remember me

I think I can now fathom those statements made in my BA English classes about art, specifically theatre, leading to catharsis in the audience. And now I appreciate art a little bit more. Or rather I’m reminded why I love some forms of art – music, movies, whatever.

I saw this movie which made me cry. Not small sympathetic or empathetic tears, but the way I strangely, and without explanation, broke down in school near the evening tiffin after I read the Harry Potter book in which Sirius Black dies and Potter loses his godfather.

Losing a biological parent and never having a replacement is not something one can simply ignore. Usually you can. But sometimes – only sometimes if you’re a tough nut – you are reminded of it. Or rather, it is pointed out to you that you are different from others in this regard, that you have feelings you forgot existed [or maybe never knew existed]. And you wonder: will they ever go away; will I ever forgive that parent for inflicting xyz on the other, remaining parent, on my sibling; will I ever forgive him for not leaving me a normal kid, for leaving me with daddy issues the size of the Arctic, forever?

And then one remembers – everything happens for the best. [this is something one can only appreciate in hindsight.]

Life is always so strange, so bloody unpredictable. We try to predict it by getting our palms read, by reading our horoscopes, by making plans for the future, charting out things we want to do, by creating bubbles around ourselves and only letting a few things inside, by visiting psychologists, or we try to avoid it by eating our favourite pizza, by getting drunk, by popping a Valium and sleeping for 15 hours…. But we can’t escape life, or its unpredictability and seeming callousness towards us.

It’s always there. Always changing. It’s always gonna trip us, make us realize we have feelings we didn’t know about, make us cry for joy, want to freeze a moment, help someone cross the road, scratch someone’s eyes out, and so many other things I don’t even know about.

I don’t know what I’m saying or trying to get at. I’m not saying I believe in fate or destiny. It’s hard to believe in anything or anyone these days. But I’m beginning to believe that if something hurts us, it’s for a reason.

We’ll figure out the godforsaken reason later, sometimes never if we don’t keep our eyes open… but if we wait long enough, there’s always a reason for every shitty incident in our life, every crappy person we meet – we maybe blind to the reason or logic [if you can call it that]. But it’s there somewhere.

I don’t know if there’s ever just one obvious reason – but it’s like forgetting something. Suddenly one day when you stop thinking, racking your brains to remember what it is, it comes back to you. And you smile. For the first time that whole day, a genuine smile. For yourself, not for anyone else. And you feel happy. And if you can’t think of anyone you can share the forgotten thought with, someone who’ll understand its significance or randomness, it doesn’t mean you’re friendless, lonely and will die alone. It probably means you just need a moment alone to be grateful on your own – remind yourself you exist for yourself. Not for others.

It’s easy to forget that sometimes, that it’s alright to be alone once in a way even in the age of Facebook and microblogging. At some point, even I forgot.

**I realise Gandhi Jayanti is a strange day to remember I should live for myself but I hope Gandhi gets what I mean. I still intend on helping helpless little animals [I’m not a people person] but humans, well, never mind. No offense, Gandhi.

the l-word

We were on the phone. He was at the opposite end of the country, perfectly illustrating how different our viewpoints were at the time. I was in Calcutta, he was in Bombay. He was talking to me about a girl. It was one of the few times he ever did.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this but I really think I’m in l…”

“Ahh noo! Don’t say the l-word, please, please. I’ll lose all respect for you and whatever little love I have for you.”

“Wait. You just said it. What’s the big deal?”

“No, but see, what I feel for you is genuine friend to friend lowe,” I tried to explain, using the pronounciation used by half the pedestrians in the country.

“Uhm. Your point?”

“It’s biological, my dear Watson.”

“Oh god…” and he started muttering something in Hindi which I’m guessing were cusses.

“What, what? No, listen. I’m not saying it’s fake, I’m just saying it’s not what you think. Ok, wait. How hot is this chick?”

“She’s not a baby hen. And she’s pretty hot.”

