All that Love

I'd heard about the video before I watched it, and it was with a strange mixture of apprehension and curiosity that I pressed 'Play' for Miley Cyrus' new video 'Wrecking Ball' on YouTube. As Miley's pale face, red mouth and streaming eyes filled the screen, I couldn't help but feel a strange sadness that had nothing to do with any petty issues of my own personal life (and it shouldn't; my exams have just ended!). As the video progressed, and the words I'd never heard before washed over me, I realized what I was feeling sad about; it's love which can push us to the greatest heights of euphoria, and it's love which manages to pull us to the darkest depths of despair!

Love is a masochistic feeling, and every time it makes you feel good, it's actually, slowly and skilfully killing you, taking away bits and pieces that make up your very being, and before you know it, you've given everything up and you are left feeling naked, and you realize that everything that defines you, is at the mercy of someone else. Love, they say, is painful.

What's more, we tend to be blind when we're in love, meaning, when we're in love, we remain woefully ignorant of those people who might Actually care for us, and we continue pursuing someone who might just not give two hoots about us!

Even when we Do come to know about a person nursing tender feelings for us, we feel nothing but a hardhearted sympathy for them, and shrug our shoulders and say, 'Can't help, I don't like him/her!'

Strange, isn't it?

But like Maria Elena said in Vicky Christina Barcelona, 'unfulfilled love is the most romantic.'

Weird is the human brain, cruel is the human heart.

Inducing Insomnia

One look at my school exam schedule in September and I knew the time had come for desperate measures. I had to arm myself against the evils of sleep and general all-encompassing laziness and inertia of mind. Yes, I did not include Facebook in this list because furtively checking my news feed at 2 in the morning is second nature, and a twitchy habit, like sniffing, which you just can't get rid of.

The days swung by with increasing velocity, and before I knew it, I was gazing, bleary-eyed, at the Physics question paper and trying to suppress the panic which rose in intensity as I turned the pages. During the course of the three-hour exam, my heart rate alternatively accelerated and decelerated, and the pen seemed to be so heavy in my hands. It's just something Physics does to you. You either nail it or fail it, or, in my case, you just scrape by with enough marks to not attract the disapproving glare of the teacher. Its funny how many times during a Physics exam the thought, 'Fuck logic' flits through the mind. 

Then we were, most kindly, given a day, ONE day, to revise our entire Chemistry syllabus, which comprised 10 gigantic chapters ranging from Physical Chemistry to its Organic counterpart, and once more I found myself desperately cramming the subject at one in the morning, due to appear for the subject in eight hours. I did what I should have done long ago. I downed a giant mug of scalding hot coffee (black, no sugar), turned on the A.C. and sat down to cram some more. You might wonder about the little A.C. detail, but actually I have a peculiar reaction to air-conditioned places; I cannot sleep in them. The coffee, coupled with the A.C., would keep me awake for hours on end. 

I dozed off at around a quarter to 4, and awoke feeling only slightly woozy at 6. Realizing the need to shake off the residual wooziness, I inhaled a half-cup of caffeine this time. Then, with bloodshot eyes, twitchy fingers, an irregular pulse and a wild look in my eyes, I set off to meet my fate. Well at least all this drama was worth it; the second test went off slightly better than the first. 

And now with tired, tired eyes, I type in these words, glad that I have one day to revise the English syllabus. 

The books must be around somewhere.

I think just the one cup will do the trick this time, don't you?

Every time. Every single time.

So I walked into an outlet which promised 'Fabulous Traditional Wear at Unbelievable Rates!' in a shopping mall and gazed at the rows and rows of shimmering jackets, sequinned kurtis, glittering chudidars and glamorous saris on display. I had a wedding to attend in a few weeks, and all I possessed of suitable 'wedding wear' was an extremely old salwar which when I put on (oh yes, I tried it on!), tore all the way down the middle. I guess that's when I realized it was time to restock the wardrobe with a bit of classic Indian.

