Numb.

It wasn’t the first time she was thinking about it. It had crossed her mind several times before and perhaps 4-5 times on that particular day. She woke up to a message from her sweetheart. It had a smiley and read I love you. That’s all. Nothing fancy. But given that it was after a massive fight they had last night, it probably deserved a little more. She smiled, half a smile, and went back to sleep. In her dreams, she saw a woman screaming at a kid, women talking behind corridors and a man smoking a cigar. What they meant, nobody knows. She woke up 2 hours later. She read the message again, but didn’t smile this time. Inside the bathroom, as she splashed water on her face, she woke up. And it crossed her mind for the first time that day. She turned her wrist and found that it hadn’t healed entirely. The cut had made a funny shape exactly where she’d wanted a tattoo. She sighed at the coincidence. But it didn’t seem to bother her. She pressed it to see if it hurt, but nothing happened. She dried her face and walked out, with the towel still in her hands. There was another message waiting. And two calls she had missed. She read the message first. Missing you, it said. As she read it, she wondered what to have for breakfast. She called him on her way to the kitchen. She smiled through the ten minutes they spoke. She spoke like a kid, argued like one and fiddled with a strand of hair, as she did. After hanging up, she poured the coffee into her cup. Too bitter, she thought. Nothing about their conversation. She decided to have it anyway. As she sipped on it, she let her mind wander into the busy road outside. The loud honks, that normally pierced through her ears, weaved another story in her mind. Of wars and battleships and death. She shrugged. As the sugar that had settled at the bottom of the cup made its way to her mouth. She knew what it was. She’d been there too long. Done that, way too many times. She was tucked in between them and had got used to everything around. With every block that she passed, every pit that she dodged, she felt a Déjà vu. She followed the silvery grey road. Ready with an answer at every turn. If she rammed into someone on the way, she’d brush her hair from her eyes and walk away like it could happen to anyone. Nasty comments at work made her yawn, sometimes just frown. She’d sit on her chair all day and let her fingers dance on the keys. They’d sometimes do an ‘lol’ or form dots with a curve. Her lips, however, refused to bend. When the cute guys smiled, she’d smile right back and forget it right then. While it did help her in several other ways, she knew it wasn’t quite what she had wanted. While they crossed her mind several times a day, it hardly ever went any deeper than that. There was nothing anymore that could pinch her awake or weaken her knees. There was never a moment that she could call a moment anymore. Her phone beeped. One Déjà vu led to another. She got onto her bed, cuddled herself and continued feeling numb. 

From there to here.

So long old!

It was nice knowing you, not! Your silly surprises, your dirty tricks. Keep them safe in your deep, dark burrow. That funny feeling that you gave me when I was low? Tuck it under your bed and lie dead on it. Don’t move. Rusted dreams. Cobwebbed memories. Give them to your children. Or even better, put them in a backpack and go take a hike. And never return. Those secrets that you and I shared? Let them out to the world. Coz I don’t really care. I know you’ll keep trying over and again, to lure me into your company. Into your world of negativity. Isn’t that where you are at your best? Isn’t that where you make love with wrath? And make babies and name them fear, guilt and insecurity? I hate you old. Hate you with all my heart. So stay away from me, really. I’ve moved away from you. I’ve left you far behind. Left you to the vultures. Who’ll peck on you, tear you apart and leave no trace of you. So that when I look behind, which God forbid I won’t, I see nothing that’s you. Nothing that’s old. And then I’ll look ahead and keep moving forward. So long old. Take that! The finger!

Hello there new!

I love you. Already.  And I’m sure we have a very long way to go, together. We have so much to do. And I can’t wait to live each and every moment that’s waiting for us. I’m sure you’ll love me just as much as I love you. I can see that already. That smile on my face you brought along with you? That was just a sign of the good days to come. That was just the beginning, I know. Starting here new, you and me will walk together to a happily ever after. You know what I see now? I see jealousy talking sweet to me. I see bitchy being friends with me. I see fear trying too hard to get me. New, I love the change you’ve brought with you. I know that some day, that’ll change too. But I’m sure I’ll love the new change too. Oh and I love your friends too new. Positive, happy and strength especially. They just took me into their arms, the very first day I met you. And I’m sure I’ll have them with me as long as I have you. And that I know, will be forever. I love you new. I love you so very much. Muah!

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.