Tough luck, trying times and interrogating my existence, I turn to literature and poetry looking for comfort and sound reflection. Someone has always said what needs to be said and said it better than I ever can.
To be, or not to be: that is the question: Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, And by opposing, end them. To die, to sleep; No more; and by a sleep to say we end The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks That flesh is heir to - 'tis a consummation Devoutly to be wish'd; To die, to sleep; To sleep, perchance to dream. Ay, there's the rub, For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause. There's the respect That makes calamity of so long life, For who would bear the whips and scorns of time, Th'oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely, The pangs of dispriz'd love, the law's delay, The insolence of office, and the spurns That patient merit of th'unworthy takes, When he himself might his quietus make With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear, To grunt and sweat under a weary life, But that the dread of something after death, The undiscovered country from whose bourn No traveller returns, puzzles the will, And makes us rather bear those ills we have Than fly to others that we know not of? Thus conscience does make cowards of us all, And thus the native hue of resolution Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought, And enterprises of great pitch and moment With this regard their currents turn away, And lose the name of action.
Na tha kuchh toh khuda tha, kuchh na hota toh khuda hota duboya mujhko hone ne, na hota main toh kya hota?
I just wrote a profile for a matrimonial. I am utterly and completely disgusted with myself!
They ask you about yourself and that's easy. I mean how hard can it be? I am a self-confessed, self-obsessed being. It was a cake walk.
Then they ask you about your family. I love them so that was fairly easy too.
Then came the expectations! And I went, WTF!?! I mean it's so fucking transcendental! I don't know how people have these ideas and images of their Mr/Ms Right?! I happen to be clueless about a lot of things and this got added and took up 3 meters of my existing 5 meters of scroll! And then are other issues and types of expectations too. I mean there are realistic/unrealistic expectations, there are lowered expectations that come from previous experiences, there are the expectations that you hope that you won't have to put down in so many words, there are expectations not just from the suitor but from the family also, well and then some... How does one define, differentiate and then finally decide what they want? How does one know what they want in terms of all the abstract, all the unsaid?
And then I finally managed to write one sentence. Only one sentence. All I expect in one sentence. Pathetic!
Now I wonder how I never found any man in all these years who could come to close to all that I need, all that I want? Do I ask for a lot? Am I too stuck up? Am I plain lost? Am I not looking for the right things? I'm obviously not looking for the right things, how else do you explain finishing the expectations part in one sentence?! What do they look for in them anyways? How do they define their compatibility with their significant others? How do they know what to keep what to let go?
What is fantastic? What is reality? Why is all this so hard?
I love being alone. I like to be myself amongst the madness and the maddening. I cherish my solitude.
There have been times recently when I felt it's cold fingers creeping into me like a chill, clutching my heart and gut, wrenching till I felt hard painful knots forming deep in my throat.
Hospitals are such humbling places. There you will find hope beyond hopes.
I have been spending the good part of my days in a hospital caring for one of my favourite persons. One of the most important people in my life actually. I am the daughter he never had, and I love him that much too. My father gave me genes and practicality, he gave me character and spirit.
Yesterday, the man who loved life, who was responsible for giving me hope was lying frail and worn when I entered his room. He saw me, and he said, "Me khallas zhalo ga..." These were the first words he had said to me in months. I sat there stunned, unable to utter words. Tears shot to my eyes. I could not cry. Not in front of him. Definitely not now. I had to speak to him, tell him that everything is going to be right again, this is just a passing phase, it will be over soon. It was as if his helpless words had snatched all my words from me. As a gut feeling I knew that that was not what he wanted to hear, because all that I would have said was going to be a lie.
The strongest man I know, the man who taught me how to live my life (happily) had lost to pain and was lying on the hospital bed wizened beyond his years. He had successfully combated and won over cancer. I knew he could and he did. He could do anything. Why then this? I could not handle his helplessness. In that moment I could "see" his sheer agony he felt while surviving.
I haven't felt so lonely. He was the last person I knew who would ever loose hope. If he had lost faith, there was definitely something terribly wrong. I felt this strange rage. How could he say that? How can *he* loose faith? There had to be a way out of this. I sat there pondering. Struggling to keep my tears to myself and say something to restore his hope. How I wish I could tell him that I would give anything, absolutely anything just to see him healthy again. From what I had heard from his relatives, I was hoping against hope that he would just sit and talk, talk and laugh with me, just like we used to... And then... he actually sat up to eat and began talking like he was healthy again (almost, well... almost like the old times). I could see him struggling with his pain as he was doing that. I knew he still wanted to put a brave face for me. And I just sat there, looking away from him. I don't know why I did that? I could not see him like that. In that moment I felt weaker than him.
He joked about how *small* my watch was and how I should consider getting a bigger one so that people won't feel the need to look at a wall-clock! Someone had answered my silent prayers amidst all the chaos. I was sharing thoughts with him again. He was smiling, almost laughing. Someone was definitely looking out for the both of us. I felt contented. Deeply moved by everything.
