One Day at a Time

Counting the number of issues I have is a futile exercise. Why waste time when I know that the answer is a long list. The only way I redeem myself is by acknowledging the fact that I know I have issues. I have even written about my many issues in the past. Thanks to a lack of readership on my blog and of my journal, I have kept my issues quiet. It's good when only you and your mind know about these things. Sometimes, issues are to be dealt with in private. That way, no one gets to contribute "advise" on how to deal with the issue.

2014–2015 had been particularly challenging years. I saw a noticeable dip in my happiness metre. I was frowning more often, was stressing a lot, sprouted a few gray hair, and had been generally disillusioned with life. I guess one of the reasons was shifting jobs and adjusting to new places and management styles. Three years in my first job were quite comfortable. But barely 5 months into my third job I felt trapped. Thankfully, though, it was not just me who felt that way; all of my colleagues felt it too and quit the place one by one.

But it was not just the job taking its tool. I was fatigued, sick, and unwilling to participate in social events. It was scary, and when I feel these emotions now, I get scared again. At first, I wasn't sure of what was wrong with me. I thought that a lack of exercise was making me lethargic and gain a lot of weight. That is half the truth. The other half is the lack of mental well-being, unfortunately. That is something I still fight every day to maintain.

Though my really dark days are far behind, every time I get a hint of any darkness, I spiral downwards pretty hard. I form a cocoon around me and retreat into myself. Thankfully, it takes a lot of bad mojo to get me into a funk now. Every day, I am able to maintain my optimal measure of happiness and even spread it to friends who really need it. So, when darkness approaches me, you can bet alarm bells start ringing from miles and miles away.

Today felt like a particularly bad day. I got a lot of bad stuff thrown my way by people who "meant well" but ended up ripping my life apart. Of course, it all started with my gender and my single woman status; quickly moved on to my career choice; my financial status; what I was doing wrong; and then ultimately, what I should be doing to make my parents and others happy. Sure! My happiness does not matter in any of these matters.

It's easy to tell someone to ignore verbal abuse, hurtful criticism, bad feedback, and snide comments. The hard part is to throw it out of your head once it registers there. Gosh, I wish I was drunk when I was subjected to all that talk; I would have really loved to not remember any of it. The only solution to get over this hurt is to gradually forget about it - give it a month or two, occupy your mind with other things, and avoid the people who hurt you for a year or so. That's the best I have come up with so far. What do you think? Does it work for you too?

Thing is, when I am thinking about all this hurtful commentary on my life, I get physically sick because that is how criticism works on me. My brain gets all mopey and all my body wants to do is curl up and die. It is so difficult to get through a day with this funk going on - the struggle between your brain and your body when you try to think happy thoughts and get by. And this is why darkness is scary. Dark thoughts are always around the corner, lurking to grab me again and ruin my day. Even after promising myself that I wouldn't let them harm me, I don't know if I can keep up to it. Trudging through life one day at a time is a hard task that only people who've been through what I have gone through will understand. Or maybe everyone understands. They are just fooling innocents like me by thinking of happy thoughts and faking joy. At least they're succeeding.

Falling in Love with Words

By now, most people I know know how much I love books. Correction. How much I'm CRAZY about books. Last year, I started the challenge of reading 24 books and finished 30. Only one book was left unfinished. Or half-read, as I like to call it. This year, I aim to cross this mark.

Things have been different this year, though. Last year's effort made me fall in love with words. Words written well and seamlessly woven into stories. Stories of fantastic people and breathtaking locations across the world. Stories that glorify everyday life into extraordinary events. Stories that make normal people into amazing superheroes with their deeds and words. Stories that inspire me to be the best of all that I am.

A couple of books I read this year were inspiring and so moving, I cried when I read them. Not because they had sad bits, but because the authors wrote the stories so lovingly, I wept as I let the power of the words sweep over me and engulf me. The number of times I bombarded people with my stories of "Oh my God, you've GOT to read [insert book name]" are countless. I am sure some of them ended up being annoyed at the constant repetition. What can I say, I am in love with books!

I have managed to cross half my target mark so far. Friends who started this challenge with me have already crossed their goals. This has made me both proud and jealous. Of course! While I'm really glad that more number of people in my life are reading and becoming more knowledgeable, I am worried that they may get so far ahead, they'll leave me behind in the dirt. A little competition is healthy to get me motivated and on track. Honestly, competitive booklovers, such as my friends, are the only kind of friends one should have. I keep reminding my non-reader friends about this and annoy them sometimes :)

With about four more months left in the year, I have tons of books still to read, and more books to buy in next year's book fair. Also, my birthday's coming up in September and I am hoping to receive more books then. That is something to look forward to: friends who love you so much, they gift you knowledge and adventure instead of silly things like jewellery and clothes. Of course, I return that favour too. I am now dubiously infamous among all my friends and colleagues as the girl who cannot have enough books and who cannot stop gifting or recommending books. If I could put that on a badge and wear it everyday, I would!

If you would also like to participate in a reading challenge like I have, I recommend signing up for the Goodreads 2016 book reading challenge. It's a great way to keep track of your friends' progress and update your own progress on Facebook. You could also end up encouraging readers and non-readers alike with this. If nothing, the fact that you are reading books regularly, or even on and off, will pique some people's interest. So, recruit them into your reading circle and inspire them. After all, the world will be a much better place if more people read more, and read varied genres.

Happy reading to you, my friends!

Book review: The Bastard of Istanbul – A Journey Into the Past

When I read The Bastard of Istanbul by Elif Safak, the first thing I noticed is the writing style: it is exactly like the mind of a woman. There are multiple stories starting off from the main story, plenty of segues, colourful characters to distract you, in addition to the characters and their quirks. It has to be said that the characters seem to suffer from some sort of attention deficit disorder. However, if you have ever grown up or experienced an Asian joint family, you’ll know what I mean. 

If you’re wondering why I said the book seems like the mind of woman it is because it is multitasking all the time. The author and the characters are in situations, but thinking of random and connected things at the same time. I got the sense that the characters’ bodies and minds were often in different tangents and I feel that this often happens with women more often than it does with men. Women are thinking of so many different things at once and still manage to stay sharp and coherent during conversations. I still wonder how.

