The problem of looking for love, today, is a problem of handling multiple selves.

What we look for when we look for love is for someone: who will allow, and not just tolerate, these selves; who will have the curiosity -- and consequently the patience -- to want to understand us, and continue to understand, and not force us into spiritual cul-de-sacs and hold us hostage; who will nourish -- and not mutilate -- our various selves. Someone for whom we will be more than willing to spawn more selves, on our own terms, as we reciprocate.

Do we have many selves? I think it's safe to say that. But we need a little clarity here as to what we mean about a self. Is it the same as a mood? Because then that would mean what we are looking for is someone who will just tolerate our mood swings. And if a self is different from a mood, how?

The difference between a mood and a self is, in my opinion, one of longevity and democracy. Where a mood comes and goes as it pleases, a self seems to be ... umm ... self-sustainable. While there seems to be a default mood that all moods are supposed to defer to once their fifteen minutes under the spotlight is are over, our selves, on the other hand, seem to co-exist peacefully, having agreed among themselves as to who will take over when, depending on the utility of a particular self under the given circumstances. Where a mood is puerile, a self is mature. To make it more fascinating, perhaps a self is just a grown-up mood that refused to go away.

So then, do people have multiple selves? I'm going to be slightly presumptuous and say that the majority doesn't, based on anecdotal evidence (very suspect, yes). And even among the minority which does, most of them -- that is the majority of the minority -- are not aware of all their selves, in the first place, or what drives these selves. These people, then, either struggle to accomodate these selves in a world that is, it has to be said, more kinder to such schizophrenia than it was before because it offers more opportunities for peaceful reconciliation of our multiple selves without self-destructive rebellion, or, are confused about these selves because more often than not a greater degree of ... ummm ... self-control is required to attain a reconciliation of selves than it is to shun parts of themselves to retain the illusion of control; it's easier to give in to order and method than it is to push oneself to the precipice overhanging the abyss of madness that such schizophrenia naturally is. Because, all said and done, the precipice induces a vertigo that is tempting to succumb to, a tempting vertigo at that*. "Madness is like gravity. All it takes is a little push."**

So, this then is the challenge of love: How well do we know ourselves? How well do we know each other? How selfless can we be as we strive to realize the essence of our selfishness? How patient can we be in our efforts at self-realization in the face of hormonal impatience? How willing are we to allow, understand and nourish? How willing are we to give in to the madness of our selves and yet not go mad ourselves?

* - Now why is it tempting?
**- Line from the movie The Dark Knight.

Rerecording

"Mmmm ... It is nice."
"Hai naa? See, I told you ... you like it?" :)
"Absolutely." :-)

A little after noon. Rain-washed campus frocked in green. Pitter patter of footwear on wet sidewalks.

"Do you wanna sit here?" Points. "Or do you wanna sit under the tree?" Points again. :-?
"Under the tree."

Two glasses of steaming tea.
Two pairs of hands.
Warmth.

"We used to come here just for the tea. Walk over from college, sit somewhere and just while away time over cups of tea."
"Mmm hmm ... I can see why." :-)

A deliberate initiation into rituals. A careful parting of veils. Peeks into the past. Hope for the future.

"What are you looking at me like that for?"
"Nothing." :D

The beginning of an understanding. A coming to terms with the reality of a dream come true.

"I know that man ..." Points.
"Who?"
"That man ... the one wearing the white t-shirt ..." Nods.
"With the beard?"
"Yup. Beard and the black jeans."
"He doesn't seem to have a butt ... you seem to know some strange men." :-D
:D
"He was my lecturaar at M------"
"Lecturaar? Is that what you call them?"
"Why? What do you call them?"
"Oh we call them lecturers, you know, just like how the English intended."
"Hmmm ... we call them lecturaars."
"Whatever."

Birdsong after the rains. Carefully testing the breeze, asking if there's more in store.

