Then for the past couple of months the old me began to struggle. She began to ask, what exactly was wrong with me? I mean even though I was loud and crazy and blunt and tactless; I was still loved for being an honest friend, appreciated for always telling someone what I thought instead of sneaking behind their backs, liked in a crazy way coz I said tactless things to the wrong people at the wrong time and mostly I enjoyed life being the klutzy me. I didn’t care about the criticism or the concerned disdain from those serious souls who can’t laugh at life’s mishaps. I was just always optimistic…my favourite line was whats the worst that could happen? And then I let myself forget what it truly means.

I had let myself down. I let them affect my self confidence. Instead of trying to hone my certain individual specialities I sought to change them subconsciously and try and become this responsible, reserved, valued person. Wrong. So wrong. :-) But then change is always multifold and unless you see both sides of the coin you never know what’s best for you. I’m going to be me. I think it might be difficult for a while because I’ve been different for so long. But am going to be me and I’m going to be free. To hell with the world. I’m going to make my mistakes and I’m going to have a good laugh over them and learn from them. I’m not going to be careful anymore. I can’t keep living in a cage. It’s wrong.

So yesterday, I kinda walked up to this new friend and totally told him about some concerns I had. I was completely honest and also nice. I didn’t hurt him because I said the truth and guess what? After months of worrying about it just one simple conversation set it right. He’s fine with it…understands my quirk and we came to a mutual solution. Feels so good. Phew! Am glad to be back!

And I plan to smile and stumble through life. So, I guess you just have to live with it!

- Abraham Lincoln

Am I over-reacting? Is this slow down because I am becoming accustomed to the pace of the world and have realised that even success comes at a slow pace? Is it because I have realised that things come only when they have to and we can’t expect them before their time? Is it because I have realised that there is no short cut to hard work and I need to work hard first and foremost before i expect any reward?

Or is it because I have truly become lazy? I think it might be a combination of the two because in all fairness it would be wrong to say I am not doing my little bit to look for a new job and get myself qualified. Maybe I need to both constantly find my inner motivation and regularly feed it and also move with the tide. And maybe beginning to feel a complacency/dependancy in love is actually comfort and security. I don’t know why that last bit is still a scary though also a very inviting prospect.

Maybe am just going to end up like any other girl. Scary. Very scary.

silver turns to gray

raindrops mingle with tears

streaking down cheeks astray

blackness smears

the cold is here to stay

I’ve tried hard to remember my toddler years. Really hard. I’ve had glimpses of situations and dialogues in bright colours but never quite remembered the beginnings or the ends of these. It always amazes me when in novels the main protagonist vividly remembers what happened to them when they were four. They can recall all those events with clarity that helped shape them into who they are when they step into the world as adults. I’ve read a little bit of psychology and I don’t know how true it is that your past can so deeply define your future. I think a lot of my early memories are simply random pieces of Lego that don’t quite contribute to the final structure but lie around just the same.

I would like to start this story from when I was eleven because I remember the most from that age. But then I figured if I am going to write this story it would be unfair to leave out the random bits I remember from earlier on. I mean there might well be some who are able to somehow fit these random pieces of Lego into the final structure. Who knows, they always say the picture is clearer from outside in.

I remember hating bitter gourd and spinach as a kid. I must have been five or six and I would sit at the dining table picking at my food long after everyone had left hoping my mom would finally give up and ask me to leave the table. It never happened. It was a rule. I had to finish everything on my plate before I left the table. Some days I would just gulp it all down like the most obedient kid on the planet and others I would cry and fuss and later sit at the table dragging the food off the plate into my mouth while dry tears shuddered through my body.

I still remember the dark starry nights when mom and I would sit on chairs in our big roofless balcony. We used to live on the first floor and there were apartment buildings with jus four apartments each. The two upper apartments had these large open balconies where at least ten kids could run around and play tag. My dad would be away a few days every month on exercise duty as he is an Army officer. Ocassionally, my mom and I would sit on chairs in the balcony and she would brush my hair. A hundred strokes. Everytime. She would brush it and I would count it.  ‘Why do you have to do a hundred mommy?’ ‘It’s because your hair will grow long and thick and shine’, she would say. And I’d feel so special and pretty. She once told me that trimming it on full moon nights would make sure it remains long and beautiful forever. We trimmed my hair that night. I haven’t quite done it since those kindergarten years.

