Wiser, perhaps.

It is a sad trick.

Every single one of us, the intellectual, the intelligent, the keep-to-myself loner, the extravagant, the miser, the man in the gangly t-shirt across the street, the taxi-driver who refused you the ride, the secret-admirer, the superficial babe flaunting her red nailpaint, the everyone else – each one of us – is looking for that one thing that will make our lives better. That one single consciousness or that fragmented one, which will complete if not compliment ours. 

That one consciousness that we hope to draw from, that we hope to contribute to, in the eventual process of completion or fragmentation. That one consciousness that could make us feel a little less irrelevant. The one consciousness that could help us get an inch closer to the semblance of happiness, one moment at a time. In the process, evolution is inevitable – physically, metaphysically. The more we evolve the more attached we get to those that have been witness to and have in some way partaken and participated in the person we are today and the one we will become tomorrow. Perhaps, that is why it is so difficult to give up on old friends, childhood sweethearts, long-lost lovers, family, pets, however they may have failed you; for each of them have projected a part of themselves unto our present self. That is perhaps why, we will never be able to give up on love.

Evolution of love is a curious process. It simultaneously estranges you and makes you bond stronger with the people most relevant in the process. Born with a single consciousness, we are designed to succumb to loneliness, and thereafter seek that other consciousness that will draw our energies into theirs and replenish theirs from ours. That which will fill in those voids, you never knew existed. And in the process make you so much more aware of the person you are, inevitably making you become a different person than you were yesterday, inevitably thus estranging you, even if a wee bit from everyone who had this set perception of you.

 

Love is perhaps the design flaw then.

The moment you recognize an attraction, you rush with all your might to know the person, to know yourself around the person, projecting  and eventually imbibing a part of them into you and a part of you unto them. You are always looking for some form of acknowledgment that would somehow concur with your projected person, and the sooner you reach there, you are looking to reach the next. It is an abyss that sucks you into it, deeper, each time you reach a check-point. Like that game, where you are craving to reach the next level. But once you have, it’s done with. Then it’s boring to go back and play from stage 1, because you already know of the hidden trapdoors, as much as you do of the crystals that will fetch you bonus points. The excitement naturally wanes. The other trick is to design the unending loop, where, at each stage you may or may not increase the difficulty level after a point, but you make minor changes in design, shuffle the trapdoors a little, trick and game the system to give you the bonus points at some familiar intervals, at others to just be a futile attempt at bonuses. While you may grudge the not-always-rewarding reward system, at least you will keep playing. The programmer has had his victory.

Human relationships are a tad bit more complex that way. Gaming the system, seems trickery – an unnatural effort – and hence not always appreciated. We like to believe that the system would be a self-updating game – and thereby fail to appreciate the effort our partner may put into actually gaming the system. We fail to recognize that that is also an attempt. We forget that the person we met is not the person who is and the person who will be. In our defence, acceptance is not always the easiest; not always the most natural course of selection. As much as we like the new, some more than others, we all take comfort in familiarity. That is perhaps why we re-read the same books, re-watch the same films, revisit photographs, play the same song on a loop, go back to our favourite places, go back to that one place for drinks, talk to the same people about the same things, succumb to the same mistakes. Even new mistakes are scary – unchartered territory they are. And while we like to imagine ourselves wiser after every mistake, we are merely being gamed. Perhaps that is why they say only unrequited love can last. For it is not blemished by the regularity of familiarity.

Yet familiarity is what we strive to achieve; what we are most comfortable with.

Wiser men and women have realized it, talked about it at length – in books, in movies, in real life. Yet we are all entrapped in it. It is indeed a sad trick.

C'est la vie, princess.

'In essence, we become what we believe'. Many have said this in their own bejewelled words. Some ever so entangled in their own myriad blemishes, some ever so detached.

Sometimes perhaps, that is why it is easier to deceive ourselves. And truer. It is at those ambiguous moments unhinging becomes more important than ever. The lock however became rusty in all the time you never paid attention, sanctimonious in the charade of safety it cozened you into. The lack of the serenade is perhaps the bane and the boon, then. It settles as much as it unsettles. Truth be told, there ain't any, my friend. All that glistens may well be gold, but you never wanted gold to begin with. Somewhere in the bigger picture, the smaller one shied away.

Chronic dissatisfaction, hence. Sometimes, we pick snakes in the guise of twigs, some other times, we mistake the sugar for the sweetener. Then we let the insulin kick in.

Life goes on. C'est la vie, princess.

Calling out to the angels and demons: Time to come back home, darlings!

Every time I read your mildewed dream, it gives me an inane urge to seek shelter in my own voracity of nuances. Though mostly, I cannot tell the urge apart, from the suppressed ceremoniousness that needs invoking to imperceptibly quieten that melancholic whisper. Or the one to weep silent tears for the loss of that vague feeling that I could never completely fathom, but inevitably always left behind familiar wisps. They blend into one another so seamlessly, that it'd take even you eons perhaps, to merely notice its reticent demeanour.

The tenacity of fragility. And our inane efforts, ever so subtle ones. Many regrets later, the palpable scaffold gives way. There's no dam that breaks, no subliminal conspiracy that metaphorically or otherwise, sinews sensation. But alas! the lack of it.