"Oooh ... look, there's an earthworm!"
"Where?" Looks.
"There, near the tree ... "
"Oh yes ... but is that an earthworm?"
"Yes, it is, must have come out because of the rains."
"Earthworms are like lizards, aren't they? As in, if you cut them into two, a new one grows out of each piece ... No?"
"You want to cut this one up and see?" :-o
"No, no, I didn't mean that ..."
"You're the one who likes beheading children" ;)
"No, no, I didn't mean that either." Exasperated.
"Really?" :)
"Oh, you're having me on."
:)
:-)

"I think he's going to the canteen."
"Your lecturaar? If he teaches at your college, what's he doing here? Your lecturers bunk class too?" :-o
"Maybe he likes the tea here too." :)
"Or maybe he's here for a smoke." Points.
"Oh ... I didn't know he smoked." :/
"Well ... seems like you know a lot else about him." :-)
"Oh I do know that he married this Scottish woman ..."
"... Scottish?" :-o
"...yes, Scottish ..."
"Really? That guy? With the beard and no butt?" Shakes head.
Giggles.
"Yes ... this place is full of these intellectual types, you know ... cigarettes and Sartre, wine and women ..."
"Hmmm ... Scottish women" :-/
"He used to teach us Horace, I remember ... had this sweet, melodious voice ..."

Eyelids narrow. Eyes start to twinkle. Thumb and forefinger of the left hand curl up into an 'O'. The other fingers stand slightly apart. A gesture from memory. An expression of fondness for the intangible.

"... barely carried past the first few benches ... you had to strain to make out what he was saying ..."
Looks.
Looks right back and smiles.
"... but it was worth it ..."
"Mmm hmm?"
"Mmm hmm." Nods and bites lower lip with a goofy grin. "And I would go 'aaaaa....'"

Laughs.
Gently rests head on shoulder. Dishevelled hair falls hesitatingly onto t-shirt.

"I should go and say hi to him, shouldn't I?"
"Yup, you should. He'd be happy to see you. My teachers from school are always happy to see me."
"But it's been a few years. I'm sure he won't recognize me ..."
"How does that matter? How do you know he won't? All you have to do is go say 'Hi' and take things from there ..."
"I don't know." Mewls.
"You're so useless ... I mean, it's barely 20 yards from here to there ..."
"I don't know." Mewls.
"Go ... go ... go now ... look, he doesn't have company and it won't be long before his cigarette runs out."
"I don't know."
"You're so useless."
"You know what ...?"
"What?" Raises an eyebrow.
"You should go talk with him." ;)
"Me??" :-o
"Yes. You." Bites lower lip and grins goofily again.
"Me go talk with him? Yeah right! And what would I talk with him?"
"Anything. You know ... you could talk to him about Schopenhauer ... I'm sure he'll be happy to chat with you."
"Yeah yeah yeah."
"Go naa ... you should go meet new people ... that's how you make your life interesting."
"Look who's talking!" Raises both eyebrows. "Forget new people, you don't even wanna go say hi to someone you know and here you are asking me ..."
"See, it's easier to talk to strangers ..."
Pauses. Looks up and smiles.
"Is it now?"
Looks down and smiles right back.
"Especially ghosts." :D
"Especially ghosts." :-) "I know what I'm going to do. I'm gonna walk up and tell him 'Hello, there's a friend of mine who wants to talk with you but is a little shy, so would you mind joining us for a cup of tea?'"
"You would?" :-o
"You know I will." :-)
"No, no ... don't do that. Let's just sit here and watch him."
"I can't believe how useless you are."
"I can't believe you don't wanna meet new people, especially interesting people."
"Look, he's your 'lecturaar'." Mimics.
"Oh, hush ... let's just sit here."
"Lazy bum." :-D
"Yes, that it is." :D
"I mean, God knows when you're gonna see him again."
"I know." Mewls. Sighs.
"Gah! Useless."
"'Gah! Useless.'" Mimics.
"Stop imitating me!"
"'Stop imitating me!'" :D
"Look, your lecturaar is leaving!"
"Oh dear ..." Sighs again.
"You're gonna regret not talking to him all your life. Go now. It's now or never." Exaggerates.
"I'm just gonna sit here like this." Rests head a little more firmly on shoulder.
"Useless."
"'Useless.'" Mimics again.
"Stop imitating me!"
"'Stop imitating me!'" :D
"Gah!" :-)
"'Gah!'" :))
...

Trying

Maybe it wasn't your fault, maybe
it wasn't mine either.

Maybe, one day, the dress will fit,
and it won't lie crumpled
in a corner of the cupboard.

