I got nothing much to lose and a lot to gain from life. I am going to create what I have never had- a simpler life. A life so naïve and simple that it’s too complicated for people to even understand. A transparent heart and elusive mind, strange memories and beautiful sounds, somewhere far away, in the mountains- unpretentious and playful. It’s a long way from here but I believe there exist a world where no bad memories can even reach or change our minds anymore. A place where our hearts are warm and it invites goodness. There is a place somewhere and I shall walk alone if I have to, till the end and to experience something more than mere problems. What could possibly be beyond this point? A solution for everything and the solution is to fill the gaps of our past lives and to move further into the wild, talk to animals and humans and drink water from the mountain spring, sleep on the rocks, run on the fields, jump a little maybe, scream my name making sure nobody hears it, nobody should call my name, nobody is allowed to, nobody except me. No memories can reach this place and the only thing that exists is the present and the sense of this place. Somewhere in my dreams.
If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have been making up stories.
My mother tried teaching me all possible practical methods of dealing with the society while putting me at a safe distance from most of her own secrets. Most probably, I grew up knowing nothing and doubting everything. This, infact, isn’t one of those lazy Brontë sister stories where a girl dreamt of secured life while having written about feminine freedom. Every character in their books, got married, had strange children or died of tuberculosis. It sounds pretty ironic to me. I almost had a laugh but it died when I started thinking about how clueless I was. I did have a laugh. Maybe it was all in my head. I don’t know. But something seriously went wrong. It wasn’t one of my intentions. If only, there was an easier way of explaining. Maybe I thought for a moment I could pull off a Brontë joke pretty well. Or maybe my mother was right about everything she ever spoke of. She did manage to make me think over my uncertainty. Infact, I have been infamously called a dreamer throughout my life. If you ask my mother, it wouldn’t make me sad if she doesn’t agree with it. At the least, I’ll be glad about my uprightness on having accepted certain facts about myself based on social norms. Like we all do. Accepting society as they speak about us. Letting people judge us without them having the slightest idea about our personal lives; letting people talk, listening to them and sometimes making guilty decisions against our own conscience. Lets not lie. We all do these petty mistakes but there isn’t enough time for blaming anyone anyways. Why put so much effort on people? I mean, people in general and more precisely the kinds who love the Brontë sisters or the kinds who would feed every kinds of food to every street dog in the community for the welfare of society and other strange health related issues. I am socially incapable of understanding dog issues at times. Don’t ask me why, I wouldn’t answer you because I don’t like to lie and I personally have nothing against dogs. I assure you with all my honesty, I adore them as much as I love resisting myself from posting dog videos on people’s wall post. If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have mentioned dogs.
My mother once told me, I shouldn’t dream too high. If I may recall possible heights of her dreams and combine it with mine, all of our above average dreams would still seem unrealistic to her. Infact, she fits well in all of Brontë’s novels but I don’t feel the need to get married, having strange kids or dying of tuberculosis. If only there was an easier way of explaining, I wouldn’t have mentioned Brontë.
The Irony in my life. The last book I gifted my ex boyfriend before I left him was called Never Let Me Go.
We met through friends. I had met him before but I pretended not recognizing him. He did not recognize me but he did know a little about me. Some random things like how I talk in monosyllables. It was one of the usual gatherings at strangers. They were smoking up. I was watching them roll. He did not know how to use the paper. I was clueless. I was with strangers for the only reason that they were about to offer me some food. So much for the love of food, you know. And I played my part well. Sitting at one corner pretending to listen to people and not saying a single word. He was probably the nicest person in the room, I assumed, because he offered me the joint, which I denied and then he said hi. I told him we had before. He wasn’t sure about that. I described how his room was, how his mother looked and how he looked four years back. He was convinced that we had met before but he was still unsure. I was glad my memory wasn’t a failure.
He dropped us home. He offered me a hug and I gave him a handshake. Formality. Clean shit. I don’t like hugs. He did not like awkward formality. He didn’t take the handshake. I remembered him for his awkward denial. He remembered me for my awkward handshake. End of the conversation. We never exchanged numbers.
We met again at different places by mere coincidences. Sometimes while I would be checking out clothing stores and commenting over bad garment detailing. Most of the times he would be trying to finish unfinished books sitting in the bookstore. He would join us most of the times and he seemed excited learning about fabrics. I found out knowledge made him happy. It wasn’t the clothes. I fed him the fashion knowledge. He understood my point. It wasn’t the clothes and he wasn’t against homosexuals. Something about that made me happy. I finally started talking. He fed me literary knowledge. He was an English student who sincerely loved Helena Bonham Carter and our conversations never ended. We exchanged numbers. He later thanked me. I wasn’t sure why but I thanked him too. He was an honest man.
We met with friends. We ate at strangers’ dinner invitations. We walked at the park with dogs. We had dog conversations. We slept on park benches. We made fun of people on the streets. I stole his father’s shirt. We shared secrets. We made fun of each other. We made fun of the dogs. I made fun of his songwriting. We shared headphones. We sneaked in strangers’ houses just to watch movies. Everything was about movies. Everything was about books. Everything was music. We discussed songs. He understood the kinds I listened to. I never understood the kinds he liked. I sang once on repeated request. He denied singing. He was a paid vocalist but I have never heard him sing. He never sang even after repeated requests.
We were friends who never talked over phone. We were good friends. We never posed together for a photograph.