At the heart of this delightful book is the story of two young women and their history. One of them is chasing her past, while the other is in blissful ignorance about it. The book was worth reading just to discover their histories. I had known about the Armenian genocide of 1915–1917 and Turkey’s refusal to acknowledge it. Sadly, not many people know about this because it doesn’t occupy popular history as much as the Holocaust does. As readers, I would advise you brush up on the Turkish and Armenian history post the Ottoman Empire. Not only is it fascinating, you’ll get interesting points of view, for example, the Janissaries’ Paradox.

In a book about women by a woman, you will learn about the oppression that happens to women. Despite Istanbul’s cosmopolitanism, one gets a glimpse of the old-school ways – and I don’t just mean male oppression, but ancient magic as well. By the end, almost all the characters will be your favourites because there is no villain here. Or is there? (We did mention that there was a genocide, didn’t we. [Winky face]) 

I would recommend this book as a one-time read. (I gave it three stars on Goodreads.) I would also recommend looking up the author’s other works. She’s got impressive credentials and she writes her books in English as well as Turkish. In addition, she makes wonderful arguments about reading in the book. That was enough to win me over.

Book review: On Writing – A Memoir of a Life Well Lived and Stories Well Told

The only thing I had known about Stephen King in my 26 years on God’s green earth is that he has a penchant for shocking his readers. I had mostly associated him with horror stories, only to be proven wrong when I recently came to know (or rediscovered this fact) that he had written The Shawshank Redemption. That movie was anything, but terrifying. So, I have resolved to read the tons of Stephen King books (including Carrie) that my brother has accumulated over the years.

Now, on to the book I am reviewing here. The first time I read about Stephen King’s memoir On Writing was through a review in The Hindu’s Young World. The book was highly recommended for all aspiring writers. I think I was 11 or 12 years old at that time and had just started publishing my stories in the school magazine. Buoyed by the review, I kept on writing and resolved to buy the book whenever I had the means.

It has been more than a decade since then and I finally have the book. It was gifted by a friend and is, undoubtedly, one of the best books I own. King is frank and does not bullshit. He says that writing is hard work and needs persistence, something I discovered on my own as well. King does not harp on his successes, but focuses on how the hardships he faced – including a brush with death – shaped his writing. It was endearing to read how success is not about some mantras, but struggling again and again.

The focus of his book is firmly on two things – the process of writing and the support of his wife, Tabitha. King worships her, and this is evident throughout the book. One of the interesting things I learned was how he writes books keeping Tabitha’s likes as a reader in mind. The term King uses is “Ideal Reader”. Before Tabitha, it was his mother who encouraged him (even paid for his works). King asks writers to write keeping their IRs in mind – what would make them laugh hard, what would cause them to be surprised and shocked, and importantly, would they love the book/story. This was enlightening. Until now, I was writing keeping my “audience” in mind – a faceless and generic group of people with different likes and dislikes. With such a vast group, one obviously cannot cater to all sensibilities, and may, therefore, end up failing. I am now going to write keeping my own IR in mind – someone whose likes and dislikes I know very well and someone who will laugh out loud when they read my works, not someone who would just nod appreciatively. The latter would do nothing to help me improve my writing. My IR should be my biggest fan, worst critic, and muse. It’s just a matter of finding them! :)

Honestly, this book is very frank about the success King has seen. It did not come in a day, but it can go away with one bad story. I usually do not like memoirs because they tend to sugar-coat, make people appear grandiose, and skip over the harsher life events. King does not pretend to be some demi-god. He says that his ideas have appeared doing the most mundane things, and as an amateur writer, I agree with that. The brain is not constantly churning bestseller ideas, but it is the writer’s job to translate their ideas into work they and their IR would be proud of. 

 I would recommend this book to everyone, whether they plan to write or not. I am not one to judge memoirs because I have rarely read them, but it is the best I have read. Hopefully, you will agree with me. If not, you will at least love his writing style – it is conversational and feels like you are talking to a friend. Now if that isn’t motivation enough to read, I don’t know what is!

First published in Metro Reader.

Call me chicken, call me cow

Call me chicken, call me cow

Call me monkey, make me lick my paw

Call me harlot, call me tramp

Call me anything like I have a stamp

Make me regret that I was born

Make me crush my dreams, feel torn

Make me kill my hopes and wishes

Make me call all my dear friends "bitches"

Do me like I am a dog

Do me every time you want

Do me no favour, not until

"Do you want me to pay all your bills?"

I won't ask you anything

Not a diamond or a ring

Don't give me all your seed

As if it is a mighty deed

All I ask is that you stop

Don't go on, please, just stop 

I'm not a thing, but a human being

Raping is not really your thing

Don't rape me like I did some wrong

I wasn't born guilty nor very strong

All I am is what I became

By setting a million goals and aims

Don't rape me just because you can

It's not a justification for any man

Don't rape me, please I beg

I cry, and cry and dread

Rape is all around me now

In my screams and face and house

It's a thing I cannot shake

From these dreams I cannot wake

Dreams of rape is all I see

Being a victim is all I can be

I know I am not just that, I know

Is there a way out that you know?

But I wasn't raped today

What a silly thing to say

Today was a wonderful day

Make it so for all women, I pray

Loving to Hate

I don't exactly know when I started using self-deprecating humour to make fun of my situations. I made fun of everything about myself, my intellect, physical appearance, family, clothes, education, hobbies...I left nothing behind. Of course, this poking fun at myself extended to poking fun at other people, making light of their situations and ending up embarrassing them. I've had foot-in-mouth disease and I've tried hard to not do it any more. Keeping my mouth shut has helped in that regard.

But it hasn't stopped.

A lot of things have happened in the past, and things continue to happen. The only way to escape these is by seeing myself as the loser who can't have a good phase. Separating myself into personae like that has helped me carry on in life, pretending as though nothing is wrong. Nothing is wrong, seriously. I don't know what you're talking about.

Drifting through life is easy. But it's tough when you have actual ambitions that you want to actually see happen. Now that sucks. But then ambitious me is also such a loser because she is always interrupted by the loser me. Loser me always comes in the way of ambitious me, ensuring that she doesn't spread her wings. Loser me doesn't like to see any part of me succeed. Nice job!

Logical me thinks that this blog has really taken a turn for the worse. I started as a feminist and I've become one of those old cat ladies who dies in her apartment and is eaten by her cats. Funnily enough, enough number of my friends agree with me on that.