Maybe, one day, I'll fit in
with your crowd, and you'll
learn to leave me alone at times.

Maybe, one day, the coffee
will taste better, and the sports
pages will make more sense.


Maybe, like you said, the sky
is indeed schizophrenic,
just like all of us.

Or maybe, like I said, he can't
decide what colours to wear,
just like the rest of us.

Maybe, like you said, every door
is to be opened, looked inside,
you never know what you'll discover.

Or maybe, like I said, some doors
are kept closed for a reason,
sometimes you shouldn't discover.


Maybe, one day, we'll go walking
and I'll fall in step with you,
an unforced rhythm to our strides.

Maybe, one day, I'll remember
the important dates, and you'll
not forget the important words.

Maybe, one day, we'll dream
the same dream and decide
to watch the same channels.

Until then, let's keep trying.

Untitled - 2

You always know when it happens.

That morning had a greater need for sacrifice than most others in his life. Mornings always blaze into life, he felt. Ebullient, aggressive, purposeful. But today, as he stood looking from the balcony out onto the park, the light seemed to hesitate as it found its way through the trees. Slowing down before it fell on earth, pondering before it lay itself on wet grass.

There are times when you find you have no room. You look hard, but no, there's not an extra inch of space. Not on that sagging bookshelf for your dog-eared comics. Not on the swanky mobile phone for saving any more smses. Maybe you're keeping something you don't want but can't bring yourself to throw it away. Everything comes with a pre-defined size.

He threw his scarf around his shoulders and strode out into the morning, the hard heels of his boots crunching on the sidewalk. He liked walks. They gave his imagination the respite of motion.

You always know when you hit rock-bottom. You're plunging and suddenly there's this distinctive shudder while everything around you goes still. You open your eyes and find yourself at the bottom of this huge ocean, finding it difficult to breathe. You wonder how you got here, but then vaguely remember how you'd tied the lead-weight around your legs and thrown yourself into the water. You struggle to move, thrashing about in the water, entangled in the weeds. And as it gets more and more difficult to breathe, you realize you really should take that key from your pocket, unlock the weight, and swim up for air.

He waited for his turn at the ticket counter. He liked the patience of queues, the quiet shuffling of feet towards a common destiny, the empty acknowledging stares and the discipline in waiting. A ticket in his pocket, he planted himself on a vacant bench under a bare tree. He liked autumn. If you listen carefully, you will hear the leaves whisper tales as they fall, his grandmother had once told him. He believed her.

There are times when you can't look in the mirror. What for? becomes difficult to answer. Why not? tempts you with its truth. Understanding becomes betrayal. Promises become compromises.

He checked his step as he climbed into the compartment. He always did that. He found seat 31. As he unfurled the morning paper, his thoughts turned towards her involuntarily, wondering if she had found his note.

Sometimes, there simply is no room in the heart. And you always know when that happens.

Desperado

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

You been out ridin' fences for so long now

Oh, you're a hard one

I know that you got your reasons

These things that are pleasin' you

Can hurt you somehow

*

He stands waiting, outside, chewing gum. On time, as always. Impeccably dressed, as always, in a throw-away shirt and jeans and matching shoes, car waiting nearby. He looks the same, that five o' clock shadow, that twinkle in his eyes women fell in love with, that sly smile playing on his lips. A quick hug later, we drive away.

*

Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy

She'll beat you if she's able

You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet

*

(A few years ago)

She plays too much of the helpless female with me you know, he told me. We were walking. It was that period between winter and spring when trees look gawky in their half-bloom. The ice was still melting.

But aren't we all helpless? I'd asked in return. The sun peeped shyly from above the clouds. A car drove by, kids in the back seat making a ruckus.

He shrugged, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat, and gave me that silly smile he reserved for moments when he wanted me to know that he wasn't changing his mind.

I don't think she's my type you know, he remarked. If only he'd known. We walked on.

*

Now it seems to me, some fine things

Have been laid upon your table

But you only want the ones that you can't get

*

Dear Ajay,

Sorry for not writing in earlier. Life is just too hectic here, what with one thing or the other demanding my attention....you know how it is.

Just wanted to wish you all the best in life buddy! Sorry for not making it to the wedding. Give the missus my best regards.

