roads taken.more or less.

You go chasing a dream that can never be and lose sense of the realities that tether you to the very safety net you scramble for. You know the inappropriateness of your pursuits, and the heart is so many chambers, they never told you which part of it to follow… the road less taken was always the one the moral part of your head or heart or whatever that be is fine with…this base immoral fragile existence will not last forever you know that, but it will last long enough for you to shatter faith, to live a seasoned lifetime of guilt, and to hold yourself in perpetual contempt. The road less taken could be anything. It could be this guilt-ridden road. That the majority fears to tread… and you say this, despite the echoes in your head of – “fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

Many of us live our lives like there is no tomorrow. Many of us live it knowing there is one, and we are answerable for what we make of it. Some of us have the comfort of forgetting. The luxury of remembering just what they want to, and consigning the rest of it to the domain of fiction, the oblivion of non-existence. Reducing truth to the version that they choose to believe in. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

But somewhere on a lonely stretch, with no music pounding in your ears (maybe you always knew why it had to be so loud), or little yellow flowers on either side to distract you, or pending chore occupying your mind space, somewhere in between the silence and its deafening echo, maybe you would acknowledge, for a split second, if not more, of what really happened. Not what you choose to believe happened, nor what they thought happened. Just the fact of the matter, as they like to put it. That wasn’t a version. Comfortable or otherwise. Comforting or otherwise.

You can never avoid the truth, but you can avoid those who remind you of it. You can look away. Ignore. Pretend they don’t exist. For in the absence of witness, maybe truth will disintegrate, or in any case would be easier to dismiss. In the denunciation will be the freedom to choose belief, and circumstances, to draw up the canvas of memory with the colors you like. And then, there will always be more important things to do. More that demands, and perhaps would deserve your time, your attention, or even that split second glance. As yours lingers for just a second longer, you find yourself, yet again, on the verge of losing a grip that is so important to be held, and find yourself saved, if at all, by their decided denial of the fact of your existence. There is hope. In this anonymity. In this invisibility. In the knowledge of truth. Of both versions, theirs and yours.

And in the end, it never happened, they would say. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that nothing happened. The eyes might betray but in words, and intent, they will find you in agreement, with whatever is said. It will cease to matter perhaps, with some effort. Maybe more. Over time. In the course of things. With the repeated denial of your existence. With the benign and eager acknowledgment of other, new ones. Life will, slowly, go back to the way it was, in some ways. But only some. The losses will hurt. Was it worth it, you might ask yourself, for the hundredth time.

In the final analysis, its all the same.

post Wide Sargasso Sea

Sometimes even the stories don’t redeem. Leave you with memories of all that you wanted to forget…and lines that echo – with a meaning of their own… 

“I too can wait – for the day when she is only a memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie…” 

“If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing.” 

“As for my confused impressions they will never be written. There are blanks in my mind that cannot be filled up.” 

Perhaps it is always the same story. Who knows…who is to say, what truths you bare, what lies you hide. I know of you what you tell me. But I know you not. All of the fears come back to haunt you. 

The lines on my palm – hold the secret, I’m told. No matter how intently I look, I fail to decipher. I find myself believing that the secret keeps changing. Perhaps it passes on – with every handshake. 

I think I will turn off the dazzle of the lights – and find what I am looking for in the darkness of the night…bereft of the stars. The full moon would perhaps be too bright…so I will allow the clouds. Sometimes, they become rebellious. All of them. The lights shine brighter than usual – hurt my eyes. Even when they are closed. The stars and clouds collude. And conspire. Not the moon. I know. I have a friend in him. It could be a figment of my imagination – who is to say – there is much I say to delude myself. We are never so completely fooled, they say, as when we fool ourselves. 

I am not sure where the scratches on my body came from. The scars have held on to their memory though. They may fade with time, like the faded colors of the gold fish in the aquarium. I wonder if she recognizes herself anymore, patches of the resplendence could have served to remind of a colorful past, if they weren’t ugly. Is she sick, someone asked? No she’s not, I want to tell them. They knew her only in her glory, but the ignominy is her own. She swims, together with the others. All day. Perhaps they understand her. Or perhaps she has let all expectation fade away too. 

Much else falls into the theme. The chipped edges of the walls. The seepage on the ceiling. The pile of un-opened newspapers. 