Friends...? Who am I kidding. Loser me doesn't have those. That's happy me. And she's not here anymore.

The Hypocricy of Self

Mean bitches don't take advice: good or bad. They do give plenty of it, though.

 

It is always difficult to sit through an "advising for your own good, beta" session. Plenty of people want to give advice because that is all that they are good at. "Do this", "don't do that", "go there", "don't go there", "you'll suffer plenty, you damn bitch", or "you'll burn in hell, for that, you ugly witch". I've heard the "U" and over-18 versions of it all.

Instead of remembering anything useful from school, what we learn is to give advice. Our parents and teachers are excellent source materials who teach us advice methods and its language. As people who have failed in some aspect of life, they "know best". Of course. When you are below 18 25 30 unmarried and living under the good graces of your parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, relatives, servants, neighbours, and passers-byes, you do not have much choice. However, when you turn 18, the situation changes drastically.

At 18, the government itself entitles you to give advice. The right to vote gives you the freedom to flaunt your knowledge (or lack) of the right idiot who is fit to lead the country. The right to a driver's license gives you the liberty to advice yourself to park wherever you wish and abuse in any number of tongues, including Klingon (which people will reciprocate). These freedoms come with the fundamental duty to exploit them. Hail democracy!

The brilliance of giving advice is that you don't need to know or care about the person you're advising. It comes naturally to you after undergoing 18 years of intense conditioning. You can't easily shake off such mental manipulation. It becomes a part of who you are and what you become.

Dear reader, keeping all the above in mind, is it wise to insult my advice-sharing? It is tough to judge oneself before, during, or after advising someone. In fact, it is impossible to even know how and when you switch to "advice mode". But, being a humble person, I have decided to list my hypocrisies and make you all aware of what you are doing in life, and to stop doing it. You aren't benefiting anyone by telling them what to do. We live in a world of idiots who need to insert their fingers in a live socket to understand how electricity works. It's this curiosity that has got us so far up the evolutionary chain. There's no climbing down.

1. "Stop Being My Mother": Being a woman, elder sister, girl friend, girlfriend, best friend, friend, colleague, classmate, and Metro traveller, I hear this phrase almost once every month. Including from my own parents. For all the goth that I tried to imbibe as a teen, this is my biggest failure. I try not to think from my ovaries when I am put in a situation where the only solution I have is a "mom-type answer".
2. "Thanks for the advise": Plenty of times, I have gone on a lengthy monologue and received this response. It's almost always sarcastic in nature. Most people already know whatever you're advising them about. And Google has left no stone unturned. So why do I still feel the tell people again and again about what they should be doing, based on my life's experience?
3. "I don't need you to tell me how to live my life": I love this response mostly because I love saying it all the time I receive advise. A single lady, portly or chubby in nature, and devoid of fair skin or an infectious smile will always receive advise on how to "change her life around". Because that's what she needs: people telling her that she's been living her life wrong all these years. She should have been born looking like Katrina Kaif, with Indra Nooyi's salary, Preity Zinta's smile, Gauri Khan's luck, Marie Curie's brain, and Sonia Gandhi's persistence. Sure, one person can be all that and marry some rando who you think is a "good match"? Would you like some advise on that matter?
4. "You think you know everything?": The answer to that is "Well, obviously!" Friends, and friends who are family, ask me this question all the time. As if! Based on the vast knowledge I've collected over the years, I have the authority to reflect and respond on certain matters that require the level of expertise that I possess.
   Shit, I sound like my elders. Forget whatever I said.
5. "I think you should...": Of course, you should do exactly as I tell you to because my pompous ass is superior to yours. I vomit in my mouth every time I realise I'm saying these words because I have hated being moulded into a "role model". People should be free to choose whoever they want to follow, or not follow. Freedom is free, but getting it so impossible, thanks to all the roadblocks in our way, set by our parents and ourselves.

In conclusion, I have no conclusion. This is a post against advise, and I shall keep it that way. I cannot propagate what I so despise. Do propagate this blog though because I can earn money if you do.

Fly with Your Dreams

This post, like most of my posts, is going to be about feelings. Unlike many other things that people need to live, like money or food, feelings are something that I have an abundance of. And that is troubling.

I don't know when I started imagining and daydreaming but I know that I've been doing it for a long time. The earliest memory of daydreaming I can remember is when I was 8 or 9 years old, in school, and I was dreaming about the fun I would have had had I not been in school at that very moment. I dreamed about the world outside, the wonders it held for me, and I started drawing on my notebook. This has happened a lot since then. My notebooks have been filled with more drawings than actual notes. The desks I used to sit at got a lot of graffiti as well. When that wasn't enough, my friends' notebooks started filling up.

I'd like to think that this behaviour of mine was an important part of my childhood, and one that I'm very proud of. It's made me who I am, it got me my first job, and it made me look artistic and talented. It gave me an identity. Funny, because all I wanted to be when I was 14 was an Emo Goth.

Growing up and getting out of school, and then college, was the worst idea ever. Why didn't I find a Lazarus pit to stop me from ageing? But then again, there is no such thing. What is born must die.

It's not death that I'm afraid of. Ever since I renounced religion, I haven't been afraid of after life, or death, or people's reactions. I just grew out of it. And that's helped me be a better person. Without the constant worry of someone observing and judging my actions all the time, I get the freedom to do things with a peace and calm that I didn't have earlier. And I'm talking about everyday things. Things like sitting with my legs spread out, eating whatever I want, and not shutting up when asked to do so. Liberation is freeing for the mind. Having no soul is good.

Existentialism plagues me everyday.  What am I doing with my life? What are others doing with theirs? Am I going in the right direction? Who answers these questions? The more I read and know, the more troubled I get. Are we even asking the right questions?

Regardless of the storm in my brain, I still keep on dreaming. I dream of fantastic vacations, living life with a decent enough stash of money, having a "love of my life", killing off the archenemy, acting in a Hollywood or two, and shagging the actor/actress who is trending that week on IMDb. Dreams are simple. There is no start and stop. It just keeps going on and on. Mom woke you up before you could kiss that supermodel? No problem. Start dreaming  when you travel on the metro. Go on, drool a bit. Everyone around you is in dream state as well.

Reality? Isn't that boring? Why be real when you can pretend ? An endless stupor of dreams where you are anything you could ever wish to be? Now, how much better could life really get?