I had a birthday party on that balcony once. I was five years old and a lot of my friends had come home. My dad was the co-ordinator. He conducted all the games and played with us and taught us little tricks and oh how we all loved him! He had dark brown hair, an easy smile, a boyish laughter and he was so tall. So we played musical chairs and blind man’s bluff and a game where your supposed to hop on one foot and then try to tag someone. That one was never happy for the catcher. My dad then made us play coin in the circle. He filled a bucket with water and then placed a bangle inside the bucket and drew a line a foot away and gave us a coin. The one who got it inside the circle or closest to it would win a prize! I think some other girl did and I did feel a little miffed. I was the birthday girl afterall. Then we cut my birthday cake and ate all the yummy stuff my mom had made and the parents came to pick up their kids. Mom and I then sat on the bed and tore open all the gifts, gossiped about the evening and divided the gifts into liked and disliked piles. I don’t remember how that day ended but it was simply beautiful. I had quite a few birthday celebrations like this till I was about 12. It was amazing being the birthday girl.

We had moved to New Delhi. I was six or seven and went to school by bus everyday. My dad would walk me to the bus stop every morning at 6:45 and wave my friends and me good bye. I studied at Army Public School. It was humoungous. At least for a short scrawny kid it was. I’ll never forget this incident. I got into the bus at the end of another school day and my friend asked me to hold her ten rupee note while she put on her coat. I put it inside my coat pocket and forgot about it. We chatted and sang songs and played silly pranks all the way home. That evening I showed dad the ten rupee note and told him that I’d found it on the road outside the school building and I was going to go to the Lost and Found department to turn it in the next day. He said ‘good girl’ and that was enough for my heart to bloat with pride. I don’t know why I lied. And such a silly lie too. We walked to the bus stop as usual the next morning. The minute the bus arrived, my friend came running to the door and yelled anxiously ‘do you have my ten bucks? I’m really worried because my dad got angry with me for losing it and…’ I never heard the rest of that sentence as I was just horrorstruck by my dad’s expression. My cheeks were flaming red with shame and i couldn’t meet his eyes. His eyes. They had the most disappointed, sad and ashamed look in them. I saw myself stumbling downwards in them. All day in school that day I kept wondering what explanation I would have to give my dad in the evening. Evening came and my dad didn’t say anything about it. He didn’t mention it at all. Everything was normal. But I don’t think I’ll ever forget the expression on his face.

A new boy joined class right after the half yearly exams. We were in class two. He was made to sit next to me. For an Indian kid he looked quite angrez. He had sandy brown hair, very fair skin and was different from every other boy in class. He had a black pirates patch on his left eye! So cool and intruiguing! Even cooler than my glasses! I had been the only kid in class who wore thick glasses and everyone ooed and aaahd about it. But this boy simply stole the limelight! I remember the first conversation we ever had was about blue whales and how they were the largest creatures in the world. I don’t know why I remember that conversation but I do. I remember us talking about it excitedly and animatedly trying to one up each other with information. I used to be one of the most participative students in class but this boy added an element even there. Now everytime the teacher asked a question his hand would always shoot up too. I think it made me want to study harder. We became fast friends. His house was just a ten minutes walk from mine and he would come over some evenings to play in my back garden. We used to try and catch cotton balls that flew from the cotton tree. I think I liked him. He invited me for his birthday party. I was the only girl invited. I can’t begin to describe how cool and elevated that made me feel. After a few months we moved away but I always remember him and his black pirate patch.

