The Unforgettable Desire

It was December and I was in Delhi. I am always happy to see these two Ds together. Winter, blankets, too much coziness for my privileged ass. It was a different thing that as I got comfortable in bed one night, my cousin, who was in class 9, asked, Why do poems get complicated as we get older? How can there be poems without rhymes? To my complete and utter disbelief, I began talking about different types of poems, sonnets, odes, lyrics, elegies, etc. Not just type, but metre and what forms a metre. He kept asking, I kept answering, till we mutually decided it’s too much information that isn’t needed for his test the next day. I slept with pride that night. If I had been asked those questions a year ago in 2018, I might have cursed the poets and whoever gets to decide the syllabi. It is a little known fact about me that I absolutely disliked poetry for the five years that I studied literature. I could not understand what stressed and unstressed syllables were and even when I did, al...

Or, How We Accept Care Earlier this year I was out with a couple of friends from school. I met one of them a few days ago, so I knew what’s up with her. I had absolutely no idea about the other, I was meeting him for the first time since school. As we sipped our drinks, they began sharing life stories. He was confident about his life, including marriage, pretty sorted. I wondered, how can someone be so sorted? Then, I realised, he doesn’t feel the need to fight convention. I envied him, for a moment. When she fell apart talking about her life, he comforted her, reassured her, and the phrase that comes to my mind is, like a gentle man. I adored them, the care he offered, the care she needed. It was my turn to go next. All I said was, there’s nothing wrong in my life. I sipped the last of my drink, admitting, I know I have the power to make every single change I need, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. This scene of comfort returns to me every now and then. That’s how it’s suppose...

Or, The Questionable Purpose of Remembering Someone asked, ‘Do you want to be remembered?’ I smiled at that text. I was already surprised to find someone who openly talks in terms of love and loneliness and also, likes psychoanalysing people. His question took me back to the time I told my teacher that I couldn’t bear the idea of being forgotten by him. I think I meant to tell him that he made a difference in my life and I want him to know that. I do this if I can, let people know what they mean to me (might seem creepy and unnecessary). Yet for reasons I don't quite understand, I was driven crazy by the thought that I might not matter to people who matter to me. Those days! My smile got wider as I typed, ‘No, not anymore.’ I was glad that he didn’t ask, ‘What changed?’ I don’t have an answer to that.  If I had a tagline it’d be, I drink coffee (not anymore, damn you, lockdown!) and I remember things.  I remember events from my life believing they were huge for others....

One would think I’ll be guilty for being happy ever since the lockdown began. I am not. At all. This is the happiest I have been in last couple of years (conferences/seminars/fests don’t count here – they are my ultimate happy places). My theory is that I am taking comfort in the fact that world is slowing down, so I don’t have to feel bad about being slow at getting my life back together. I kept rushing so much that I crashed, and now I am okay with not having everything at once, not skipping steps. In December 2018, I wrote a poem to remind myself that I am ‘just’ 24, I have the rest of my life in front of me. So, I can take ‘crashing’ in consideration, look back at my life, and evaluate why I crashed, instead of simply living with the guilt of ‘failing’. Failing at a life that I dreamt of as a kid. When I turned 25, I switched off my phone by midnight. I didn’t need the excitement of my birthday. I couldn’t bear the idea of pretending to be someone I am not, not on my birthda...

I say, ‘I have survived a lot on my own, I can do it alone for the rest of my life.’ I wait for, ‘I know you can do it alone. I am saying, you don’t have to. I am staying right here.’ No, not just the words. I wonder, is it too much to ask? I know the answer, 'You haven't asked.' I heard Jerry Pinto tell an aspiring writer, ‘Make a pact with the universe, nobody needs to know about it.’ He advised another, ‘Read one hour every day and start writing today. I’ll see you in ten years in a literary fest.’ I smiled standing on the side. I spoke to him after everyone got their books signed. I didn’t tell him about writing. I said, ‘I have been through cancer, sexual abuses, and mostly, emotional abuse. I look at them as facts. I wrote about them, I tried to, I keep trying. It’s like I am the performer and narrator at once. I have always been that, just more aware and conscious about it since a couple of years.’ He nodded in affirmation. I didn’t hear, ‘You should get y...

