Prose before hos

One of the few constants since the pandemic began, or rather pre-pandemic has been around the weather. For all the chatter in the world around climate change and how we can witness the effects trickling into our day-to-day, I raise you my familiar winter cycle, that's neither a day late nor early. 

Period-0, Weather in Delhi-1.

Winter officially sets in Delhi (for me) from November 14, when the fan on the top speed feels chilly but no fan feels stuffy. You don't need the air conditioner for the workout (even though you feel like death in the last 1 minute of your jumping jacks in the intense training program) and you no longer want to prance around in cotton shorts. You start window shopping for faux leather bombers and wonder if this will be the year when you invest in a Shacket (if I ever do, please feel free to ban my blog and never come back, I need a reality check). 

Winter also runs out fairly quickly (something under 100-105 days) by February 18. You feel the need to retire the tight sweaters and stuffy body-hugging polos. While the rest of the country takes another month, I am usually done by February 16 and bring back the air conditioning from Feb 24 for workouts. 

Three years ago, we marked Winter with the new season of the Crown at a public parking lot where I spent more time than I'd like to admit. Earlier today, when the winter breeze slapped my face in the same spot, I felt deja vu, like I was about to go through the same cycle again. However, there's one notable difference. 

I'm a lot calmer. 

It's like, the person I imagine consoling my younger self to be better and strive to be, I'm there. I spend all my waking hours walking towards my goals, tending to make life fulfilling and in pursuit of that, I find even writing tedious. This is probably the longest writing break I've had when I'm productive otherwise. I spend my time reading, watching and occasionally flirting with the man of the season (I've found a marvelous heartbreak for Fall-Winter '23). I catch up on things low-key, retire to my cocoon and find everything I need there. For the most part, peace lies in the predictability of movement. I've got my back; I've warded every single element out which I felt wouldn't align with my expectations and I've constantly tried to face my fears while doing that. I found myself in a familiar place where entering the apartment complex choked me but not without support. There were dogs, friends and friends like family to handhold me through moments I never thought I'd survive or live to try. 

I'm getting distracted by texts midway (and I'd never tolerate this shit, but it's Winter and we all need someone to hold on to and cuddle with), but everything about the days to follow will be predictable. Days will get shorter, my calm self will get pissed and by January, I'll be so unhinged that I'll intersperse crying with saying yes to all possible events and styling my hair in more ways than I can probably count, that is if situations remain predictable. 

The way in which our world moves and lives are shaped is not inherently controlled by us. The apolitical bunch on dating apps wouldn't know but for those of us who do, we are one inflammatory remark or action away from a full-blown crisis at all given times and 100+ days are a lot to challenge for predictability if the world is unkind to infants on the basis of their geographical location and passport details. 

What I'm saying is, I'm not looking forward to the Winter and I definitely don't want to write. I want to hide in my bedroom with my book and park myself to only respond to 5 people (including my employer because we all need capital). 

 I am having a nervous breakdown. Does it last for over 48 hours?

At least it feels like it. Or if my therapist is to be believed, it's a great sign that I'm crying and not shutting down because it means my brain is trying to process grief and emotions. 

To be fair, this won't be the first or the last but in a way, it's huge and significant and oh my god I can't breathe well. 

I think I need a sage cleanse. A tarot card reader, someone to blame for my problems would be good. 

One day you're writing in your journal how you are your own priority and everything has to happen according to you and the next you're breaking apart cause someone's son realises you might be a handful for him and he might have to pull the cord. 

For the most part, this is on me for not communicating and completely shutting down, dumping it inwards like it's great and fun and games. The fact that I am driving myself sick is probably known to 3-4 people in the whole world and besides my therapist, nobody really knows why it's driving me insane. 

A lot of it takes me back to my childhood, of keeping things to myself and going in over my head because the only reality that mattered was the one I was living; it didn't matter what was happening. 

However, this gets translated to a whole fucking anxiety attack as an adult, where you are second guessing things that may or may not matter—a good night text without an emoji, a morning without cuddles, side hug at the airport. I spoke to someone I trust with my life and they asked me to shut the fuck up and stop overthinking (as I should) but it's also good to pad yourself with a reality that nothing should be taken for granted and people can rescind affection for no rhyme or reason and that they don't owe you anything. 

Ah fuck, Roman Roy at Logan's funeral. Fuck. 

Also, I don't recommend Juggy D's Instagram in the middle of the night between a breakdown. It's insanely positive and you'll begin to wonder if there's meaning to life besides eating donuts and drinking water. 

 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.