A new city, new school, new friends and a new house. I used to both love the new and dread the new. When I was a kid it hardly mattered as every kid was a friend and we only wanted to play and there were no groups. I used to play with all the colony kids in the open spaces between the blocks of houses. There were at least twenty or more of us. We would play gallery and tag and hide and seek and all sorts of running games. Thats the beauty about living in India; you always have kiddie company and people to play with after school. One of the girl’s had a birthday coming up and she had tiny invitation cards in her hand which she gave out by calling each one of us in turn. I know it didn’t happen on purpose and being so many of us it was easy to miss out on a name or two but she didn’t give me an invitation card. Oh how it hurt my tiny little heart. I tried standing around putting on a brave face and smiling at the rest. Nobody noticed my agony and then I ran home the first minute I could slip away. I cried like the baby I was. My mom was horrified (she always was when things upset me) and kept telling me it was okay and that we wouldn’t invite that kid for my birthday. She had totally made up her mind that the kid was a villian. Bless her. My dad took the sobbing for just about ten minutes when he’d had enough and said ‘whats the big deal, she must have forgotten and there’s no need to cry. If she’s a friend go ask her what happened and if you can’t well there are many other birthday parties to go to.’ I don’t remember what I did but I do remember the hurt of first rejection and feeling like the odd one out in a crowd. It might be silly today but not at seven it was not.

Ah memories. Once you start tapping into them they come pouring out. I always think that everything has a purpose, a lesson to teach you but somehow with memories I can never quite figure out their purpose. The one thing I know about memories is that they’re hard to share but I hope that as I get to know you and open up more I’ll be able to tell the bad ones, the sad ones and the ones I’d dare not mention. I think I have had a very colourful childhood and there are so many more stories to tell. I’m hoping you’ll help me piece it all together.

Philosophical bull crap.

There’s too much to do

the yearning’s strong

I fill out the lists

but the priorities are wrong.

And with all these desires

to be strong, smart, successfull and well known

who am I?

And how do I find my own?

There is a clash of personalities

not out there but in my own mind

I want it all…wealth, experience, stature

and an urge to be satisfied for having lived wise and kind.

Why does it all seem like different paths…

Why can’t there be one road to all destinations?

Where are the signposts to guide us…

How do I take all the baby steps to fulfill my resolutions?

Do I lack will?

or some unknown strength of character to pull it off?

Have I missed the light

or am I just following the wrong prof?

The lanes seem so many and so winding

my songs tunes keep on changing

Why can’t I just know?

Where sleeps my intuition?

If I could just see…

How to make my dreams come true

to be better and grow into this misty ideal

to walk on a sure path with shoes that just knew.

But the answer is still hiding

this life is so long

and yet time is running out

Sleep calls…tomorrow might bring the right song.

If only…

Behind the make-up, the done-up hair, don’t miss the little tag: ‘Handle With Care’

I gave it a lot of thought about Alpha women. So strong, so proud, so firm; yet so kind, so gentle, so soft. I think an Alpha woman though strong and stubborn against the world, is looking for a man stronger who can make her feel secure in her weakness and proud in her meekness. A man with whom the strength can come undone because he will take care of the rest.

The wait might be long, the hours swamped with ambition and passion.

The filly might be strong, with fine muscle powerful against a gleaming well groomed coat.

The defences might be stubborn; seeking to find integrity stable and steady

The eyes might playfully sharp, pausing the imposter in his tracks

But when he comes along; like just another ordinary guy, unpretentious and unasuming

The hours condense into droplets of evergreen time, of peace, calm, serenity and knowing

That strength, passion, courage, hope and love have come together and are at home.

Going back to passionately upset and cold, there are times in life when one is so angry and so passionate about a certain cause they can kill for it. There are other times when such a situation leaves you cold and makes you shut down. I today, for the first time felt perhaps a real insight into why people care enough to riot, murder or demolish homes for their belief in their Gods or religions.

Religion, belief in God or non-belief in his/its existence form a sublime part of who we truly are as people. It defines our intrinsic characters; it helps define our principles, it helps form our perceptions of right or wrong, it gives structure to our philosophies, it gives us an identity in terms of where we comes from, where we are going and how we will deal with things on the way.

We do not talk about God or our faiths all the time nor do we consciously see our belief in any real form in day to day life. Occasionally we have intellectual conversations about it with our loved ones and friends. We debate each other’s views and understanding of the subject. We try to decipher what God means to different people, why people believe in God and why some don’t. Since it is something we do not talk about often, the words are new. When they spill out of our mouths we constantly wonder if those particular adjectives have truly summed up what we mean or whether the description we have just given is enough to really explain to the other person what we mean by it. Yet we do discuss what we truly feel unknowingly opening ourselves in a vulnerable manner to the other person by sharing some of our deepest thoughts, beliefs, convictions, confusions and motivations. We expect to learn more from these discussions but more importantly, as human beings we expect to be accepted as who we are.

