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. 

Untitled

And people like you and me, no sir, we don't deserve 'happy'. If there is a God, he is a sadist bastard, and we probably are his favourite children to smite. We are destined to be happy just long enough to know the sting as it all gets stolen away from us, at our own hands or somebody else's, in one tiny flash. Just long enough that it stings and the pain lingers.

And so, we smoke a little too much, drink a little too much, work a little too hard, cause in those tiny moments of self destructive ecstasy, we think we've cheated destiny.

Inked!

A permanent mark on the body. A constant reminder. A piece of art. A gift to myself. A worthy investment of the money I’ve worked so hard to earn.

I did not get a tattoo because it’s the cool, hip thing to do. I didn’t do it because of peer pressure or because I had too much money to spend. I took a lot of time thinking of the design, what I wanted it to represent and I spent an even longer amount finding the right artist and saving up enough money to be able to afford them.

This tattoo is going be a constant reminder of a lot of things. The Quill, that’s my writing. I’ve been a loner through school, finding solace in books and books alone. College came and brought along Blogs. Blogging gave me Shriya. Blogging gave me Avantika. Blogging gave me the Boxed Misfits. I finally felt like I belonged.

I’ve always written it down. Hurt, happiness, anger, love, envy, passion, frustration, depression have always landed in a cursive mess on the pages of my diaries, and eventually, on my blogs. I draw my strength from writing. Write it, empty the mind, and the fill it up again with the hopes of tomorrow, with the whispered affections and virtual hugs of all these supportive bunch of people I’ve met in life. My first love happened over blogs. Our idea of courtship was writing a blog together. I fell head over heels in love because words flowed between us like a river that has been running it’s course before the dawn of time. And when it eventually ended, it was simply because words didn’t flow like before. We couldn’t communicate.

The feather? Krishna with a peacock feather on his head? That was Radha’s gift to him, a symbol of all the colourful phases that a woman goes through in her life. The hues change, and change means growth. The feather is there to remind me that there are so many more colours to myself that are simply waiting to be discovered. It’s a long, graceful process of discovery as you slowly understand what you are truly capable of.

This tattoo is the end of something and the start of something new. It ends my head strong notion of holding on him, because he isn’t mine to hold on to anymore. That and he didn’t approve of tattoos. I’m inked now. I’d rather take a man who loves me, not for my tattoos or the lack of them, but loves me in spite of them. This tattoo is me telling the world that this is my body. Fat, slim, bloated, scarred, hairy, ugly, tanned, but mine. And I will get it inked, because it’s nobody’s business but mine. This tattoo is me shrugging of all your negativity. This is me pulling a black curtain over your faces because I don’t find your constant judgemental criticism worth my time or attention.

And above all, this tattoo is a reminder that when life gives me too many scars, I’ll fucking turn it into one giant piece of art. 

The days worth living for

On those days when every stale morsel of food feels like a blessing,
When an unkempt bed from last night feels like a gift from The Gods, 
When you are so physically tired you finally understand what it means to 'crash into your bed', 
When you are so exhausted your brain shuts down even before your head hits the pillow, 
When you are so drained doing what you love that you have no strength to pine about what was and what could have been,
When you give so much of yourself to doing what you love, that you have none left to give to people and things that only hurt, 
When dating means showing up completely fried after a hard day's work simply because of the promise of food being involved, 
When you're in a train full of people who are too close for comfort,  and yet you sleep your soundest sleep, 
When you want to feel sad, when you want to weep but simply don't have the strength to do so, 
When you can afford to pay a premium for a first class train pass, but have no shame in sitting cross legged on its floor like you never had a class to begin with, 
When you don't have the time or effort to spare for silly good morning and good night messages, and when someone tries to simply 'catch up' you let out a slight chuckle because you realize you're going way to fast,
When sleep is just a blink that lingered too long on your eyes, 
Those are the days worth living for. 

Bukowski has said, "Find what you love and let it kill you.", I think this is what he meant. 

How to deal with silent treatment

I've plunged into the depths of page number 2 of Google results to try and find an answer to dealing with parental silent treatment, but without results. Too many articles on dealing with spousal silent treatment, but what do you do when your oppressor (as harsh as it sounds, the word fails to do justice to what really happens) has an upper hand in your relationship?
My country was able to send an orbiter to Mars in the first attempt but we still don't know how to handle that thick silence that looms over every desi kid's adolescent and struggling years, what a shame!
So, backed up with years of pain and frustration and suffocation extensive research, these are my typical ways of dealing with the silent cry for Indian respect demanded by the makers of you. 