Sorry again.

Yours,

V

PS: Oh, she said yes, by the way ;)

I've never sworn so much as I did after reading that email.

*

Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger

Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home

And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'

Your prison is walking through this world all alone

*

Dear Ajay,

The fridge is all yours. Help yourself! Something came up at work.

-V

I stare at the yellow post-it all bleary-eyed while I brush. He'd pasted it on the spotless bathroom mirror where he knew I wouldn't miss it. Always practical. Always methodical. So unlike a romantic, which he most definitely is.

Practical and methodical. Even with his women. They never could see what he truly is. Thing is he never wanted to show them, if you ask me. He wanted to be very sure before revealing, he once told me. Self-defense, in my opinion.

And he regretted it. Always. After the break-up. Not before.

I knew something was amiss the minute he'd said 'hello' when I'd called up to tell him I'd be flying over for the weekend. Gentle pressing and much cajoling later, he'd confessed.

We broke up, he'd whispered over the phone.

I shave quickly in the dim light of the bulb above the mirror. The razor slides smoothly over my cheeks.

She was not my type, you know, he'd added.

The after-shave stings as I dab it over where I nicked myself. It doesn't matter even if you see it coming. It still hurts.

I felt caged all the time. No space man. Zero freedom, you know. It would never have worked, he'd said with a sigh.

I look at the note again, and make my way to the fridge.

*

Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?

The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine

It's hard to tell the night time from the day

You're losin' all your highs and lows

Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?

*

(A year ago)

Dear Ajay,

It's all over.

We broke up. I told her yesterday that I couldn't go on with this farce. She cried. A lot. But I hope she gets over me. I know she will. She's strong that way.

So why did we break up? It's got to with a lot of things. It's always about the little things, you know. The bigger issues you can always resolve, but not the little ones. Like the way she folds my books when she reads them and leaves smudges all over the pages. Like the way she has little patience for words and their meanings. Like the way...oh, never mind! Who am I trying to fool here? It was always about one thing. Just one thing. You've known me through all these years and through all these women. You know why I've never found what I'm looking for?

I'm too self-sufficient, A. Emotionally and intellectually. That's my problem. I guess some people classify me as a loner. So why search for love? Why look out for that elusive companion? I don't know how else to put this but there's this void inside me that's been unfilled all these years. I guess you might have known all of this all along.

A void which engulfs my soul when I stand by the sea at dawn with the moan of the waves in my ears, the wet sand crumbling under my feet, the water lapping around my ankles, the breeze flirting with my collar, the salt-spray stinging my eyes, when I see the sea shimmer with a golden gleam and the sky come alive as the sun squeezes itself from under the horizon and leaps out onto the sky above. I would like some company when I see that. Someone I can turn to and smile, someone I can hold hands with right then, someone who will smile back with the understanding of the emotions that run through me at that instant, someone who would travel with me through Life and yet weave her own path. Is that too much to ask? Maybe it is. Or maybe it's too less.

And all these women, who seemed to promise so much, are content with the tangible and the material. I don't blame them for that. Nobody wants to seek that which can't be sought, that which seeks you out only when you're ready for it, that which I find in the calmness of night looking at the stars lying with my back on the grass. Don't know if that makes sense. Does it?

Sorry to bore you, A. So tell me, how have you been? And how...

*

Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?

Come down from your fences, open the gate

It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you

You better let somebody love you, before it's too late

*

"So any chance of you coming back soon?" he asks me.

We're on our way back to the airport. It's raining outside. Soft music plays on the car radio.

I reply in the negative. And turn to look at him.

I can see a thin veneer of disappointment glazing his eyes, as he steers into the parking lot. I can sense the loneliness shrouding his being. And there's not a thing I can do about it.

I remember something he once wrote in an email.

You know how you feel when your finger reaches out and tries to touch a raindrop sliding down the other side of a window? That's distance for you. Something which can never be bridged without breaking whatever's in between.

***

Note: Text in blue - Lyrics from the song 'Desperado' by the Eagles. Title and post inspired by the same.

And yes, this post is fiction. If anyone asks me otherwise, they're going to get it.

Sometimes, the toughest thing to do...

