Prose before hos

 Some days I tell myself, I can do everything. 

On those days, I can touch the sky. I can hop, skip, and jump for 14000+ steps between Delhi and Gurgaon and be stoked through the 9 hours that I spend there. I can willingly be in discomfort and pain while wearing heels through the day, prancing between South Delhi and Cyber Hub, riding the train meant for toddlers, where parents younger than me are waiting for me to get done so they can get their child on the toy train. On those days, I can grab two donuts and look like a total idiot with half my lipstick smeared off my face. All through everything, I'll be joyous. Heart full of love and warmth and rainbows and unicorn poop and glitter confetti. 

On others, I can put in a decent workout, wait for it to exhaust me, hit Gurgaon, hit 10000 steps, sit in an unfamiliar lobby and blast terrible boy band music while corporate executives judge me for wearing a jumper dress with pearl embroidered as popcorn, make terrible decisions and speak more than I should, crack a joke when I don't have the strength to keep a straight face, call my best friend and cry to her about an hour about a boy who broke my heart. No amount of clean eating, diet soda, helpful conversations, break-up music, and wins in my stride helps. No favourite meals or jokes about natal charts and planning can help me get out of my head. 

Today, was another day. Tomorrow will be yet another. 

February is unforgiving. It's biting cold and balmy all at once; one minute you are too hot in the Sun and the next you have spent three hours under the cascading moonlight hitting your face and feeling the chill in your bones. I'm planning ahead, between 17-24 February will be the last bout of cold hitting the face and that's when we'll know it's done for this year until January, for those of us who survive to see the face of it. The only redeeming part about February is that the sky puts up a show daily to compensate for all the rest of it and that somehow makes life bearable. For a lot of people, alcohol does it and I can't believe, I'm saying it on this page, it's the sky that cuts it for me. 

Someone asked me a moving question last evening—could I share a time in my life when I was truly elated—and it shut me up. I took a while to respond but only gathered the real answer a few hours later when I was changing to get into bed. In the absence of brevity, I'll hold on to the response until I am coerced into answering it again but really—what is fucking joy even? Is it when you've blown a chunk of money without consequences or question, that which was all yours to do or is it when you find a person to share time with and gloss over benign details in life, or is it when you find a quiet moment in an otherwise mellow evening, where you almost didn't show up and by the end, you're just glad your risks paid off. 

I don't know a situation any better than the one I am living in it. As a 12-year-old, I remember long summer days of being on the Outer Ring Road, riding in the backseat, and wondering if my life will ever change and move from taking that road to another one. When it finally happened and I was traveling to the other part of the city to hit college, I was begging to go back to the first place. I find myself begging for a closing date on taking the highway daily. It feels like I step out daily and have traded all my ilks for walking in a room that seems as unfamiliar as a friend's wedding. You know 10 odd people somewhat closely and you remember the others, the bride party, and the groom pack through their actions and outfits. The office is a lot like that wedding, you're tired but things are rolling. 

I had grand ideas to write and the biggest urge to word vomit. Now, not so much. I passed out twice while writing this and then napped twice in the two car rides I had in 48 hours. The only time I didn't want to sleep was when the moonlight illuminated the contours of my date's body; men who have style, have it all. Maybe one day I'll actually find a way to remember words and thoughts outside of the contours of a body stuck in my demonic horny head. 

A friend from the past life would offer the sauciest running commentary whenever we'd be swiping on dating apps at work. She'd often say how men will upload photographs of them working out and claiming they love to trek and scale the next big thing after their trek to Mount Everest. You'd see this in every third bio, ever so often men sprinkle their prompts and bios with the most absurd and extreme ideas. However, when it comes to talking to the girl on the app or sharing their dating goals and ideas, they hesitate and low-key evaporate in thin air than ever admit or say anything on their chest. 

Turns out, absurdly changing lifestyle overnight by cutting corners with sugar, working out when I can barely move or breathe, and journalling every night is my descent of becoming the dating app man and is analogous to climbing Everest and building a six-pack. 

All of this—because—I can't man up enough to admit I'm hurting so bad. I'd rather do obnoxious things and embrace uncomfortable lifestyle changes than text a man I miss him bad. I'd much rather take all my feelings—bleeding heart and open wounds of losing a friend I genuinely cared about in the pits of hell where I'll be shopping my heart out because capitalism and cis-het men hurt in waves and one leads you into the embrace of another (it's a long topic, best reserved for therapy). 