25, Single, Looking to Make Werewolf Babies

Of late, I've been thinking that I should really get into this marriage business. It seems like a lucrative idea. Post some random information about yourself online and see how many people believe that whatever has been written is true. Yeah, right! You can't trust newspapers but you will believe every word written in such sites. How.... Well.

So, anyways, back to the matrimonial sites and the marriage business. The past two years were spent attending weddings of family, colleagues, and backstabbing friends who had sworn to remain single so that the desperate ones in the group (like yours truly) would not feel bad. It took me some time to get over this shock, awe, and betrayal. I'm glad to say that this year, I've become mature and I finally understand their motives to get married. I totally agree with all you who married and had the displeasure of having me at your wedding. I'm sure you weren't in for the grumpy face and growling voices that I was emanating.

Get over it like I did.

The decision to "join them" because I couldn't "beat them" was tough. But I've always been the bigger person, as my friends will agree. I thought long and hard about the kind of partner I should be looking out for. I've been stalking people in public places as much as I can to see what kind of characteristics and traits I should mention in the "I'm looking for ________ in a partner" column. Trust me, those blanks are hard to fill.

In my quest, I learned some tough lessons. In this world, there are no traits that work the same for two people. What worked for someone didn't necessarily work for another. I had to be really, really specific and not use flowery language that could be misinterpreted or not be interpreted at all. I had to address the completely dumb audience as well as the high-flying ones. After working on numerous lists, below is a snapshot of the profile I finalised.

• Name: Anita Ann Babu
• Nickname: The Babu, Anita the Marvelous, and Captain Amazeballs
• Hobbies (not in any particular order): Excessive sexual role-play, reading, eating, and ignoring dumb people
• Future plans: Complete my "Bitch Magic" certificate course from the Academy for the Totally Mean Bitches, Like Seriously
• Ideal partner: Medium to high libido (race/caste/height/weight/education no bar), should be into cosplay, preferably spermless unless he can give me a werewolf baby
• Ideal wedding destination: Any children's playground in the city (unlimited, free swing rides! Woo!)

Now, you may see this list and say that some of these things are pretty unreasonable. Like my "Bitch Magic" course. Trust me, it's completely real. Everything I have written here is based on truth (mostly, a partial version of the truth). Most important, it is what best describes me and what I am looking for. I don't know if I should add any other categories in this bio. As readers of this blog post, please do advise me if I have missed something important. After all, this is my first time.

In all honesty, I think this is a true portrayal of myself and my abilities. These are the first things I want my future partner to notice about me. I want them to know how open I am to new things and people (not dumb people though). I am a kind and loving person who will take care of them forever (or at least until I get bored). Is it too much to ask for the same in another human being?

Is there anybody out there for me? Will anybody respond to this call for a lifelong partnership?

OK, well realistically, let's dial back down on the "forevers" and "lifelong". Nothing's written in stone, and even that can be wiped clean. But I have high hopes of getting some really good proposals with this bio. I can't wait to post it online and wait for Prince Charmings or Goth Emperors to come knocking.

Being Set Up For Life

The past few weeks have been spent voraciously reading through books as if there was no tomorrow. Currently, books are the only thing in my life that make me feel like I'm in an adventure. This is really because there's nothing else in my life that requires as much focus and attention from me. Books really do make me feel alive. I even felt my heart skip a beat. That has not happened with anything else, as far back as I can remember.

Being single and having to work to earn a livelihood is pretty normal. Having a dysfunctional home is also pretty normal, because everything classifies as dysfunctional these days. What is normal? Even television doesn't know the answer to that. And the Bible is no longer a reference book for life.

When I see my fellow colleagues, friends, and family struggle with the people in their lives, I can't connect to them. Why doesn't everyone just tell each other the truth. I did that and some people stopped talking to me altogether. That's fine by me. If you can't handle the truth, you don't deserve to call yourself a thinking individual.

Life hasn't always treated me with kid gloves, so why should I treat others the same way? It's not my way of getting revenge at life, or avenging some stupid notion that I cooked up. I really am serious about telling the truth as you perceive it. The truth that people know if staring them in the face, but don't want to face because it proves that they were wrong.

Nothing is liberating. Only freedom is liberating, and that too is a short-lived phenomenon before we rush to comply to the rules of living. The truth is weird and never what we expect it to be. Am I sad in life, yes. The reasons: my life is pretty f----- up right now, and I'm pretty much broke. My dreams have been sidelined to address the fancies of other people. Am I angry? You bet! The blatant violation of my rights and disregard of my hard work is sure to make people livid.

Then people ask me, why am I so closed off and distant? My dear people, becoming an ice queen in life is not something I wanted. It's something I was driven to be because of all the circumstances that I couldn't always control. After all, I was also growing up during that time and wasn't any wiser about how I could live my life.

I don't remember if I ever really loved anyone: boyfriend, family or friend. It's because I don't have any emotional bonds with any of them that make me want to do absolutely anything for them. My commitment to each person in my life has a limit that I will not exceed, no matter what the case. It's not me being an ice queen. It's just me trying to survive. I'm not suicidal because I really really value my life over that of others. So, this is my animal instinct, and nothing beats it.

So, why is it that people don't understand this simple argument? Because all of us have been under false expectations that some parts of life are really a party. Life has various parties, but it is never an endless party. Rich people worry about their riches, poor people worry about their lives. Everyone has good memories that help them through the tough times. In spite of inequalities, people get by because that is what they have always done. So, why try to make my life any different?

I do have dreams that I wish to fulfill during my time here. It's just that I have many impediments such as "commitments". Getting rid of all these commitments has not been easy, and I'm not even half-way done. I have a long way to go before I can get to life live the way I want it to be. It doesn't help that I'm going to turn 26 in September and I still haven't done much to get ahead in life.

I await the day when I will truly be free. That sentence does not have any metaphorical intentions. I really want to be emotionally and physically free. Every day I dream of this future of mine gives me hope to live on. There's much in life I am yet to experience and a dreary existence is the last thing I want to continue doing. 

What Comes After a Question?

Lying awake each night, I wonder what is the best way to live a life. Every action leads to a reaction, and how that fits into the scheme of things while circling this universe plagues my mind. How far ahead into the future can I see and predict my fate? How does each small action contribute to something relevant?