...is to pick yourself off the track, dust your shirt, spit the blood that's rinsing around in your mouth and get back into the fight, knowing it doesn't matter if you lose, just that you have to keep throwing the punches.

...is to wake up in the morning, see sunlight streaming into the room through the windows, kicking you awake, the leaves all sprightly and green and wet with dew, and realise that one day, you will not be here to experience all this beauty -- and that really breaks the heart.

...is to understand that when you are agnostic, you can't even pray for a friend or a loved one, despite desperately wanting them to tide over troubled times.

...is to face the fact that you are incompetent at doing certain things, especially asking for help.

...is to accept that your idea does indeed have a flaw.

...is to learn that an argument is not about winning, but about learning to see from the other's perspective.

...is to come to terms with the feeling that your family and friends might not be as important to you as you want them to be, and that sooner or later, you will have to cut free.

...is to see the road stretch away in front of your eyes, leading to the place where you wanted to go, and sigh, and walk away, postponing the trip for later.

...is to realize that the reason behind being awake at 2 in the night with a bitter-as-black-coffee mood, is loneliness.

...is to patiently read through old greeting cards, and laugh at the juvenile writing inside, and then put them back carefully in the cup-board, saving them up for the next bout of nostalgia.

...is saying sorry despite not wanting to, despite having good reason not to say so, and learning that it makes no difference at all to the person you are supposed to have hurt.

...is to keep your life on track on the outside, while your thoughts and your emotions are taking you for a ride on the inside.

...is to make sense of your own writing.

The Wall

She woke up feeling lost. Like a reluctant little girl led astray into the alluring woods, and then abandoned abruptly.

She got up. The harsh sun, already high, was exploring the house leisurely, entering and exiting through the open windows, discovering it anew, chasing away the remnants of sleep from its drowsy corners.

He was nowhere to be seen. The tell-tale signs of his presence were missing. His side of the bed was made-up, probably never slept in. She looked at the clock. It was time for his favourite show on radio. Yet it sat mute, like a sage in meditation, waiting for the lord, offering her no answers. Another premonition.

Her eyes scanned the place slowly, like a huntress who knew where her prey usually hid. But she was looking more out of hope than certainty.

His black shoes -- gone. So were his other footwear. The shoe rack now held only hers, looking incomplete, half-naked.

The first brick fell in place.

Sounds from yesterday drowned her mind in the chaos of their noise. Sounds from the fight. 'Did you...' 'What's this about...' 'Are you...' 'Now, don't start...' 'How could you...' 'I did not...' growing louder...'What does this mean...' 'Whatever...' 'But then you did...' 'That's what you think...' 'Didn't you promise...' 'No...' screaming now...'Why won't you see...' 'I cannot...' 'Did you ever...' 'I might have...' 'Does nothing matter...' 'No...' 'Do you love me?'... quiet, but just momentarily.

She shut her ears forcefully. But the voices continued to grow. Hers, questioning, disbelieving, pleading. His, refusing, rebutting, hurting. She hated him. No, she loved him. No, she hated him.

The bricks of her hate continued to fall in place. Slowly, steadily, the carefully inflicted pain of his unfeeling words cementing each in place with unerring geometry.

Desperate, she tried bringing the wall down. But every effort of hers to bull-doze it only resulted in it continuing to grow. Like a parasite that fed off her growing negativity. Her hope would smash one brick, but then the reality, and the truth, of her pain would replace it, unfazed. She could see herself on one side. Her voice calling out to him. But he stood afar, unlistening, moving away from her. And the wall -- it continued growing.

She checked his wardrobe. Empty. She half-expected to find his shirts there. Even as she was opening it, she had hoped that his clothes would be in there, and that she was only being paranoid. But no. It was empty, staring up at her blankly. Gloating at her angst, she felt. She slammed it shut.

More sounds from yesterday. Now the scenes bloomed as well, like in an old T.V. where the screen flickers to life a few seconds after the audio has come on. Sound is faster than light sometimes. She saw him sitting on the bed, flicking through a cheap fashion magazine, unreading, acting, paying rapt attention to her every word, refuting with sadistic rationale. She saw herself standing a couple of feet away from him, screaming like a mad-woman, demanding and imploring by turn, alternating between anguish and anger. Her emotions for him lost their identity, love and hate mixing in an incestuous union, her pain their unlawful child, leaving her confused and drained. She felt the first of her tears ease itself out of her eyes.

