Prose before hos

Madonna had four minutes and I have ten. She's also well over 50 and I'm barely able to keep up in my 20s. Let's see, an executive summary of where I am at.

Taking a break is a lot like working on an MPhil or PhD. It's the same routine, the same sense of never-ending guilt. The goals and plans for the day resemble the same PhD day schedule. Between reading and writing it is all- I'll drive the car today, play the game I bought, paint some and read some more. Instead, it becomes, I'll be on my laptop researching, wasting some time, taking a break to watch the Office season 9 that I don't even enjoy. Same old, new bottle.

Well today, I decided to shake my life and do something that I hadn't done in months.

Bake.

Baking is a solitary pleasure mixed with science. The latter, I'm pretty sure, is unforgiving as my cake has risen from the center from not as much from the other sides. The former, I tried to immensely enjoy and later failed. The endeavour to enjoy that solitary pleasure was interrupted by phone calls, doorbells, more phone calls, text messages, heck even video calls. Now while I wait for the cake to be done, I'm alternating between typing and painting my nails. Sunday after my own heart.

The last few weeks have been a rollercoaster ride. Some old people revisiting life as I bid goodbye to the life I had curated in the last one year. I've done things I wouldn't otherwise, including going to Gurgaon, painting my toe-nails in a deep shade of Industrial Green, planned two short vacations, ate more than I did in the last three years, stayed up every night for no reason and then passed out early without my night routine. In short, I'm shaking things up to feel something and I'm pleased to say, I've felt a lot and done nothing.

It's exactly the kind of break people asked me to take and I'm on it. Including my toenails, feeling the blues. The unemployed blues. 

It sucks balls. I don't know how people do it and emerge better than ever. I'm sucking at even taking a break.

Meanwhile, if you're my freelance client, you'll have the piece soon. I promise. Here's some Shutterstock cake, meanwhile. I obviously didn't bake this.

I told myself in the beginning of 2018, I will own this year. These are the things I did-

Stayed up till 2 am on New Year's Eve and wished people. Got shitfaced in the process.

Told myself I'd survive Malaria. I did. It was nothing short of a miracle.

Saw one of my old friend marry the love of her life. It was everything and then some more.

Kept a straight face while sitting outside the ICU waiting room.

Got my heart smashed in pieces twice over.

Wrote absolutely nothing.

Defended my PhD proposal.

Lost 18 kilos and gained six kilos back.

Travelled to Europe and presented a paper. 

Took a vacation. A well-earned vacation. To Thailand, which helped me gain clarity to what I want and what I don't.

Saw myself become someone else, not once but on every occasion when I told myself, I wouldn't be able to do it and yet, ended up doing it.

2019, can't wait for you.

The only time I felt like turning to this page was when I was reading a summarization of Foucaultian event, and now's just as good a time as any to discuss events.

Events pertaining to the ongoing Venus retrograde (who are you and what have you done to the person writing this page?), the deadline that I've been talking about for a month (and doing nothing about), the post-human condition of men (being apologetic about who they are inherently but not making any amends to that behaviour), and the weighing scale (which has been tipping on the wrong side for over a month).

Most of these go right back to when I decided to take a fucking break and call it an academic event. Aka Snobster goes to Europe.

What is it about an event that marks its uniqueness? Is it the stand it takes from being away from the regular, where all you do is repeat your actions until something interrupts? Is it the intervention by external force or agency that changes the regular, the banal into something else and transforms the normal into extraordinary? Does that qualify as an event or retrograde or even testing times?

Also, why the negative connotation, you'd ask.

Unfortunately, you'll not receive upon asking here. Just now or just ever. You'd have to do more than asking. A Cuban sandwich is a good starting point. As is a massage.

But of course the technology in my life doesn't think so.

The Medium is the motherfucking Massage

If this is an indication of the state of affairs then this is just as good as any cry for help. I'm not sure what I should be doing but I do know what I shouldn't be doing.

Putting things off.

Last time I put practicing bass off, it took over five years, and one inch long nails to respond to that. I picked bass when I returned from London, determined to play again. And so I did.

I did for a week until I realized I had an academic deadline and put that off. Then I proceeded to put that academic deadline off, in pursuit to get over the jet lag. I also put off complaining to the airlines who fucked my luggage over despite paying a bomb and getting my arse flown in and out of the country through premiere airlines. So much for solo travel and wanderfuck.

