Of Star-Dust and Unplanned Naps

You start small.

You start by realizing that you’ve been stunting yourself, cutting corners to fit into a box that someone else chose for you.

You start by realizing that the bed you’ve been sleeping in has lost all its utilitarian value.

It can no longer hold the ever growing, magical phenomena called your body now; 
it is way too old for that.

You know; honestly,

The fact that you exist is a miracle in itself!

The odds of you never coming into existence surpass the minuscule chance of your presence by a mind blowing margin, and yet,

Here you are!

Coursing in your veins is ancient wisdom,

Elements of a star that probably once shined brighter that the Sun,
now run through your body,

You are a living, breathing bit of star-dust, born with a spark in your brain and twinkle in your eyes,

You were here to change the world!
And;

As if your existence wasn’t miracle enough, 
your survival is a different wonder in itself!

Every day that you’ve been here, your body has always had the choice to simply stop existing.

So many people die every day;

‘His heart gave out’,

‘She’s brain dead. A vegetable, capable of life, incapable of living it’

‘The voices in her head got to her. At her own hands, she’s passed’

You hear these words often enough for it to feel like a normal occurrence

And yet,

Your body chose survival!

But what have you done to this little bit of magic called you?

You’ve denied it even the simple pleasures it deserves,

Simple pleasures – of good food, of good company and of a good night’s sleep

Lying down, curled up and crumpled - on a small cramped bed you never chose - you’re punishing yourself, but why?

So,

You start small.

You start by realizing that the bed you’ve been sleeping in has lost all its utilitarian value.

It can no longer hold the ever growing, magical phenomena called your body now; 
it is way too old for that.

You start by deciding that you deserve a bigger place for your weary body to rest.

You start by explaining to yourself that sometimes, 
money needs to take a back seat when essential comforts are running the show.

You start by not going on a guilt trip after you’ve brought the bigger bed, 
convincing yourself that it is okay, partially because you need it and partially because you can afford it.

The first time you sleep on this gigantic bed, big enough for three other people like you,

You sleep on one side.

Extreme Left

Or

Extreme Right

If your old bed was stuck against the wall, and you’re used to getting off the bed from one side alone, chances are- it’s the same side you choose here as well.

And you wake up awkward and cramped again
 and you wonder what went wrong.

You’re on a big bed, you’ve earned it, you’ve brought it, but evidently;
you’re still not convinced you deserve it.

Looking around in that typical, groggy haze that a badly timed, unplanned nap brings along, it sort of smacks you in the face:

The awareness that you’ve the entire big bed to yourself

It’s a box you’ve chosen for yourself, it’s a box you do not have to share.

So as you roll over again to the center of that soft cloud of comfort, 
wrapping yourself up in a warm blanket in the process,

You let out a muffled, satisfied exhale and you realize:
 

Your time has finally arrived.

And then you snore with gay abandon.

The Angel's Bleeding Rag Doll

"That's the thing about suicide. Try as you might to remember how a person lived his life, you always end up thinking about how he ended it."

~Anderson Cooper 

When did we decide that Empathy was uncool?

That Care meant Clingy, and clingy was annoying,

and Concern, joblessness?

Why did, 'I'm busy' become cooler than, 'I'm here for you.'?

When did we become scavengers -picking up on other people's vulnerabilities and miseries and pain, picking up all those dirty, rotten, unwanted parts of peoples' lives they'd rather discard - for our tea time gossip?

When did 'talking about' become more acceptable than 'actually talking to'?

Asking for help is the one of the bravest things someone can do-

to admit that you're broken and in need of fixing and that you need help because you can't save yourself from the demons in your head but you still want to survive, damnit! 

A part of you begs for the pain to stop, for the sweet embrace of death to be that one final shot to kill the pain, and another part, the part that still has it's ancient, ancestral, warrior, fighter, survivor instincts, wants to battle on. The battlefield of the mind is an exhausting place to be, and half your troops are fighting against their will. 

