Something Something Meri Jaan

1. You know that feeling when people who only think of emotional shosha start talking to you? It feels like bird poop penetrated through the pores of your brain and dirtied the whole thing fully. You know?

2. You know that feeling when you hate everyone because no one really loves you because you're disgusting or maybe not?

3. You know that feeling when you, YOU, who has never missed anything except facebook when away from friends and family, that YOU, actually begin missing your family, parents, brother, sister,  sab kuch?

4. You know that feeling when you think your heart is a shit stuffed bag of tears?

5. You know that feeling when you feel you've faked everything all your life, that you've pretended coolness, happiness, bindaasness for so long, people actually detest you if that armor cracks once in a while, and they move on to the funny people of the moment then. You know?

6. You know that feeling when you just want to drink and drink and drink some more, and then go out and tell everyone what you actually think of them, that they're hot and you want to kiss them, that they're cute and you want to kiss them, that they suck and you want to gaand pe laato them, that you're awesome so please love back?

7. You know that morbid, fearful feeling, when you get eve-teased by three bikers and shout back "madarchod" in tashan, but you know you're fuck scared and rape may happen any moment?

8. You know that feeling when your scalp starts bloody bleeding because of winter dryness and people in college notice and tell you about it?

9. You know that feeling when your crush gives you nothing but a bored "hey" and you've been dreaming he'd ask you out because you dressed so well today?

10. You know that feeling when you discover, suddenly, that food is not making you happy any longer, and that appetite is dying and dying sand dying?

11. You know that feeling when you just want to hug your mother and just live in the warmth of love and validation?

12. You know that feeling when you fear being judged?

13. You know that feeling when the person you've loved the most all your life, the person you've shared everything with, the person who knows your real self like no other, when that person turns out to be nothing but an illusion, a farce, and suddenly everything is lost?

14. You know that feeling when you're crying in the night, fearing someone you love may commit suicide any moment, wondering what you can do about it?

15. You know that feeling when there's no love anywhere?

16. You know that feeling when you're so devastated only God can help?

17. You know that feeling when you're just painfully, intensely, unusually, sad?

18. You know that feeling when you want to drink and drink and drink and DRINK?

19. You know that feeling when you want someone with you, someone who's like you, someone who loves you even when you're a solitude-loving, boring, non-risk-taking, cribbing, crying, idiotic, bitchy, stabby, messy, dirty-minded, desperate, selfish, non-fun-loving, shanti-loving, sex-loving, money-loving, ambitious, jealous, dark, unfunny little whore, because that probably what you really are?

20. You know that feeling when you're a total stranger to your own self, your activities are dictated by some manipulative corner of your brain, you cannot love anyone, no one loves you, everything is dhokha, naatak, etc etc?

You know?

Love-me-not, life ki maa-behen, guilt, and Dear God.

Love-me-not

Suddenly I find a surge in the number of people who love me/find me awesome. They post on my facebook wall, and they try to talk to me all the time, they get frustrated if I don't reply to them, and they mentally kill me if I do not pretend to love them back often enough, and they laugh at me ( or maybe at my jokes, can't say which) and everything.

I hate it.

I hate it like I hate lizards. That much. It shocks me, this stupidity. People either find me intelligently funny, or ridiculously so, but that's it. Funny. Weird. Pagal. Crazy. That's why they like me.Because they find me, my actions, my thoughts, entertaining, ridiculous maybe.  It makes me feel a peculiar kind of contempt for them. Is that how shallow they are? Is that their basis for loving people? Aren't other things supposed to count? And a peculiar form of disgust at myself. Is that all there is to me? Do I try to be funny all the time? Is it my fault?

It's not like I don't like my sense of humour to be appreciated. What fucks my mind is that some people love me only for that. It's even worse than being loved for your looks; atleast that kind of an adoration wears out ultimately! Holy fuck, I'd rather be lonely, in the comfort of my own presence, than have friends like that. Friends who want to talk to me only because they're bored. Who're probably thinking I'm awesome because I can make them laugh, bhenchod. Friends who treat me like their personal laughter vending machine.

I don't want that kind of love. I just don't. It makes me feel terribly lonely. It thrusts into my face the fact that I'm friends with a lot of people but I've very, very few friends still.

And then there are others. Others who love me a lot, like true wala. For myself.  But fucker that I am, I cannot love them back that much. Honestly speaking, in general I like everyone. There are very few people I hate. As a matter of fact, there are none currently. But I do not love anyone passionately, madly. Maybe my sister. I can't say. I gel with everyone, and I love them all, ranging from kam to bhot bhot zyada, but well, damn it, not enough. Not as much as they love me. Not as much as they expect. As they need.
It's very horribly selfish of me.