As I sat down to hammer out a few words (as few as 200 to meet the deadline), I stopped at 9 and proceeded to call four different people. I dug out three old cinema readers, lamented why I decided to pursue television when I clearly am not well versed with it, felt like cheating on my diet with chowmein but stopped short because I took a bite of the chocolate muffin. Who am I kidding, it was half a muffin and I had rajma chawal for dinner which meant I ate dinner for four people. 2300 calories at best and this has been minimum for a week. What will the weighing scale even do?

What I'm trying to say is, this academia is hard. Losing weight is hard. Keeping up with people and taking their shit is hard.

We know what happens when things get hard. I abandon them.

Ask the last guy who found himself hard around me. He'll tell you all about it.

I'm kidding.

But no, I did stop short of giving him a head. Because hard.

This didn't happen if you're my mom. Or dad. Does my dad read this page? I don't know.

Anyway, I'm on to entertaining friends who have decided to involve me in post-karwachauth hang despite the absence of any significant being in my life. If that isn't an event to write about, then I don't know what is.

This paper can go write itself. As can this page. The bass will also play itself. The PhD will do itself. The man with a hard on? Well, he had to handle it himself.

Earlier this year, I was seeing someone (let's call him the man from Quarter-1) and I'd mentioned this page to him. My planning of putting two pieces a week regularly went out of the window as I spent all my time staring at the screen of my phone, alternating between giggling and going red in the face. My writing became sparse and for the most part, it didn't matter. It didn't matter because I was truly having fun. I was stoked beyond belief and nothing else seemed important.

I recall having a discussion with the man from Q-1 on this and he showed concern. He wanted me to keep pursuing my hobbies, when I was trying to decide if he was good enough so I could add fussing over him as a hobby in itself.

That explains a lot why that didn't work out.

A quarter of the year later, in totally bizarre circumstances I met someone else. The supposed man from Q-1 was out of the picture completely. I wasn't looking for anything at all. Despite that, this somewhat happened. This is the man from Quarter-2.

There were sparks alright, but not without the cloud of doubt. What were we doing? Were we doing anything at all? I could tell you if I knew, but to this date, I don't. The good part is, I've stopped trying to unravel the mystery.

Somewhere between action (and lack of thereof) and speculation, we began bickering more than I have argued with anyone, ever. I tried all possible rational explanations- maybe this is going to do more good than ever. Perhaps, we were going to come out so strong that we could take over anything. Maybe, it was all in my head.

All in my head, it was. A large fucking vertically challenged chimera, that's what.

In the process of trying to save someone and later save myself, I lost two months, my pride, emotional response and every shred of self-respect I had. I did things that my 16-year-old self would cringe reading (read: bawling my eyes out). To be honest, I wasn't sure if I was bawling my eyes out for a man, for employment, for academics, for myself but that is how I remember myself to be.

Every morning I'd wake up, I'd howl in the shower. This act on repeat by putting on a fabulous outfit, going to work, staring at the screen to slap the keyboard, and come back. I tried calibrating my life with the lipstick bait. One overpriced lipstick to get over a man, each time in case of an impending colossal heartbreak.

I was poorer by 3.5k and still fussing over the motherfucker.

Was this some kind of voodoo? The tears of my biological clock revolting at the idea of hitting snooze or just my hormones acting up? I don't know.

To this date, I have no idea.

I could say I'm doing one hundred percent great and over the trauma or past the drama but I'd be lying. The truth is, I allowed myself to built versions of things that were not said out loud, in a gigantic proportion. I allowed myself to think I deserve those things and I'm the rightful owner of all that and more, for once. I deluded myself into believing there's one such thing as a cinematic ending, for whatever it maybe- happy or sad or mellow or traumatic.

Instead, there was reality check. That version was akin to using Internet Explorer which you have deluded yourself into believing that IE is better than Mozilla Firefox. Explorer could be great, but not for you, especially when you need a snappy browser. I'm a wee bit traumatized from this experience, and for the most part unhappy that I put myself through this misery for no rhyme or reason when I could have just spent the energy trying to write.

Six months into this disastrous, fucked beyond measure year, I realized the biggest fucking thing about writing here, on this page. My Achilles heel to writing, and writing well, is love. Or something that deludes me into believing it is love. Or could touch, smell and react like love does.

That's it. It explains everything. Why I had six half-written drafts that I didn't have the energy to post.

A few months ago, a dear friend told me the shortcoming of my approach with online dating. "The problem with you is that you are looking for love and not for hookups."

I vehemently denied. Later, when another friend confronted me on my funk, I denied with utmost surety that love is not on the agenda. 