What lies at the core of all this questioning is the very reason for existence. Why? Why not? And for whatever reason, how? How does one keep doing actions that result in a life made relevant? It doesn't matter once we are gone. I want my actions now to result in something in the present. I don't know what to expect in the future, and frankly, I have stopped wishing for a better future. That is a futile way to live a miserable present. What I want to do concerns my present. How do I make living in the now worthwhile?

Many sleepless nights are yet to come and many a dreary day lie ahead.

Struggle: Every Minute, Every Moment

It is the new year once again, and everyone is contemplating on what to do in the coming year. Honestly, this is the only area in my life where I did not procrastinate. I have been asking myself what I am doing in life and where do I see my life going for the whole of last year. Too many metaphorical slaps on my face, too many face palms, heartbreaks, and disappointments later, I am no closer to finding a suitable answer to my questions.

Disappointment is so disappointing. The despair that it brings is crushing; it stops you from going forward and forces you to feel bad about the choices you have made that led you to that particular disappointing moment. There have been so many such moments that my whole life feels like a failure. I can't have done wrong all the time, could I? After all, half of my decisions were not my own but where what everyone around me expected me to do.

Two years ago, I would have happily taken advise from my parents, elders, and friends. I was a very pleasing person. But that aggravated my suffering. Realising that my freedom was being compromised for the sake of others, I decided to put a stop to things the way that they were. I stopped respecting the advise and views of others coming to me. They said it was for my benefit, but I realised that my "own benefit" could benefit only if I was the one making all the decisions.

However, I am not totally independent of responsibilities or social sensibilities. Not yet, at least. I still live with my parents, I have to work hard to keep a job and earn money to live a certain way. I still have to clothe myself and keep up appearances with friends and other family. The benefit to my own well-being has come very slowly. Every day is a struggle and the despair is soul-crushing. It is not easy to live life the way only you want it. But it was never easy to make everyone happy, after all, everyone is a critic.

The biggest doubter of my own capabilities has at least been shut down. I am more confident without all that externally placed doubt on my shoulders. I have proved again and again that I am better than my doubters, and each day is a joy to prove it once more. Trust me, I'm not one to gloat but as a stubborn individual, I do enjoy my small victories. And as a dear friend would say, I love proving people wrong. I can't help putting up a mirror to the doubters and show them their own weaknesses. They can't bring me down, if I simply do not care.

I do not care about a lot of things and I can see that from my emotional detachment from people, causes and things. This detachment has been gradually increasing each year. I do fear that one day, I will not be able to feel anything and I fear what will happen that day. I hope it does not come to some drastic measure. So far, I have stayed away from any form of death or illness, but the mind is more complicated than ones own understanding.

I think that if I am able to care about small things and a couple of people, I can keep the emotional part of me alive. A good cry once every few months would help, I think. And I also hope that the people I truly love, but do not always convey my feelings to, do not give up on me. Their hope is the beacon I need to tackle my doubters and self-doubt. I feel things will be fine in the coming year. I feel that they despair will end one day. I just do not know how. For now, I can live in the ignorance of the unknown. I just tell myself that it's something to look forward to, a certain event in the future. That's the only prediction that I am 100% sure about.

Tales from the World's Worst Storyteller

In this world, it is tough to sustain an audience.

Probably, if I stop starting with proverbs, people would willingly listen to me more. Well, what can you do? I cannot ignore my inner prophet, out to save the world with mere words. "Alas, fool! Don't pee there lest thou wanteth us women to view thouest vilest procreation organ!" I keep spouting stuff like this all the time. And I realise why most of the prophets were killed in brutal ways.

So, that's how it is. I want to tell a story but looking for a listener in this crowd is a tough task. I do not want to advertise my "100% cuckoo" status in the very first impression. Take, it slow, Lady Fabulous, take it slow. Let them come to you. I give charming smiles, I flutter my eyelashes, I laugh at unfunny jokes, I listen to break-up stories, I promise secrecy for juicy gossip, I even share my chewing gum. Recruiting a listener is hard work that can take up to years.

The daily grind leaves one very little time to think, tell, or write stories. The juicer on top of my face has got lot of stuff rattling about, it's not like I'm out of stuff or facing a block. It is just that, by the time a story frees itself from the clutter and comes to me, the listener has moved on. Once this happens, physically forcing them to listen to me has not worked. That goes in the "Creepy Actions to Avoid" box, as my inner voice psychiatrist says. It is only because I listen to her that not many people call me creepy now. I'm much thankful to her.

How does one get someone's attention then? It is truly a test of your friendship when you listen to each other's stories, share insights, and give each other love and respect. There is also a lot of shit throwing, now and then, but it's nothing a bottle of liquor won't fix. But when you listen to a friend, you expect them to listen to you too. What is it that I'm missing? Am I not quick enough to sustain their attention? Or worse -- GASP -- are my stories that terrible?

No way that that's the case. My stories are kick ass! They are all about me being the greatest super heroine in the world and rescuing people with just my wit. It's the stuff of legend and comic book artists should be dedicating their books to me. Famous writers should bow down and kiss my rings. I inspire people. I am Lady Fabulous. No one doth protest my superiority.

Well, at least I can take myself not too seriously. I know that my stories are great. My juicer knows that too and appreciates that I know when to hold back and when to sprout the stuff locked in it. But it does bum me out when friends, family, and strangers turn away mid-story. I hope I don't do the same to them. I make it a point to even maintain eye contact until the storytellers themselves avert their gaze, no longer able to withstand the pure awesomeness they see in my eyes. Even my pupils scream "Genius".

Being the world's worst storyteller isn't that bad. At least I'm not an old grandparent desperately holding on to my grandchildren and forcing them to listen to how the neighbour across the road is stealing rubber from my backyard. Actually, I wouldn't mind being an old person if someone is there to take care of my shit. Old people can talk to thin air without people calling them creepy. Why can't young people be allowed to be senile? Why label and lock us up? Aren't we also just telling stories that no one has time to hear anymore?

Ask Me Anything But Not How I'm Doing

It's funny how people close to you are so concerned about your well-being. I find it endearing and sometimes it makes me go all "aww..." very loudly. That is emotion for you. I do not have a higher compliment for love or concern shown to me by others.

The reason I love being emotionally closed off to others' concern is because I find a lot of the "concern" to be fake and a formality. As it is the only form of conversation I have been taught, I also do the same. Not surprising, it makes me hate myself and I can never ask that question without gritting my teeth or hitting myself in the head. I do not like to inflict the question "How are you doing?" on friends, colleagues, acquaintances, or strangers.