1. Usual suspects: It is a game of egotistical up-man-ship, a who-blinks-first saga unfolding in your own living room, so considering the fact you need their money over the next few years and would also enjoy an honorary, passing mention in their will, blink first. Send you sorry texts, emails, voice mails, random post its on mirrors, walls etc and see how it goes. 

2. Accept that you suck. You failed them. Question your purpose in life. As an Indian kid, you had one job, ONE JOB! and you suck at it. Feel depressed, upset, annoyed, wonder why it is so difficult for people to talk. Contemplate suicide.

3. Weep. To quote Sarah Ockler, "Weeping is not the same as thing as crying. It takes your whole body to weep, and when it's over, you feel like you don't have any bones left to hold you up." 
Do this, feel empty, and then fill yourself empty self with ice cream. Or Chocolate. S'more ice cream! OR CHICKEN! Oh yeah. Chee-kaan!

4. Watch Mental Floss. It helps. Move to Denialsville, watch movies like Hum Saath Saath Hai or 2 States and convince yourself that happy endings are possible. I mean that dude did IIT, IIM and his parents still hated him for wanting to fuck a female who didn't match his jaat. In the end, love prevailed, he got BOTH the parties to agree to let them bang each other, holy matrimony, parental blessings, et all! You can deal with this man, this is nothing! 

4. Realize that you're dealing with the absolute scum of humanity. What kind of person wants to play 'guess-why-I-hate-you' with a self conscious, overtly self critical 15 year old for months on end, when clearly, the game is no fun? The internetz describes such people as 'narcissistic', but lets be clear, scums the word!

5. Do what you want. It's not like they're going to say anything about it! (See what I did there?!)

6. Honestly, once you understand that they hate you, not matter what you do, it's liberating. Look, it's that one tiny thing you did ages ago, that makes them hate you. So everything else you do today is cool. You will be punished for this in around 20 years, when you'll be doing your kid's science projects and they'll withhold information from you about the right way to do it. But they'll probably be old and wrinkly,  sitting in some neglected old age home by then, so it won't really matter.  

7. At some point, you will be desperate, for human touch, companionship, affection, love, etc. Remember that there is nothing a big tub of Ice cream or a giant greasy pizza cannot cure. You've always earned it for still being alive. I promise. 

8. Whenever you try getting help from relatives and other adults you wish you could trust and they dole out crap like, "You know, God could not be everywhere so he made parents instead" look them in the eye and say, "...and that is exactly why I'm an atheist." 

9. Make a list all the expensive indulgences you want. In a weak moment of *silent* truce, (e.g., festivals and family functions, where your oppressor is forced to talk to you to keep the facade up, it's all about societal approval in the desi household, you know) be prepared to strike. 

10. Take them on a guilt trip. Record yourself crying and howling and re-play that every night, at some point, they will hear it. (Statistics, byotch!). Leave out your diary for them to accidentally find out. When they are at their weakest, strike. Oh, that 10,000 rupee pro keratin treatment you wanted, now is a prefect time to ask. 2,000 rupee shoes, ask away. The Leprechaun will only dance for so long, you know, Indulge!
  
11. Go on tinder. The quantum of emotionally frustrated and desperate Indian boys will surprise you. They will compliment your non existent dimples and will also claim to love your ah-la-chewbacca back hair, cause you're amazing, just the way you are! *Croons*  Strong self confidence boost initiated.

12. I mean it, nothing will make you feel more wanted than receiving compliments from random males. One nude selfie is a cheap prize to pay for something you're not getting at your aadarsh desi ghar. You've done all that you can to get parental approval, and when your demands aren't met one way, you look around for other sources. (Economics, byotch!) You've stooped low enough to pick a vocation you hate to please them, sending nude selfies for a few kind words is nothing. Absolutely nahh-aah-thing. 

13. Listen to 'White Trash Beautiful' through the process. 

14. Honestly, what can you do when someone refuses to even discuss the problem? Raising a child was a 20 year full time project they willfully undertook, and as sorry as you are that you suck, it gives them no right to emotionally scar you like that. 

15. As always, writing a sassy blog piece helps. 

Hey, someone had to justify this comic!