"Motherfucker, what do you want? Why are you sad? What did you think you were going to do with this person anyway? Neither of you are in the mood to bone, you're not together and you don't want to have the burden of maintaining a boyfriend so to say. What the fuck do you want?"

Got me thinking, which it hasn't done in about two years. What is it that I really want- personally, professionally, physically and mentally.

I'm pleased to say it's been over a month and I have no answers. However, I'm more pleased to announce my return on this page.



Summer's over for the both of us.
But that doesn't mean we should give up on love. 

On love

"I just want to marry and settle down with the person who's written the script for Thor Rangnarok."

"Maybe settle with someone here."

"If it's a woman then I'll settle for Tom Hiddlestone."

"It's good to know you're fluid like that."

"I just want to marry the person who's written the film. It's so bloody witty."

"In your head you're living a Yash Raj Film but I have a feeling this will end in a Crime Patrol episode script."


On grief

My friend Momo is usually the first person who I reach out to when something goes down in my life. For a man who knew me for under a month, he's my rock across the world. When Circuit died, he was the only one I texted to inform, while I was walking home from work.

Momo lost his dog earlier today. Pola had been with him for the last 17 years. That's a long fucking time to call someone family. Pola's demise isn't the only setback he has faced. In under a week he's found out the love of his life has moved on from their erstwhile relationships, his parents were mugged in broad daylight at a gun point where in they lost their car.

When I heard, that was the first in days when I got myself to feel something, tears dwell in my eye kind of feeling. I got myself to speak to him. I don't think it helped a bit but the only thing that came to my mind is a hearty combination of what some of the people said to me while offering condolences. Two things struck out- one that Pola and Circuit would be together in doggy heaven (if there's one) and that our lives have been positively impacted by their good memories, hence we must live them out.

Grief is contagious. Ever since I spoke to Momo, I've felt drained, like I'm dragging my body but the brain has shut itself.


On melancholy

There's a girl next door, Diya, the daughter of our neighbour's security guard. I meet her daily when I return from work. Disha should be under 2 years of age, and is perhaps the  only child who I eagerly look forward to seeing. She doesn't speak a word. However, whenever she sees me, she comes running, shakes my hand and then greets me with folded hands. Having been uncharacteristically disturbed by the folded hand greeting since I was a child, Diya has learnt to accommodate my High-Fives instead. Her mum insists that she greets me with folded hands. Pavlovian conditioning in exchange of candies has taught her otherwise.

The day Circuit died, I reached home to find my sibling, all her friends and my parents in the veranda with his cold body. He stayed lifeless, looking like he's in pain and definitely nothing like how I want to remember him. It was a tough sight to soak in.

Diya walked in from the back gate which was ajar. Stood with us in complete silence, alternating with staring at his dead body and our faces. She's not the happiest baby but definitely extremely satisfied. That day she looked confused. Why were we all gathered around this dog and why was the dog laying without moving.

It occured to me how difficult is the idea to introduce death to the kids. I don't remember much on how I was conditioned or if I could give you a feedback on whether it's okay to introduce kids to "death". I would say let's never begin by explaining death to your child mentioning how you could make them meet their already dead relatives. It's a terrible idea.

I digress, but Diya was an equal participant in witnessing the end of Circuit with me. Perhaps the only one. My parents and sibling had each other. I had Diya's confused face, that's what I will remember his last day to look like.

Each time she runs towards our gate when I'm exiting, I'm compelled to meet her, say hello, greet her with a candy and try to forget that she's seen me in my most intimate moment. You're never as truthful to another as you're when you're facing a family death.

Diya forged a bond with me. She unknowingly saw me through something so personal that no loved one in my life did. Whatever it is, I'll live with Diya being the sane out of the two after having lived through that.

Couple of years ago, I got into a whim of getting a line tattooed on my body. It seemed harmlessly personal, insofar as the longevity of the design/idea was concerned.

I truly thought that I'd live by the words and in good faith, they'd live back with me. I can't quite pin the circumstances that lead to this whimsical thought but it had something to do with a bit of a mix, personal upheavle with some manchild and professional inability to sustain a job.

Those were the days when I'd fail no job interview and kick all jobs in a fortnight. The days prior to getting the wretched research degree which makes everyone question, "Sorry, you're overqualified (On paper, bitch). Why do you want this job again?"

x

Where were we? Skin.

I suppose what prevented that tattoo was costing. An odd similarity I share with my workplace (where I've been at for close to a year now). All life decisions boil down to whether or not it's "worth" the money. I used to think my parents are strange for drilling that idea in me, and probably because their parents were strange for drilling that idea in their head.

