy orange eye make up and gloss. I had not let my student put anything more than a dusting of powder on her face to block sweat. The girl danced on "Saaki saaki, aa paas reh na jaye koi khwahish baaki", while my student danced on "Na koi tension lena, nahi koi darr ke jeena.."
Ofcourse, the Saaki girl won. My student was heart-broken. And she asked me, "next time can I dance on an item number too?"
I fear the day my child will ask me that. When my child will think that to be liked, she or he needs to expose, be extra-ordinary at something, be supremely talented or have an attitude.
Emotions increase or decrease in intensity, reactions waver and fluctuate, friends come and go, people live or die, opportunities knock, withdraw and knock again, situations, cimcumstances, nature, weather, hell, every bloody thing changes.
But time is the only constant.
That day comes every year, no matter what. That night comes every year, those few hours too, repeat on the cycle of the clock. Its a different surrounding every time, but the thoughts inside me, run on an endless loop.
If only I could go back and change these few hours... And then a pause.
Because I know, no matter what, I would still do things the same way. Because the emotions then were pure and strong. Even if now they are diluted and gone. The reactions then were instant and true, even if on hindsight it all seems stupid and immature. The friends then, I believed them to be the best, even if now I realized they sucked at their job of being my friend. The people then who died a million deaths, resurfaced, survived the blow, and trusted again. Opportunites were lost, but other's came up too. The situations and circumstance, seemed justified then, now.. don't even ask..
But time remains a constant. Through it all. Unfailingly on time, and unfailingly there. Just there always.
Ever wondered at how happy you are, how perfect everything is and how wonderful the weather and the day is.
And then have it jinxed so bad it's not even salvagable. The sky opens up and pours (and you washed your hair today, dammit), the day turns dour and that perfect balance is ruined.
And happiness? It's like a bubble that you keep trying to catch or even just touch. But it either flits further away, or bursts into nothingness the minute you are close.
I dropped a course today because I am not smart enough for it.
Seriously. I thought I was the nerd of advertising. Today I realized that even that is not good enough for this class.
Have you heard about those classes where students and the professor sit around a conference table, stare at a problem set in the center and try to reach a solution which will co-relate with life's problems? That's this class.
The students argue about the epiphanic moment in their lives when the situation they were in was influenced by history, politics and their own biographies. And how that relates with the white and black racial division and the undermining of Native Indians and the poverty they have had to go through because of the Great Civil War of Independence in America and the hegemony of pedagogy.
Lost. I am thoroughly lost in the three hours that the class goes through. While the students around me go through various stages of orgasmic noises because of the great knowledge imparted in the class, or dawn on the real solution to placing wooden blocks in such a way that the bottom blocks do not have to take the burden of the neo capitalist economy.. I sleep.
These are all scholars, who actually learn a lot in the class. Who actually can make a lot of sense of everything that just bounces past my nose. And I can't do that.
So I shall drop this class. And admit to the world and myself that there are several levels of intelligentsia and I am way low on it. Way too low.
When you are a Grad student it is assumed that when you shut your eyes for a minute it is because you are re-thinking the thought.
That when you stare into the distance, you are pondering over something deep.
That when you are gazing into your laptop, you are considering a problem and when you are furiously typing away? You are storing away each word spoken in class.
It is believed that when you are discussing something with the guy next to you, it is worthy of disturbing the quiet in the class.
That when you turn to look at someone talking, you are not checking them out.
When you are an under-grad student, it is assumed that you are sleeping, not focusing, lazing, chatting online, emailing, gossiping or checking someone out.
Its been over two weeks since Jaane Tu.. Ya Jaane Na was released.
The furor over this film, the fact that it was supposed to be "refreshingly nice and cute" and that it had a feel of what I call the Neo Indian Cinema phase made me want to see it really bad. I had been pestering Mr. Pilot to catch it with me since the day it came out. Yesterday, finally we managed to see the film.
And I cannot begin to describe my disappointment. Trust me folks, its a rubbish film. Coming from someone who actually adores films, loves a new feel to movies, and likes masala, action, comedy and every other genre. This film is a messed up venture.