Always the most reluctant shopper, I walked in apprehensively and steeled myself for the 'Trauma of the Trial Room'. My mom had immediately made a beeline for the displays marked to be 'On Sale' and was already carefully scrutinizing some kind of flimsy silky material.

My eyes scanned the room till they found (aha!) the 'Free Size' area. It was in bold and gleaming atop a display of beautiful clothes, and I felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this wouldn't be such a waste of time after all. I had just reached out to pick out a kurti when an over-enthusiastic assistant wearing a maniacal smile came bounding over. She was short and her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and a card which read 'Hello, I am Shanti! How may I help you?' was pinned on top of her regulation pink and white shirt. I ignored her in the hope that she would go away, but she looked up at my 5-foot-10 frame and immediately began to pick out different styles from the rack, and promising with utmost sincerity, that All of these were my size, and All of them would Easily fit me. She offered another confidently professional smile and held the clothes out to me. Hesitantly , I picked out an indigo-blue and a pale green and strode to the trial room.

I cheat when I try out. I don't bother to undress fully. If they fit me over my clothes, they will fit me. But one look at the slinky things I'd carried and I realized they would tear at the slightest stress. So...

The first one fit...my arms. Just above my chest, it got stuck. I struggled wildly and was about to utter cries of help when the wretched thing came out. Still recovering my breath, I threw on the second with a vengeance. That one fit, oh yes it did, but I realized if I wore it for two more minutes I would die of suffocation, the first person ever, to die of a too-tight dress. The material stretched over my chest, already a little too flat for an 18-year-old, and made my breasts look non-existent.

I pulled it off with a spirit of one fighting a thrashing python. I looked at the disheveled reflection in the mirror and had a sudden urge to laugh.

Smoothing my hair and clutching the clothes that had tried to kill me I pushed the heavy brocade curtains back, only to find the assistant waiting on tenterhooks.

'Which one fit?' she asked eagerly.

'This one,' I said, pointing at the black turtleneck that I was wearing. 

Them Beasts Be Crazy

I'm such a good lover because I practice a lot on my own. - Woody Allen

She was sitting next to me, checking out the new ring I'd bought, putting it on and admiring it from various angles, when she said, 'Eh...I have hair on my knuckles.'

She did, though it was barely discernible. I showed her my fingers, which were certainly more hairy, but had been finally tamed by regular waxing and shaving.

'See?', I told her, 'I have man hands.'

She laughed.

That's me, I thought, making girls feel better about themselves.

I looked to my right, saw the figure lying sprawled all over his seat, and immediately  seized upon the chance to pass a nasty comment on that particular boy.

'S,' I called, 'you are the ugliest sleeping person I have ever seen.'

He opened an eye lazily and gave me the finger.

S is the most perverted dog I have ever come across. He once took my soft red leather purse when I was not looking and proceeded to squeeze it like it was a particularly sumptuous breast.

When the teacher isn't looking, he grinds his hips like he's dry-humping and makes panting noises, to the delighted amusement of the other animals around him.

He said, once, that if he had to propose to a girl he would go to her with a condom in one hand, and a rakhi (a piece of decorative string tied around the brother's wrist by his sister as a mark of love and protection from evils.) in the other, and tell her to choose.

He lives for porn, and he lives for masturbation, and considers himself something of an expert in HD adult sites.

But at least, I reasoned, he is open about his preferences. Unlike the incredibly quiet guy who sat in a corner of the class and never spoke to anyone, and who ( I found out later) had embellished quite a few desk tops with grotesquely explicit poems written in bold with a black marker, not dissimilar to the ones found on the doors of public bathrooms.

What's worse, I have caught him ogling me for quite some time now, and can't really shake off the feeling that those colourful rhyming couplets were aimed at me.

Ah well, like Jim Morrison said, people are strange.

To judge or not to judge?