Like this friend of mine had a serious accident and I didn't bother to even think about her the next day.
Like this friend of mine whose birthday I totally ruined because I couldn't come up with good enough ideas because I wasn't filled with that desperation to make someone you love happy.
Like this friend of mine who's ( What the fuck is correct? whose or who's? Die grammar) call I don't pick up because I don't feel like listening to her troubles when I'm too sick of my own. Or even when I'm not. :'(

So many little things. Either I don't love them enough, or I don't care to show it. I don't know. Every day I meet new people and old acquaintances. The new ones tell me I'm awesome, and the old one's tell me I don't love them. It's like having naan with lauki, this kind of a life.

I feel even if I make a great sacrifice for friends, I'm only doing it to avoid my own guilt. I cannot live with guilt. I am afraid of it, terribly afraid of it. Whatever I do for others is guided by the selfish motive of keeping my conscience clean, and not by what would make them happy. That's only a side-effectnd I love making people happy, I love making them laugh, I listen to their problems patiently, I try to solve them as best as I can, but again, it's only food for my conscience, I think. Everything's done with that ulterior motive : guiltlessness.  . Fuck. I don't deserve that kind of love, that pure wala, and yet, that's the only thing I want. I'm probably the most selfish person on earth. No wonder I detest people who tell me I'm amazing after pehli mulakat. They don't know what a bitch I am yet.

See! I don't want that stupid pehle wala love, and I can't live up to the beautiful second wala love. What fuckery.

And shocking thing is I'm still not sad over it. A bit disturbed, bas. Not sad. Why does nothing make me cry? Am I even human? Am I really mad? What's up, you stupid brain?

Ah. I'm a love-me-not.

Life Ki Ma-behen
Nai ho rakhi hai. But the phrase is so cool I couldn't resist inserting it :D

Guilt
Will you laugh if I tell you that all that I want in life is to be good? Guilt-free, basically. I've done terrible things, unknowingly, in my childhood, and I've been guilt-struck for years, I've hated myself, and I've forgiven myself NOW, I think. At least, that's the hope. But it's been terrifying. Guilt is the worst thing that can happen to you. And the core purpose of my life is to save myself from that clinging bastard. I just want to be good. Money, love, sex, career, food, these are secondary desires, they don't matter much, though I try to convince myself they do. What matters is my happiness, and I'm happy so long as I'm, well, good.

Dear God

Please make me good and make everyone happy. And PLEASE give me a good result, even though I may not have deserved it, because my parents will die otherwise. Yes, emotional blackmail. Please please please. I love you. Thanks for everything! Bless us all! Muah!


***

Bye whoever was awesome enough to read this! :)
One day you guys must try having Egg-malai-parantha. It's food nirvana.

Buddhe Baba

"Buddhe Baba!”, I cried, running to him as fast my bruised legs would permit,  panting and laughing simultaneously, “BUDDHE BABA!”.

He sat on the back seat of the auto, his legs stretched towards the “patta” or the wooden flank opposite it, smoking a beedi carelessly, sparing none of his attention for me.

I flung myself into the auto beside him, wiped the sweat of my forehead and carefully untied the handkerchief “potli” in my hand. I fumbled through the assortment of feathers, smooth pebbles, pencil-shaving-flowers, ball pens, and churan , and eventually managed to unearth the dead lizard.

“See Buddhe Baba! It’s so pretty! “ I waved it under his nose to make him listen. “I stole it from Ashmeet’s pocket, ha! Tomorrow I shall scare Miss Fonseka with it. Today she told me I should get my hair cut because it’s messy. But it’s not messy. You should see it when I comb it and then-”

He had not heard a word. Hurt, I stopped and looked at him silently.

His eyes were devoid of the vitality of his manner. They contained a pain so evident, so brutal, so singular, it was petrifying. I’d never seen emotion as naked as this.

“Uhm..is...is anything the matter, Buddhe Ba-”

He broke down into breathless sobs that ultimately graduated into tears.

It was ghostly, unreal, impossible. I sat there helplessly, feeling cheated. Buddhe Baba couldn’t possibly be sad. He couldn’t possibly be crying. It was incomprehensible. It made no sense. I simply played with the lizard, not caring to comfort him, afraid of discovering his reasons, trying to escape the situation, wanting to run away, aghast.

For a long time he cried and I played, and there was noise and ugliness in the atmosphere, noise and ugliness that emanated from us.