It took me one year at a massive Art and Design firm in the country to realize, it's all our parents and probably a very Punjabi thing in practice. "Is it worth it to skip office and stay at home for your mental health?", "Is it worth it to pay INR 23000 for an image when you can send someone from your organization with a camera, who's on a monthly pay roll of INR 20000. Imagine the number of images he can click while making the sale pitch at the bookstore?". Everything is always equated in contrast with a commodity, service or even a situation which will be created, just to be able to satisfy your question, "Can I?", "May I?", "Shall I?"

The answer is always no.

x

There's this urge to get a tattoo again. This time, I'm clear I want no text, and probably hold that for life. While I love words and only ever know what to do with them, I wouldn't want to get that on my body. I used to be very blasé about the tattoo idea/design and would want to go with the first instinct but never reached that far (which monetary factor prevented- a thing I can be thankful to my parents and work place for). On the other hand, I was extremely protective of how my skin is, whether it has marks or lines or wounds or vestiges of scars so deep, which I no longer am.

I recently read something which boiled down to the idea of why would you want to take the same body back to Earth after you die? Wouldn't you rather show it the years it's lived with their marks, their signs and their strokes? You should, if you didn't already. Stop with the facials and the creams and fussing. It's great to get down and dirty and wounded and carry them proudly because they're all yours to claim. Every inch is yours to proudly own and customize, so to say.

That thing hit home. I knew two things instantly-

1) My body physically no longer belonged in the set up of "it has to be the same, au naturel, no marks, wounds or tan". Since then, my body is multiple shades of Sun, crow feet, faded and smudged tattoo and many, many wounds deep. I wear it all proudly, hoping to take the most last updated version to the grave whenever the day comes.

2) I no longer wanted words on my body.

I live words. I breathe them. I know them inside out. Do I want a blue print on my body or do I want them to go with them? The latter, cause I can't discriminate. I want every word I know on my body, I want every inch to be covered in statements I stand for. Can I physically get it tattooed and trivialize them? Probably not.

When today, another one of the groundbreaking things went down, the line played in my head. I knew why that tattoo wasn't meant to go on my skin.

It's been a year of minor falls and I'd rather wait to live them than to take them skin deep with me to my death bed. Maybe, it's a life time of minor falls and major lifts are only in comparison, a contrasting value to how minor the incident is. Yet, it's not worth it to mark the skin with words. Not on me. Not for me.

I distinctly remember the first time I was introduced to Tool. In no time, Justin Chancellor, for me, became a level I aspired to reach. Nearing 26, I can claim it remains a distant dream for me today. Yet, if I go back to The Pot, the same thought occurs my mind to this day. However, by no means is Chancellor my favourite bass player. Those are two very different things. I guess I extend my militancy of detail to music as well. Bite me.

If you're a hoarder by nature, then, like me (I assume, of course) you ought to find yourself in a sea of memories. Triggered by places, spaces, events, art and media, these memories are deeply moving and more often than not, striking. Music, then, scores amongst top rated trigger for reaching out to the time that elapsed.

Eloquently put, I go back to my music from time to time to be occasionally greeted by fucking memories that I have archived for a time when I can take them down, one on one. It's hit home now, some two-three years later, I have not downloaded any music in the recent past, nor have I bought any album. Nothing at all. My listening time has gone down significantly. I don't list "music" anywhere near my pursuits, vices, interests or even conversation starter. I avoid it, like the plague that it's become for me. I don't have time to pander, especially so for issues unresolved, pertaining to music.

This rolls out like a tacky, no brainer Bombay cinema script. A person obsessed with something gives up on their biggest vice and returns to reminisce about it years later. What was that, Milkha Singh? Rock on Rockstar? Some Farhan Akhtar film somewhere. I can't put my finger (all that he's done is this script rehashed into different roles- marathon runner, vocalist, journalist?).

Anyway, so yeah. I don't go back to my music whatsoever now. On days when I am terribly bored, I find myself googling the same set of names feverishly. It starts with checking on my disgruntled pursuits in the form of mortal beings (aka jaded loves of my life) to get an update on where they're at (nowhere. I don't even know if they're alive or dead). I avoid the music that we once enjoyed listening to, together, and carefully step out of that Minesweep of a memory by skipping all of that album (which I'll be damned if I list here). I don't remember the last time I heard that common favourite album and I hope to all things controlling this universe, it's not shoved in my face anytime soon.