Some people get wet, others just feel the rain. -Bob Marley

I came across this quote while I was, well, searching for quotes, and this seemed to blend in with my mood perfectly.

How nice would it be to not get affected by the thousands of people around you, trying to mould you to their way of thinking, trying to replace the person that you are, with a robotic version of what society approves?
When are people right, anyway? What they call 'constructive criticism' might just as well be their mad jealousy speaking, or their bias. How do we differentiate the truth from lies, the honesty from the prejudice, or the friendship from hatred? It's never easy to be who you are, it's never easy to simplify people's opinions, and it's never easy to not get hurt.

I have a friend who faces quite a similar problem. She's a stellar speaker, and can host any event, and ceremonies with professional ease. This makes her popular with the teachers, especially since she's responsible and diligent, and she had even been nominated for Head Girl, though that bit didn't work out. Slowly but steadily, the barest trace of condescension could be detected in her voice, and the hint of contempt in her behaviour towards others.

Though I remained on excellent terms with her, what made me uncomfortable was how she clung to me like I was her lifeline, and her possessiveness towards me. I talked to people who knew her and all claimed that she was rude and pompous towards her fellows. Determined to bring the issue to a positive end, I stated the facts as I knew them, bluntly, and to her face. As I expected, she flared up and demanded to know all about the source of these accusations. But, I said, that was hardly the point.

A few days later, I saw a marked change in her, brought about by much determination and force. It was unnatural the way she made her voice sound hearty and warm when she was with others. I let her carry on like that a bit until one day, today to be precise, she and I stopped to chat at an old haunt of ours. That is where she dropped the act.

'I am who I am,' she said, 'and people must accept me the way I am! What you heard, what you were told, that was all just one side of the coin, and you formed your opinions about me without considering my side of the story. I understand that I ought to maintain good relations with my peers, but if they are spiteful, and speak out of jealousy, I cannot help.I did not, however, hurt anyone intentionally.'

Then she looked out of the window with a somewhat faraway look on her face and spoke of a friend with whom she had fallen out; a girl, who, incidentally, was good friends with me.

'We bonded instantly, because we had similar problems in our families... exactly the same, actually.'

That made me curious. I prodded her some more, and she finally came out with it.

'My dad is a weak man. He lacks a personality, lacks vitality, and has even teetered on the edge of considering suicide sometimes. My mother, is the exact opposite; she is strong, a woman of character, and an unbreakable will. And after their marriage, frustrated by her husband's unhappiness, and desperate for love, another man came into my mother's life, who torments her till this day, just because she made the mistake of falling in love with him. He has a wife and a daughter, who my mother practically brought up, even going to the extent of ignoring me in the process. Maybe that's what makes me feel older, more mature sometimes.Life is not exactly perfect for me, and pardon me if I have seemed too possessive towards you; it's just that I am so afraid of losing the people I care about, so afraid, all the time.'

The bell rang for classes and there was a sharp upswing in the level of noise. I looked at my friend and smiled, and together, we walked back to our rooms.

The Change

I whipped my head up, convinced I'd heard somebody calling my name, but I was mistaken. There was nobody there. Just teenagers excited about finally going home from school at the end of the day. I was pretty exhausted myself; a class XII Physics practical exam with a complimentary viva is draining. I scanned the crowd for any face turned towards me, but all I saw was... a boy my age, with his head bowed, his feet a little apart, his arms tightly folded across his chest, standing inside the elevator apparently deep in thought.A moment later the elevator doors shut him out of my sight and carried him to the upper floors of the school building. It was the end of the school day, and yet he was going back up. The look on his face was resigned, sad, even. Like a cloud had passed over his features since I last saw him. He looked older, stranger, and somehow more vulnerable.

I knew him.

Once upon a time he could make an entire class roar with laughter, and the teacher crack a smile by simply giving her one of his impish looks.

I thought I knew him.

But that was when he was free.

His wings are clipped now.