Then he spoke.
“Little one, I have nothing left in my life now. There’s no-”, he started,  crying still, crying like one who hasn’t cried before, loudly, unstopabbly, crazily.

“STOP!” I cried, cold fear stabbing my heart, making it beat faster every passing second. “Stop! I don’t want to hear! You’re lying. You’re not sad, you’re- you’re- you’re” I looked around helplessly, trying to find a phrase raw enough to make him understand, “You’re SUPPOSED to be happy!”
“HAPPY!” I screamed.


I ran out and took a rickshaw back home, while he continued to cry.

I could hear the terrifying sounds of his cries in my head all day long.

***
His real name was a mystery, and one that he very mischieviously maintained. “You little dunkeys will run away to another auto if you come to know what a goon I really am”, he used to say, gifting harmless spanks to anyone who pestered him further. His carefully concealed background was a great source of excitement and gossip for our after-school chat sessions. Some said he was responsible for the scandalous murder of the twin babies the previous year, some said he had married three times, some said he had stolen his father’s buffaloes, and the overtly beaten ones were convinced he was a cannibal. He treated such gossip with haughty amusement and often tempted us with oblique hints, but never more than that.

And thus, everyone of his associates, fellow auto-wallahs, beedi-sellers, the kids he ferried as well as their mothers, even his wife, children and nephew,  knew him as “Buddhe Baba”.

He was a spirited old man, with outstanding orange-dyed hair growing in ridiculous horizontal liittle spirals at the sides of his bald head, a beedi in his mouth, an artificial leg that he wore with a heartbreaking regal pride, and eyes that seemed to betray the forced vitality of his manner, eyes that seemed devoid of the lazy, contented happiness he always boasted of.

While taking us to school and back home, he would talk about his wife, his sons and their worthlessness, how he had once been  the handsomest, gutsiest, cleverest person in his locality, how once his mother’s friends had believed he was Sri Krishna’s incarnation, how he had once been Bacchansaab’s chauffeur, how his father had been the richest farmer before bad times fell, and how he was approached for Kaala Kesh Tel’s first television ad when he was in “Bambai”.

He always started with his stereotypical “Jhooth nai kehta, lekin zindagi ke maze toh maine hi liye hai..jab main...” and when he started, we hurriedly ceased their Dumb Charades or Chinese Whispers and struck up an attentive silence, hanging on his words. All of us realized he was given to bragging, but since it spiced up his stories, we forgave him silently and loved him no lesser for it ; after all, you could hardly blame a man for loving himself too much.

And it was not just his eccentric charm that enamoured him to us. While other auto-wallahs sang or cleaned their nose or listened to the radio while driving, he ensured that the 40 minutes we spent with him were the most enjoyable ones of our day.

He would take us off to local melas, without caring to inform us or our parents, and pay for our  rides and candies and then heartily claim the blame when angry mothers tried to shout him into  mending his ways. He would bring us “budhiya-ke-baal” that his wife made. He would play Antakshiri with us, making vague attempts to dance, and always choosing songs that talked of “jawani”. He would challenge us to dance in the auto, and give prizes to the person who did not fall. He would get us “churan” and “paachak” on our birthdays. And if it was raining, he would not spare a fellow who said he didn’t want to bathe. He would scare us by bringing dead rats and if someone started crying, he would mutter apologies, feeling foolish and embarrassed, and ultimately end up almost crying himself. He would tell us ingenious ways to trick teachers. He would celebrate all festivals weeks in advance with us.

I had always been hugely fond of him. I did everything I could to make him happy, and to impress him. In school, in the auto, and at home, I’d always be striving to play tricks and be naughty, because one thing that he understood and appreciated and respected was mischief. I was excessively proud of the fact that I was his favorite. He always insisted that I sit on the uncomfortable little plank attached to the front seat, with him. While the hilarious stories were open to all, it was to me and only me, that he would impart words of wisdom. He would tell me how I should always live on impulse, how I must resist becoming money hungry like everyone else, how I must never give up on anything I set my heart for , and how important it is to value oneself above all others, and how I must always ask him for advice when I have a problem, how I must always rise above the petty and be happy,  because “No one knows life better than me, little one”. I relished his philosophies and treated them like one would treat words of the Lord, living my life as he had lived his.

He was the only happy person I knew, he had around him the aura of having survived life unbeaten. He had lived through an almost fatal accident that had given him his handicap, he had lived through a terrible decline in fortunes, he had lived through the death of his son, he had lived through poverty and drudgery, he had lived through the death of dreams and ambitions, he had survived it all with an equanimous happiness that was reassuring. He was my beautiful solace from a family plagued with violence, tensions and penury. He was my belief in the goodness of God, in the justice of Life. He was my hope of a blissful life. He was my antidote against seemingly fatal horrors like disease and poverty and death. He was everything I wanted everyone to be : happy. He was a way of life.

