The Great Wall of China

Human nature, essentially changeable, unstable as the dust, can endure itself no restraint; if it bends it soon begins to tear madly as it bonds, until it rends everything asunder, the wall, the bonds, its very self...My inquiry is purely historical, no lightening flashes from the long since vanished thunderclouds...The limits which my capacity for thought imposes are narrow enough, but the province to be traversed here is infinite.

The Illicit Happiness of Other People

I was in the sixth grade. My father is the conventional Indian papa with the big doctor/engineer/IAS officer dream carried forward to his children, so each weekday, instead of watching Powerpuff Girls on Cartoon Network, my brother and I were sent off to tuition at neighbourhood waali aunty's place, half past three in the afternoon.

Jaya aunty was a homemaker, frustrated because she was overqualified to teach us, a devout Buddhist. I'd borrow books from her that mostly always bordered on preachy, like Tuesdays With Morrie and The Alchemist. When she'd spot a rebellious paperback sneaking out of my bag she'd mutter that I must be careful. I was her star student, my hair was combed back fiercely to show that I meant no nonsense. I'd agree and nod multiple times with her to ensure that I followed everything she was saying. I'd secretly steal expensive soap from her washroom.  

There was this another girl in the same tuition, she was two years older to me. Stupid as a doorknob. She would make make your eye twitch and lip curl if you paid attention to what she was saying any longer than six minutes. 

So Jaya aunty slapped her once. An hour into explaining a simple mathematical problem, and this girl could only look at her nails she had painted earlier. Aunty said really mean things to her that day. I sat there in my seat, my back straightening with every word, neck out like a swan with an enlightened expression like I was the Buddha himself.

I feel ashamed when I think about it now. I say 'now' because it has taken me years to get over the whole idea of what is the right way of being a girl. If I saw someone pouting in a short dress in a Facebook picture or putting more than three hearts in a comment I would be quick to dismiss them. I've always taken pleasure in doing this. I probably will remain hypocritical and continue to do so on some days out of sheer habit.

But the reason why I've written about this is because the truth is that no one gives a fuck. This is Buddha's moment of enlightenment- No one gives a fuck. The girl came to class the next afternoon and nothing had changed. She even had a pleasant, dazed expression on her face. You should have been there to see how the vein on aunty's forehead threatened to burst. It was quite hilarious. I don't know what to conclude from this. What I do know is I don't want to turn into my bitter teacher.

I'd rather not give a fuck.

Florence Makes Me Write About The Great Gatsby

Vast mansions, torn yellow dresses, small people, half open mouths, drunken mistresses, locks spread on the pillow, dull yellow, she sings from the piano, tip the champagne glass over, slurred words, repeat your chants, close your eyes and smile. Unfulfilled loves can make great love stories only as long as they are unfulfilled. Now you know.

Mumbling #21

How is it that everything seems so much more believable in the silence of the night? Every ridiculous thought that would scamper away like a wet mouse during the day, borrows some spirit from the moonlight and gently presses it's possibility in my head. I wake up from my stupor each morning only to be lured into the obscurity of the witching hour, night after night, day after day. It's a deception they say, but I wouldn't exchange this phantom for any treasure of the world. I couldn't even if I wanted to. 

When Shahrukh Khan makes you post at 5 o'clock in the morning, as he dances on top of a train in a rhythmic fervor singing to you about his lady love who reminds him of a fragrance as she speaks a language which is soft and expressive like Urdu, how can you then not believe in Love?

Chaiyya Chaiyya

“I really like you, Midori. A lot.”
“How much is a lot?”
“Like a spring bear,” I said.
“A spring bear?” Midori looked up again. “What’s that all about? A spring bear.”
“You’re walking through a field all by yourself one day in spring, and this sweet little bear cub with velvet fur and shiny little eyes comes walking along. And he says to you, “Hi, there, little lady. Want to tumble with me?’ So you and the bear cub spend the whole day in each other’s arms, tumbling down this clover-covered hill. Nice, huh?”
“Yeah. Really nice.”
“That’s how much I like you.” 

Just because we can't be friends doesn't mean that we aren't.

I would like to fancy that I'm getting addicted to a certain kind of sadness- fast becoming a way of my life. I've been reading Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood and the protagonist's straightforwardness makes me restless. Murakami fills page after page with such sincerity and ease, that it almost breaks my heart. He's not to blame though, hearts break too easily. My cellphone blips a name after a long time, conviction follows suit of my heart and drip drip drip. I'm turning into the kind of woman I didn't think I would.