Here's hoping I can see myself through a kinder gaze than how men see others on my way out. 

In many ways, the first day of the year terrifies me. With the whole empty slate, set up a template scenario that lays ahead, it is daunting, to say the least, to imagine making a clean start, especially when you are carrying baggage. 

Baggage, man. What a fuckall concept. In so many ways, society molds us to be the sum total of who we are through our baggage but in others, this new year bullshit expects you to start afresh. If history is any indicator then my last year and this year were on to the same start—terribly discontented with life, missing people who are no longer around, miserable overall with the zest to do something so groundbreaking that I might fuck around and change my whole life overnight. 

Then there's the likeliness of dissociating that starts. In no time, the demons in my head tempt me with the aimlessness of doomscrolling and further fuelling the supply-demand relationship in my head. Do I have the attention of the gent I need? Oh fuck, I don't even have the gent, let alone the attention. 

I started journalling yesterday—by that I mean on pen and paper—something that I haven't dared to initiate since I was 12, perhaps, so give or take two decades later. I think it's acceptable for someone my age to talk shop about sex or lack thereof or men at large; which makes it easier to put thoughts to paper, even if they're to get in the wrong hands. The other thing is losing fucks to give—what's the worst case scenario, I die and someone in my life reads it or I am alive and someone reads it?—good luck to them. Really.

It occurred to me yesterday how tiring writing on paper seems now, even though my thoughts roll much faster there. Maybe it was the cold or maybe it was just enthusiasm for doing the one thing I love on the new year (writing) that I wrote like a motherfucker. For the most part, I was holding back on dissociating with a healthier coping mechanism, acknowledging by building a habit. 

Can I just say that I am tired of being my absolute best to everyone in my life and for this year, I'd love to give absolute hell to everyone I know. Nearly everyone in my life has taken my patience, kindness and love for granted and it's driven me to insanity in the past year and some of it continued to roll into today—a whole new start—imagine that. I am allegedly the butt of all jokes in public and private, someone who takes all the bullying and nonsense from people in and around my life and continues to stand next to people who not only do that but continue to disrespect my agency and boundaries. 

I only realised this is continuously happening when I was dining with someone recently and everything through that dinner was painful, in hindsight. The evening itself was heavy but if we leave aside the agenda that was set during the meeting, the snide comments, the remarks and the actions—all of it was incredibly off-putting in a way that it reminded me of others and everyone in my life who do it on the regular. Perhaps, it was a first in this company or it was truly pathetic that I came home a little bit shocked and over the next week, proceeded to unpack it at large alone. I had to remove myself from the situation at large, but since then have taken time to process and it is hurtful, shocking and painful to live through knowing that your vulnerabilities mean nothing more than a joke to someone you trusted. You don't have to have romantic feelings for someone to be human around them but I guess I am expecting empathy from people who have proven repeatedly that they have none to offer. The façade comes off and it did rightly so in time for the new year.

Since this evening (it hasn't been a week, actually), I have felt the complete need to build a safety net for my inner child and the wound it sustained over the years, especially as a kid—being the last to be picked for something, never finding people who could stand by me or hold me close and definitely those who thought it's okay to be inappropriate with their sarcasm. There's a limit to taking shit from everyone in your life and I think the year-ender episode sealed it for me. I have been triggered at large since that night and even the slightest of "hello" is heavy on the heart. Someone was over at my place to meet me today with a new year's gift for me and I swear to god, I had empty eyes and a blank face. I couldn't understand why this person wanted to show up for me, out of nowhere, and befriend me and talk to me without being hurtful. At this point, if someone hugs me, I'll break out howling. 

None of this bodes well for my mental health nor does it do anything for how I hold myself. I am transported back to a decade of learning to understand why holding yourself and standing for yourself is critical when nobody else does. In doing that, over a decade ago, I found people I call my best friends, and maybe one odd person in all these years has been able to see through the hurt and the noise around me to ask me if I'm truly okay. This last week when I was encountered by the question and love, I couldn't explain in words what was wrong. "Everything?" or "nothing?", neither cuts it. I don't know how to explain that everyone's words are hurtful and there is only so much fake smiling I can do in a day without screaming or crying that I need to be left alone if I can't be respected or allowed agency. The amount of backbreaking trauma I have faced and circumstances I have fought may not be extraordinary, but it is doing everything with high functioning processing ability that makes me resilient. I don't see myself as a victim but it would perhaps be nice to see someone hold hands once a year and tell me it'd be okay. Instead, I am left with alone to figure things out when going gets hard for all and when I do find my way out of it, I am rewarded with hurtful lines about dealing with it. I am at my last breaking point with my loved ones so imagine my surprise when someone I trust turned around to hold me when I was coming undone. It throws you off. 