Much else defies the theme. The fresh paint on the feature wall – textured. And deliberately red. The pictures, mostly of the past, but too alive to stay there. The painting of a rose – framed, gifted, cherished. The song playing on the laptop. 

There will always be much. On either side. Sitting on the fence, I am yet to decide which way I go.

meanderings

Coming back home. The mechanical turning of the key is not mechanical anymore. It is simply a turning of the key. Why must one invest it with emotion. Or burden with description.

After a point you realize its just not worth it…you’re worn out of the decadence, the drudgery, the damned nuisance that life has become. The point in time where you’ve tired of the solace that memory has to offer. The day when you wake up not wanting nor working towards redemption. Or meaning. Or purpose. 

Breathing. But that’s all. 

You pick up and spread out that old dusting cloth. And start dumping. Stuff it with all the gratitude, the ill will, the telephone numbers, even photographs - of a time you could recognize yourself, and of later ones when you couldn’t, and the semi-tattered book of ‘thought for the day’ that you’ve been fooling yourself with for years now – and then tie it up and keep it outside the gate for the garbage van. Yes, as a last minute thought, run out and shove the word “deserve” into the bundle! 

There’s more back breaking to do. A broken spirit might not have been up for it, but a deadened one doesn’t mind.

The cell phone needs a new number. Or a new owner. Either way.

The bed will go. Mattress on the floor seems just fine. The bare floor – even better. Your sprawling new bed will keep you ‘grounded’ in more ways than one.

There’s the television. The kids at the orphanage would love a 40 inch Plasma TV with surround sound, 200 Hz motion picture speed, deep contrast and USB compatibility (which none of them may be concerned with, but then again who knows!). The fellows should be here to take it away any time now. When you had been there yesterday, the warden had told you of the tremendous amount of good grace you had earned for yourself. That’s one more thing going into that bundle!

The whiteness of the walls has jaded. There are portions of the cement chipping off and patches of rotting seepage within seemingly empty frames (the remnants of more artistically inclined days). If you look closer, you’d spot the fungi dotting the landscape. Sometimes in the evenings, the flickering lights make it come alive (you really don’t know whether to feel bad for the fungus that needs validation of its existence from a struggling bulb that was never asked if it liked being placed where it was). May be ugly is the new pretty. Who is to say.

There’s a red hope buried somewhere in the much abused (for being unused) thesaurus. Jammed between Pages 228 and 229. Pages that might’ve meant something, but don’t. Today that hope must go as well. Where it belongs. With that one sepia toned photograph. In the bundle.

The books will get distributed, though you have chosen to retain the teakwood book shelves. You look forward to the bare book shelves (without books, would they be just another set of shelves, you wonder). The dust on them will not be cleaned. Layer upon layer shall be allowed to pile up. Until there’s enough to get into your eyes and stick to your face when you blow on it. 

The maid has been given instructions. She is to come this afternoon, so she can take with her all the groceries before they rot themselves out of utility. You will let her take a few utensils as well. Give away some of those clothes, not just the ones you will never wear, but you intend to shut your eyes and let your roving hands pick out a few of your favorites too! She will take the battery operated water purifier. And the wall clocks, even the customized one with the family pictures (though she may refuse to take it, who’d want pictures of strangers in their one room house). 

(Strangely) the Gods will not be displaced. Nor relocated. (Unless divine intervention convinces you otherwise). The music will stay. Whether or not it plays. The marks will stay. Long after the scars have healed. You shall have moved on to another kind of existence. But before that you realize that there’s one last thing left to be consigned to the bundle. So you walk out the door, and to the gate. Look out to see the bundle gone, and the garbage van disappearing at the end of the road. Alas! Your dreams shall remain with you.

the averageness of being

i am your average person. average = stereotypical, sometimes. average = mediocre, perhaps. average = usual/ ordinary, very much so. i am a standard packet of dreams, ideas and hopes that fill a million other hearts, and occupy mind space across the spectrum. nothing different. (and don't we all seem to strive to be that? your biggest selling point in this world is what makes you *different*, unlike the rest, worthy of attention...) 

someone once told me that its good to be average. because it'd make you strive to be better. whats the fun in being perfect (and i use the term fairly loosely here)...perhaps. my only reason for buying that argument would be because of the person who said it. there i go being average again - for doesn't your average person let sentiment intrude into judgment?