PS: Then, I go back to present-moment-sanctimonious-sensibility and tell myself to beckon both my angels and demons back home. 

To the vagaries of Life and its likes!

Year endings always see me a little lost - a lill encumbered, a little scattered, here and there. There's the old and the new, the eclectic mix of which you're seeking again, for Time's sake.

Its  been a long year, one that has curled around the edges, gone over fences, sometimes has hidden under silent cold blankets and shirked away the restlessness. All in a day's work, on a more macroscopic scale. Heh.

There's so much to talk about, and yet nothing seems pertinent enough. Everything is, though. Pertinent enough to be not talked about, that is. So, i'll try and trace back, to a time, when I could tell the difference. A jealous lill kid, betrayed by the fact that the love of my life, the one who i gazed at starry eyed, Hrithik Roshan exchanged ceremonial garlands with his childhood sweetheart. Names dint matter, even then. So anyway, not being a regular follower of the Bollywood gossip streams, it came to me as quite a shock, staring at me right out of a newspaper (I'll confess, that by then my adulation had died down only by a mere inch, which is why I had not kept up with the whispers around B town, but I was too vain to admit that. I still am. Nevermind.) A diligent and faithful, starry eyed fan, I obediently followed up and lapped up all the stories the media generated about how the subject of my (and a million other women/girls/both) adoration, finally married his childhood sweetheart. Over the years, the media made their real life seem like reel life - the ones where the happy couple, walks off happily ever after into the sunset, and that is pretty much the end of the road.

A good few minutes ago, I read about the 'will last forever' couple having issued individual statements to the media about their split up and impending divorce. Still, not a regular follower of Bollywood channels, this news too came to me as quite a shock. Not that this time it triggered personal emotions (I like to believe that I've grown up beyond fandom, except for, when it comes to Johnny Depp), nevertheless, I yet again lapped up all media speculations that the first page of Google search would give me. The media did what it does - speculate and spin more stories, some very fancily titled with very badly edited images. One publication after another trying their best to get the scoop, make for a more spectacular story, sell a few more copies! The pandemonium of tragedy, when it strikes.

However, what was striking was the residual set of thoughts. About love, life and the likes of reminiscence. I, the self-proclaimed non-believer in all things pink and precious, was left a lill ajar. We all agree that 'happily ever after' does not exist, as much as leprechauns and topic change fairies do, but then what replaces it? The previous generations believed in 'ever after, happily or not', but we, as a generation of self-achievers, vouch our loyalties to 'happily, ever after or not'. Whatever works, works for us. 17 years later, i wonder what did not work with the couple that had the fairytale love story. It is perhaps the same thing that does not work for most of us - Life. I keep talking about it, but what really happens when the fairytale ends? And it ends, mind you. Life becomes mundane, where romance is replaced by 'these socks need to be washed', where the zing dissolves into Zinger burgers, where those consuming electric stares become blank ones of thoughtfulness that is inevitably followed by a 'huh?' That is perhaps the chemistry then, that you're expecting to be kissed underneath the stairs, such that the thought does not get your heart racing like it used to. Excerpts become rituals, excitement becomes regular and eagerness becomes reticence. You and me becomes us. But is that not what we wanted from the day we perceived the tension blooming? Perhaps is, but we humans, in our silly follies and inability to hold on to contentment, overlook the pitfalls of familiarity that we so desperately crave. Sometimes, I can even extricate myself from this endless loop to see the consequences of merely peripheral vision.

It is perhaps wise, to accept  then. That we fail, to want without the law of marginal utility. But we succeed simultaneously, in keeping intact, the transient totes of love. Perhaps, it is ok, to be dejected and crib about how you barely ever are caught off-guard anymore. Perhaps, it is ok, to be then caught off-guard, complaining then.
Trouble is, that you always knew, that the legendary butterflies in the stomach are transient. As is the cocoon and the caterpillar. Tranformation, though, is what they call Life. And it happens.

A few days ago, giving precious words of advice to a friend who is currently in the 'I'm not sure what I want from this' stage of courtship, I relayed 'Stay unsure for as long as you can manage to. After that, the teas will seem to lack the flavour - the one that the zing of conversation added!' A trail I've been trying t trace around and over, step aside the precarious hidden trenches, jump over some of the not-so-hidden ones, finally seems to be catching up with me. And I am still not very sure, if I am actually complaining.

Floating Laments

They fly by the edges of consciousness,
unending;
mostly without a beginning either.
Some sigh,
while some others cry
Some simply whisk by
some others
smile
with all the tenderness
you've ever known,
and that you will never know.

Floating laments
They sometimes come by...



In my spree of unarchiving, I've been discovering quite a few of these. Some I'll post, some of course, I won't. This is perhaps one thing about writing - the complete right you have over it! heh! - The transient traps of ownership.

