The un-bride

Low morning. The weather outside is beautiful though. It was awful for two days; couldn't step outside without wincing but today it was cloudy and soft when I stepped out.

And my heart is getting as heavy as the clouds. All night long, I tossed and turned and it wasn't because of the heat. Just couldn't get to sleep; kept thinking of K... K, who hasn't written in two years. K, who never did want to have anything to do with me. K, on whom my hope and fantasy has hinged so long, it is a habit.

I had attended a cousin's wedding recently. In the way weddings are fun, it was fun. The dressing up and excitement and all the cousins gathering to talk all night long. But the moment I came away from it, I felt miserable.

Actually, I had been miserable right through the celebrations. The talk of clothes and jewelry tired me out - I'm not that much into gold and diamonds anyway. The talk of rituals and rites and who is to be treated with how much respect and who to visit... it was so trite and predictable.

I participated in everything, though. All the banter, the gossip, the talking through the night, eating through the day and sometimes through the night too. In fact, I was more enthusiastic than I had ever been at any wedding before this. Partly, because I was afraid of coming across as depressed or loser-like. I did not want my cousins to feel that I was unhappy. This was a younger cousin who was being married off and I should have been married and settled years ago, as far as the family is concerned. I was determined not to let them think that I was upset or even affected by my single status. So I joked with aunties, chatted with younger cousins, held onto the elders and little ones. I was fabulous, in short.

Now, that I'm alone and free to feel what I felt, there's this overwhelming sense of being left out. Weddings do that to the un-wed. Make you feel less important. Diminished, somehow.

Besides, I don't think Indian families can let go of a daughter, let her become a grown-up and start treating her with individual respect, unless she is married. I have financial and even social independence. I have a separate household. I do not take money from anyone else. I have friends and a busy calendar, ten months out of twelve. But according to my family, I am not 'whole'. They think of me as an unfinished project, I suspect. As somebody who has done well, in a sense but who has to be taken care of yet. They cannot let go of the idea of me as a 'girl' and they cannot accept me as a woman.

That will only happen when they can see me swathed in red and gold. When they can finally cry at the sight of me as a woman, formally leaving the nest. Then, and only then, will they let go.

Good morning!

What sort of mad existence is this - that you cannot feel the morning on your face, that you cannot feel dusk on your shoulders?

There has to be something fundamentally wrong with a world that trades fresh air for air-conditioning. And yet, it is so easy to forget. To forget the morning. To forget how it feels on your face when you lean out of an open window or when you stand outside, sipping tea before the day's work begins.

This morning, I am awake early. The room is usually air-conditioned and therefore shut up. Morning only means too much light, most days. But today, I opened out the window and as I sit here, I can feel the morning as a real, live thing. As a cool touch on one arm, as a very, very light brush against one cheek. The pigeons are busy; some bird is calling out pee-hoo-pee-hoo.

The temptation to simply stop is overwhelming - stop doing everything at all and just go stand there, my face leaning out into the freshness of a new day. To find a small roadside shack where they serve strong tea in small glasses with khaari biscuit and to squint at the first few vehicles whirr up the dust around.

But this is a posh area, isn't it? No roadside shacks. No open windows. Lots of air-conditioning.

Explanation

Despair made me start writing. Made me put up my private life here, in public. For the public to chew on, spit at, click her tongue at and feel for. And then, I despaired of doing that too. So, for a long time, I just held my peace. There wasn't anything new to say and whatever did go on in my life was.... well.... just stuff that was going on in my life. There was no reason for me to write about it.

Besides, I actually went through this phase of happiness. Relative peace. A phase in which the world and my own troubles in it did not matter so much. I was content. In a dead-end, hopeless relationship, in the tight whorl of what never will be and yet, is - I was content. I did want to speak to anybody about it. And I did not seek anyone's opinion on it. Eff the world, I thought. Eff the blog. Eff the virtual community. There is no such thing as a virtual world. It is all real. And the only thing that matters, finally, is the real.