sometimes it is hard to live with this averageness of being. and you go seeking refuge in the supposed brightness of intellect and maturity of thought the world attributes to you (until the moment comes when you realize that such attributes are less (if any) about you and more about a benevolent spirit, a generous heart and above all a happy mood...)

often you realize your averageness lies in exactly what you thought was unique to you...like crying in the washroom. apparently, half the world does that. of course, men just don't cry, so we all know which half of the world i am talking about. an emotional scene in a movie or a song may see me going sniff! sniff! much like half the world. 

i used to have your average hopes of the future, some of us like to call them dreams...that the pursuit of happiness shall be complete...and one is happy and doing everything we were ever meant to do! you want to think your relationships, including but not limited to the family, are special. and then you reach the stage where you deliberately make plans for the evening to reach home as late as possible, because you just dont feel like being home, lest it turn out to be another slugfest! one can gloat on that until someone comes along to tell you - 'dude, what are you cribbing about? you are the average family. its not perfect for anyone. (not that you were expecting perfection!) and for many people, normal has always been abnormal, its always been troublesome.' true. so mine is the average happy, sometimes not so happy family. and the fact that i have seen better days makes me oh so average that i cannot begin to describe!!

and as this goes on you wonder whether to live with this averageness, or to rise above it so to speak. strive and all that. like you tell a hundred others. once again, the average preacher. i am also the average fool - the one who knows better, but doesn't help their own cause. 

do i detest the tag? i can't say for sure. i admit to fighting it sometimes. do i give up? yes. do i try again? yes. do i care? sometimes. does it matter? no.

the average in me seeks redemption just as feverishly as the non-average part of me (which is but a fignment of my imagination, and i let the illusion be)...i am still trying to figure out whether salvation lies in giving one's whole self to either one of these categories. until then, i remind myself:

Alice: Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?

The Cat: That depends a good deal on where you want to get to.

Alice: I don't much care where.

The Cat: Then it doesn't much matter which way you go.

Alice: …so long as I get somewhere.

The Cat: Oh, you're sure to do that, if only you walk long enough.

My daddy's BIIIIIIIGG car!

Over the last 4-5 years since my dad bought what was den advertised as "the big car"... the realization of that tag has hit one many times, and thrice in particular...

the first time, was when he bought it...i don't recall the date or the year even...but yes, we were pretty thrilled about it...i suppose most of us are, about anything new...especially smthn this size...

the second time was, and continues to be, everytime i go about trying to find parking space for this baby...or navigating it through streets narrowed down by cars mindlessly stopped (i refuse to use the term "parked", because one look at that which i describe ought to tell you that term is inappropriate!) on either side...

the third time, however, was the BIG realization...heading to a friend's place for dinner on my way back home from work, i had one last traffic signal to cross before i reached my destination...unsurprisingly, by the time i made it to the signal, it'd turned red (murphy!!)...as i stopped there, and took a look around, my realization came on its two wheels and stopped to my left, waiting like so many of us (traffic, the great equalizer!!)...the father was on the driver's seat, with a kid almost squatting between the father and the handle. 2 more kids sat sandwiched between their dad on one side, and the mom at the back with a baby on her lap. i looked at them. intently. one of the kids looked back. i smiled. and she seemed to wonder why, before she looked away. i looked inside my car. sprawling luxury. (yes, no wonder you're smiling - is that what the kid was thinking??) the traffic signal turned green. i paused, saw the scooter ride away, slowly but surely. my fellow car drivers let their impatience show with the shower of honking, and forced me to stash away that *realization*, until i found a quiet little corner to dwell on it. I managed to reach my friend's place, and find parking soon enough. Turned off the radio. Sat for two minutes, wondering. Traffic, in so many ways, the mirror to the world we live in. Turned off the airconditioner. the engine. And as i locked my car, and walked away from it, i looked back at it and thought to myself - My daddy's BIIIIIG car...may just be too big for me.

another day in paradise...

sitting by the open window..loving the beautiful breeze..wondering vaguely of an excuse that'd be good enuf to justify venturing out...(at this hour, in this city, no excuse is good enough sweetie - mom would say!) 

so i sit here...sipping coke...maggi for dinner...and enjoying good will hunting on tv!! and all this talk of genius.. honour.. trust...love...faith...getting up, getting out, getting over... 