But at the same time, you see all the irreplaceable bonds sealed with tenderness and delicate vulnerabilities about each other eroding with time and carefully crafted lines to hurt the other person. You could be a great friend but sometimes all that the other person needs are actions and not vacuous words. 

I'm so tired of holding on to empty new year wishes and responding with nonchalance that even the fake smiles and acts seem hollow and tough to follow through. It would perhaps be nice if someone could fake their way with me for maybe a day and it might actually make the rest of the year worth wishing someone a "happy new year!". 

I'm so bloody tired of new beginnings and new years and wishes and people claiming to like me or respect me. Either be so bloody monstrous that we are fighting each other in the battleground and getting ugly or leave me the fuck alone if you can't respect me or my agency or the person I am with you. It'll hurt me but I'll get over it like I did when I was 10 like I did when you hurt me. It won't be the first time someone would do that to me but atleast it won't have the pretentiousness of doing well by the first day of the year. 

All days suck just as much, equally and hard. 

When I was a little girl, I was partial to doodling stars and hearts across any piece of paper or surface I could get. Doodling, in some way, is a cross between writing and drawing; with my handwriting being terrible and no talent whatsoever in the drawing department, I was doing a shoddy job at leaving a trace of handmade hearts and stars across scraps of papers, diaries, books, and walls even. 

I don't remember being schooled for this, but what I do vividly remember is my mother gamefying this into a parenting lesson. In hindsight, all core memories (thank you for nothing Pixar/Disney) are shaped through this gamification of parenting approach—where my mom ascribed coolness or uncoolness to a 'thing' and I believed that to be the holy grail. In this case, the gamification said the stars are cool and the hearts are uncool and how I should try to include the star in my name; in the "i", instead of the regular dot, add a damn star. This would also be indicative of how I'm a fucking star and at the same time, hearts are too tacky, ew ew ew. Somehow, hearts extend to explain romance and who wants romance when we prefer humour, right? 

Soon, the heart made a clean exit and I tried my best to perfect the star illustration. It was my go-to motif and design. If I wanted a pair of earrings, it had to be in the shape of "stars", if I wanted a t-shirt, I'd go for the stars (never mind my name actually meaning the light of the moon that gets rid of the darkness), basically, the star went everywhere I went. 

To think that our parents were doing ham by telling impressionable minds things is to understate a situation here; that the heart motif, somehow, became a sign of weakness. If I saw one on any garment or stationery or gift item of any sort, I'd scowl. This continued all the way into my teens and 20s. Hearts in songs or illustrations or anything instantly became tacky. It was also indicated in a way how my first tattoo at 18-19 came about— a star nursing a bass clef— and not a heart housing a bass clef, even though the latter would make more sense. 

Years later, the heart made an impression in my life. As a pattern on my ankle socks, on the back of a phone cover (even though I consistently fought the urge to call myself tacky), as a part of my signature (that I use across all my bank documents, thank you very much) and even when it came to picking garments. 

I don't know how it happened and I don't know when I stopped believing in the gamification of cool vs uncool but the heart became cool one day and I went with its public and private consumption. 

I won't lie when I say that sending heart emojis, to this day, makes me hella uncomfortable but I suppose when you "like" things and Instagram drops a heart, as a sign of acknowledgment, a marker to indicate that you've heard them and have nothing else to contribute to their fine point, dropping a heart seems more kind than needy. That, in being needy and heart emoji or illustration, no longer stood as mutually exclusive. It isn't cringe when I send a random person a purple or yellow or orange "heart" because it is perfectly acceptable to this cheesy and the heart doesn't have to mean you're opening your legs for them or proclaiming your love with them. 

Over the years, all these markers have lost their original ascribed value. A handshake is more of a firm reminder that I want to go down on someone than it is of agreement (who am I kidding, a handshake could mean both), a silent eye emoji could mean I'm looking at you for being just as depraved as me at the moment, but the humble heart? It just lost its damn value when it became ordinary, every day "like" for "like" and shut the chat. In the past year, even when the guy I was hopelessly in love with sent me a heart, it felt clinical. I was back where I was with my relationship with both heart and stars— in my head as an everyday iconography that I enjoyed drawing (in this case using as emojis) and sharing with everyone. 

