Prose before hos: covid-19

Soon

The most affirming word in the minds of forelorn lovers, separated loved ones; whether it's between working hours or actual miles between two people, soon is always arriving.

For a long-time in the last 60 days, I hung on to that word, every weekend. "Soon enough," is when we were supposed to meet. Today, that tied into my Covid recovery. Third time's the charm so we can hope I recover soon enough; the marker that I once interpreted for the distance between our synced calendars is now a distant future for my recovery phase. There's peace and hope but there's also history.

For us, soon was always incoming, every weekend as we worked our asses off. Now, soon is a year or maybe two. It took me over two years to go back to working out without killing myself and building my strength, and now the soonest I can do is "soon enough".

It feels like I'm repeating myself over but what is soon anyway? I asked this out of frustration when I was texting my sister earlier today. I can pull that impatience card on her cause she's known me all her life, unlike the delicate other ties on my phone where I have to contain myself to an emoji conveying frustration. We've seen things, my sister and I, we've seen Covid and we'll see other things too. "Soon" from her was triggering. Who tf does she think she is? Why is she talking the same way as the man? Can she be more specific? A little less on hope and a little more on facts? God, why can't my own sibling talk to me the way I talk to myself?

Soon enough she'll be gone or well, be on her way out. Soon enough, I'll be out too; or maybe not. Who knows? If you'd told me one month ago, soon enough translates to a wildly loose timeline between now and never, I'd have never walked the road where I am. I was full of purpose a few months ago, I was full of purpose even when I was dying last week; in between being delirious with high fever, I kept thinking of how to match the competition—who the fuck am I even? I am not even paid enough to do this shit? Why have I put all my eggs in one basket, not for a man but for work and why am I giving ten fucks about my body fat and rounded cheeks post-sugar and jam during covid instead on focusing on survival.

"I'm going to be rounded and fat and tubby when I wear a bikini later this month," I chose to focus on my jaw that lacked the sharpness I had two weeks ago, three days into covid and a cocktail of medicines later.

"Killing it," the same as "soon enough" only in the present.

I really do hope I'm happy soon enough.

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, by Snobster

In breaking heart, covid

Move

There's this thing, that I have heard all my life from friends' parents and then from mine (but never directly uttered to me) on how people seem to move on past a certain point in your life and you're left to your own devices, and this is where marriage and a partner can save you.

You don't possibly need to access my archive here to understand my views on marriages. It's good for those who can feel the need to subscribe to it and maintain their annual subscription. It's not for the ones who are flakey and can't even maintain a singular favourite burger place, let alone stick to one person in one house day after day.

I'm not averse to companionship. Don't get me wrong, and I know I sound like a hypocrite, but there's just something potent and sacred about a state-sanctioned relationship that I would much rather have Shark's Fins Soup instead of allowing myself to go through it. Imagine the embarrassment of dealing with someone else's family or extended relatives. I mean, my own can barely contain me and vice versa; for reasons other than this too, I don't think I'm made for the institution and the institution for me.

It's also not as if I have a lot of pressure (or any) to address this. I've never once been asked to see someone for the sake of it or think of it, it's just assumed I'm not fit for it, and there's really nothing to fight there. It's cool, it's fair, we get it.

All these past years, it's been rather easy. I've seen people around me get married, have babies, buy houses and all that and be unfazed in my presence. Maybe, this is where bar drinking comes in and I have never felt like I left the cool train or whatever it is, but going out and seeing people, doing things, pursuing hobbies, all that really aided.

And yet, one year and a few months into this fuckfest of a global shitshow pandemic, and I now feel FOMO about this life I don't have (and possibly won't).

People around me are moving on; I don't know whether this is an absolute urgency or a moment of reconciliation with the situation around us, but I found myself knee-deep in confusion planning bachelorette for two different friends from a group of four of us. That is to say, 50% of my circle is getting married in the next few months and I'm supposed to hide and plan these surprises without the brides knowing about their respective parties. For a group of people where half of them are getting married and the other quarter is in a foreign country, it is an awful lot of stress to bear.