My friend and I were walking towards The Arena when I told her, " You know... I get it that Hyderabad Public School is beautiful in terms of historical monument and it’s spacious... But, I am kind of glad that this is the location. Everything is clustered together so beautifully, this is perhaps the first time that I have been to everything or at least am aware what’s happening where. This school... it just feels so...” I trailed off, unable to find the word I was looking for. My friend smiled at me, “It just feels so warm, I know what you mean. I was a bit hesitant on the first day but everything feels so warm this time. It had never felt this way before.” “Yes, warm... Everywhere I look, there’s something hanging or built, there’s not a single wall that’s empty or even a tree. I am just so surprised every time I turn my head. Yeah... it’s just so warm, it...” This time I trailed off not wanting to say the words that were at the tip of my tongue. She completed it nonetheless, ...

'Ghalib' on his table. Laughter, her self defence. His small talks, her silence. Sitting on the edge, oh the distance! ~ The crowd walked past us. We stood there nowhere to go. Look at the moon, she exclaimed. I stared at her instead. It was full moon a couple of nights ago. My gaze shifted from her to the sky above. What do you mean by abandonment? I smiled, let out a sigh, and explained. I need you here, she said. And I need more time. It hurts a little less than yesterday, a little more than tomorrow. A pinch of faith in despair, hope in cynicism -- such is the clockwork. ~ A few leftover tears. Doors to the heart shut, keys tossed. It doesn't make any sense, she thought. It's not supposed to, comforted loss. Delhi, December '19. 

I am being hopeful despite my body and mind denying it. I am not full of hope all day everyday but I make it a point to be hopeful on and off in a few days whether or not I feel like it. This is me reminding my body and mind that things will get better while simultaneously acknowledging my past experiences. I am not blindly optimistic, I am cautious. Being hopeful tires me but I perform it like an exercise. Slowly, a little bit at a time. Letting my body and mind adjust to it, accept it, feel safe and secure with it. I often use ‘emotional archeology’ while talking to people who have been through trauma, recognise it, and are learning to deal with it. I have dug my memories, revisited them, over and over again. I have spoken with people who are a part of that memory in order to know their side of the story. If I believe my side to be the only one, I’ll perhaps never recover from the ugliness I fed on. So, when people tell me it helps me connect the dots of how one thing mig...

I need you is a phrase that wakes me up early on a wintery morning and doesn’t let me return to sleep. I toss in bed, adjust the blankets. I tell the phrase, I’ll write about you in my diary once I am up. Now let me just go back to sleep. Let me just sleep. I was dreaming, mother was buying a set of bangles and they were mostly broken. She held two in her hand, told the shopkeeper that she’ll take them. I wondered, is this really important? One year ago I lacked the ability to get out of bed. I saw no point. I was convinced that I couldn’t serve anyone. More importantly, no one needed me. What was the purpose of waking up then? Why could I not sleep forever? No one needs me. No one understands that I need to be needed. There has to be a reason, something I wake up to, something I look forward to. I don’t recall most of it, the days were all the same and nights... nights were quiet. Everyone went to sleep and then, I was fine. I pull the blankets over my head. I cover my ears...

I: There’s no point in thinking why people cheat. It happens when it happens. People are just there. Most likely there’s an issue that they are avoiding to confront in their relationship or even accept. They know if it’s addressed then the relationship will end. And, nobody wants to part from their comfort blanket. He: Exactly. I am not even guilty. She hasn’t stopped. She has cheated before. I have done it. It doesn’t matter anymore. In the beginning, I tried to be everything she needs and wants. I did everything for her, I didn't want to cheat. Now, I don't care. It used to hurt so much. I told her I'll stop if she stops. But, she doesn't. So, here we are. She: You need to get out of this relationship. I: I can’t even judge, honestly. I am going to assume people do the best they can in the moment and hopefully have the courage to forgive themselves when it comes to that. She: I kind of do judge. He: It’s the last semester. I have told her I don’...

There’s a question that every reader has had for the author, ‘Is this real, is this your story?’ It comes when the story is sold as a fiction and people find themselves in it. I used to believe that it’s an irrelevant question, or something to feed the thirst for gossip. I like to think now that the question is a cry for help – people want the hope that whatever they’re going through will pass, as it did in fiction; that things will make sense in the end. They need to know that it was real, to find some comfort. This year, oddly enough, many people have reached out to me, asking about ways to express ‘better’. Sometimes they asked for tips to communicate better. Two things I am terrible at. They like to read my blog and posts. Some have also mentioned that they are jealous that I can write during/about my poor mental and emotional health while they struggle to utter a word. There are a few pages left, I am not ready for it to end. The act of writing is cruel. It makes you pa...