Prose before hos

We love people the way we want to be loved. Or, so I believe.

A friend at work, prompted shortly after lunch, "Why are you this patient with him? Do you like him that much?" I was distracted by the smell on my nails; a lot of pickle and a lot of oil meant that my pastel pink manicure was reeking of Gongura Leaves and Mustard Oil. I had finished explaining a long fable on my back after a rather early lunch—why I ended up making a steep purchase earlier today and how I needed to be a knight in shining armour for a fintech situation in my personal life, as a "woman in STEM". I don't end up doing either anymore—explaining myself to people and oversharing. I shed parts of me like a snake changes skin every season and that is the only reason why I state this. I find it odd to articulate any part of my personal life to anyone, even to those closest to me. Naturally, that has extended to this page and by default logic, people in my life.

I used to think so too. And maybe, the egg in my basket was rotten so I can't say this is a shared experience, but I felt a lot of me was eliminated, lost, and washed out in doing that. And maybe, that's not how this is supposed to be. If Goldilocks found the first bed too soft, then she's now finding this bed too hard, but that's not such a bad thing for her spine or back overall. I am still using my brain to fend for myself and look out for myself and if I have to include another person intermittently in that, why not? 

To be honest, I don't think it's the man or his potential, it's all me. It's always been me, my sparkle, my love and my love that's made others shine bright. Without that, he's just another fish, another egg, another brick. It's the bricklayer who decides the pecking order and she has to be patient with her art. 

I've spent countless hours in that room between fete, practice, sessions on how to cope with periods, dance parties etc. Unlike most parts of my school, I never particularly liked or disliked it. The man, our dance teacher, made a lot of girls feel like they are his children; and later during #MeToo, the allegations against him came as no surprise to me (or the group of people I follow on socials) that he was apparently a creep to many young girls. Doesn't shock me one bit. 

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. 

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. 

There's a lot to be grateful for. It's never too late to express your gratitude, even in the worst of times. 

I saw a call to action post on social media, by a former classmate, I'm assuming for a loved one in her family. Her friends/our other classmates were sharing it all around—requesting anyone who has any information about an available bed for COVID. Breaks my heart every time I see someone struggle to get medical attention, especially as someone who's spent half her life in and out of the hospital. There's nothing more frustrating than seeing the lack of resources for people, everything else including your personal politics and bitterness, etc aside, nobody should have to deal with seeing someone suffer. I have seen people plead, beg and cry for a hospital bed, for ICU and ventilatory support these last few days and while my grandfather may never come out of there alive, I hope people realize what we are signing up as individuals to live in a city where the diseased have no hope to seek treatment, regardless of a pandemic or not. 

Around the same, I saw a middle-aged gentleman climb a tree, in front of us. What started as a giggle, "oh look he's chasing a squirrel", soon turned into watching him scramble to pluck branches off the Neem tree. People use it for medicinal properties and as someone who's had a friend drop a giant branch of Neem tree leaves when I had chicken-pox, I understand more than ever. Someone once did that for me and I'm eternally grateful for that gesture. But more than anything, I don't want to imagine what his circumstances must have been to have walked all the way to a hospital parking compound and do this. In fact, I felt pathetic for texting a friend at the moment, while live-updating her my state of being.

I'm grateful to every single motherfucker who has abandoned my family and us in these trying times of dealing with immense pain and shock. You realize the magnitude of damage as you grow older, no matter, how many times you've seen people repeat their patterns. There's a very good reason my family raised us to be independent, even in times of grief and despair, for they have dealt with it themselves on numerous occasions. The variables may change but in the end, the conclusive result remains the same, people are massive arseholes, cunts of the highest order.  They are invested for as long as there is a spectacle to watch and treats to enjoy. Everyone wants a free meal, a glass of whiskey, or whatever else. Nobody wants you to hold you when you are bawling alone or watching a person die infront of your eyes. I've been there and much as I want these fuckers to perish in hell, I don't want to wish these trying times on anyone, not even those who have done us and my family wrong. We are living through hell and this, I hope, nobody ever gets to see this in their lives. 

Nobody can save your life and nobody can rescue you from living through the grief, but what people can do is have your back. There are a few people I am grateful to, especially this time when everything is difficult anyway. They have stood with us like rock and been family to my parents, more than the actual fuckers we are related to by blood. I hope the latter rot in hell, regardless of what becomes of my grandfather. 

My grandfather was orphaned at age 5 and he would tell us all daily, how nobody in the family has achieved the success he did, despite not being given 2 rupees to buy books. I wish he could have given every one of these motherfuckers a piece of his mind if he were conscious to see the shit we are dealing with. I truly wish he could see the vultures we have been living among, or hope he gains health for him and I to bond over this conversation.