A messed up effort because the story is good, but the execution of the story (not the movie) sucks. The main characters are real, substantial, and amazingly well done, the side ones? were forgotten in the deal. The dialogue delivery is awesome, but the dialogues itself are archaic. The shots are beautiful but they make you think that a lot was cut out from the film. The twists are stupid and unnecessary. Isn't high time people understood that you do NOT need horses, Maharajas, typical Gujju friend who slips in and out of his accent, ghosts and flashbacks in a movie to make it good? If you wanted to take digs at older films, you should have made the Indian version of Scary Movies.
So there's Aditi and Jay. Both have unbelievably possible nick names - Meow and Rats. Go figure. I think the director and the screen play writer spent so much time carving their characters out that every one else is just an excuse to the movie. Both are the typical college kids, confused about what they actually feel, and looking outside for what they actually have right within them. They share an awesome rapport with their families, with each other families and with their friends.
Did I leave someone out? Oh yes, Jay's dead father who lives through his portrait and his long lost Maharaja brothers who ride horses to city clubs and aspire to be jailed wearing leather vests and stetsons. Sigh.
Have I said enough? No? Ok how about the final scene where Jay, who has never done any horse riding, except in his dreams, starts galloping across Asiatic Library, Link Road at Malad and then to the International Airport to stop Aditi from leaving the country. But since she has already completed immigration and is sitting right next to her departure gate, he whizzes past the airport authorities, ducks machine guns trained at him, kabaddis around at least 10 security guards, goes through the baggage x-ray portal, up and down a few stairwells and reaches Aditi and starts screaming Meow, Meow. And then adds his trademark love song to it. And wins her.
The songs have a new age feel to it true, but they really are not exceptional. I love Kahi toh, but that's because I love such sappy songs with beautiful lyrics. I like Kabhi Kabhi Aditi, but I wouldn't listen to it after 3 or 4 months. And Papu can't dance sala seems quite stupid after hearing it twice. But I guess everyone has a different taste in songs, different genres for different peoples.
All in all, please please please don't see this film in a movie theatre. In fact, avoid seeing it even. If you really want, catch a few glimpses of it on youtube, and you will know the best parts of the movie. Else, avoid such mind numbing nonsense.
Sorry everyone, who claimed that this movie is spectacular, runaway hit, refreshingly nice like sunshine, peppy, cute or even fun. Really it isn't When will someone start writing truthful reviews and not mislead the poor aam janta like us man...
I feel like I have lost this entire last week. Starting from the Sunday gone.
Everything planned went up for a toss. The only thing I remember of the week is endless visits to damned doctors (nothing against them, just a personal grouse) and endless flowers.
I think I might have visited every species of doctors in just 7 days. Gynecologist, Radiologist, Ophthalmologist, Obstetrician, Pediatrician, Dentist, Endocrinologist, Anesthesia Specialist, and a Psychiatrist in making. Sigh. This from someone who is shit scared of doctors and read the italics above. Trust me, it feels like I have met every species existing..
Yours truly is a believer in natural cure. Meaning when sick, wait for the body to recover by itself. Without the help of medicines or damned doctors. And now, after the last 7 days, I take 5 pills, 2 syrups, 2 powders and drops in my eyes daily. This is what is the perfect combination of mental and physical torture.
Believe me, I try to 'lose' these medicines as often as I can. Now only if that would work...
I am not committed enough to writing and posting here. I write, actually, I start writing. I voice out some random thoughts. Most of them pretty heavy. I don't piece them. I just pour them. Then when I feel like I'm half way through, I re-read it.. I wonder why the hell should I be posting this. Writing it should help me enough. Posting it means expecting something more. Why expect more? Especially where this is no real commitment. No expectations from the other side. It's not like people who read this blog expect to know all this.
So there is an expectation problem and a commitment problem. With this blog. And in life. Not only mine, every human being's life. Too bad, I say.
Have you ever felt like shouting out.. screaming out randomly..
Have you ever felt like turning the volume on your ipod up so loud that hopefully it could drown out your thoughts?
Have you ever felt bare, exposed although covered from head to toe..
Have you ever felt like stretching out more, and more and more because it feels like there is something in your bones thats not right?
Have you ever felt like covering yourself up with water because you need that fluidity enveloping you..
Have you ever felt like running away from talking to anyone in the world?
Have you ever felt like this is not you... not your body, not your thoughts.. and not your situation..
Have you ever felt like avoiding everyone around you and meeting absolutely random people, at the same time?