When did this turbulent, bloodless gore become pathetic, unacceptable and attention seeking?

A bleeding accident victim, lying on the road like a rag doll screaming in pain for help isn't what you'd call attention seeking, would you?

Then how come someone who's body is at war with their own mind, with the former fighting to survive and the latter dreaming of sweet demise - a theatrical performance? 

The truth you lack sight of, is still the truth,

The pain you cannot see does exist, and it still inflict its victims, engulfs and swallows them whole, 
to this fallen Angel of pain, it doesn't matter if the crime has a witness or not. 

This Angel gets to everyone at his own untainted pace. 

Your apathy only speeds up the process. 

And once the victim is captured, taken under the dark, heavy, unforgiving wings of this fallen Angel, to be crushed and lost and disintegrated into dust forever, 

You hope its done. 

You hope that The Angel will fly away, return to where ever it came from. 

You couldn't save her, you underestimated her pain, you weren't enough, 

but now she's gone and you're still here and you hope she's taken this pain away with her as she leaves, 

Her final goodbye present to you, perhaps?

And all you do is hope and pray that she's no more in pain. 

But this Angel, this wretched Angel of pain, is a fallen one.  Cast out of heaven for his rebellion, he has no where to go to and all the time to stay. 

He's still around. 

He's slowly starting to creep on to you. 