“Ok. And you’re a 25-year-old, fairly good-looking (I got a sarcastic “thanks” at this juncture) red-blooded male.”

“Yeesss?”

“It’s hormones.” I paused, waiting for his eruption. All I got was silence.

“Hello?” I asked.

“Waiting for the rest of it. Or is that it?” I rarely got sarcasm from him so I was a little taken aback. He must really have liked that girl. It came as a slight shock to me and I was surprised at myself for being, well, shocked. But I never really analysed that. Maybe I should have. It would have saved me a lot of time. Anyway, getting back to the scene at hand.

“So see. Our friendship is not based on hormones. It’s real, it’s right there, based not on chemical reactions in our body, but on the past few years.. whatever we’ve shared has obviously made us close and well, I’m very fond of you.” I cleared my throat.

“Uhm. Are you telling me you’re in love with me?”

“No, jackass. I not in love with you, I’m just differentiating what you feel for her and what I’m presuming you feel for me.”

He sighed. I took it as a signal to continue.

“She’s probably nice, you’ve said she’s good-looking. Now you’re seeing everyone around you hook up with people. Get married, have babies, or have amazing sex and consciously or unconsciously, you’ve felt alone. Let’s face it. Humans are not designed to be alone. Mentally and emotionally.”

“Whoa wait, I thought this was physical. Now you’re saying it’s mental and emotional? Make up your mind, woman.”

“I’m not done, sweepea. Shut up and listen.”

Grunt.

“It’s social conditioning and your er bodily needs. Don’t roll your eyes. So, anyhow, what I’m saying is… you maybe really fascinated by this girl, but don’t call it love just yet. Have as much sex as you want, date her for at least a few months, then tell me you’re in love with her and I won’t burst an artery.”

He never did tell me about being in love again. I don’t know if it was because he knew I’d argue him out of it, or because he knew it hurt me slightly. Or maybe I give him too much credit. I never saw him as a potential lover. He was always the shoulder I cried on. When I was frustrated with my life and how it wasn’t going anywhere, when I hadn’t painted in months because I was too busy designing lame advertisements, when I fell for my best friend’s extremely messed up cousin.

And sometimes I could go weeks, even months without really talking to him. A few text messages here and there, but not much communication otherwise.

I loved Calcutta. Even when it was re-named and more people moved there, and the city expanded. It was my home. So when I started feeling restless, I blamed it on my failed friendship with aforementioned cousin of best friend. In hindsight, I am relieved it never happened. Hindsight is one of the most satisfying things in my life. When I can look back on my irrationality and smile over having the wisdom to know better now.

But we never really do know better.

After several years of being single, trying to figure my life out, having a few one night stands and never having them again, I finally realised it was possible I had feelings for Kashyap. It made no sense to me. At first. Which is why I re-visited the above conversation several times.

Imagine my surprise when it dawned on me that I had probably always had feelings for him. More than just good friend to friend feelings and “lowe”. Why was it I hated discussing my problems and weaknesses and irrational behaviour with all the other people I knew, but could always bank on him if I wanted to discuss these things? Why did he always know just how much to push me if he thought something was bothering me and he felt I needed to resolve it? How in god’s name did he know I needed a break from a city I loved? All this and much more in next week’s episode of Sleepless in India.

Oh wait, this isn’t a television show. It’s my life. Sigh.

So it’s been almost seven years, and it turns out that the thing I’ve been both avoiding and looking for all this bloody time, could be right under my nose. And it’s possible I’m too late. You see, once I discovered all this mush in my perfectly scientific head, I did something irrational. I planned a trip without telling the person I’d be staying with, or rather, the person I’m hoping to stay with.