He started telling me how another chemotherapy would kill him. He said it wasn't that his body could not withstand it, he asked me, "At what COST?" He kept talking about how pointless any therapy would be because he saw his disease as his "destiny". He said, "What is meant to happen, will happen. How much can I take? Why should I suffer?" Again. I was at a loss for words. I could not imagine the pain that made him talk like that. It was too much. It wasn't him saying those horrible things. It was the pain. I hated his pain!
I don't claim to understand psychology, but I knew, and he knew I knew that I would understand. Suddenly out of no where he brought up the topic of miracles. He said he believed that miracles happen, but they never happen to us. I do not how I thought of the words I said to him. I still don't know if they came from me. It felt surreal. I said, "Miracles happen all the time. We know something was a miracle when we see the bigger picture. It's some years from now that you would call something that happened sometime back was a miracle." For some reason, I knew I had to speak of smaller things. Telling him about miracles he would find from a few months ahead and asking him to believe all of that was asking for too much. (In my heart I was too scared to think of a few months from now, did he have that long?) I was hopelessly trying to make him see a light. I said to him, "Compared to the last couple of days, his getting up and sitting and talking with me about all these things was in fact a miracle. A tiny miracle, agreed, but it was a miracle. And it had happened to him." Later I repeated similar sentences of which I have no memory because, as I was saying those things, I saw a twinkle in his eyes. I saw him smile, and his smile telling me how all he wanted was to hear those words. He had seen the light, in the end.
The fact that all that came out my head was a miracle for me. I have spent sometime with him now, and I have tried my best to encourage him to sustain and survive. Survive and battle it out with life.
I will appreciate all your prayers for him. God Bless Him!
Lay a whisper on my pillow Leave the winter on the ground I wake up lonely, in this air of silence In the bedroom and all around Touch me now, I close my eyes And dream away
It must have been love, but it's over now It must have been good, but I lost it somehow It must have been love, but it's over now From the moment we touched, 'til the time had run out
Make-believing we're together That I'm sheltered by your heart In and outside I turn to water Like a teardrop in your palm And it's a hard winter's day I dream away
It must have been love, but it's over now It was all that I wanted, now I'm living without It must have been love, but it's over now It's where the water flows It's where the wind blows
It must have been love, but it's over now It must have been good, but I lost it somehow It must have been love, but it's over now From the moment we touched, 'til the time had run out
It must have been love, but it's over now It was all that I wanted, now I'm living without It must have been love, but it's over now It's where the water flows It's where the wind blows
Yesterday was the 2nd death anniversary of a seemingly beautiful relationship. It was the last day of misunderstood affections. The last day of those (happy(?)) times. "Ah! Those were the days..."
I don't know why I've been thinking about it. It's not like it's a big thing. It's just a thing with me, I reckon.
1. Get a PhD. 2. Go to Paris. 3. Have babies. 4. Go to an opera. 5. Go to a U2 concert. 6. Have an enviable wine-cellar. 7. Get in (supermodel) shape. 8. Make a movie. 9. Write a book. 10. Learn to play the Guitar. 11. Be able to tell a joke and make it sound funny. 12. Go Bungee-jumping. 13. Spend a night at the shore under the stars. 14. Be the first / youngest someone to do something extraordinary. 15. Make more lists of "to-do before I die".
I had to do some major modifications to this, to make it sound do-able. It was a lot more fantastic and that much more impossible. It looked like this earlier:
1. To travel the world over. 2. To read all the (good) books ever written. 3. Own a book-shop, just like the one in "You've Got Mail". (I even had a place in mind). 4. To be part of a band. 5. To be able to talk in at least 10 different tongues. 6. To win the Nobel. 7. To make an award-winning film. 8. To build a house on the beach. 10. To live all alone by myself. (I've already ticked that off my lists)
I was scared shitless and I was looking around my strange surroundings with more anxiety than curiosity. Being geographically challenged, I was desperately hunting for maps to guide me to the Great Hall (and then to make matters worse, the maps said, "you are here", and I did not know how to get there from here, I mean where do you go from here when here is a circular dot!). I had earlier called him at his residence only to find that he wasn't available. The guy at the front-desk had taken a message for him. Then, he had called while I was collecting my money. I was thrilled to hear him talk in Marathi. It was quite sometime before that had happened. We had fixed a date to meet up at the Great Hall. And the challenge of getting there was boggling the wits out of me. I was looking around for a familiar face amongst the stiff-upper-lipped population of disinterested strangers. I felt lonely. A friendly Black-American saw me, I think I looked obviously lost. It took me close to a few seconds to answer in the affirmative. I felt so racist! (I am not like that usually, I blame the hostility I felt on those empty streets). He asked me this-and-that and before I could ask his name, we were already at the Great Hall. I thanked him with gratitude that's unparalleled till date. I walked into the iron gate, and into the ornate wooden doors that led me up to the grand, red-carpeted staircase, huge portraits of ex-Chancellors and such hanging on the enormous golden walls that seemed to stretch out to the sky. Awe-struck, I suddenly felt under-dressed and awkward in my shoes. I saw the signs directing me