That's the fun part, my stress is a privilege to count on. I am not moving houses in between the predicted third wave, nor am I looking out for ways to discuss how I don't want certain rituals in my inter-caste wedding, and I'm definitely not worried about letting my friends know that they're not invited for the wedding lunch. I'm fairly simple. I watch a sport, I eat food, I watch TV and I write about it. I have no bigger ilks to think about, including what furniture can I take from one home to the other and what can I drop.

That for me is where my FOMO begins. It's perhaps the first time in the entirety of my existence, I have questioned whether choosing to opt for the person I am and the life I have is a bad deal or if it is really fine and I am just nervous about not being able to find people on my level.

I don't expect anyone to empathize with my life or the problems that surround it, "I ordered too many fries and I didn't know what to do with them." I was told it's a nice problem to have, and it truly is, no two ways about it.

This is where things get real- when you talk to your friends and they no longer care to want to get shit faced with fancy domestic gin or do whiskey shots to celebrate your biggest win or want to hang out for a meal. They want to build their life, with their partner, build a house, grow their career, look after the baby they've had after many problems with conceptions. Their life and your life no longer align and you find yourself bang in the middle of the words, "People will get married and move on and you'll be where you are."

Moving on, dear readers, is very fucking real and very fucking traumatizing.

I think we can safely celebrate and specially mention two other kinds of moving on— where once a man who threw himself at me, and continued with that for months, is back with his ex-wife (or did he ever leave?) and another who told me things are not working out in his life with his wife and their relationship and sought me as a crutch to move on has a 4-year-old baby who started school this year. Life's really funny, people move on without you and you're reminded of the hike from a school trip years ago, where you and three other losers chose to get sick and stayed back at the hotel, empty stomach while the rest of the clowns went hiking, get this, in a car.

Somehow, I found worth in getting sick and choosing to opt-out there, even after all these years. It's not something that I had to do but I did. Maybe, I will find peace in my choices of being stationary and letting the world move around and move on.

Maybe, the 30s are all about uniting with others like you and starting afresh with a different road where you're no longer the central character in a sequin dress at a pub, on a date with the hottest guy in town, but instead, cosying up to other freaks like you halfway across the world cause they see you for who you are. Until then, we can hope they don't celebrate their wedding anniversary anytime soon.

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, by Snobster

In 7 stages of grief, covid

Whitewash

Earlier this week, I went shopping.

I haven't stepped foot outside my room, let alone my house since I got back from the longish hospital stint, other than the trips to the hospital, and thus going out in every sense of the way was a step forward in life— of progressing from trauma, grief and making sense of the cards we've been distributed this time around.

Truth be told, nothing about the old life or the memories hold value cause all of that is in the past. A past that was snatched a little too soon without any intimation. I digress but the market was a ride of emotions.

I had not accounted for how bad the grief of losing my grandfather is going to be until I set foot there and every little thing reminded me of the times I'd visit alone (infrequently with friends even). Armed with petty cash, I'd shop some bargain hunts, find a thing or two for my grandfather, and end up paying for a few pairs of shoes that my grandfather would encourage despite no storage space at mine. It's really something that he did. Perhaps, to see the misplaced youth where he couldn't afford the same luxury.

Anyway, the market, the grandfather, and all the rest are pretty much gone. I tugged those memories and got to business— some cycling shorts, t-shirts I don't need but then again I do, and some dresses. It was all like a carnival with no participants. As a friend pointed out today (upon his visit), one could see the floor of the market, which is usually covered with trash unattended.