***

I heard the terrifying sounds of his cries all day long. My parents were startled at first, but when I told them I was crying because Buddhe Baba had cried, they laughed. I wanted to kill them and kill myself ; the very thought that they found my pain funny, something to be dismissed with a laugh,  shook me with a savage fury only a child can exercise.

I went to sleep early, and dreamt of a ghost who told me to die because death is life. It was a vivid, disturbing dream, and I remember crying in the middle of it, and I remember my weeping sounded like Buddhe Baba.

The next day I woke up, feeling strangely relieved, convinced that whatever happened the day before was nothing but a dream. I waited for the auto, ready for school.

“Your Papa will drop you. Buddhe Baba won’t come today.” My mother told me, trying to push almonds into my mouth.

My blood chilled at the words. Was he angry with me for not listening to him the day before? Did he hate me now? Will he never come to our home now? My mind was whirling with questions and my heart was ready with the most pessimistic answers.

“Wh-why?” I managed to mutter.

“He went to God today”

“Who told you? Why are you saying so?”

“It came in the papers, beta”

“I don’t believe you. He will come. I will wait.”

“You are mad. You will get late for school! He was old, he had to die anyway if he hadn’t killed himself. What makes you so sad?”

“He didn’t kill himself. Nobody does that. Mummy, but you’re lying! I don’t believe you, I don’t, I will wait.”

“You foolish kid, you, here, see this” And she shoved the morning paper in my hand, barely caring to hide her frustration.

The first page was strewn with gruesome pictures of Buddhe Baba, his three sons and his wife, all lying dead, foaming at the mouth. I closed my eyes in reflex, my whole being shuddered, and my mind could only say “He can’t die” again and again, again and again, forbidding me to feel any emotion whatsoever, trying to convince me with it’s lies.

There was also a picture of a note, found in his hand.
“We have no money. We have nothing to eat. The leg has worn off. The little one is sick again. The eldest one is a drunkard. The wife’s a fool. We have no money. I cannot fight anymore. We have nothing. We want to die, all of us, because we have nothing to live for now. We have no love, no money, no courage.We want to die. ”

There was more on these lines, but it made no sense to me, it was too dark and complex to be unravelled by a young brain.

The last line of the note caught my attention.

“Happiness is no more than a lie, a pretense. Life is a battle we are destined to lose, and so I give up before it tortures me into defeat”

I broke down into breathless sobs that ultimately graduated into tears, and I wouldn’t stop.I didn't realy understand what he was trying to say. All I knew was the bare reality : he had given up, he had never been happy, nobody ever was. I’d lost my defenses against the world, and I’d lost my ideals and my idol, and it was more than just the rough first contact with death, it was more than the loss of a God,  I’d lost my belief in the one thing that’s worth living for : happiness..

And I wept more and more, like one who has not cried before, loudly, crazily, unstoppably.

***

Dear God.

Why did you put us to a disadvantage? Why are you so sexist? Or am I wrong, and have I more to learn from life on this issue? Whatever the fuck, currently I'm majorly pissed with you. I have no fucking freedom. I HAVE TO , BLOODY HAVE TO keep on guard all time. Phrases like "let go", "security", "fearlessness" and "independence" and "doing what you want to do" sound so baseless, so meaningless. No, seriously. I want to roam in the streets at 12 o'clock, and no, I do not have a super heroic boyfriend to tackle them motherfucking goons. Now you'd say, of course, go ahead and do what you want to, all benignly. FUCK but I CANNOT! Unless I'm willing to subject my boobs to a million dirty stares and fantasies and unless I do not mind a rape or two, I CANNOT and it's not my fucking fault, for heaven's sake! You did not give me the physical strength to protect my own fucking self! Why? Why should I live in fear? For all that I believe in gender equality, something or the other happens every damn day to show me it's a fucking invention, a fucking myth, because hey, you gave me brains to make decisions on my own and a heart to want to live life to the fullest but forgot to give me some kind of self protection tareeke. What the fuck, God, seriously, WHY THE FUCK?

There's domestic violence, at least mental, happening at my home. Show me a way out of the fuck! Why are you God, God? Chalo you made us physically weaker. At least you could have done something yourself to not let things like molestation and harrassment and rape and domestic violence happen? Chalo you did not. Atleast show the victims a way out of the mess? Why are you sitting up there, staring at all of this fuckery helplessly? Who shall I turn to, now, God? Why are you letting me down? I want answers! I want enlightenment! I want to know how to just fucking eliminate all this distress around me! You have to help me! You have to stop being so sexist!