How I am doing is a personal question. Do I want to tell people that I am learning how to get by in life one day at a time? Should I tell anyone that a former boss of mine was a prick in the ass? Does anyone need to know that I enjoy travelling in the metro every day while going to work?

I actually want to keep all of that to myself and show that in my writing. I've never been much of a talker as I've always let my creations speak about myself. Be it the clothes, Lego houses, drawings, illustrations, photography or writing. I am proud of each of my works because they are a part of my soul. It is very personal, but that is exactly what I choose to share with the public.

So, these days, whenever someone asks me that question, I roll my eyes or take a deep breath. I quickly run the updates of my life in my mind: what can I share with this person? Here are some of the options:

1. I made amazing pasta over the weekend and I gorged on it so much that I farted myself to sleep.
2. I visited a hill station and got piss drunk. I think I may be an alcoholic.
3. I was constipated for the whole of last week but then I ate some funny food the day before yesterday and now my system is all clean.
4. I've had a dry spell for such a long time that I had to fondle the girls for some self-love.
5. I am fine. My mother is fine. My father is fine. My brother is also fine. And my job is also going fine. There are no problems in my life. Thank you for asking.

Honestly, I am not trying to shock people or anything. But I have a limit of politeness and it usually does not last for very long. Sooner than later, my honest-but-potty mouth takes over and my brain keeps spewing stuff that people do not want to hear. I mean, I shouldn't be telling my former school teachers that I cannot get a guy because they fear my hyper-level libido or smart talk. I should not tell the priest in the church where my parents force me to go that bra shopping is difficult because they only seem to be making lacy or leopard-print stuff these days. I mean, there is a limit to honesty in a social setting. Something on the lines of "don't talk at all".

I do wish I could get away with my honesty. It doesn't bother me that I can only speak the truth to the public but lie very conveniently to my parents/teachers/bosses about the naughty stuff that I am up to. It seriously doesn't bother me. But people tell me otherwise. Friends who genuinely fear that I may get a fatwa or a slap on the face. The ghost in my room. The angelic version of me sitting on my right shoulder. They all wish the best for me and tell me to shut up or make stuff up when I am bombarded with this dreaded question.

So, how am I really doing? Seriously? Don't ask or I'll slap you on the nose bridge.

Some posts do not have a title

As I write this piece, sad music plays inside my head. The music signifies hopes quashed, wishes unfulfilled, dreams broken, people dead, and days spent dreaming. Terrible parallelism aside, I cannot help myself being sad. And it's primarily because of the sad feelings inside me.

In my short life on earth, I have found dreams to be comforting, imaginative, escapist, and innovative. They have carried me through happy days and dull days. Ideas that I dreamt of and sketched on paper, then implemented have been such a rush. It was great to see my dreams come true in the past.

Now though, dreams hardly ever make sense. The depressing thoughts and dreams that come to me reek of despair and hopelessness. Why such a twist in the tale? Where have the happy thoughts gone? Can I get myself out of this rut?

I don't know the answers. I feel sadder when I see people around me realising the very dreams that I had.... And I have to say "had" because I cannot "have" them anymore. Life has become too hopeless to dream of any joy. Even the funniest of jokes seem bland. There is no taste in life anymore. Short of being suicidal, I have lost all hope. Abandon ship.

I wanted to go to fashion school and design clothes. Sure, my dad convinced me that he couldn't pay for fashion school and that I should take up some other course instead. Ironically, he wanted my brother and me to become doctors or engineers. How was he going to support our education then? Or our MBA degrees after getting our B.Tech? 

If I could go back in time,  I would tell my younger self to never listen to her father. He doesn't know what's best. He didn't have a career to dish out career advise to others. He doesn't know that broken dreams have a huge impact on a person. It may even put them in depression.

I am half a woman now. I know how to handle people, money, ugly situations, political discussions, and perverts. But I have not achieved my full potential in life. I have failed but I have not failed at things that I felt passionately about. I didn't pursue journalism, fashion school, filmmaking, nor full-time travel. On a good day, I dream that I will fulfill one of those dreams. But I am convinced that I won't be able to do it under this roof. As long as I am with my family, my dad will squeeze out every penny that I earn. And I can only dream of getting an inheritance from him. With his messed up family relations and financial insecurity, David and I are better off living off the land. We know that we will never get anything from him. Respect, love, not admiration. The people that we have become is solely because we tried not to be like him. We knew that being like him meant being a failure in life. That is not a respectable thing to be.

I will make my own destiny one day. I will follow my dreams and either fail at it or succeed. It's either of those but I know that I will be happy regardless of the result. For only when I have tried will I know the full potential of me. Until then, I am half a picture--incomplete and not even a quarter of its worth. The education and life experience that I've had will be wasted if I don't pursue my dreams. As half a woman, I promise to never let that happen. Ever.

Vampire Romances to the Rescue

Sometimes my dreams end up surprising me. For a long time I was getting standard nightmares about harpies at work trying to choke or kill me in very innovative ways. Surprisingly, it wasn't an effect of watching too many crime shows. It was just a work thing. So after this very bad spell of nightmares, having a great dream is like discovering treasure. Not that I have an experience of ever finding any treasure but I figure that that's how characters in those fantasy novels feel like.

Now the dream. Being single for a long time has its effects on ones brain. The stimulants in my body which allow me to feel the effects of being in love were, sadly, dying. Not having anyone to fixate on was a sad thing. Since I didn't want to become a robot, I was concerned. How could I save my poor hormones and nerves? What could I think of that would ensure their survival?

Since these hormones and nerves do not come under stem cell research, top scientists of the world refused to help me. They also laughed, but that's beside the point. So, I had to come up with something. I had to make a plan which would help me be human and still have great boobs. Both these factors would ensure my survival. Attaboy, Darwin!

Leslie Nelson from "Dracula: Dead and Loving It"

To save myself, I thought, why don't I employ the use of those very skills which gave me the harpy nightmares? I mean, the skills I use every day at work: writing and imagination! Voila! Problemo solved! Thing is that I'm already writing a book on vampire-human romance that has vigorous sex between both species. Stephanie Meyer missed on that opportunity so I thought of cashing it in. I ensured that my vampires were the right degree of stupid to commingle with humans. Similarly, my humans had to be the right degree of rock-brains to flirt with semi-dead people.