In this undercurrent of memory mishap, I was somehow reminded of a boy I had come to know through a dating app years ago. He and I had a whole bunch of things in common and all that except there was something really off about the whole thing. I recall calling him out and wishing him well just before moving on until he came clean. He had come to India to see his ailing mother and she had passed away in that duration. He found himself downloading the app a week later and I had matched with him the first day. The long silences and his demeanour suddenly made so much sense. Fast forward to a few weeks later, we celebrated his birthday together over a long walk in a corner of Old Delhi I was (then) unfamiliar with. We wrapped that morning with breakfast from his ex-girlfriend's family's sweet shop. The whole morning and that walk was curated around his fond memories and his life prior to the big shift in his life when his mom was around and he lived in India.

In hindsight, it was all so bizarre and unreal but at that moment, I felt as though we had split grief in equal part and were walking to build an appetite of re-washing ourselves and making new memories of the city in the light of his loss.

Somehow, this trip and the excursion felt exactly that. I was rewashing and calibrating myself to make memories sans people in my life who once made regular appearances— grandfather, friends. The only person to split that grief this time around was my mother.

In all of this, I've come to miss the boy from Melbourne who took me around my city, that he knew better than me. I hope he's doing well.

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, by Snobster

In anniversary, cake

Size 14

There's a tweet I remember reading, on the perils of the pandemic, this deadly second wave and the emotional toll it took. Apparently, Gwyneth Paltrow started eating bread and it caused her a great deal of unhappiness and turmoil. I can empathise. I started eating breakfast again after four years, most of it was just to ensure there's some form of food I'm ingesting back when I was seriously ill in the hospital. I love bread and despite cutting that out of my diet to remain a size 8, I found myself eating that at the hospital. Don't make mistake, I would throw the lunch and the dinner away, until the Dietitian at the hospital realized, I'd only appreciate bread and therefore, prescribed sandwiches for lunch. Those call for another, separate post as dedication. Long story short, Gwyneth was upset eating bread and I was upset when I was told to get on with breakfast.

Bread, then, re-entered my life in this second wave, much like it did with Gwyneth. The only notable difference was that I went to a size 14, in a month, after all that bread for breakfast. It's not something I want to know, but Google Photos insist on sending a poignant reminder with comparison shots, day after day and most of them have me without my arms in scars, my hair in place and my lipstick game strong.

I do, very much, empathize with Gwyneth on her emotional trauma and the re-emergence of bread in her life. I would also have to blame steroids and other drugs I was injected, along with bread and even the near-death experience I faced this year around. A friend's boyfriend joked on a group video call, "At this point, you should ask the hospital to book you a suite, for your regular appearance." If only hospitals worked that way, I'd be way ahead of him to suggest that thought. Life's a battle, a fragile one at that. You can last as long as a China dish or a synthetic shirt. I'm moulded like a ceramic tea pot. Short, stout and almost too fragile, for anyone's care.

It's been fourteen long years since I started writing, or rather, documented this journey in some form. Most of it is not public accessible anymore, but someday, it may just be, if I live long enough ie.

Long enough to not care about scars on my arms, looking obese in photographs and not giving a damn about what someone thinks about me on the internet after reading what I wrote on the internet as a 15 yo, ill-tempered, ill-mannered teenager.

On that note, I'd very much like to devour a whole vanilla rainbow cake with cream cheese frosting to mark this end of a beginning. The kind that involves size 14 garments again, lots of processed carbs to process complex emotions and perhaps, with a side of shamelessness. If the worst problem I had ever had was looking fat in the photographs then I believe I have a lot of shit show coming my way real soon.

Gwyneth- 1, Snobster- 0.

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In covid, covid-19

Day 31

I am alive!

I don't want to go all, "Look at me I fought COVID" cause let's be real, it was a bad, bad battle and my doc felt more out of control and when the car driver is outta control you know it's the end.

To be fair, I was content if it had been the end. I don't think I cared enough or at all for the material belongings. I had abandoned my phone on Day 3 and was in fact losing it when people were reaching out to check on me. This will probably be the only time I'll confess but besides my family, I didn't want to hear from anyone, including the people I said I love you to (a fair few) and then there were some I was thinking of, hard, for some reason, when I was choking and out of breath. I am yet to open that pandora's box because I never reached out to any of those despite thinking of them when I thought it was it. Pleasantly surprised with my behaviour in the last month.