It’s been more a year now. He disappeared completely after I left him. Left no trace. My stalking skills never really worked. I eventually stopped thinking about it after I realized I am better off alone with no responsibilities to tie myself with. There is an utter peace in letting people go at the right time for the right reasons before you start hating them for the wrong reasons. Memories seem more precious when they are only the happier ones. It was a nice memory and it was lovely meeting him.
I am grateful to him for introducing me to this song.
People die because they give away all their strength to others, making everyone they leave stronger.
The world is a perspective in between space and time and people and we see only what we want to see. While, to be found is a fate and to be loved is a satisfaction, our reality is consumed by everyone we know. From a stranger at the metro station to a close enemy we don’t wanna meet, whether we meet or not was never the point. Everybody still exists in the headspace because we breathe time as much as we breathe space. There is truth as long as there is false. Whats real is here. Whats not isn’t. Thoughts are just mere points of relativity and we are only tiny particles in the universe whose lives mean nothing to people we have never even met. So how many people have we not met? Maybe thats why we people like to make ourselves believe being famous is great. Greater the fame, the more people we meet and our lives start looking seemingly important to people. But, to whom ultimately? To all the people whom we still do not know. Then let alone people who says the more famous you become, the lonelier you grow. I guess it isn’t a total lie after all. Because our lives could mean something to them but theirs mean nothing to us. No people = no thoughts = no directions= no purpose. So what would serve as a purpose in life? To live? To earn money? To live an extraordinary life? Or to be happy? Whats real is here. Whats not isn’t. Thoughts are relative as much as the reality is. So let us create our lives. If we live on, partly in reality and partly in our dreams, escape when its needed and love when we have to. Grow old as we are going to, escape again as we should, into dreams. In dreams. With people we want to. With dogs, cats and humans. With men and mice, we wouldn’t end up becoming the bitter old man as we thought we would. Because we grow as we live and we live as we love. The world has enough space for everything and there are too many points of relativity.
How do we start?
To tell you the truth, my situation isn’t what I could describe well at my current state of mind. I shouldn’t even be writing this down, I think. Then I realize, nothing really makes a difference. Somebody might read it but they are going to forget it eventually, while I still get a moment of satisfaction for being a little expressive or more likely ‘loud’ for a change. Cheap thrills but nothing really makes a difference. So here is my situation. Basically, my situation since the last two years.
A day before my 22nd birthday, life took a minor turn. Father got unwell and I spend my 22nd birthday cutting cake with just one thought in my mind, how long will he survive? Then everything fell out of hand. My college went from bad to worse. I had no money to buy materials for my graduation project. Hospitals bills reached heaven. Bad times made me work, earn and live a living worth a lifetime experience. 9am-8pm became college hours. Sitting on sewing machines the whole day isn’t the kind of labor you fancy when you come back home to finish freelancing work from 9pm till the early dawn. 4hours sleep became my routine. Sleeping on the fabrics became a habit. At college, teachers would scold me for not following step-by-step orders. At home, mother wouldn’t stop crying. At college, close friends thought I was a thief. The reason behind the accusation? Because I was a quiet and I needed money. Careless people, you see. They think a step but never get to the second round of thinking. If I could steal, did I have to work extra hours to support myself? More likely, their brains never worked the way I wanted it to. Eventually they caught the thief but nothing was the same again. Bad to worse, dad got worse and I graduated with the lowest score. Got a job. Got a house. Left the house because my job didn’t pay me two months salary. Left the job. Searched for jobs. Unemployed for months. Lived on side projects. Blogged like a maniac to make myself busy. Mom never stopped crying. Dad never became better. Now, work is stable. Dad is spending his last days. He might not last more than few weeks from now. Everybody is home. I am sitting at the office. I am at the most crucial point of epic workload. I got three photoshoots in the coming next few weeks. Should I leave everything and go home and sit and cry? Or should I practically plan my next few months’ survival? Do I have enough time to sit and ponder over little memories? Or should I escape by overworking? Guilt could kill me for being such an bad daughter but guilt has no practicality of its own. In my head, nothing is right and nothing is wrong. In reality, I am not quite right. Time has its own limits. I am off-dimensional but hopeful. Maybe, all I need is a little bit of time. Maybe all I need is somebody directing me the best solution. Maybe, all I need is to re-write this whole thing from a different perspective. Maybe, all I need is myself. Maybe, all my dad needs is me.
To make the every worse situation worse, the only few people whom I once called the closest friends seem to have eventually gotten too busy to even discuss these little problems. Maybe they are pretending because they don’t know how to react. Maybe human relationships do not exist. Maybe I am too optimistic to be still believing in the existence of a perfect future. The whole point is basically pointless if you view it from an alienated eye, yet one thing never changes. We find most of the answers only within ourselves and we are nothing but what we make of ourselves. Nothing else matters because time takes everything away when the time comes, only the perspective differs.
I used to sketch a lot when I was younger. School days mostly. My first story book was made of handwritten pages torn out of old notebooks and hand-illustrated sketches with pages stapled in the middle. It had stories about magic potion and bullied ugly girls because I thought I was one apparently. I was 7years old pale girl and I was skinnier than a dying old man.
A lot of things happened and I never really stopped sketching but I got more into study books and I thought I would either end up becoming a crime investigator officer or a UFO researcher or an ethical hacker. The nerd in me died a bit after I joined college and its now buried under fashion magazines. Long gone, I finally bought new sketchbooks and new pens and I am gonna scribble down everything and anything.
This is summertime madness, my ugly new sketch and I currently struggle to put on a tee when I stay alone because summer is 46 degrees in Delhi.