Snapshots

The mornings are of purple skies streaked with deep crimson. It smells of cinnamon and coffee. And of course, of love. One wants likes to think that being whimsical is what one does best. It is when one is happiest.

Then he came along. And suddenly there was chaos. She could not think what was it about him that confused her so much. Feet. His feet. First time she told him that feet are the first thing about a person that attract her, he said it was very wise. "Clean feet are the basic sign of hygiene. If a person cares enough to keep his feet clean and stink-free, you can live with that person." She had sighed an exasperated sigh then. Trust him to take the romance out of everything.

She looked at him now, searching for his glasses that were on top of his head. Wondering how he is going to live with his absentmindedness, she reached up to pull down his glasses to his nose. He smiled, that amused, indulgent smile of his. She grinned back. It was going to be quite a morning.

Cost of Independence...and its Worth

I am often told, by well meaning friends, that I am a Grown-up now. That somehow, this business of being a Grown-up implies that I can, and should be able to make my own decisions. I am sure, I often say this, well-meaningly, to my friends as well. But of late, and only of late, I've begun to wonder what a sham that really is.

Being a Grown-up, does not mean a thing. Or perhaps, it means too many things, and not one of us can quite put our finger on an exact, enclosed in angular brackets, sort of definition. Which probably is why we walk around, all of us, with these myriad ideas of what our role as a Grown-up in Modern India should really entail. Traditionally, of course, things were probably much simply designed. I say probably, because I have no real experience having lived in these "traditional, more organised times", and as such, I can only venture what I can, at best, call an optimistic guess. Optimistic, for the thought that, if present times are such a mess, the times before and the times to come must offer a clearer perspective, a neater thinking to things. I may be entirely wrong, of course, but I am rather hoping that I am not.

So, my problem with the present state of affairs is this--we are still a culture which places an enormous emphasis on the family unit--and the family unit, where the parent/parent figures make most of our decisions for us. All keeping the child's best interest at heart of course. And I say this, without sarcasm, condescension or judgement. Neither is this my problem, really, it is merely one of the parameters that define my problem. My problem then, is this change that some of us have perhaps willingly, and perhaps unknowingly, entered into. The change, from being our parents' children to independent, but unattached adults. We, who sort of, kind of, "move out" of our homes, either to study or to work, and then a few years, or if we are lucky, months, later, learn that we are now independent. We can now make decisions, where previously, we would have sought permission. We find that we are responsible for finding (and funding) our own food, rent and bills, and by that extension, we can also decide what we wear, where we go, when we go, and who we go with (or without, for the matter). But then, the problem arises, when we realise that no one remembered to send this whole we-the-independent memo to our parents. Who still are under the impression that they make the decisions in their child's lives, just as their parents made theirs. You can clearly imagine the possible conflicts of interests. And when the said conflicts of interests do arise, the best anyone can do, is fumble and feel their way through the dark. Hence the several make-shift arrangements. "I drink, but please don't tell my parents." "I can never wear these shorts at home, but they are okay for here." "My mother still thinks my roommate's a girl." "Don't you dare put the pics of Saturday night on FB, I have family on my list!"

This, this, is the reason why we have been fighting for the same things since the last 50 years--more independence. And it does not help that all of us have friends who have parents who are more progressive than ours, and friends who have parents who are more conservative that ours. So on one hand, I have friends whose parents sit with her and drink, and on the other hand, I have parents who wont even let her pick the clothes to wear. So we are constantly off the mark while judging our own parents' progressiveness (or should I be saying permissiveness, really?). Which is probably why I was shocked when at 18, my parents let me move out of a convent hostel and into an apartment in an area they had not even been to, with 3 girls they had barely met and I knew for less than 6 months myself. And probably why I am shocked now at almost 27, and having survived 'independently' 4 jobs, 2 different cities, 3 different houses and more threatening-to-be-life-changing crisis than I care to even tell them, my folks won't let me take up an apartment on my own. So when my friends tell me I am a grown up, I am not even sure what that even means.

Am I looking for an answer here? I am not sure myself. I am just asking the question, and hoping that would take me somewhere. Answers, are after all, just collateral damage, are they not?

And just like that

While endlessly wandering in the back alleys of the Internet, I stumbled upon this picture today. And just like that, I wanted to write. Not particularly about the picture, not particularly about the over dramatic futility of it, not particularly about anything. Just write. You know, scribble words, then see if they can stick around to become a sentence, and then see where that takes me.

It took me till a second paragraph, the question, as always, is what now?

Her

There is something intrinsically beautiful about dried flowers. Like photographs. They remind us of some beauty we once experienced, the memory of which still lingers, like the musty fragrance of a dried petal.

Which is why she never had the soul to throw away the flowers she received. She liked to preserve them, leave them, scattered in through the intermittent pages of books. So that someday, she turns a page, and is unexpectedly faced with a yesterday.

She said she hated it when people got her flowers. Perhaps, it was the burden of that carefully preserved memory that tired her. Perhaps, she lied. Perhaps, this ping-pong game of today and yesterday is what kept her locked in her own head. Perhaps, she just didn't want what she thought she wanted.

As the tea goes cold...

It irked her no end that people did not have time to talk anymore. Not the usual whining about work, kids and beyond, not the "discussions" on all things important, but just good, old fashioned, while-you-have-other-important-things-that-can-wait-or-go-to-hell talk. Like that time in college, where she and that friend who always made her laugh snuck out of that very boring class of the pretty teacher, and sat by the football field to ogle at Wasim Akram lookalikes. Or that time, when that friend and she sat on the steps of her then house and discussed life and love. She was in her night clothes and the friend was in a tee and a towel, but the fact that they were out, at 3.30 in the morning, sharing emotional gossip both of them pretended not to care for, gave her a sneaky sense of gladness. Then there was that time, when she fell asleep, as her tears dried on the shoulders of that friend, the one who never ceased to bring immense calm into her always chaotic life.

One day, she hopes to set a table for two, pull out some old, chipped mugs, that hold more memories than tea in them. And she hopes, those friends will come and talk to her again.

Ephifunnies

They say that in the deepest moments of our solitude, is where epiphanies lie. But then there are some of us, who just find comfort in solitude, not wisdom. Certainly, not clarity. Being alone is perhaps over-rated, but then so is surrounding ourselves with people. Maybe it is all about finding the balance. Gah! What a perfectly boring paragraph.

One cannot understand why one get into these ridiculous moods where one wants to ponder on the nature of life, the universe and the precise timing of the next door neighbour's pressure cooker whistle (which is perfectly synchronized with the other neighbor's unholy barking bout [yes, the said neighbour is canine] every morning). One is perfectly happy with one's natural state of ignorance for most part of the year, and then comes one of "those days" where fancies oneself as unrealised potential and feels slightly guilty about not waking and (ab)using one's prodigious but largely dormant genius.


Sigh! One feels like one is in one of those confusing before-and-after type commercials, that being with being black and white and deary and then suddenly become loud and colourful. Only in one's case there are fewer hot people to look at.

Fridays, what does one do with them?

Whispers

Once upon a time, she met a secret in a corner. She didn't know what to do with it, so she carried it with her everywhere. Then one day, it threatened to consume her from inside. So she took a chance, and whispered the secret to a dead tree. The tree spoke to the wind, and the wind blurted it out to the mountain over evening tea. The mountain told it to the river in jest, and the river ran to tell the pebble...so that when she met the pebble next, the pebble called her the evil one, and accused her of stealing his spirit away.

She has been scared of secrets since then.