to the right room. I wasn't interested in anything I saw in the room. My eyes were searching for him. The only thing we knew about each other at that point in time was the clothes we were supposed to have on on that day; him, a UMM red pullover and me my worn-out Benetton pullover. And yet I was looking for a face. Weird, right? We saw each other almost simultaneously, and to noone's surprise we identified the pullovers! I almost wanted to give him a huge hug just because he was there. I felt immensely happy to see him. We looked around the exhibition. Conversation flowed as if we were old friends catching up. We came out of the Great Hall and I realized for the very first time what a beautiful day it was! Spring flowers all around with clear weather and warm sun, we were already making lunch plans at 11am. Eating out was not even an option. We walked all over discovering and re-discovering the place, finding new ways to get to the same place (the place that was later to be my favourite place to have all my lone lunches). Thankfully, at least he was geographically sound and we came out of the place eventually. We headed back to his place to get our lunch sorted. I instantly fell in love with the apartment complex. (I loved it so much, I later exchanged my far better accomodation for that place! Plus, the fact that everyone I knew was living there helped too). He lived in the basement. It looked dingy. He took me to his room. It was a mess. It looked like what it was supposed to be, a straight man's bachelor pad. Strangely, I always thought bachelor pads had pictures of naked girls on the walls. I was disappointed there, but what a relief that was! There was a Ferrari model (red) lying on his table, CDs and books strewn around. Clothes adorned all the empty spaces. He piled them elsewhere and made place for me to sit. And if you know how spring beds are, you will fully appreciate how difficult it was to sit on the very springy edge of the one I was sitting on. I was glad when we headed to the kitchen to cook ourselves some Maggie. Before entering the kitchen, we found a note addressed to him. It said, "Call back. Ewooja." The front-desk person had just dropped the note four and half hours after I had left the message, with my name all messed-up! (He still calls me that). While he was making Maggie, he told me he was a brilliant cook, apparently he had taken cooking classes! He could make Butter Chicken, Roasted chicken, Biryani, Makhanwala, Fish Curry, Rotis and what-not. I was floored. We had a quick lunch and headed to the City-Centre. On our way we met some more of our kind and we shopped for food. We came back from the City-Centre, had similar dinner. We wanted to experience the wild night life people had promised this place would have, we went back to the city. Within a couple of minutes we had already gotten ourselves nicely lost. We were two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl. Walking on strange streets we came to the theatre. We had no identification on us to prove that we were students. I had a mere 5 quid in my pocket and he had 3. The ticket for one non-student was that much! It was late and there weren't too many people around wanting to catch "The Longest Yard" at a theatre near them. He was short and I looked right out-of-school. They figured we were students after all and let us in for 3.50 a head. We came out to streets complete with flashy, half-inebriated, pub-hopping under-grads. It looked like any University city looks at that time of the night. We walked back to his place. Chit-chatted for a couple of hours. I was scared to go home alone so he walked me home. It had just rained and the streets, washed clean seemed different. I was weary. I was looking forward to the warmth and coziness of my bed. I reached home and cried myself to sleep. (I now know (almost!) what James Joyce was feeling when he wrote 'Ulysees'!) I met a million strangers that day, some of them I became best-friends with. And him, we hung out together for a week. I moved into the same apartment complex as him on the top-most floor. And then we went our own ways, cordially meeting once in a while to talk about this-and-that. He grew into a different set of people and I into a completely different set. Through it all and a thousand days later, I still remember every single detail of that day. Every detail is etched in my memory. Every detail as if it happened yesterday. Every detail as if that day was all that would ever matter. Every detail as if it was the best day of my life. Every detail as if it was the beginning of the rest of my life.
Gave me hope. Managed to bring a tiny shred of cheer in my pathetic life. Sometimes, support comes from the unlikeliest of sources. It feels nice. I guess it means much more as it's unexpected. They say, one shouldn't talk to strangers. That strangers are not supposed to understand. They don't understand. But sometimes they do. And I'm glad they do.
The relative stranger did not have to say much. It was the who, when and how that made all the difference in the support I've been receiving so far. He said,
We all stiffen our upper lip and put on a brave face in this situation, but I can imagine what you must be going through. The time during Univ. admissions tries even the toughest. I wish there were something I could say to ease it (like, 'univ admissions are not the end of the world', or 'research matters, not the reputation doesnt',etc), but there isnt anything. If it is any comfort, know that I understand.
Relative Stranger, I did not say it well enough earlier. Thank you. Thank you for those well-meant words.
I try persistently (to be open to new experiences, radical ideas and such), to see myself evolve.
I wonder, I ponder, and afterall, I still leave things where I know I shouldn't!
My life was summed up quite well by Kathleen Kelly in 'You've Got Mail', "Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life. Well, not small, but valuable. And sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? I don't really want an answer. I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."