A cold shiver runs down your spine, a feeling of dread fills you up, 

as you realize,

It's all yours, 

It's here to stay, 

This angelic outcast 

fondly spoken of as, 

The Pain of Regret. 

 ~~~

Hey, Ruchika? I don't think I'm ever going to stop missing you. 

But she's decided...

But she's decided that she doesn't need anyone. So she does everything all by herself.

When she sees a couple at the mall, the man losing his patience as the woman takes forever to decide between two parallel shades of red, she thinks to herself how good it is that she doesn't subject anyone to torture like that. 

So she goes to the doctor's alone, tries out new restaurants all by herself, shops for her groceries alone, buys herself flowers or cute lingerie and spends her weekends all by herself, cooking single serving meals with a lonely glass of wine for company; because she's decided she doesn't need anyone in her life. 

It's the little things like these that he wishes he could share with her. Introduce her to a new food joint he's just found out, take her shopping to a brand new ethnic wear store he knows she'll love, have her help him pick a new shirt to wear to his cousin's wedding or help him buy a gift for his mother. 

He wants to smile like a hopeless romantic as she furrows her brows in confusion between two absolutely non-differentiable shades of purple. He wants to smile at her reassuringly as she tries on a new dress for the first time, her face a thousand insecurities and questions as she steps out of the dressing room. 

He wishes he could just arrive at her doorstep in the middle of the night, take her out for a drive, a midnight snack and some coffee, maybe?

But she doesn't like being so available to anyone like that, being vulnerable and confused and unsure in front of another human being is a sign of weakness, and she does not want her cracks to show. 

So he tries to be careful, tries not to overstep the boundaries she's put around her, tries not to be the wrecking ball that breaks down her fortress, because the last thing he wants to do is to imbalance this delicate dance that has taken months to perfect. 

One evening, they meet for tea, at a roadside shop near their offices, in their wrinkled work clothes, the exhaustion of the day wearing down their bodies and their minds, her hair left open at the mercy of the wind. 

They stand there sipping their tea from the tiny, murky, glasses when a stray gust of wind blows her hair astray. She tries with one hand to tame it back it place, but one strand gets stuck in her earrings. He authoritatively hands her his glass of chai, and gently eases the wayward strand of hair away from the earring, and quietly resumes sipping his tea again. 

And she smiles to herself, thinking,

'But she doesn't need anyone, does she...?'

Spellbound

Have you ever heard her talk to her friends about you?
Not those conversations that fan out like a competition, where all you hear are empty praises and advertisements of your societally approved qualities, done in a bid to convince the world of her happiness; but random, mundane snippets that get thrown around in passing?
Maybe her friends are talking about how each one of them likes their morning tea and she suddenly quips in,

"Yeah, he likes it like that too! I can never understand why someone would need so much tea so early in the morning, but that's just what he likes."
And her friends nod in agreement a few of them even identify with and defend your habits to her, subtly telling her to not sweat the small stuff when the guy is otherwise nice.

And you know why her friends think you're a nice guy?

Not like they really know you, but they're sure you're a nice person because of the way she says your name.

"He likes it like that" she says, only, except saying "he" she uses your name. They'd have understood it's you she's talking about nonetheless, but she still uses your name. 

She's telling herself that you belong to her, that she's allowed to use your name, your identity. She's allowed to claim you as a part of her life.
She wants to put it out there that you're not some random human being she's seeing - always spoken of in the third person - but a real individual with a name, interests, passions, talents, hobbies; with a past, a history and with dreams and aspirations.
She wants to tell herself that you, all of you, with all of your yesterdays, todays and tomorrows belongs to her a little.

So, have you heard her talk about you amongst her friends? 

Have you felt the shimmer of every sentence when she says your name, like a cautiously strung line of delicate pearls? 

Have you ever felt the way your name rolls off her tongue?

The way it tastes in her mouth? 

Always softly evoked and ever so tenderly called upon?

Someone in love with you, saying your name, in your absence, is the closest sceptics like you and me will ever get to 
magic.

So, have you been spellbound yet?

Utopia

The state of being in which everything is perfect. No errors. No miscommunication. No misunderstandings. A parallel universe where you and I are together, for life, for eternity, for forever.

Where we fall asleep, curled up in each other’s arms, safe and sound. Where I wake up every morning and realise that in you, I've found a piece of myself I never knew was missing. Where mortality isn't a burden, but a reminder to enjoy the short lived bliss that is you.

You with your perfect smile, your caring words, your concerned looks, your affirmative touches and those relaxing back rubs. You with your stolen looks and stolen kisses and conniving schemes to annoy me, just to see my face contoured in anger, hands on my hips waving an angry finger, and just when I think I've had it with you, you break into one of those goofy smiles of yours, and my fury all but melts away, the last bits taken care of, with one scoop of chocolate ice cream for compromise. 

My utopia then, is those warm mornings when we fight with the day, we steal a few moments of togetherness before the reality of mundane life takes us away. It’s that kiss on my forehead before we walk out for work. It’s your hand on the small of my back when we’re walking back home, with crumpled formals and tired eyes but with each other to hold. It’s your face when I bring out your favourite pastry after dinner, just a tiny surprise to see you grinning like a little kid!