Have you ever desperately wanted to go to that one place, do that one thing, but something or the other has just restricted you from it..
Have you ever felt the need to express yourself without words, through action, art, pictures, or ink?
Have you ever stood up, looked up and desperately wished for the rains to wash away every bit of consciousness..
Have you ever just randomly met someone every goddamn day because you want it to start feeling right?
Have you ever thought if while reading this you are thinking of the exact same things I was thinking of while writing this..
Have you ever wondered if the person in front of you is really real or just a hoax, a bundle of illusions, a manipulation of thoughts and gestures?
Have you ever looked back and wondered what you did wrong for this to happen, for that person to behave like you just don't exist anymore..
Have you ever questioned your decision because you aren't really sure if that's going to make you, or anyone else too, happy for sure?
Have you ever doubted the potential that you might have had.. the promise that seems real sometimes and impossible at others...
Have you ever felt incomplete, right in the center of your being. Like there is a page left unturned in the book of your life and you have flipped past it and can never go back to it..
Flying by yourself is magical. It’s magical when you know how to not think. To snap out of everything the minute you end that last call and switch the bloody nuisance of a phone off. Its magical when you select a movie, see it, forward the parts you want to forward, see another movie, supposedly a sappy one which your friends refused to see with you, tear up a bit with a chocolate not having to worry about damaging your macho reputation, see another movie your friends saw when you were not in town, accompany the movie with a glass of terrible tasting wine.
When you pick and chose what you want to eat in the lunch/brunch tray provided to you, wonder for a bit if its really vegetarian, and then because there is no one to verify, try a bit, and leave it because it tastes bad, not because it tastes like meat.
When you try to surreptitiously look around the plane for any guys worth trying to catch a second glimpse of.
When you curl up on the seat adjacent, without worrying about disturbing someone else’s peace.
When you spot that female with beautiful hair, and try to catch a glimpse of her face to see if it matches with the wonderful hair. (It did)
When you get off at the connecting airport, see a model of something you know your best friend would love, and pick it up for him without worrying about how it will damage your credit card conversion.
Because, after ages, there is Marathi floating around you in speech bubbles. And the shrill Saathiya ringtone ringing somewhere, with a mother calling out to her child in Gujarati, a Parsi wife asking her husband to speak softly, a muslim guy spiffing his hair up to impress that wonderful hair female mentioned above, an old uncle in a safari suit carrying a peti around, and a young kid in military pants trying to steal his sister’s ipod. And you are absorbing it in all alone, and smiling contently.
When you happily think about only those patchy parts of an issue you want to think about. The rest will be thought about when anyone else is concerned about it. You are not at the instant.
Because when you finally get 12 hours just for yourself, you enjoy them like never before.
Flying with yourself is magical, but somehow at the beginning of the journey you always wish you had someone standing in the security check line with you, with their arms around you.
But, I love flying with myself. Because I am not alone, I have me for company.
And home. Thousands of miles away from home, but home nevertheless.
Makes you wonder how relative or absolute is the term home. How much of a variable is it, with dependables being the people who make your home, home. And how important is it.
I have wondered several times in the past few days what I am going to, and going away from. And what is following me there. It’s all relative. My realization of leaving India when I came to USA to study is fresh in my brain. I don’t know how. But I still know exactly how I felt that day, when my brother picked us up from JFK and took us home. This post does not begin to describe it. And inexplicably, but expectedly, I feel the same as I sit in Abu DhabiAirport. This time for my home in Champaign. For my home that is the people I have left behind.
I packed up by house before I left. Because I am moving out of that apartment. The last two days in Champaign have been crazy. RM left a day before me, we have finally PARTED WAYS. No more RM bitching, unless she pounces on all my friends who are going to be her neighbors next year. But over the last few months, I realized she is not important enough to write about or bitch about too much here, so I stopped. I don’t think she can remedy that situation anymore. Unless she tries to become to friendly with Dhum, Petrovski or Pinki. She won’t bother with the girls ofcourse.
Anyway, so I packed up my apartment. Everyone of the Gumbal got a little emotional about it. It was home for a lot of us. Even if we didn’t spend hours and hours together there. It was our haven in some ways. My apartment was always there to have fun in. It always had any ingredient needed, had our cooking sessions, our Friends marathon seasons, our talking into the nights, night maroing with coffee walks in the morning. Our haven. The new apartment has great expectations to live up to.