And while you're at it. You might as well answer some other questions. Menstruation. I mean seriously? Why women? For the "pleasure of giving birth to a child"? Couldn't you have thought of an easier, less irritating option? If I flunk my Accounts exam because of them fucking periods I'm seriously turning atheist and taking pills or something. Shaadi. Why should a woman go to her husband's place? Bhaiyya humein bhi mummy papa se pyaar hai. Naye logo se milne aur rishte banane mein koi interest nai. Who invented this dimaag chodu rasm, seriously? I love a guy, why does that mean I'd have to love his whole fucking clan and serve them and be that outrageous thing called sanskari bahu? Ideally, either the boy's and the girl's side should live together, which is such a fucked up idea. Or the boy and the girl should BOTH leave their ghar and live alag se. And dare anybody say ki budhaape mein parents ka kya hoga. BHENCHOD, jiske parents ka launda nai unke budhaape ke baare mein socha hai kabhi? Plus, will it be that difficult? Your love for your parents will keep them happy even if they don't live with you! Or the third option is, everyone stays put in their own respective families and the boy and the girl date forever. Of course, sex would be a bit of a problem then. But necessity is the mother of invention right. So kuch na kuch uska bhi arrangement ho hi jayega.

Even Raksha Bandhan is sexist to a certain extent. Why does the world expect the woman to be gentle, polite, virtuous, compromising, pati-parmeshwar-bacche loving little whore? Why can't she be crass and not bathe in ages and speak her mind and NOT libido-starved and anti-sex and get a soulmate? (True story, that one). Why is woman expected to remove her facial and body hair while men may proudly flaunt it? I mean, who stereotyped female hair as "ugly" and "unwanted". Chalo even if women are expected to be hairless fairies of some sort. Why not provide us with an option easier than waxing and threading? Men toh again have the easy way out. Raze, shave, done, madarchod.

Then the fun part of sex is toh shared, but the troublesome consequence has to be borne by the aurat alone.
BAH.

Dear God, it's not like I'm unhappy being a woman. It's not that I weep over having periods and cry in pain when I get myself waxed. It's not that I'm scared shit of doing any fucking thing. You know it's not like that. You know I enjoy my auratpan. You know I'm proud of it. You know I'm going to fucking live my life to the fullest, come what bhenchodgiri may. 

It's just that I'm ASTONISHED. I'm simply surprised how even YOU have been unfair at times. I just want to know - have you, really? And why, if yes?

And you know the first paragraph is meant in totality. You have to help. I know you will.

Lots of love, despite the fact that I suspect you're sexist :)
Give me my answers, please?
Confused Bacchi.

Me fool, came to B-school, so uncool, now I drool, for film school, paise ki maa ki choot!

Why I wish everyday that everyone I love becomes earthquakeproof and a massive one comes and slaughters my college so I go to an awesomer one and get rid of life's chutiyaap:

1. Every guy here talks about placement, package, start-ups, MBA, boobs.

2. Every girl here talks about placement, package, start-ups, MBA, marriage.

3. Every society here takes people with sponsors.
4. Every elite society here takes people with eyecandy looks and pretty tits and rich daddies.
5. The social service society didn't fucking take me. See how amazing the interview was :
 Interviewer : Which other society (s) are you a part of?
 Mind : Motherfucker, how does that even matter.
 Me : Uh, the theatre society.
Interviewer : [smirk]
Mind : I wish I could fuck your lizardly little mouth, bitch.
Me : [silence]
Interviewer : So now, since you can act. You must play the part of someone who lives in a slum. Anyone, you just have to choose and act.
Mind : AND HOW ON GODDAMN EARTH WOULD THAT HELP YOU JUDGE HOW COMMITTED I AM TO SOCIAL SERVICE, WHOREFUCKER.
Me : Uh umm. But exactly what do I play? And why? I mean, of course I will, but...
[Yada yada]
Now because of this pretty episode, I am bhadkoing on sadaks looking for a suitable enough NGO. Life and simplicity hate each other dude.
6. Everything everyone does here is for the disgusting purpose of resume-building. Even social service. Even participating in competitions. Even coming to seminars. Every-fucking-thing.
7. Everyone here reads Economic Times. Yes, that shit-color paper. Which would have been fine, but then the bitches also BY HEART every headline and vomit it in class. Blehh.
8. Everything here's about business. There's no creativity in the atmosphere. There's no liberalness, no freedom, no respect for life and it's beautiful, exciting intricacies, no interest in the opportunities to experiment with stuff, no desire to be offbeat, no unusualnes. Those same kind of people everywhere, bland, boring, their dreams made up only of MBA and CA and other fuck.