Does it mean I took a chance on hearts and it paid off? Maybe.

All I needed was that one chance or buying one personal use item with the heart on it while leaning on it and seeing the heart truly isn't cringe now and maybe this isn't all about finding things awkward or not. Sometimes, it's about new learning lessons and keeping the old ones at bay—make the same mistake twice, invest in drawing hearts, and maybe find that the second chance and the repeated outcome yield different results and that you had nothing to worry about. Sometimes, taking a chance on something or someone is the kindest thing you can do for yourself and for others and you'll realize that there is a lot more you have to learn and accept than just knowing "heart is cringe" at face value cause someone trustworthy told you so during your formative years. Hearts can be cool and cringe all at once, just like stars can be ugly and pretty altogether. The tattoo on my ankle is a gentle but pertinent reminder to me daily that people in your life can be wrong and that holding yourself tightly and being shriveled can do you no good sometimes. All it takes is a wild leap into that impulsive act or route of craziness and seeing how it can liberate you.

This post has nothing to do about stars and hearts. It has everything to do about you. 

I love December. I loved December. I am triggered. My imperfections triggered me. My anxiety is driving me mad. My colleagues are driving me mad. I have unanswered questions on my platter. I have an unanswered situation on my platter. I hate that I am fat. I hate that I am ugly. I am broke. I made me go broke. I am eating carbs. I should not be eating carbs. I am losing my mind. I lost my mind in 2019. My brain's begging me to stop. My brain's the reason why I am here. I love cats. I love cats so much that it hurts my chest to admit that it's possible to love someone so much without asking for anything in return. I want to burn my ex alive. I want to burn the last ten men who hurt me alive. I have embraced the cards dealt to me. I have embraced the idiocy that came along with the cards. I am a sucker for mild relatability. I am a sucker for leading myself into terribly toxic situations. I have broken patterns. I have broken sacred bonds and ties that now haunt me. I no longer conform. I no longer serve any purpose. I was single at the beginning of 2022. I will be single at the end of 2022. I am old and tired. I am old and tired and depressed out of my fucking mind. I have lost everything worth living for. I have lost everything but I have found solace in the few good people I encountered this year. I know that editors can be kind and designers can be dumb. I know that bosses can be kind and managers can be dumb. The man I once exchanged jokes with doesn't know I've befriended people who we laughed at together. The man I once exchanged jokes with doesn't know that I've accepted the lexicon and use it on others that the girl he cheated on me with used on him. I am re-living parts of 2012 and I found myself a cozy spot to park in the shade. I am looking at the remains of 2012 and I know where this will go and how this will end, all too well. I am exhausted, tired, and fatigued living this life. I am exhausted, tired, fatigued knowing that this doesn't life doesn't leave the same way as a man carrying a ticking time bomb from Hinge/Bumble who drops you the second he's done with you. I want to be beautiful. I want to rest in peace. In 2021, when he made a move on me, I should have dumped my now ex and gone toward him. In 2022, he's looking out for me while living a stable life with a woman he deserves (I really hope they are endgame). Everyone roughly my age, who I looked up to, is now living a bitter life alone and divorced. Everyone roughly my age, who I looked up to has let me down more harsher than my family. I still cry over men. I still wake up with lucid dreams of men I have loved and lost and those I just lost. There are bad omens and you should trust your gut. There are bad omens and no amount of good wishes can outdo them. Eating breakfast in bed is a cry for help. Eating breakfast is a sign of weakness. Donuts are amazing. Paneer pizza with makhni sauce and hari chutney is amazing. 

On most days I feel like an outlier. 

This 'growing up' with a heavy diet of 'tough love' usually translates to growing up 'alone'. The days when you had to eat tiffin alone and sit in the picnic bus alone or traverse through painfully complex math lessons in the back seat of the left row alone. 

Heh, the left row vs the rowdy girls on the right—always and forever—is as complex as trigonometry from tenth grade. 

You do a lot of growing up in growing up alone. 

Parts of it are forced on you, it's not like it was a choice given to you. You're alone in a crowd for over 7 hours, followed by struggling to understand the concept of 'sharing' your childhood with a sibling you believed would be just like you but isn't anything like you. You struggle in figuring out where and how it went wrong. It's not your fault that you don't know how two people with the same life and parents can grow up to be completely different adults. You're not supposed to know. 