There was also a lot of crying. A lot means a lot, like thrice a day daily from Day 3 onwards. I don't understand how the Oximeter kept showing a level upward of 90 when I found it hard to breathe from Day 3 and even at the hospital, things kept getting delayed (treatment, medicines) cause the indicative levels were decent, until one day when things just came down crashing.

Things felt more helpless a fortnight later (which is when you're officially considered non-infectious whether or not you get a test) and I was still there. The medicines were not working (or well, working as much as I expected them to). I was constantly on injections, steroids, anti-biotics, anti-coagulation shots, oral medicines— despite there being no sense of taste, my mouth was constantly dry and bitter and I was emotionally a mess. I found myself to be helpless, useless and a general waste of space where my parents were trying hard to save me, the team of doctors and nurses were working their best to rescue me, but my body was like, "Nope, nothing doing. We off, fam!" I've never felt more betrayed. What's the point of not drinking alcohol, not eating processed carbs and fasting 18 hours a day while not smoking if this is how hard everyone had to fight to keep me alive and pump medicines like petrol in a car?

To be fair, things were also extremely grim cause everyone I gave any fucks about here was sick out of their minds and people were losing other people. Some of the coldest people I know reached out to me with their "I love you don't die" texts and it freaked me out a little. Like dude, come on, you think I was trying to harm myself? I actively didn't want to die and my body wasn't cooperating.

At this point, it's a bit of a joke, all of my trauma but given how real it all is and how slowly my body is recovering, I'll probably make fewer jokes when I write about this again. It just seems hard to process everything— of not knowing whether I'll have oxygen, of not having parental support and just crying my eyes to send me home or give me a toilet that I could access. I could write a whole essay on my trauma of using shared washrooms over the years across institutions but I'll spare everyone the horror, and myself too.

This is actually the first piece of writing I've attempted and along with the sense of taste and smell, covid has snatched my writing, editing and punctuation skills. I also don't seem to care about it mostly because the sense of entitlement of kicking covid after three long weeks is so real and heavy that I don't know if I'll ever want to take myself seriously again.

Until then, handy advice. If you're down with covid and want a burger from McDonald's, only eat McVeggie cause that's the only one which will taste of something.

Also, is there a covid/institutional version of Stockholm Syndrome? I miss the hospital bed now, the food that I threw 7/13 days and my space there. It seemed like it belonged to me on my last day there and now it feels like it's gone and that if anything were to ever happen to me, I just want to be there and die in Room 300, bed 08, right in front of the window where a lizard would rest.

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In covid, covid-19

Day 1

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In 31 shower thoughts, corona

Normal

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In 31 shower thoughts, convent school girls

Ghost Duet

I had a normal day today.

Let me reiterate, I HAD A NORMAL DAY TODAY.

My normal day included starting the day in time (okay 12 noon) and hitting the shower straight. Quick lunch followed by a mug of Americano led into an Art workshop that I grumbled about for an hour and a half and panicked when I was asked to present my opinion to strangers. However, the strangers loved hearing everything I had to say and I realized, I know just as much as the woman giving the workshop and it's just my bad luck that I'm in the spot that I am. All this was followed by three (not one, not two) whole fucking phone calls separately with three of my closest friend's from school. One of whom (Baniya) is heavily pregnant and she told me about it this morning (yay, early morning), followed by wishing another (Ana Banana) on her birthday and catching up on her post-covid life and disguised unemployment and finally with AP, who's one of the oldest, dearest friend's I have and one of the first and regular feature on my blog for years. She's the one who pulled the whole con call calling out episode with me on that freak of a woman I went to school with. AP is unapologetically badass, the only woman I'd ever use that word for cause truly, she can terrify the devil. Any call with school friends means you do not have to explain facets about your personality through random episodes; they just know it.