9. No one here proposes to me.
10. Most people here find me weird/over-the-top/disgusting/whateverthefuck. Which is cool so long as they don't tell that to me, the losers.

11.Every subject here as a uniquely irritating syllabus. Dear god, tell me what the fuck am I, planning to make TV-serials or compose or write for a career, supposed to do with MS Excel? With Baba  Ramdev and how awesomely he communicates? With enterprise resource planning and related bull? With what a lonelinessfucked Koontz thinks of decentralisation and how it's different from delegation and...WHAT EXACTLY! Life is such an unfair little bitch of a fucker.


 There's no romance to this college. Every person is like the other one. Their hearts are in business, in management. They probably get their adrenaline rush when they read about UK stock market collapsing or something. I get nothing but rapist vibes. No seriously, these subjects and this college are raping my mind through and through. I feel chained and suffocated. I feel like I'm being forced to eat Khichri when my heart was on Maggi (yes smirkfucker, similie is stupid, SO WHAT.) I don't want to be here. I can't believe I chose this trashy course over Xavier's and over a decent NLU. I CAN'T.  I regret so much. Regret pains so much. I think I'm dying here. I think my life's no longer the warm, delicious, liquidy soup of dreams and love and creativity it was. It's stone now. Work, and play, well defined. Life, bound by rules and regulations. Limited to books and presentations and chamchagiri and mahachutiyaap. I miss my freedom.

I want to get up early morning and write poems that come out of my soul. I want to go to a college where everyone is looking at things and giving it an aesthetic beauty of their own. Where everyone is perceiving, looking for deeper meanings, imagining, dreaming. Where it's all about passion and not profits. Then I want to come back and sketch. And put my poems to stirring tunes. And then I want to write. And then I want to film. And then I want to enjoy, to take in the exquisiteness of every bite I eat. And then I want to sleep and dream beautifully.  Ah. That's how I want to spend my life ke bache kuche din!

I can't do any of that.


For now. I'll have to do with this mindfucker of a college. Thank heavens for the awesome people. I think I can survive this, if not enjoy it. I have to make the best of things. I HAVE TO. I have to learn to belong. I have to live with this.

What deep shit [sad smile]

P.S : Title because I feel drunk. I think I am. Woooopfuck. Join meez.

I Hope You Never Realize

How every time your eyes arrest mine,

Rapture saturates my heart
And suddenly there’s nothing but your eyes and my love
And I’m  flown into an elevating timelessness
And it’s liberating to be so painfully enslaved to you
In a timelessness made of love and beauty
Of you and of me.

How every time you throw me that careless “Hello”
Ah! The precious moment becomes the day’s climax
To be retold in anecdotes amidst giggles and whispers
And my mind clings to those few words and adorns them with love
And frames them into a memory to be placed in my heart forever
A memory so exquisite, giving such inestimable pleasure whenever revisited
A memory
Of you and of me.

How every time your fingers touch mine; that short handshake
I feel my knees liquefy and my hands quiver
And my heart stops beating and starts again and paces and slows
And my eyes are locked into yours
As I drown in the pleasure of my own vulnerability
And all that my dreams can dare to desire
Is this moment of togetherness,
Of holding each other
Of you and of me!

How every time I spot you talking to her
I can feel everything selfish in me surface and captivate me
And I can feel the savageness of my love overpowering its selflessness
And all that I want to do is come in between
And tell her to leave and ask you to stop
And beg you to love me, and kiss me
Only me, not her, not anyone else, only me
And build an eternity, a lovestory
Of you and of me, only me.

How every time you recall those times spent with her
And tell me about them so casually
I can recognize those symptoms that plague me, in you
And suddenly my heart bleeds no more and the evil is submerged
And all that my hope is made of is your happiness
And all that I want to do is to give way
And tell her to love you and tell you to treasure her
And build an eternity, a lovestory
Of you and of her, only her, not me, only the one you truly love!

How every time you look broken, the mischief vanished from your eyes
Fear enmeshes me and there’s nothing I want more
Than running my fingers all over your hair
And hugging you and kissing your stricken face
And fighting the world for you, your happiness
And shielding you from every danger, everything that bears potential to hurt you,
And telling you that’s there’s nothing to fear, because my love is there for you
Always, my love is there for you, and I’m there for you, sweetheart,
I’m there for you, and there’s nothing in this world more important
To me than you
And this world is suddenly made
Only of you and of me
Of you and of me and my love for you!

