Prose before hos

 Does spending 4 nights in a different city count as relocation? If so, I have notes. 

Then there are tall buildings. I'm constantly floating between elevators running from the fifth, tenth and twelfth floors; there are views and there are views. If Delhi has trees then Gurgaon has skyscrapers. Trees don't do much at night but the buildings, they look fucking gorgeous especially if you catch a view from the twelfth floor, which is somehow incrementally better than catching the same view from the tenth floor. 

There are plenty of opportunities for mirror selfies in and around the elevator; so much so that I actually let a day pass without taking any, that's how spoilt I've been for elevator selfie opportunities in days. 

I can't say I miss my friends cause all my friends are about 20 minutes away from me at any given point in time. The service and support staff in and around buildings look a tad happier than their counterparts in Delhi. Maybe they're secretly celebrating the lack of micro-management. That's the one thing about Gurgaon I've come to appreciate—few people micro-manage and it feels like a weight being lifted off your back because fuck ups are welcomed with open arms, more often than not. Delhi version of these fuck ups would mean temper flares, anger, reactionary emails and texts—but Gurgaon? It's fucking chill, almost too chill. 

A few years ago an ex-colleague (then friend, now stranger) lashed out at me for writing. This email response reminded me of that chat; of how everything I write is so personal that unless and until someone knows anything about me, people won't care. I don't see how that's such a bad thing. Maybe the whole point is to drive the unspeakable to those who need to know? Maybe there's intentionality for re-doing things that once take place in life and once in my head and pour out as words. Maybe my version of stressing, anxiety and overthinking comes out here and you don't have to be an audience member or subscriber—god knows I have never brought anyone here out of the will. 

I've had people around me who have been curious about my life, and what I do and they willingly follow this and other spaces. It's an acquired taste and sure, you don't have to do this. I don't expect anyone in my life to do any of this and yet people do. I don't think I ever expected a man I date/am in a relationship with to read this page or coerce my friends to repost from here. I think I am allowed my space to express and the way I want to express myself—maybe with typos, convoluted random titbits from my life, ranting about the lack of water supply. I want to be able to express myself and make sense of this world because god knows I have spent most of my teens bottling things without pouring outwards.  

I'm sorry if you confused my well-being for self-pity. That's how I write and it'll happen again. This is not a eulogy about Gurgaon and neither is this is a love story, It is a deeply personal piece of shuttling between fifth, tenth and twelfth floor and how I am beginning to give in to this city I once I detested. 

 How did I miss writing in March? 

Anyway, remember when we glossed over gaming? I don't know if I did but allow me to tell you about the time, long ago, when we played a board game well into the night. That house party somehow transcended to let's stay here until the hosts chuck us out. There was a round (or maybe more, I can't remember). What I do remember is the host letting her significant other win the game, because she was so deeply and passionately in love. 

I mulled over it for days, weeks, months; I may have even discussed it with the only other party guest there besides the couple (again, I can't remember the details, because fuck me I am old). What I do, however, remember clearly is how uncomfortable it made me. Not on account of the fact the girl went and lost the game but also that she handed her victory on a platter to the guy she was dating and it seemed all too sincere. 

Over the last few years, I have had to establish I take the competition seriously with most men I encountered in the dating space. Very few took that further than the conversation and among the ones who did, they fell flat; either we didn't game or they fucked up. In any case, I never had someone lose a game for me or give up their victory. To be completely real, in my opinion, it's an icky act but to each their own and if that makes your world go round then who am I to comment on your preferences. 

Anyway, lads, find someone who apologizes to you after the game is over on a different platform cause he felt bad about kicking your ass brutally at a game you taught him. Turns out it is entirely possible to be nice and pissant all at once. 

 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.