Kashyap is now in Singapore, studying. I haven’t really spoken to him since the last Skype conversation we had two months ago, which lasted three and a half hours, after which I found myself strangely yearning for him and proceeded to realise I am probably in love with him. I managed to get his address under the guise of posting him a fabulous book I wanted him to read. But in fact I’m being incredibly irrational and surprising him in Singapore. Possibly with a declaration of my undying (well considering it’s been seven years, it could last another seven years. And 14 years is practically forever) love. If he’s alone in his apartment, that is. I was too scared of the answer to ask him whether he was seeing anyone seriously.

I’ve practiced the declaration several hundred times but still haven’t figured out what exactly to say. I’m hoping he knows me as well as I think he does and interrupts me before I make a blundering ass of myself.

I wonder how I’m going to feel about this in hindsight.

faith

“Have a little faith.”

That’s what he said.

So I did.

And look at me now. (Come on, you knew this was coming. If you didn’t… Well, grow up honey.) I’m three, almost four, months pregnant. Which is fine. We were married after all. But now I’m HIV positive too. Sounds pretty dramatic, huh?

I don’t think it’s sunk in really. Not quite. I’m more worried for the baby now than I am for myself. Me, I come from high society. I married an older man, one who had two marriages before me. I’m not saying don’t marry older men who have married before. I’m not saying anything really. I’m too worried for the baby. You see, I’m 37. And in India, some women are grandmothers by that age. They get married really early. Starting from the age of 18. Boys get married as early sometimes, though not as early. So there are very, very few women to manage to get to the age of 33 without showing the slightest inclination to find a husband, let alone marry and start reproducing. I should thank my family for that. They never put any pressure from me. They never even disputed the fact that Ajay was too old, or that his background was too hazy. (He’s 17 years older than me, and a “businessman” with I don’t-know-what businesses aside from extra-marital sex). My parents were in fact extremely supportive all throughout my career, my single days, my early days with Ajay and even when he was rumoured to have begun screwing around behind my back. (once even in front of me…….. don’t ask)

My brother was a little unsupportive. I took it as normal brotherly over-protectiveness. Ajay never struck me as the type who would stray. I think I was stupid and in love. Because once he got past my initial, extremely well-built defense mechanisms, there was no looking back. I think his desperation was what made him stick around long enough to break my barriers, in fact. We met two years before I married him and I slept with him after two dates because I thought, what the heck, why not have some fun. I never even told him about my mommy issues till about a year and half after we started seeing each other. Once I let him in though, there was no looking back. Even when I caught him in bed with my brother’s cousin-in-law’s niece. Yes, niece. She couldn’t have been more than 25. Even then, when he explained himself tearfully, I moved out for a few weeks but eventually took him back.
My parents were disbelieving and not entirely supportive but after they figured out I was in this for the long haul.. they stood by me. Hell, yes. They stood by the 36-year-old meandering artist (meandering professionally) married to a philandering and dubious “businessman”.

After I caught Ajay in bed with a different woman, I left. My father withdrew support from the bugger’s company (I never knew the details) and I packed my Louis Vuitton bags, took Bunny (my Irish Setter) and left in my Volkswagen Jetta.
A month later I discovered I was going to have a baby. I decided to keep it. Two months later my blood tests turned up HIV positive. And now, after confirming it with my gynaecologist and another specialist, I don’t know what to do. My mother is weeping, my father is on the verge of tears, my brother drove off so fast that I think he’ll crash his car… and I’m not telling Ajay.

The reason I say it’s not really sunk in yet is because I don’t care if my brother crashes his Audi or that my mother is weeping. Well I do. But more than that, much more than that, I’m horribly torn-up because my baby could have the virus too. And I’m not going to know till after it is born. So, what do I do?

I’m sitting on my terrace, dying to pour myself a really strong drink, and thinking: is it worse that I’m high society and not from some slum somewhere? I have middle class friends who have it easier than I do. More of them got married as and when they liked, to whomsoever they pleased, than girls whose parents are members of XYZ clubs – the types who hobnob with the rich, successful and famous.