One day you're 6 and alone and the next day you're 16 and have 10 friends who are pulling a surprise present for you. A white t-shirt is procured and handpainted with messages for you and pizza is bought that you share with these ten friends. You have friends who show up and care for you but in your head, you are 6 and alone through it all. 

Over the next decade, you meet people like you. Those who were misunderstood and those who struggled to fit in. Your friends in college are all those like you—the ones who grew up painfully depressed, in solitude, and had few friends or friends who they couldn't trust. You make them your world and they mean everything to you. 

Relatability is the biggest unifying factor in the world today, especially if all parties are on the same page. You encounter others like you. Growing up alone is serious business. A degree up in the chart and you will be forever scarred and anything remotely like a boyfriend in the formative years mean you didn't really grow up alone. You're faking it. 

However, somehow, wherever you ago, you find people just like you. It's symptomatic of the society to throw your type at you. I'd get into the details of how it happens but I'd also like to keep that precious detail to myself. 

You waste your time through your 20s as you navigate life. You waste time celebrating birthdays and attending parties and hosting parties and making more friends and giving yourself till the time you have nothing left to offer. You allow them in your bed and befriend them at work. You see them in your parents' friends and sister's boyfriend. You find them on dating apps begrudgingly and you also see them in the men you date. None of these people grew up alone, and neither did your closest friends today, but they're there because you offered them a sacred piece of your life—your time and companionship—that took away all that loneliness from your heart. You offered them the room and the whole damn bed in the corner of your heart where you grew up alone when you cried cause everyone had friends and partners to sit with but you didn't. 

As you grow up, you start to see kind people sharing a big trait in common, most of them grew up alone. Your closest friend from college who is still close to you because she gets what it means to be alone; the colleague you worked with briefly who understood what being alone means in a family full of crowd; the man you nearly dated who shared that trauma with you which made you realise you caught feels for him— all of them share this badge of honour. You heal your inner child telling them that they grew up alone but they are not alone in this. 

You pacify yourself giving all these examples of people you know—those who love you and those who grew up alone like you— you're all the same. You're all looking for people to make homes out of. Some made you their home and some of us are fighting hard to avoid the idea of making others into our home. A safety net that doesn't let you down like people in your childhood did. 

This is when you go on a quest. You do everything in your capacity to look for homes. When the man with a beautiful, sculpted body tells you how he was fat-shamed growing up and he was all alone, you know he's the one. You can hear the heartbeat getting rapid as he tells you this and you gently clutch his hand tightly to ensure he doesn't feel alone and look at him without saying a thing. 'I got you', he gets it. He holds you tightly when he sleeps and doesn't let you escape his arms even when you tell him you need to leave for work, 'don't leave me alone'. You tell him that you'll be back and proceed to cry in the car a little because nobody has made you feel just as safe as he did. You finally feel like belong and that you don't have to do any more growing up alone. 

You snap out of the momentary comfort that you shared when you realise he's leaving. 'I'll be back', he says. You believe him cause you shared a moment where you grieved over this painful solitude that became a part of your personality. 'If you think this was momentary then you're wrong', he insists that he's sticking around when you remind him that this is hard work and neither of us is in the space to give it that. 'We'll make it work', he tells you as he steers the ship and guides you through the trauma of navigating a complex situation alone, almost as complex as learning algebra where words are used in lieu of numbers. What was the point even? 

The point is always silly. In this case, he does leave you. He leaves you in the exact same manner as your classmates pulled a partner each and left you alone. He didn't have to pull the act but he did remarkably well. A seasoned player, you wonder, as you see him enjoy a night in with people closest to him. One day he's there and the next day he isn't. It's no big deal, you've done it before and you can do it again. 

Until it hits you many months later, on a night when you're quietly left alone in the comfort of someone else's bedroom. You can have a guestlist of over 28 people on your birthday and have 212 matches on a dating app and 5 messages in your pending folder and over 89 people in your block list but you can still very well be alone on a night when your inner child is angry at you and demanding answers. 

Why did he ever lead us on? Why were you never good enough for others? What does it take to be someone who has someone by their side? How does it feel like to have a man who doesn't abandon you for your friend? Will it ever be you who will have someone's crushing support by your side, the way you have offered everyone in your life consistently for years? It shouldn't matter after all these years and innate knowledge of operating alone in a highly productive and functional manner and yet it does. 

It does when you're alone on a Saturday night in bed and your devices are dry and you're wondering how the hell did we land up here after everything that has been going down in the fucking world.