I set my premise and started writing. The stimulants that were allegedly dead, came to life and with great vigour! My mind worked on Nitro mode and spewed out all kinds of vampire-human romances which were disturbing, at first. But if you are into that kind of kinky stuff, you'll love it. I'm a fan now. After writing a couple of chapters, my writing feels like crack. I'm addicted to it. That is the reason I am promoting it.

But my dreams... Oh, the turn my dreams took since the vampire romance tale is delectable. Being single is less of a worry now. I have my mind occupied on things that matter. And I'm not saying that it's work or family that is in the top of my mind, it's my writing and the scandalous stuff I write about. I am amazed at my ability of coming up with ways to make vampire-human sex easy, look natural, and attain orgasm each time. See, I am making the impossible come true. That's always something a writer should be really proud of.

Of course, the writing is done in secret and I can't reveal it till I complete the whole book. You see, I haven't introduced my characters yet. They've only had sex--lots of it--for now. So I need to do the mundane task of giving them a background, a story and a dysfunctional characteristic before telling the world any more detail. Each story needs that and I can't succeed without covering my basics.

The only thing I can hope for now is that I keep my concentration up and that there aren't any more videos of Hugh Jackman, Michael Fassbender and James McAvoy dancing to distract me. God, they're gorgeous!

Finding Mr. Right

I honestly believe all the magazines and articles when they tell me that finding Mr. Right is very important in my life. The benefits of having the perfect man by your side will ensure that my life is be the fantasy tale that I've dreamt of since I was a toddler. Finding me a Mr. Right is a task that my parents are also invested in. They are willing to go to extreme lengths to ensure a perfect match. Having dated a bunch of dummies, I have all the more reason to throw my hands up in the air and declare, "Cosmo, find me a Hugh Grant (specifically his Notting Hill character)!"

The only catch is, the world is full of Mr. Rights. Each and every dummy you see is a perfect fit. For someone. There are enough desperate men in this country to deserve the handful of girls available. They will be all the more grateful for it. Desperate men should not be left to their devices. They deserve a woman who can slap sense into them. Similarly, dumb girls deserve a man who is equally dumb, to hold a mirror to them. I am against wasting any amount of intelligence on people who are just destined to be dumb. By the way, people being dumb because it is their destiny is the only time I believe in destiny. Otherwise I'm not a "destiny" fan.

Having judged people all my life, I have learnt a lot of things from my observations. First and foremost, sometimes intelligence can be found in the most unlikeliest of places. You saw a nerd wearing a Batman T-shirt and smelling like wet laundry left wet too long? He just might know the exact measurement of Superman's dong after reading all the printed comics available. And all of us have met those girls who have long, painted nails that can be possible murder weapons if you got too close? Turns out, they might be the world's foremost experts on how whales mate. (Yes, whales, like other mammals have penises but where are their holes? Is it the blowhole on the top of their heads? Tricky question, huh? I know!)

Secondly, looks do not matter. Sure, there is a fairness craze in the world but I have always found dark people the hottest. It's also partly because they don't have to spend any money in sunscreen. And sunscreen don't come cheap, son! Trust me, because I pay for all of my brother's lotions, creams and cosmetics! But I digress, sorry. Looks also ties up to intelligence. If you tell a person that he/she is very pretty, chances are, they will stick to working on the pretty aspect only and forget to do the important things in life, like learning how to cook. Of course, there are exceptions to each case. You might find a Barbie's Ken blazing trails in the scientific world but trust me, he will be aware of his genetic good looks and will use it to his advantage. Ugly people, on the other hand, have to work hard to not merge into the background. That's why they garner many essential skills to survive. And they survive. No wonder National Geographic said that Americans in 2050 will look like Beyoncé. Trust me, it's not just for the fantastic booty.

Thirdly, accumulation of wealth does matter. Too rich is too bad. The right amount of poverty is good. After all, you want a partner who is less pompous than you. Someone who is ready to ignore your tantrums and remind you from time to time what an enormous drama queen you are. That sort of person will ensure that you don't spend 30 grand on shoes. That person will remind you, sternly, that Carrie Bradshaw and the Gossip bitches are actresses who don't buy the clothes they wear. It's their stylist who does that. Obviously, you can't afford a stylist so all you can do is slobber over the pages of Cosmopolitan and People magazine in the dentist's office.

These are just a few characteristics of the perfect partner. However, based on these few points, one should have a clear idea of the kind of person you want. Obviously, it's all hogwash because you can only fuck Hugh Grant in your dreams. You can't get him to marry you. So, you settle for the trolls and gargoyles that you meet in random places. Don't worry, they may be desperate enough to ignore the giant wart on your face that you call your brain. If you get a person who does just that, you have found treasure, my friend. Nurture them, love them, feed them popcorn if they say their hands are too busy playing Call of Duty. Occasionally, watch them eat a messy burrito and get enticed by the fat globs of  mayonnaise dripping on their T-shirt. Trust me, it doesn't get any better than that. Such a life, in my opinion, is the perfect life with your perfect partner. Thank the gods if you've already found your Mr. Right!

What Sort of a Person Are You?

I think I am a nice person. Most of the times. And yet when I think about the way I behave with people around me, I doubt myself. How nice am I? Is holding the door open for someone considered nice? Yes. Is letting an old person get on a bus before you nice? Yes. Is apologising to someone after you step on their toes nice? Yes. Where then am I going wrong?

Thing is, I might be more than a bit sarcastic. In my attempt to be funny, I may come across as rude sometimes. That's OK, comedians are sometimes nasty. That's where we get all our good material from. All the pain and suffering we endured as children, and then adults, has to be projected onto someone in our present--loved ones included.

There is a reason for the pain and suffering and the internalisation of it all. How do you express to people your true feelings when all they expect of you is to make a joke of it? They expect that you will know how to make light of a serious situation. Sometimes they are also angry when you do that. They know that they should not expect anything apart from jokes of you. That is your job, after all.

Internalising anger, pain, hurt, emotions, and true feelings is bad. Look at me, I tried to eat my way out of depression. Six months and many awful looks in the mirror later, I am still in the same spot. I am fatter than ever and I do not how to stop myself. Once upon a time, I starved myself for 2 months and I was only happy when that ordeal ended. It involved a guy and the moment I came to know that he was not interested in me, my stomach sang with joy! It meant that it would see food again. My colon wasn't too happy about the junk I piled onto it for the coming weeks, but it helped me ease the pain I felt emotionally.