Case in point:

"Are you planning to get married anytime?"

No, have you lost it?

"No, I mean, if you are, you should know the planning stage lasts 2-3 years and knowing you, there's no way in hell your parents are even going to attempt that for you."

HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? I HAVE HAD TO EXPLAIN THIS TO EVERYONE WHO HAS BRIEFLY BROUGHT MY MARRIAGE INTO THE CONVERSATION. YOU KNOW, MY MOM SAID THE SAME.

"Save it. I know you, I know you better than anyone else and I know the person you and that nobody but you can find someone for yourself. You should start looking out if you have any plan whatsoever."

Thank god for friends from school. Whatever few if I may say. Thank god for AP being one of them.

I prepared and ate my dinner through the call because I didn't want to hang up and I also didn't want the normalcy to end.

I joined my family on the dinner table to find them eating Dal and Chawal; the two food items I've detested all my life and truth be told, I don't remember the last time I saw my family on the dinner table with Dal and Chawal. It's been years since this was made for dinner for us all.

All in all, a day that resembled any average day from 2007-2013. I was painfully aware of how far away I have been from even semblance of normalcy, of being wanted in a day for work, for information, for socializing, for anything that needs me to be me.

Kids, don't take normal days and an average life for granted.

It takes a lot to put it together. A lot.

(Title reference; track of the day)

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In 31 shower thoughts, Best Friend

Sing About Me, I'm Dying of Thirst

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In 31 shower thoughts, cooking

Exhibit B

We have a five year age gap, my sister and I. We’re at two ends of a spectrum, that’s how different we are. If you were to meet us, you’d never know we’re cut from the same cloth.

Circa 1999, a proud elder sister walks her baby sister inside the school gate. I tell everyone, “my sister is now in this school.”

Exhibit B is not impressed. For years together, everyone refers to her as “Exhibit A’s sister”. It goes on, from our neighbours, to the teachers in school. As an elder, insufferably pampered child, I can’t imagine what that must be like. For her, I’m sure it was a pain. It didn’t help that I’d set impossible standards in terms of academics and beyond. Should have calmed my pre-pubescent tits when I had the chance.

Exhibit B graduates school, and later college. Her adult self is nothing like me. Not even close, almost as if it repulses her to be in any which way similar to me. If I like chalk, she likes cheese. Pathetic analogy, but you get the drift. We’re poles apart. Yet, “Exhibit A’s sister” sticks around. This time, when she’s at work and is spotted by my team from work at her workplace.

“Will you ever just leave me alone?”, she asks exasperatedly, at the end of a tiring workday. “Your job ends at 6 pm and you’ve got people all over the city who look at me and call me “Exhibit A’s sister”. It’s like you’re hounding me.”

x-----x

Last night, I find myself at an upscale restaurant. According to some, the reservations are impossible to get. For a few others, it’s in Asia’s top 50 restaurant list. I make way to the best seats in the house with my girlfriends. We place our dinner and drink order and twiddle our thumbs anticipating, will this be worth it? Minutes later, our drinks arrive. A fine red for my friends and a refreshing mocktail for me.

Given my untimely hives attack last evening, I was on strong anti allergies and hadn’t placed a drink order at all. While I did want the pomegranate based lemonade, I was holding out till the main course to see if I could abuse my body with a glass of red, instead of a juice.

“Hi, I think you’ve got this on the wrong table. We just ordered two glasses of wine.”

My phone lights up with the notification, “Did you get the drink?”

The server responds, “This is for you from the management. You’re Exhibit B’s sister, aren’t you?”

Exhibit B’s sister is massively proud of how far she’s come.

(Track of the day)

Turns out, I took more than I could chew. I am refurbishing something I wrote for another platform and using it here because it's far too good a story to be wasted this way and Exhibit B's nearly unemployed. Just about nearly cause Covid and life. This is her last working week until we know any further. As good a time as any to share how massively proud I am of this girl.