My parents have already got enough whispers because they had a daughter marry late to a man much older than her. Then it didn’t turn out to be a Katie Holmes-Tom Cruise thing (who knows how that’ll turn out anyway) so we were gossiped about even more by page 3 people who had nothing better to do. And now. Well they’re bound to find out. Our circles aren’t too big so Mrs La-dee-dah who comes to the club to have high tea with Mrs Fla-bah-doo will be talking about it in a few months.

My parents can manage. I can. And my brother can, if he survives the drive home tonight. But what about Baby? Baby whose mother will not live longer than a couple decades at most. So Baby not only has daddy issues and trust issues as a result, but Mom-is-dead issues too. And that is if Baby does not die in the first few years herself. Presuming she’s a girl.

I never considered having a baby but once the stick turned blue I realised what women mean when they say, “John is the best thing to have happened in the marriage.” John the son, not the womanising husband.

Oh the phone rings. Who is it now? God? Where have you been you son of a cow. A female cow who did not have HIV I presume – smart lady. Now. Tell me what I should do. Have a baby who will inherit the fortune and the HIV perhaps, and be constantly under the societal gaze, or abort and save everybody the trauma… and me the will to live?

Oh sometimes I really wish I was poor and had a simpler life. More than that, I wish I hadn't had so much faith. In the wrong person.

to study or not to study

It's ridiculous. The average fees for a taught Masters programme in England for a resident or European student is not more than 3,000 pounds. And the fees for the same course for an international student is 11,000 pounds. Given our exchange rate, that's like buying an Audi Q5. At least I can show off an Audi Q5 and have men and women alike fall at my feet. But that doesn't change the fact that I will be applying to universities in the UK for a highly expensive Masters degree at some point [hopefully when the exchange rate is not too high].

Why, though? I know my reasons [some may call them excuses]. Since my chosen topic has no takers in India, there really aren't any Masters programmes in it. I've come across one three-month course but I doubt that's even a certificate course. Sigh. And some people like my editor-in-chief even asked me "But why would you want to study Creative Writing??"

Why, indeed. Because I'd rather not do a media and communications course and waste my time and mother's hard-earned money? And because I'm the sort that believes you aren't always born with everything -- if you're born with a talent, maybe you could try nurturing it and sharpening your skills a little. And oh god, I'm bored of working everyday. Honestly. I know my job is interesting to a lot of people, and it is to me as well, on most days at least. But who needs an expensive Masters in the nuances of journalism and communication when all it takes is a) a pretty face [for television], b) ability to aggressively hunt down stories, c) ability to get people to talk even when they don't want to, and preferably say things that you want them to say so it fits with your story, d) time management skills, e) excellent contacts, or the charm and intelligence to make new ones if you're a beginner, and f) ability to keep boss and [maybe, if needed] colleagues happy.

Yes, that's a little harsh but it's mostly true. What else do you need to know... writing skills? *guffaw* That's what sub-editors and editors are for. Hmm, what else. Ethics? What's that? No, really. The journalists I know with ethics kind of have it instilled in them during the course of their childhood. If they don't have it... well, they don't. And those are the ones more suited for television. [Having worked in television, I think I can say that without a moment's doubt].

Coming back to a postgraduate degree. No point in doing it in this field honestly. And I've always dreamed of working at my own pace, in my own space, and simply writing. No news briefs and whatnot. [no offense to news briefs - they're wondrous in comparison to hunting down pointless sound bytes for idiotic stories on security threats which exist only in the minds of executive editors at TV news stations]

I want to write. Sigh. You may say one does not need to study that. Well I *want* to study that. [No no, that was not said a la child throwing a tantrum in supermarket demanding ice-cream]. I honestly would rather study something I'm enamoured with and would want to pursue, than something pointless like, say oh I dunno... anthropological media and communications studies.

Which brings me back to - why are Indian students willing to pay so much to study HR and the like, and why are universities abroad charging so much from people from supposed developing nations? Colonial hangover, much?