How every time you try to cheer me up
I can feel those tears die somewhere
I can only want to place my head on your shoulders
And live in their security, their warmth forever
I can feel the world so safe and inviting
I can feel in me the strength to endure everything
And that strength is the offspring of my love for you
And of whatever little you feel for me, sweetheart,
Whatever little, though that is more than enough for me!
And that strength and that love give birth to hopes
Of a future of jokes and care and love
Of a future so brilliantly sheathed by our love
Of a future made up of only you, and me!
Of you and of me!

How every time you give me that awkward side-hug
My skin burns and squirms and I can feel those pangs of passionate desire
My imagination soars and leaps into secret places
Places of pleasure in it’s completeness, pleasure and love in their unimaginable totality
And all that I can think of
Is you all over me , all inside me
Of you feeling me and taking me
Of you murmuring in my ears and touching me all over with your lips
Of you telling me you love me
Of myself returning your passion with greater fervor
Of achieving that moment of union
Of complete union
Of complete love
Of you and me
As we turn into one!

But I hope you never realize
How my life is tied to yours
How my love is eternally yours
How I am entirely yours
For it would tarnish the naturalness of our bond
For it would probably make you pity me or hate me
And none of these I would be able to tolerate from you!
None, sweetheart, only love from you, however much, but nothing else!
And I’m happy! Yes, I’m happy with what you feel for me now!
I crave for more but can live without exclusive love
Because my love is more than enough for both of us!
Because I can live, I can flourish on my wholesome love!
Because I never want to lose this freedom that exists between us!
And so you must never realize
How my life is tied to yours
How my love is eternally yours
How I am entirely yours
And how I am enslaved to you
And how liberating I find it
And how I thrive on the dreams of a timelessness
Of memories and of a future and of a lovestory
Of an eternity of only you and me
Someday, hopefully, yes, someday,
Of you and of me!

***

The Secret of Happiness and Other Stories.

See I think it is motherfucking disgusting how God expects me to promote bloggay. Why can't all the funnyintelligentcoolsome peepal of the world just stumble upon this and save me the trouble of spamming all the other blogs I read. Hmpf.

1.The Secret of Happiness
The bitch that's screwing my ass these days is my, to quote the profile, "maniacal happiness". Yo. I am eternally, everlastingly, and outrageously happy and calm at all points of time, whatever the fuck may be the circumstance. Even now, even though I may be sounding superpissed, I'm merely curious.

It was not always like this. In my adolescence I remember being  the stereotypical neurotic nerd who thinks suicide every time marks drop below 90. I remember being terribly shy in front of relatives. I remember being a god-fearing soul. I remember craving to be very slim, very beautiful, very like "those perfect girls." I remember being unusually, savagely ambitious and competitive. I remember being jealous of anyone who was better than me at anything. I remember feeling lost amidst my friends, I remember being contemptuous of them. I remember hating myself for those confused, dark thoughts. I remember being in awe of others. I remember crying in the bathroom sessions. I remember being self-pitying.

I remember crying to no end because the teacher called me "stupid". I remember feeling mortified and insulted when that stupid girl wrote "I love you" in bold red on my frock. I remember the smugness of the revenge thereafter. I remember removing my vice-captaincy badge and flinging it out of the window (Holy fuck, how TV-serial inspired am I O.o) because I almost failed a Maths test. I remember wanting to murder the teacher who asked me to dance solo on the stage, I remember how I cried for 2 periods after that. I remember the terror of teachers, of what the world would think of me, of what my parents would feel always guiding my thoughts and actions.I remember being exactly the kind of person I detest now. I remember being a totally chudi hui personality, to be short and bitter.

What changed and how and why, I simply fail to understand. All that I know is now, I don't give a fuck about stupid things, and love all non-stupid things, and am quite enamoured by my own life and that of others always. Yes, ALWAYS. In the recent past, I remember not feeling like being sad when those selffucking cut-offs came out. I remember not feeling tensed when I forgot to carry my marksheet to Calcutta, needed for the admission process of the only college I was aiming at that time. I remember being nothing more than nonchalant when I discovered that more than 11 societies of my prasteegephul college had kicked my ass hard.