She looked about for his briefcases -- gone. She wondered if the house had been burgled. But then all her things were there, in their lawful places. She started to wonder if burglars were choosy, but then managed to stop herself from going crazy.

Her gaze continued to skim across the room. Searching in despair.

His CD collection -- gone. She whirled around. His books -- gone.

She saw him everywhere through his absence, through the sounds of his familiar movements about the house that she could no longer hear, through the smell that he left on her clothes, through the traces of his existence that he had so clinically wiped away. But for the one in her heart. She saw him everywhere, and yet, nowhere.

And the wall continued to ascend, each brick more certain, more precise, than the previous. She no longer could see him, but for his head above the wall, and that too only if she craned her neck. Her tears began to rain down on the wall, and she couldn't see him very well at all.

The wind whistled through the house, wailing. It felt hollow without him, she thought. Her life felt hollow, she realized. She wished they hadn't fought, wished she hadn't asked all those questions, wished he hadn't hurt her so that she could now convince herself that he still loved her. She caught herself, feeling ashamed of her own thoughts that had betrayed her, feeling disgusted of her weakness for him.

She didn't need him she told herself, her pain now dominating, the wall now rising upwards, the rain now pouring. She didn't need anyone, she consoled herself, but found herself opening the door to the bathroom, hoping that he would be hiding inside, waiting for her, and that all this was just a prank to make her come around, and that they would make up.

But no. He was gone.

And then her eyes fell on the dresser. His half was cleared. Like a verse with its rhyming lines missing, no longer making sense. Instead, there lay her gifts. All of them. Like exhibits in a court-room serving to prove a crime she didn't commit. From the first 'speaking' greeting-card to the portrait that she had painted of him to the calendar with photos from their vacation together to the violin that she had bought for him three days ago. Every one of them.

The pain that she had been holding back for so long hit home swiftly. Like a weakened dam, she broke down before its force. She fell to her knees, sobbing, her tears now a torrent, her hate now violent, her pain permanent.

He had left. Forever.

And this wall, tall and grim, would stand between them always.

Not ready

Guilt stabs my
Conscience deep,
Its unfelt dagger
Rending bloodless wounds,
Plunging, twisting,
Accusing, as it descends.
But I'm not ready
To repent
Just yet.

The battlefield awaits,
My armies stand beside -
Sharpened swords
In weighty sheaths,
Bodies eager for combat.
But I'm not ready
For war
Just yet.

Memories fade,
Of unwanton words,
And anger, and betrayal.
Yesterday's pain reposes
In a corner of my soul,
Lifeless.
But I'm not ready
For peace
Just yet.

The night sings softly
Its daily lullaby,
Of dreams,
And hope, and tomorrow.
The bed is made,
Inviting rest.
But I'm not ready
For sleep
Just yet.

For a friend...

...who was lucky enough to find love.

-------------------------------------------------------------------
Questions at a tomb

Tell me…

Was I the signpost when you were lost?
Was I there when you needed me the most?

Was I the water that eluded your hands?
Was I the smile that blossomed on your lips?

Was I brave when you were not?
The way you were when I was not?

Was I the mirror that did not lie?
Was I the book you knew by heart?

Was I the light that escaped your curtains?
Was I the dream that invaded your nights?

Was I in your laughter, in your tears?
Was I there to help you conquer your fears?

Was I the answer you could never question?
Was I too much of a question to answer?

Was I worthy of all that you gifted me?
Was ours everything that love could be?

Tell me…

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I wrote this a few months ago and every time I read it, I get this doubt whether my 'that's are right, and if I should replace a few of them by 'which's.

So, I went googling and found a few useful sites that threw some light on the topic (and I'm relieved! my 'that's are right after all!):

http://www.rightwords.co.nz/that.html

http://www.worldwidewords.org/articles/which.htm

http://webster.commnet.edu/grammar/notorious/that.htm

And this presumptuous page that told me nothing(grammar is so easy with examples, and this gave me none):

http://www.stc.org/intercom/PDFs/2005/200503_48.pdf

Bye!