And the real was slipping into the peace of acceptance. This last year, especially the last six months, I feel like I've 'lived'. Eff the details.

Oh, its not been smooth all the way. There's been bursts of despair and nights of anger. But there's been a lot going on, and all in all, at the end of the day, there was the night and after the night, there was light. And after the light, there was a phone call, a visit, a plan, a meeting, a rendezvous.

So, I thought.... eff the blog. I'm happy. A certain kind of happiness that contains a throbbing kernel of despair. But hey! It takes all sorts, no?

Mmmuuaah - 5 ?

Okay, so I've talked about kissing here, here, here and here.

Now, I'd like to do some more talking about kissing - especially about how to kiss well - but before I do that, I'd also like to do some research, because, after all, how many men does one girl get to experience, eh?

So, women out there, this is a questionnaire of sorts. You can even call it a meme/tag. Please do write back either in the comment section, or on your own blogs (just send me a link).

1] At what age did you first lock lips? (Be honest, now. Strictly)

2] How many men have you kissed till date?

3] Ever kissed a woman? (If so, how many?)

4] How many of those men were bearded? Mustachioed?

5] Is it more fun kissing a clean-shaven guy?

6] Try and describe (in at least fifty words) what a bad kiss is like.

7] Do you need to take breaks, during a kiss, for air/breath?

8] Have you ever pretended to need air/breaks, when you actually aren't enjoying the kiss?

9] Do you think fondly of the best kisser-man, even if you didn't end up in a long-term relationship?

10] Have you managed any 'pure' kissing lately? i.e., a good, long kiss which does not involve any fondling or feeling up or further foreplay leading to sex?


Women, remember, this is in the larger interest of humankind, because knowledge is power, and all that.

Needy, aren't we?

I've been doing a lot of thinking these days about 'needs'.

To survive, fresh air and food is enough. I mean, basically survive. Nobody can guarantee good health, and no matter how rich you are, you won't live forever. Some bug, some tumour, some insect, some predator, some accident will finish you off.

But as long as I'm alive, I need.... what? Food?

Shelter? Not strictly essential. After all, monkeys survive in the wild. In trees, in caves. Am pretty sure I could too, if it came of that. And now that there are no tigers or lions left in the forests, there's a better chance of not being eaten up.

Clothes? Well, in a tree or a cave, who wants clothes? I'm sure the monkeys couldn't care less. It might be too cold to be nude in winter, but that aside, clothes aren't necessary either.

So... food, water, fresh air. That's all I need, finally.

And love. (Or is that really just about sex and companionship?)

Food, water, sex. Those are the three top drives that keep animals going. They have no incentive to live, apart from the survival instinct. And if you take away love/sex/companionship, even that instinct fails them.

And look at us humans.

I have at least a hundred clothes. I'm not kidding. And at least half a dozen pairs of shoes. And furniture. And plates and glasses and spoons and forks. And handloom bedsheets and faux leather bags. And a credit card and four bank accounts and life insurance.

Needs... needs!

Some changes, some firsts.

Have been looking at old posts, and wondering how life has changed.... Well, it hasn't. Still pining. Still in a dead-end relationship. Still mooning about how depressing life is. But, amongst the things that have changed, recently -

Got rid of an old piece of metal furniture which was too shabby to keep, but to which I clung out of a misplaced sense of nostalgia.

Got a new wicker basket. Hate the plasticky laundry baskets that are available so cheap, in all the markets. Had always wanted a wicker laundry basket.

Got two new scars, from viral skin infections.

Got my old vitamin deficiency back again.

Got a new bag, as a gift. Gave away a new bag, as a gift.

Got sick after drinking beer.

Got sick after drinking fancy herbal tea.

Got nervous about sex, all over again.

Got kissed by one more man.

Got an extra kilo on my thighs.

Got over my panic/shame and finally, said 'I love you' to a man.

Yes, that's a first, actually! Had felt it and written it, but had never looked at a man in the eye and said it. At this ripe old age! And of course, then I burst into tears. He never said, 'I love you too'.