So I am always happy. But this is quite disturbing. I mean, it makes me wonder. Quite a lot! My mind has come up with these vague theories :-

1. Desire Death Theory : I remember some ancient history text book telling me that Lord Buddha( or was it Lord Mahavira? O.o) preached that the only reason of unhappiness is desire. So if you kill desire, you are happy. Which could be true in my case, for it's been very very very fucking long since the last time I felt those crazy, passionate pangs of ardent desire. Oh and, both THAT desire and THAT desire, perverts. And if it is true, well, wow. How superfucking crazy that makes me. :-| How superfucking aimless. Well well, it probably isn't true. Cheerup Mind. :D

2. The Happiness Mirage Theory : Okay now this one is really stupid but really plausible. I think sometime during my 11th, I became happy for some reason. Then one of my friends told me how I'm such a happy-go-lucky person. And BAM. My mind swelled with fatherly pride and conditioned me to stay happy always, because someone said I'm like that. Wofuck O.o. So then next time some terrible thing happened, my mind would remind me how I'm supposed to be the ohsohappygirl, and I would get over it and be happy or imagine myself to be happy or force myself to be happy. Seriously, how fucking crazy. And then ultimately, over the years I got used to it, and happiness became a sort of reflex action for the sad times. Is anyone thinking of Boman Irani's laugh therapy in Munnabhai MBBS here?

3. The Inhumanity Theory : Uh hum. Self explanatory. Fact is I'm pretty much insensitive. I don't feel sad for other people, so naturally I don't feel sad for myself. All this because I am some blood-chillling devil/chudial. I have even dreamt about being one bachpan mein. Plus my sister has always suspected I'm not Homo Sapien material.
Ohemgee!  WOHOO. :D (Y)

4. The WTF Theory : is probably my favorite. It believes there are certain things in life which cannot be humanly explained. Like my father's tempers. Like that purplish pimple near the lips. Like that chai-ka-dhabba under the chin. Like my mother's jokes. Like Saumya's fascination for velvet, net-ish, shiny, glittering, tight fit clothes. Like why I'm always happy.

So you put them in the WTF corner of your brain. So as soon as you start wondering about these things, the WTF Corner official promptly shouts, "HALT! WTF?" and endofstory. You move on to pleasanter things. [Yes, it involves being a dreadful escapist.]

Okay enough. I just received the WTF signal.

2. O Facebook, how much doth thou irkest me!

[Log in] Owow, 6 new notifications! [Loading] Someone prolly liked the new profile pic. Eeeee, maybe HE did! :D [ Click] [OneChutiya posted in <class-group>. OneChutiya posted in <batch-group>. OneChutiya posted in <college-page> OneChutiya posted in <....>....] Dude, what's up with miss i-gave-you-my-pen-where-is-it-now-haan? *curiosity* [ Clicks] <Hey friends, please like this page> [Uh huh. Click] < Hey friends, please like this page> [:-\ Click] < Hey friends, please like this page.> [WTF! Click] < Hey friends, please like this page.> Okaydiedaughterofabitch.[Headbang on the wall] [Logs the fuck out]

[Log in] Oh dear, look who's online *rubs hands in glee* :D And uh, 8 new notifications? :-| [Click.] <Falana-dhimkana tagged you in a pic> [Umm, hai kaun yeh. Well, click.] <Main Anna Hu pic opens up> [Nai, tu chutia hai. Bah. Click.] <Random-boy tagged you in a pic> [Die bitch. Click] < Good Morning (with sunflower in background) pic> [Teri maa ki saale. Click] < Good-friend commented on random-boy's pic of you> [Acha? Click] <Gd mrnng too u tooo dearooo <3 <3 <3!!!!!!!> [Argh. Everyone DIE! Baaah! Click] <He commented on your status> [OMG Eeeeeeeee! Click] <"Not funny :P" > [Heartbreak :'(] [Log out]

[Log in]  Newsfeed : Stupidest-woman-on-earth likes "The person I love after you will call you Dad <3" and 151 other pages. [:'(] [Stagggers against the wall and falls down] [Log out]

3. The Pleasures of The Domestic Life

Have to return to Delhi in a few days time. Suddenly this obscure small town is so inviting. I simply don't want to go. To hell with how career-oriented am I, to hell with how much I need money, to hell with how much fun college is, to hell with everyfuckingthing. I love the homey feeling. I love having to do nothing. I love this excitementless life.

Tragedy is I don't love it enough to stay back. Strangeness, why are you so obsessed with me.

4. The Ra.One Poster Thingy.
Dear God,

Please make that supersexist damsel-in-distress Ra.One poster human. Then I would prick holes in the whole of it's ugly body. And fill the holes with petrol or diesel or other similar stuff And set it to a roaring fire.And then I will fist-pump in the picturesque post-murder frenzy. And only then meri aatma ko shaanti milegi.

Truly Yours,
Feminist.

___