At times like these I wonder what is it with unfinished things. Unfinished letters, unfinished cards, unfinished paintings, unfinished affairs, even an unfinished emotion for that matter, seem to rake up, much more in you, than you knew existed. If I detach from personal experiences, it is also intriguing how much perspective it adds. It's like tumbling down a rabbit-hole of feelings, trying to decipher some, some just slipping away in plain sight, some others never there, and some catching you by surprise by their unexpected intensity. 'What happened then?' you begin to wonder. Well Love, Life did!

Shei golper resh

Something that I'd archived again. Exactly a year ago. It's amusing how Life brings you a full circle, time after time. Unconscious, yet so omnipresent.

Aaro khanikta bhalobasha

Kotokta chena, kotokta tatotai awchena

Khuje pawar por abar kore hariye jawa' 

Golpo shuru, golper desh

Shei shuru, shei shesher resh

Khanikta kuje newa

Tarpor abar shei shurute hariye jawa

Everything begins, so that one day it will end. The only thing that a beginning ensures is an ending. However long, short, amusing, enthralling, mundane, regular, aggravating it is, one fine morning, everything except for it, will be fine. That morning, it will die. Alongside, so will the smiles, the pain, the associated memories, the smirks, the hidden delights, the confusion, the wry smiles, the comfort of familiarity and everything else, good or bad, or good and bad, associated with it. You will have nothing else to do, except to accept it, and then perhaps with some more time, embrace it. There will be nothing else left to do with it, except to preserve its memory and then one day, that will die too...

It’s an incessant loop at the most, a vicious one, in the least. Today, tomorrow, yesterday, and day after... all will come and go as it will. You will make a set of choices, life will move on, pause, sing, dance, romance, cry, wilt and then give way to another chapter.  The beginning of each chapter will bring with it, its own nuances, tenderness, the rough edges, but however it is, the traces of the end are ingrained from the very beginning. That is the nature of life. That is the nature of existence. One gives way to make space for another, and then another, and then another, till one fine day you finally finish the book.  However long or short it had to end, so it did. There really is no deeper meaning.

Like another friend says ' We are afterall, islands' :)

...for we are also what we have lost

I should have posted this a long long time back. My usual year end-new year beginning post, this ideally belongs to that category. However, anyone who knows me enough, also knows how soon i get bored of trends, patterns, or anything that has anything to do with repetitive quality, even if they are my own. So here is goes now - i hope it breaks another of those inane frenzied circles. 

This is perhaps also a reminder. To myself. Of what I seeked then, and am struggling to keep now :) 

‘...for we are also what we have lost’

We live in the illusion of a better tomorrow, perhaps in the hope of a better tomorrow. Someone once said, that hope is perhaps the cruellest of all emotions!

Everything that was wrong today, will be fixed tomorrow, what was broken today will be mend tomorrow, all that was lost today, will be found tomorrow! Everything will be allright. Tomorrow.

What we tend to discount in this equation is perhaps that a few things that were not-so-bad today will go worse.  Then is it not a constant bargain? With faith, with your circumstances, with chance? What you are ready to stake for the sake of what?

Another whole year has gone by. It brought with it its share of the roller-coaster ride. Some bits i thoroughly enjoyed, some pits i thought i’d never get out of. Then the next moment came along. In the course of the meander, at those opportune moments when you begin to think you’ve lost the way, it perhaps takes just one stroke of luck, optimism, relentlessness, call it whatever you will, to make that your very course. And tango on. Because that’s what you do, when you get tangled up. Because there simply isn’t ANYTHING else to do.

In a similar conversation with a friend, i remember her insisting, that everything cannot always be wrong. There will be a time, when things will fall in place, because that is how life works, and if that seems to be now, i’d rather embrace it. I’m not too sure. What if the stakes are too high? Then again, what if i choke and die tomorrow?

Life is relentless. Perhaps it is beautiful, like nothing else, but it’s a bitch too. It’ll screw you over; it’ll then give you the strength to gather yourself, set the pieces of the puzzle right again and then wham! You were looking for a different picture altogether. 

Last year was a year of many epiphanies. Of many heartbreaks, of many heartaches, of realizations, simultaneously of many slight smiles, of many makings and that of many learnings. A lill more of the rose tint has peeled off the glasses.  A lill more of the journey covered. Some strangers embraced, some embraces estranged. Some lessons learnt, some rewritten. New people, new circumstances, new roads, all the newness that i was earlier this year getting somewhat jittery about, have been out to the test of time. And none has failed me, neither have i failed any.  It is amusing, to say the least, when you look at life as though it were cinema, rose-tinted glasses or not. I see this person sprinting, from one place to another, from one set of people to another, from one quirk to another, to look for happiness or the semblance of it, relentlessly, sometimes a woman, sometimes the mere makings of one. 2012 ran a full circle. As i sit here and type this away, i’m once again sitting in the shelters of my quilt, safely tucked in, in the comforts of what they call home. Everything that deserved a second chance, has been given one. However, one thing is different. Today, i do not wish to run away. I’ve the knowledge to my satisfaction that i embraced the roads, and drove while i needed to. After another tedious journey, today, the sense and semblance of home rakes a queer sense of comfort. And that, i’m still trying to get comfortable with.  

Chasing the semblance of the illusion of happiness? Perhaps, but then again like another friend stresses, we are walkers. And till such time the road stretches, we shall keep walking...