One beautiful bitch dies of depression.

So, I wrote the last post about depression. And then, a comment got me thinking about animals and depression. I've heard that dogs and cats get depressed, dogs especially. If you leave them alone too long, or if they're locked up all the time or if they lose somebody close - their master or mistress or a fellow-pet, they get sad. They don't eat well. They start falling sick. Their eyes are lowered a lot of the time. They don't welcome you with wagging tails or barking madness.

I knew one bitch who went through all of that. She was my friend's pet.

Let's call her... Beauty. She had a beautiful name, though. A name that had something to do with alcohol. And I thought it suited her because her eyes made me think of alcohol. She'd got melty, soft brown eyes and she was an alsatian. Maybe there was some mixed breed in her, but she looked very alsatian - brown and black with a thick tail and rough hair. I loved her the first day we met. Unlike her fellow-pet, a noisy, vicious pom who was so spoilt that he would bite even the kids of the famly. But Beauty, she was a saint. A happy saint, I think. She had mated with the pom and produced at least two lovely male dogs. One of them grew up to look like her - dark and brown and gentle-eyed. She mated with him too, in a few years. They looked great together, actually. The two larger dogs would be tied up outside, in the garden, through most of the day. They played a lot, sat around and panted a lot, barked only a little and didn't bite friends when they came up to pat them. The pom had to be kept indoors all the time. He would bark his head off, growl through the visit, eat whipped cream and fresh roti, and wouldn't let you touch his mistress.

Beauty loved being petted, but she wasn't an affection slut in the way many dogs are. She would lie there, revel in your fingers running through her coat, roll over once in a while, but she didn't slobber all over you. If you patted the bed, she'd hesitate, like a real lady, and then jump on. If you patted the bed a second time, she'd lie down. If you held her muzzle between your palms and looked into her eyes, she looked back into yours, seriously, gently.

Then, lots of changes happened in this family. My friend couldn't stand living with her dad any more and she moved out. The dad himself was transferred to a different city, so he left. He took Beauty's son-and/or-mate along, to serve as a guard dog. After a few months, his wife, the mistress also left to join him. Since she couldn't live without the pom and the pom couldn't live without her, he was taken away too. Beauty was left all alone in that large house, with one servant to take care of the house. Perhaps, Beauty was left there to guard the house too.

In three months, I saw a marked change in her. I went back to visit my friend once and I couldn't understand why she didn't just take the dog away from the empty house. She said that the house needed a dog to prevent burglaries. And there was a servant, after all.

Maybe, the servant was never a dog-person. Maybe, he didn't love Beauty. And maybe Beauty was just the sort of bitch that would not go begging for love. Last I saw, she seemed very quiet, very low. I petted her as much as I could. Stroked her fur, tried to get her to put her head in my lap, patted the bed and asked her to jump up on it. But she just sat there, unmoving. She wouldn't even meet my eyes. My friend tried to get her to sleep in her bedroom, but Beauty just wasn't interested. She lay in her corner, outside the bedroom, barely looking at her food dish.

I mentioned that Beauty didn't look well. My friend just nodded sadly. A month later, she called to say that the bitch was dead.

I don't know if there were any funerals. I didn't ask. But I remember thinking, that if Beauty had been mine, I would have been less depressed, and maybe, she alive.

Some thoughts on depression

I've been super-depressed, therefore, thinking abouit depression.

See, most people tend to lump all degress of depression into this one big bag of low-ness. You'll call your best friend and say, I need to go drinking coz I'm depressed. You'll sulk over an office lunch and crib about how bad the canteen food is, coz you're depressed. You'll say you feel fat, and that makes you depressed. You'll even say that the morning newspaper is depressing.

Which is completely unreal. Because it strips the word 'depression' of all meaning, all subtlety, all impact. Nobody takes it seriously when you use the word any more. At best, people now talk in terms of regular, 'normal' depression, and 'clinical' depression.