I've made up with stunning 46 minutes of Kind of Blue and now make it a point to listen to it once every three months. I can't do that album in any frequency shorter than that. It took a lot of willpower to return to it. That one happens to be a stunning masterpiece and one of my all time favourite albums. In fact, Kind of Blue is like medication. It's a hug packed in musical notations, a ray of sunshine on a cold, windy day which can suck the happiness out of you. Kind of Blue is the cure to most blues in my life (besides the ones it may have started in the first place). I consume it, much as I would consume a rare Japanese whisky. Reserved for very special days, sad days and not all that which goes in between.

I had recently gone out to watch a film and the trailer run before the film that I'd paid for, played Come Together's cover. It instantly trickled me down in time to the point I'd played this with a bunch of people I love to death- most of whom are placed in different parts of the world at the moment. One of the happiest memories I go back to is playing Come Together on stage in 2011. Each time I listen to that, the bass line takes me back to having the time of my life rehearsing that one with some of my closest friends.

I move to the next number, Billie Holiday crooning one of my favourite lyrical standard, All of Me (can't you see, I'm no good without you- sigh). I listen to it, with clenched teeth and tight fist and imagine kickboxing the fuck out of a few. Mia Khalifa has observed that I'm releasing my aggression on the road traffic than at the right things. I have made a note of that. Take my arms, I want to lose them indeed (on your face, most likely).

There's more, I've withheld. Some pop crap (a Train number is all I'm willing to publically admit), two by The Black Keys. There are artists like Edith Piaf, Monk, Manu Chao, Wayne Shorter, Monique Kessous...the list is long and the time, it's always short. A lot I'm holding close to my chest, a lot of stuff I'm not willing to look back at whatsoever. For the most part, it reminds me of my tryst with trying hard to be someone. Funnily enough, on paper, I'm that person today. The person I was trying to build myself into, is one with the idea. It's her who is writing this. However, the essence is all lost. All that I believed it would be, it's nothing like it. It's a lot of faffing, faking it till you yourself believe you're making it. It took a toll somewhere. Every time I go back to my playlist, it reminds me of my struggle to be who I am, a publishing professional, a hobbyist writer, 20 something fending for myself, an academic in work (!).

Despite all these identities, it's still no good, if you can't go back to who you were. If you're still reading, you'd probably wonder how any of those (aforementioned) identities affect my listening capability to say, Justin Timberlake?

It doesn't. None of them does.
But, in process of coming close to carving those identities, the person who encountered this music no longer wishes to revisit that site anymore. Maybe, it's the brushes I had in the last couple of years and maybe, it's the mistakes I made in terms of carving myself out- the fact is, I no longer identify myself as the person who once loved this playlist to death. From it being one of the most prized possession that I had built, it's now become like an outfit, I revisit to stare at from time to time and shut my closet. I still love it, but I can't go back to it.

Why I use this outfit analogy is quite a reason in itself. I'm in possession of a closet full of things which can serve as a closet to seven people (wearing Size 14) at the very minimum. However, I go back to the same key outfits every day because I fear, I'll tamper with my favourite pieces each time I wear them. I worry that they'll be stained so bad that I won't be able to publically carry them out ever again. In the fear of something bad about to be going down, I never take them out. Instead, I hang them in my closet and admire them from far and distant sight of the roads of Delhi and elsewhere. I think the case is same with my music. I no longer listen to it in fear of making new memories and leaving the ones in the past behind. I don't want to associate my music with new people, with friends I met along the way, with newer (and might I add improved) gentlemen who look far better than my type of 3.4/10 from circa 2012. I don't want to tamper with all that what's been packed in the laptop. Listening to them again would mean going to A) revisit the previous site, and B) making new ones. I don't think I'm ready to give it all up as of now.

I have seen this particular tendency in a lot of people, coming out in different ways. One of my friends takes it out in way of not dating anyone. She won't ever go on a traditional "date" or indulge in the idea of a "dates" leading to "relationships". It didn't work out with someone she was into the first time and ended bad for her. Since then, she holds that part of her life so tightly that she doesn't allow anyone to permeate. Similarly, another friend has boundary issues. He won't allow anyone- friend, family to come close to them. He is emotionally cripped to deal with proximity and cannot express himself. It takes a toll when you're having a bad day and you're unable to tell anyone because you're holding the occasions tight when you did and the person went away (in his case, the demise of his father and another friend who moved away). It's all in our heads, our distances and holding them ever so tightly. I know this from my two friends because I've been able to identify mine- it's latent in the form of music and I've tried my best to let it go. To listen to stuff without letting a cloud of emotions huddle and pour outwards.

However, I'm trying. Still at it.