I am still eating. I do not tell my friends what I truly feel. I listen to them talk about their problems and I can never bring up the courage to talk about what I am going through. Somehow, when I hear them talk, I feel like my problems are nothing compared to theirs. Depression really isn't such a big deal compared to job stress, or husband troubles, or weight loss issues, or getting over an ex. Right?

I know that I am my own top priority but when I am busy stuffing this body, who is watching me? Sure, friends, family and colleagues say that I should do something about my fat. But what do I do? I cannot starve myself even though I eat normal portions. I do not feel comfortable exercising because I cannot come to terms with why I am doing this to myself and why I want it to stop. 

Every time I go out, I cannot stop but feel pitiful of the fact that I have no one to tell how my day went. People who ask me that question are content with an OK. They would not like me to elaborate. Anyways, what would I say? "I feel like my soul is being crushed into a million pieces each day and I do not have a clue how to repair it?" Yes, I see how that conversation would go. Awkward silence all the time.

So I make attempts to write everything down but even that doesn't fully help with the depression. The sadness lingers like the smell of garbage. It rots and rots your soul until you feel so helpless that you give up and find the smell fascinating. By then, you end up smelling like sadness. Who wants to hang out with sadness? Clearly no one who is sane. Not even myself. Depression hurts and it adds to the pain which already put you in a depressing phase. How do you turn your life around? There seems to be no rock-bottom like in the movies. The spiral just keeps going down endlessly. How does one make it stop?

Well, I internalised my anger and I make fun of people. I tell people everything is just fine and I ask them to tell me their problems. I act and act and act and never stop. I'm bad. I'm terrible. This is the worst thing. Feeling bad about myself and still not being able to help my situation? What could be worse? Being in Sudan, most definitely. See, I never stop. Depression is lesser than hunger and civil war, evidently! What a moron I am for thinking otherwise!

Landing in Shit, Mud, Garbage & More Garbage

Adventures in Delhi never fail to surprise. Just getting out of home is an adventure. Staying at home is also an adventure. The maid says or does so many amusing things that you can't help tape her mouth but you keep on listening to her anyways. She's like crack to a non-addict. Weird, but surprisingly an experience worth having.

So, getting out of home and experiencing Delhi. Well, I find that my dad gives the best driving experience. He's an absolute bore, so you have to drive the conversation. But since I'm the family comedian, I know that it is my job to keep things cool and to make everyone laugh. It's OK, they laugh. Though some of my best lines sometimes go over their head. 

OK, so driving in the car with dad. He has a real knack of making sure he stops the car for you to get off at the most amusing places. When I switched jobs in June last year, I travelled in the metro. That meant that dad had the job of dropping me off at the station and picking me up if I got late. Firstly, he ensures that he is the best dressed man when he gets out of home. Not a hair is out of place because he knows that the women are watching him. Yes, he thinks he is young enough to be my brother. (Sigh!)

So, what was it like being dropped by my dad? Well...interesting. There was hardly a day when I didn't raise my eyebrow at him. Most of the days, I would say, "Dad, you have a real talent for 'landing'."

I do not know if it is talent or his internal, male GPS honing system, but it never works. Whenever he dropped me at the metro station, he would stop directly next to a puddle if it was raining. On dry days, he would stop right next to the pile of garbage that the street sweepers would pile up on sides of pavements where they know no one steps.

Well, everyone except me.

My dad has a real knack for these things. Come mud, garbage, sewerage spill, dog poop, or cow dung, my dad has stopped right next to them all. Recently he topped it all. I opened the car door and put out my left foot. I know that I should always look down, so I did this time too. Since this was in the morning, the sight that greeted my left foot was fantastic: a used condom.

When my dad does the usual "stopping the car in top of garbage", I look back at him with disgust and have him drive forward a few inches to "clearer ground". When that is not possible, I do some acrobatic stretching and long-jump out of the car. This time, I rolled my eyes. And I opted for long jump.

When I looked back to close the door, he was grinning. That's his way of saying "Have fun at work!" Yeah, right! Like that ever happens. I could not really say, "Dad, you topped the car stopping list today." I navigated carefully out of the way. For a condom, it was in quite a good shape. "Recently used", I thought. "Hope the wearer had fun." Well, when you have to start a day by not stepping on a used condom, I believe that positive thoughts like these help. After all, worse could have happened. I may have stepped on dirty semen and ruined a pair of lovely leather shoes. Now that would be a real shame.

That Thing Called... Love... Something....

Love makes me feel icky. 

No kidding. When I see couples walk by, it disgusts me. I can't believe that everything is as perfect as people claim. There are problems on the surface as much as the deeply buried, numerous ones. Why do people pretend to be in love? Why do they show off to the world that they are desperate to keep it together but clearly cannot do so.

I have seen people all around me change drastically for the people they are dating. Dating actually translates to "love" because casual dating is so cliche. The girl is going to ask you about marriage anyways. No escaping that. "The Future" is so important to the preservation of our sanity that we cling desperately to whoever gives is even a smidgen of attention. So shallow are our personalities.

Anyways, the rantings of an overweight, chubby woman rarely evoke any kind of reaction except dismissal. Did I mention that I also lead a loveless life? Gosh! How did I miss that?

Contrary to popular opinion, I did not push people away. The ones I do push away are obviously annoying. Why wouldn't anyone want them out of their lives? Sorry, people, but I'm not patient with "stupid". It's like slowly roasting to death. Being with people of your own intelligence is tough. They rarely know what their time and place is. They love being reckless.

So, the hurt I caused people is not on my conscience. The hurt that other people caused has been utilised for rising above bad situations. It has also been diverted towards overheating sometimes. But I'm working towards fixing that. Food, I've come to realise, doesn't have all the answers. And "42" is an elusive one. What did Douglas Adams mean when he wrote that?

Then what is one way which would allow me to accept that stupid thing called love? Sorry, but it's not easy to be convinced otherwise when all that I see and observe supports my stand. Love is a vomit-inducing idea. It's too farfetched and a human construct. 

Till I get convinced otherwise, Love = Vomit. Trust me on that!