"so what do you really wanna do?".............are we supposed to know? i know this bunch of people, who are doing well for themselves. the doctors. the chartered accountants. even someone who has found his salvation fairly recently. people who seemed to know what they want. and pursued it. maybe thats a calling. Will Hunting tells Sean he wants to be a shepherd. I know someone who loves the idea of being a farmer (i don't know if she will eventually be one!) i know some super fantastic people who are quitting their jobs, and taking a break. quitting their jobs and joining closer home (in many ways!). shuttling between two jobs. 

"see you bo-peep" - sean (robin williams) says to will (matt damon)... takes me a second to recall that... 

little bo-peep has lost her sheep 

and doesn't know where to find them

leave them alone and they will come home

wagging their tails behind them

does it work like that...little bo-peep here.......very unoriginally, has lost her sheep... and is on her way perhaps to losing her marbles too...(ah, there's the novelty!)

here's the thing with dth that i dont really appreciate -- the pixellated tv experience (if not a complete black out) everytime the weather gods decide to play... and it makes me wonder, is that for a reason? is this supposed to be the big moment of truth - that the weather outside deserves my attention, my time, or the other way around, if you please...that one ought not to be cooped up in their little hearths all the time - come rain, hail or sunshine... i sit here watching tv, microwaving my dinner, smsing a friend and writing a (yes, i know the people who'd take exception to the use of this particular word, but hey...) random note on fb... (and this coming from someone who regards herself as technologically challenged or perhaps, more appropriately, un-inclined (disinclined??))...surely the weather deserved more than that ... [it turned out that eventually the window was shut, the ac was switched on, and one surrendered to sleep, wihout struggle (even as they were showing gandhi on tv)]

tell me, do we all want someone looking at us and telling us - "hey will, all this, all this stuff.. its not your fault"... and you could hug them and cry your heart out... what would make it go away...

is there a way back to innocence, i once asked. "Love." yeah, believe it or not, thats what i was told...

(and we can have that whole conversation about the L word being over rated, under rated, stereotyped, and all of it.. but shall we save that for later... the weather's too good for the cynicism my dear) ... how hard could it be, right? harder than living this way? perhaps...after all there's comfort even in discomfort...a certain kinda discomfort, the familiar one...

...the empty bottle of coke lies abandoned...so does the bowl of maggi (without having made any registration at the taste bud counter) with half a noodle stuck at the bottom, having survived the multiple but futile jabbing of the fork......the movie's just ended, the end credits are rolling now ..surprisingly, the breeze has stayed... so have the thoughts...and their tangent...happiness is a good shower, maybe coffee - not sure hot or cold yet, (OD-ed on chocolate, so that sure aint happening), maybe more tv...or maybe not...a walk on the terrace...may be...

"I would love to be better

I would love to be free

I would love to be perfect

When you look at me"

maybe...maybe not...

home alone

there is something about coming back to an empty house. you let the mess be. the clothes strewn all over. the dishes, unwashed for days now. the mechanical turning of the key - to lock oneself inside. safe, we would like to believe. retracting into the familiarity of the room - with the tv, the air conditioner, the laptop, the bed - nothing you could call yours, and yet all things that you appropriate... you look around, the bed's too big for you. you fill the vacuum with extra pillows that you'd never use, blankets, books that you never read, kevin and bernard - your stuffed 'toys' that have stayed, technology - tv remote, set top box remote, ac remote, cell phone, laptop...you think changing the bed spread, the furniture arrangement would change something. You wish. 

The house is a mess. a dumping ground, the women would say. everything that used to be safely locked, or even stashed behind cupboards and shelves meant only for the private eye is now in full public view. Every horizontal surface has a vertical to it. Nothing's empty. and yet no matter what all you bring in, or bring out, one emptiness will never be filled. it stays. you are only too aware of it. now, you are too tired to run. to even walk. you lie in bed. staring at the ceiling, as the tv plays, through the night...hoping to close your eyes and drift away into thoughtlessness...many sheep, stars, memories and nightmares later, you think you're finally there. you wake up countless times. watch strange scenes play out on the television, and find yourself unable to distinguish between the images on the screen and your own dreams, wakeful dreams. dreamy consciousness. force yourself back to slumber. sometimes it comes easy. the going back where one came from...when there's nothing else waiting for you. it will all go on. they tell you - so will you...the window reflects the fragmented self in the dark of the night. and strangely the hope of morning seems redeeming no longer. 

so one more night it shall be. decadence.