I have a page full of drafts. The last post was a recycled one. I wrote a post about the things heavily on my mind, completed it, tagged it, and then.. hit Save. He speaks about this same phenomena in a much better way.
A day and 20 hours away from India, I'm wondering...
What am I going away from? What am I going to?
I feel like I'm leaving one family behind. Here I am, sitting among boxes and boxes of my stuff, wondering if that family has already left me behind, or is my mind paying tricks on me again..
I am going to one family. The one that can never leave me behind. Never isolate, desert, or go away. Never make me feel like maybe I'm better away. But where's the joy gone?
I'm convincing my mind to detach, detach, detach. While one part of me is loudly yelling inside my brain, another is putting on a straight, pleasant face, looking understanding and .. detached?
I'm looking at three months ahead, wondering what happened to this time. Where did it go?
I m wondering why does it feel that whatever is really inside this shell, is being torn apart. While I sit patiently waiting for realization to dawn.
I don't want one at the cost of another. I don't want either if both ask me to make a choice. I don't want time with one person, while the rest stay away. Spend their time somewhere else.
My family is strictly vegetarian. No meat, no fish, no eggs. This, by religious affiliation. I, on the other hand, being as completely non-religious that I am, should by default not be vegetarian. But I am. For the simple reason that eating something that once pissed, shat and carried out all those weird bodily functions grosses me out. Hence I have always been more or less okay with eggs. Eggs don't piss, shit, bleed right. And I try to forget that they are the animal equivalent of fetuses when I have to have them.
But I had always believed that when I did, by mistake/chance/fate, unknowingly, eat meat, I would freak out. I would do all that that my strictly vegetarian friends do, puke, gag, force-throw up or not be able to eat further.
Today I had meat. Unknowingly, by mistake. Not mine, the waitress'. I asked her for Pasta Fettuccine, without Panchetta, or pork. I specified that I don't eat meat, or fish. She said she would exclude the meat. And then included beef in the recipe. God knows why.
When she came with out orders, I asked her if mine was no meat, she replied in the affirmative. I had a bit of what looked like a miniature corn on cob and could not quite place its taste. I asked Petrovski to try it. He laughed out loud after trying it. And then declared,
"Its Beef."
Thanks
I dint throw-up, or dint feel like throwing up too. It was no big deal. I had something I did not want to have. I returned it, and waited for the replacement to re-return. While Pinki got pissed with the error, I thought over it. Friends in the background assured me that it was unknowingly consumed, so it was not a big deal. It was a mistake after all.
And I thought, You go girl!! I love the fact that I dint throw a tantrum, dint spout hare ram, hare rams or beg for forgiveness from some imaginary force. I asked myself it mattered that much, and it dint. And the incident floated by. No one's mood got spoilt by it, no one's appetite got spoilt by it and I dint behave like a typical sissy.
I have come to terms with the fact that my beliefs are more important than the religious beliefs in the entire world, and that even if I have not found my crutch to lean on, I have a rock solid belief system. The balance of which is not teetered by incidents like these.
In my dreams I found that place. That one place I have always wanted to go to. And it felt so real.
I know exactly how far away it is, the exact way to it, the exact bend of the road, the foliage at the sides of the road, the decrepit building which stands at the left of one of those curves, the bank of sand at the end.The low trees as soon as you enter the sand chute which hide the the place from your view and then emerging out on the soft shore of the river. No big waves, just small lapping curves, gently licking the feet and a swing set at that very edge. So that when you sit on the swing and take a push, you are soaring over gentle laps of water. Deep blue near the bottom and a shimmering blue at the far end.
I feel like taking pictures, maybe I did take some, because the picture of that dream still shines in my mind. With muted gold tones.
I remember thinking, "Oh my god, this is the place I have always dreamed about. I should show this to you" I don't know why you came into my mind then. It felt like of all people I know you would appreciate it the most. Appreciate all of this.
The place is still in my mind, the picture is still fresh, but because it's a dream, I don't know how long it will stay fresh. I feel like sketching it before it disappears, but I don't think I'll do justice to it. It's only my mind that is doing justice to it right now, and these words come a far second to it.
I am sure everyone dreams of things that are so real-ly imaginary. Care to describe them and make me feel like I am not the only one?
