Love in the time of Facebook.

Seriously now! There’s got to be something more interesting than relationship updates right? And definitely something more to our lives, other than the love affairs we’re in? Can somebody please explain why and since when did everything in this world start revolving only around relationships?

I’m in a relationship. Good for you. I’m single. Oh, even better. It’s complicated. Get the hell out of there! I’m confused. I’m dating. I’m double dating. I’m sleeping around. I’m flirting. I’m desperate. I’m heart-broken. I’m so stuck in a life that’s only about my relationship status. And sometimes, yours too. So can we please have something new to talk about now, please?

How I wish it ended just there. We seem to be so stuck with this concept. It’s more like a state-of-mind now. Like nobody thinks outside it anymore. For instance, I put up a status msg a few days back that said ‘in a bad mood’ and I get a hundred comments of which more than half ask me, ‘fought with your boyfriend?’, ‘broke up?’, ‘i know how painful that can get girl’, ‘don’t worry just move on’, ‘find another guy’, ‘wanna talk?’ So on and so forth. Ugh! For god’s sake I’m in a bad mood because nobody noticed my new haircut! And my status updates could also be about me and only me and nobody else, you see!

Aren’t we going a bit too Gung-ho about this whole idea called relationships? I agree it’s a beautiful feeling to be in love and all that. But why do we go overboard in publicizing it so much? Why don’t we have anything better to talk about these days? Why does everything have to be about that? Or are we just making up for all the pseudo love happening around us? With all those fake emotions and expressions doing their rounds, we seem to be finding solace in its popularity. Like talking about it makes you sound profound. Your insecurities are pampered when you talk about the highs and lows of your love life.

And it’s easily buyable. Just look around. Isn’t everybody talking about it? From advertisers to movie makers to writers to singers. Everybody’s got a point of view on love. An opinion, like you know what. And who doesn’t believe in a well-narrated story of love, life and hope these days?

I’m a romantic. An eternal one at that. But I’d love it if love was made to feel special, like it once did. If relationships were not just about status updates and likes and comments. I’d rather go looking for that silly idea it used to be than delve deep into what it really means. I would stop throwing it around and would not make a hero out of it. High time we stopped facebooking love and started showing some real love, people?

Wanderings.

A world, far away, lost.

Quiet. Ignorant. Hidden.

Of my own, myself.

Secrets. Whispers. Sighs.

Pieces of glass, in black.

Kaleidoscopic visions.

Illusions, optical, in colour.

Eddy. Deep. In-fi-nite.

Smoked up, high, hits the brain.

Nirvana, through the veins, from the heart.

Sweat, breath, breathlessness.

Guilt. Fear. Insomnia.

Detached, fallen, from the clouds.

Let go, scattered, through terrains.

A quest, tunnels, limitless.

Journeying. Patiently. Maturing.

Devu.

Devu was all of five when she understood what it was to be a woman. She was aware of her body and she knew what made her different from the boys in her neighbourhood. She would go to school with them but took smaller steps and looked down when she walked. In her white petticoat, she’d rush to the door hearing the doorbell, but hide behind her mother’s saree on seeing Kumar Uncle through the window. He’d make vain attempts to lure her with juicy tamarind and deep-fried murukku. And poor Devu, digging herself into her mother’s saree, would shut her eyes tight. Hoping that she’d become invisible. And if he got any closer, she’d rush to the backyard, squat beside Ponnamma and watch her intently, as she milked the cows.

Devu was all of six. But she learnt a lot more than girls of her age. Devu was asked to talk with her voice low. If raised, she’d be asked not to talk for the rest of the day. So that the next time she opened her mouth, she’d think twice before she uttered a word. To help her grow into a fine woman, her father would say.

Devu was all of ten. But she’d learnt how to walk like a woman. Or so, she was taught. She’d pull her skirt down a million times, so that her knees didn’t show and the boys wouldn’t stare. She took careful steps and made sure she never missed any. She’d give way to the boys as they cycled around like ugly mosquitoes. Her pretty pink shoes looked pretty pink forever, because she knew every puddle that came her way, from home to school and then back home.

Devu was all of thirteen, when she was told not to talk to strangers - come what may. She was told that strangers are bad people. And talking to bad people could land her in danger. And so Devu hated strangers. Devu hated anyone she didn’t know. Or who her father didn’t know or her mother or brother or sister or friends didn’t know. And Devu wouldn’t talk to people she hated.

Devu was all of eighteen. And she had learnt to ignore. She was taught to ignore. Because ignorance, they said, was bliss. So no matter what the strangers did or said, Devu would ignore. She’d wait to get home, lock herself up in her room and vent by crying her heart out. She felt better when she cried. Because a woman was allowed to cry, she was told.

Devu is twenty five. And there’s nothing new about her. She talks softly. She watches her steps as she walks. She wears long clothes. She doesn’t always look good in them, but she feels safe in it. The lesser the skin, the lesser the eyes and so lesser the strangers who’d look at her, she thought. But Devu was wrong.

She felt helpless that evening. In a churidaar, that left no inch of her skin exposed, she felt naked. She cringed in fear. She pulled up her carefully pinned dupatta, so that it covered her neck line and that inch of a shoulder that was shown. She held a bunch of books so close to her chest that it almost felt like she had someone to hold on to. It gave her a sense of security. She ignored the eyes that followed her and hoped to get home faster and safe.

It was half past six. And Devu wasn’t home yet. Somewhere far, in the middle of nowhere, Devu lay helplessly. With nothing to save her from the savagery. At twenty-five, Devu succumbed to her helplessness. At twenty-five Devu wished that she had learnt more. She wished, that she had learnt to raise her voice and not just ignore.

Story of my life

I see a face;

Quite far away.

The hair, the lips;

A mirage you could say.

I start a little slow.

With doubts in my head.

Do I walk towards him?

Or should I just stay?

I think no more.

I decide to move.

I walk straight ahead.

As my steps gain pace.

He’s still right there.

Like he’s waiting for me.

My eyes stay fixed.

And my breath gains speed.

I now see the checks.

On a full sleeved shirt.

They’re blue with some red.

Or wait, is it grey?

There’s a faint little smile.

Is that a dimple that I see?

My heart beats faster.

And my feet go numb.

I take another step.

From just another three.

I reach for him.

I pout my lips.

And like a funny joke of destiny.

A stranger crosses my way.

Wannabe.

Famous. Not on page 3. Followed. Not copied. Loved. Not taken for granted. Important. Not fake. Heard. Not for the sake of it. Kissed. Not distracted. Happy. Just like that. Respected. Not feared. ‘Liked’. Not clicked. Free. Not judged. Remembered. Not saved. Lost. Not found. Furious. Not stupid. Silly. Not dumb. Patted. Not Pitied. Envied. Not ignored. Hurt. Not forgotten. The one. Not the other one. Held. Not owned. Pampered. Not possessed. Bad. Not hated. Good. Not easy. Asked. Not assumed. Noticed. Not scanned. Funny. Not foolish. Thought of. Not regretted. Alive. Not the usual. Special. Not another word. Understood. Not defined. The answer. Not an option. Sure. Not stubborn. Wrong. Not questioned. Right. Not confused. This. Not that. There. Not here. Me. Not she. Read. Not between the lines