I think I'm going to evolve a rating scale for depression to try and reclaim it at least in part.

There should be 'mild, but so everyday that it is perfectly normal' depression. That's like being depressed because the weather is bad. Or because a rape victim in Kanpur was married off to her rapist, in the police station permises.

Then, there should a 'non-violent but threatening to overwhelm' depression. That's like walking down the road under a hot sun, feeling the weather shift, looking up at a cloudy sky and suddenly bursting into tears.

There should also be a 'whoa, watch out, you'll hurt yourself' depression. That's like when your eyes well up in public and you run to find a loo to lock yourself in, and then there's this urge to bang your head against the wall.

Of the three, I think the first is the most dangerous.

It is precisely when things begin to seem 'normal', that you let your guard down against them. That's when they take over your mind and soul. With depression, if you want to throw yourself off a cliff, that's a very obvious sign of danger. You're not just depressive but suicidal and will find it easy to seek help if you only reach out for it. Try climbing a water tank, a la Dharmendra in Sholay, and see how the world will collectively plead with your mind - everybody will appease you, make promises that may sweeten the bitter pill of life, will create such a hungama that you may actually be persuaded that life is worth living.

But if you go about like nothing's wrong. Like being sullen and reticent is just... you. Like you'd smile if there was anything to smile about, but there isn't... that's insidious. That's when your mind is fukcing you in ways you don't even understand. That's when it s stripping away each layer of joy and optimism, and filling all the empty spaces with this toxic vaccum. That's when you'll get up one fine day, and will know, that it makes no sense to get up.

Not because the world is so fukced up. Not because little girls are trafficked and old women paraded naked and babies are dying of hunger. But because in such a world, you bring no light. And no light is seeking out your eyes. You soul has become a magnet for sorrow - all the sorrow of the world, and happiness breezes past, scarcely ruffling your hair. That's when you're at the edge. And you don't know it.

Because you're not crying and you're not doing anything to hurt yourself. You're even holding down a job, and doing bloody decent work, actually. So, you're doing okay. And when you're doing okay, you're most alone. You ain't broke, and nobody's fixing your life. You wake up, make your coffee, pay the maid, open the newspaper... and one more little statistic stares back at you from a tiny para in the last column. And you go... who is it this time?

Anger's a funny thing.

I've been both angry and bitter and lonely and that's precisely the sort of mood in which I started this blog. Well, not entirely true. I'd started it with a sense and spirit of fun. Which I no longer have. But what I do have is now is a mission. Which to work my way back into some semblance of...what? Recognizable sanity?

Umm... not really. I'm not looking for either sanity or insanity. I think I'm looking for a space in which to feel free again. Free to bitch. Free to crib. Free to say outrageous things that I wouldn't in normal life. Free to peer out into nothing and mean nothing in any tangible sense.

With this blog, I lost that. I killed the blog and it's back from the dead because the living world is a haunted space. For me, at the moment, it is.

I started out by saying something about anger. I really was feeling angry when I started typing. And I already feel bitter. I can feel the tension slip out of my fingertips and slim into the big, big unknown - the wide, wide world of the worldwideweb.

What also helped calm me down,perhaps, was re-reading this email I had got several months ago, from some dude who read my blog just around the time it died. He said that he was impressed with my 'profile', that he wanted to meet me, in CP that too. And that he was a bit of a nymphomaniac, or whatever the male version of the type was called. I hadn't even bothered to read it properly until now, and when I did, it was with this mixture of incredulity and amusement.

A male nymphomaniac offering to meet up at CP. What did he think we'd end up doing. Did he think we'd be going at it in a Cafe Coffee Day or on the bonnet of his car, in the perpetually over-crowded parking space? Really, am very curious. What goes on in the mind of a male nymphomaniac?

Hello world.

I'm back.

With all the bitterness you can scoop out of a karela's oval heart. With all the viciousness of pent-up little stories, I'm back here. Where I most certainly do not belong.