It is a big enough thing to simply declare that ‘I believe in God’ and to actually sit down and try to explain to someone you care about what exactly he means to you. Especially when you know this person doesn’t believe in God. I have a definition of God and idols or a person who is omnipresent and omnipotent do not fall under that definition. Yet I believe my definition of God to be true and enough to reassure me. I do not believe there is a conventionally accepted definition of God especially in a world where there are so many varied religions, faiths and perceptions of God such as the infinite mind. My definition might be totally different from the entire generations of my parents, aunts and uncles but it is mine and I believe in it. It may not be the same God as theirs but I believe in God.

I opened my heart out to someone I love explaining my belief and I was told that under conventional definitions I do not believe in God. According to them, just because I do not believe in prayer to some deity but instead I believe in strife I am more an atheist than a theist. Does anyone have the authority to tell someone what they believe in is not really the right thing and that they have named it God but what they believe in is not really God. Can God be put into brackets and faith be defined?

What hurts me is that the statement does not question my faith nor does it ask me to defend it. It does worse than that. It simply decreed that what i believe in is untrue under some conventional norms. It shows intolerance of my belief. I am not averse to discussion and explanations but isn’t this a form of non-acceptance? Nobody needs to agree with you on your beliefs. Nobody needs to believe what you believe in. But for a subject like God, does anyone have the right to say you are wrong in saying you believe in God because it does not come under any conventional brackets? Is there any right or wrong in such a space? Isn’t assuming that someone’s faith is in a wrong category a form of non-acceptance? Isn’t that disrespect for their belief?

So what happens when someone refuses to accept your beliefs but insists on you being wrong or in the wrong bracket? What happens when someone refuses to accept at face value when you say ‘I am X’ and he still insists on saying ‘you are Y’? How helpless, agitated and forlorn you must feel? It is possible to ignore strangers and walk away from them unhurt because it doesn’t matter if they refuse to accept your identity. But you feel gutted when someone you are close to refuses to accept this belief of you, this identity of you. It’s almost like a son saying ‘dad I’m Gay’ but the dad saying ‘no, you also like women…you are simply confused. You are in fact very straight. You can call it being Gay if you want by giving it your own definitions but you are not Gay under the conventional definitions of Gay’. Where is that son supposed to go without acceptance and understanding from his own father? At least in this case one might argue that there is an agreed definition of who might be Gay and might not be but when it comes to God or faith there has never been such a conclusive agreed upon definition.

I feel cold. I feel like I’ve hit a stone wall. There are tears burning at the back of my eyes but a part of me says to hell with it…I don’t care. But as a last thing to say, tolerance of others feelings, opinions and beliefs is very important. You can believe in whatever you want to believe but you have no right to take someone else’s belief and cut it up into little pieces especially if you aren’t talking about a science or proved law but a subjective feeling that defines a part of someone’s identity.

I felt like I understood a rioters emotions for a second. No, I am not in any way justifying what people do. I am only at a basic level trying to explain that it comes from a deep sense of frustration and agitation. We all have the right to be who we are without someone telling us we are wrong in our belief. A Muslim has his faith in his Allah, a Hindu in his various Gods, a Sufi saint in God universally and an atheist in his disbelief. We are all entitled to hold our faiths and definitions without being wrong, without being challenged, without being questioned about our most basic beliefs. This is tolerance…tolerance of each other’s beliefs and respect for it. We have the right to support our convictions with reason and explanations. We as human beings do not have the right to strip someone else’s convictions. We have the right as free beings to question someone else’s faith but we do not have the right to tell them that what they believe in is actually wrong. That is intolerance…whether mild or vehement, it is intolerance none the less.

And I realised that’s because no matter what age we are or where we come from, we all mostly have the same dream…of finding true love, so intense and pure and lasting. We all hold that dream close and everything in life that mirrors it, lets lose those wings of hope. True love…the eternal quest.