My Utopia is getting up for work on a weekend, seeing you curled up in bed, and having the reassurance that when I come back, you’ll be there, lazing in your pyjamas, waiting to devour me, loving every inch of the tired, exhausted, and dishevelled mess that is me. My fatigue melts away at your slightest touch, and we spend the warm afternoon, exploring each other, body and mind, caressing the right places and losing ourselves and finding each other in this intricate, carnal embrace.

My Utopia is me in the kitchen, making something you like, smells of orange and cardamom and sugars wafting into the house, and you slowly quailing in, wrapping your arms around me, nibbling at my ear, kissing that tiny place between my shoulder and my neck and me letting out muffled moans that make you snicker, because after all, aren't you the one person that knows all my weak spots and just how to use them. Use them against me and for your advantage, but well, how does it matter? Aren't I just a slave to all your whims and fancies? Am I not all yours, to do what you please and isn't the fact that my gratification is your greatest thrill, a fantastic consolation?!

My Utopia is bringing you steaming cups of coffee, made just the way you like, with the right amount of milk and sugar and a touch of cinnamon, a concoction only I get right, you tell me. I know that isn't true, I never make it as well as you’d like, but I'm thankful you don’t complain. It’s watching your face contoured in frustration as you stay up all night, typing away on your laptop solving an emergency at work, as I fall asleep on the bed, waiting for you crash next to me. It’s me waking up in the middle of the night to see you still hard at work, and noiselessly bringing you another cup, giving your shoulders a gentle massage while you say your guilt ridden apologies and I give you a peck on the cheek, an unspoken message that it’s okay.

My Utopia is the way you look at me as I get ready for our date night, a pale periwinkle dress, the earrings you brought for me when we had our biggest fight and I was haunted by the threat of losing you forever and yet, you turned up with a gift for me, apologising for a fight which was all my fault. I see the way your expressions change as I paint my lips red, your eyes telling me tales of how you’re falling in love with me all over again!

My Utopia is all this unsaid and unspoken that passes between us- one look, one touch, one tiny blink of an eye is all it takes.

Do we say ‘I love you’ that often? I don’t know. But I'm sure we do show it enough, and then some more.

This is my Utopia. It’s not just this life that I hope we lead at some point in time in the future, doing what we do and leaving trail of star light in our wake, but it’s more than that. It’s this present state of wait and hope and anticipation.

The hope that someday, this will be our Utopia. Till then, I’ll keep hoping, living in this perfect state of being affirmatively hopeful of the future.

Waiting for Utopia is my Utopia. 

The purpose of Faith

I can see why the idea of God is so comforting to so many people. I've been an atheist for as long as I can remember. I lost my faith when even after years of talking to idols, the abuse did not stop, school never got tolerable and the loneliness never stopped eating me up. I begged, I pleaded and cried, nothing worked. 

An inefficient God is no God, I thought. 

And then when I saw other happy people, the dreaded question, "Why me?" hit. 

Sent me into the depths of depression. Because there must be something wrong with me, I'm not good enough, I deserve this; was the only rationalisation I would come up with. 

And when I heard people saying God does it because He has a plan, I realised how comforting these words were. Something is wrong, you can't find a rational explanation, and not knowing why kills you. Then you think because there is someone up there with a plan for you. 'A Plan' is a rational course of decided actions and the existence of this rationality, though unfathomable by you *now*, is comforting as fuck. 

That there is someone out there, with something planned for you, thinking of you, even if you don't know why, is weirdly comforting simply because of the promise the unfathomed rationality that it offers. 

Do I now believe in God? No. 

Would I like to? I don't know. 

All I need are rational explanations to kill the uncertainty of the future. 

Because when you have those, God loses his purpose, and a useless God is no God.  

For anyone with Suicidal Thoughts

This is a photo of a terrorist's funeral. This guy was hanged till death for his role in the 1993 Mumbai blasts. This is the guy that killed thousands of people because some imaginary guy in the sky told him to. I don't give two hoots about what all the bleeding heart pacifists say that he was being punished for being a Muslim, he was found guilty by the highest court in India and I trust the judiciary.
Anyway, I digress.
This is a mob of people mourning a guy who killed a probably larger mob of people. My dad was out 15 minutes before the blast, getting some documents typed, and 15 minutes later, he was at his desk watching his office windows shatter. This was the guy that did it, and look at all the people sad about him being hanged till death.
So if you're having suicidal thoughts and you're convinced that no one is going to miss you, look at the photo for context. These are people mourning a MASS MURDERER. No matter how much you think you've fucked up in life, I'm pretty sure it's not as inhumane and as cruel and as sadistic and as fanatical as this guy, but there are still people crying for him.
If you think no one cares, look at this. There are people wailing about this dumbfuck. You're phenomenally better than this guy and you ceasing to exist will affect way more people than you think, and way deeper than you can imagine.

Au contraire, We have a Ms Ghosh calling APJ a Bomb Daddy. The entire nation is pretty upset with someone as inspirational and motivational as Mr Kalam passing away but there are still other dumbfucks voicing shitty opinions about him.
You could be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world and there could still be someone who hates peaches.
So if there's someone hating on you, mostly; it isn't you, there's something wrong with them.
Point being, even if you're a terrorist, there's going to be people who'll obviously go berserk if you die. And you could be someone like Mr Kalam and people would still hate you.
Don't kill yourself over it.
Unless you're a terrorist, in which case, please do.