Q & A, conversation with Dearest, IV
Where is it?
I've stopped tormenting myself with this question. If there was any love, it was probably between my parents and me - the kind where you feel protected and irritated with that protection at the same time.
I have men in my life. I have friends with benefits, but it doesn't feel like the warm showers we used to take together, or the hours we read in each other's arms; words bringing us together to philander in love. Your lean arms surprise me with their sturdiness. You didn't mind the weightlifting I required you to practice.
But that was a cloud's passing over the blink of our sky. You went off to study. I got married. You decided to stay put in Europe. I got divorced.
I've lost count of the times I've wondered, what if I'd have waited. Would it have been the same, would your sweat still possess the power to grease me like butter.
The freedom that bubbled in bed between us is a sliver of smoke of what's left. It doesn't matter, I told myself, crushing my cigarette and dumping the ash in the wastebasket. Neither the sex nor the warmth mattered much. What mattered was you achieved each small thing - the getting out of bed, building a purpose, a goal to grasp, do yoga in the evenings, seek out quiet places, close eyes and feel the breeze through my freshly cut hair.
I'd have shown them to you. Cut in waves, they flow down to my neck. For once I'm not bothered about combing them into shape. They've found their natural repose.
Where was the desire or the love when I needed it the most? I've stopped asking myself that question. And once I stopped, I was able to sew the right patches on the quilt of my life. I began to enjoy the long warm showers alone on soggy nights when sleep pleaded ignorance of my existence. I began to savour curling up in the chair and reading poetry aloud. My voice began to fascinate me. I used lilts I remembered in bits from people's styles of talking. I developed a fascination for the name 'Lalit'. I imitated your rhythm through Neruda's words and began to smile at the tulsi plant at my windowsill.
There are times when my eyelids refuse to stop their shuttering in the night. Protocol to follow at such times: stay by the window and look at the empty silver roads, waiting for the sun to rise. They drill in me the virture of patience. They allow me to turn the shards of memory around and search for you or lost words. Times when the food loses taste and silence sucks the magic out of my cozy home, I go out.
I stay out. I've to incite my longings. Stir them up. Revive them, like the air revives sounds of far-off wind-chimes.
And friends with benefits provide the cuddle I wish, the ghost of warmth I desire.
From the teenager who fell in love with Darcy, Rhett, Rhys, and countless other men in books, I've grown to be a woman who can't find a single mister Right to fall for in life. We've all arrived at a simple equation of barter - giving what you can in exchange for taking what you need. It's the cotton that fills up my quilt and shelters me to oblivion on evenings when the cold breeze spills over my fingers.
Our skies blink change in the course of the moon and clouds. I see my friends who love their children, who hate them, who juggle work and house chores for their partners everyday, who take care of their in-laws, who attend all family functions, I see them from my office room and feel a sense of intense relief. The distance from their fuller-of-hassles lives buoys me up. No one ties me down. No one demands my time, unless I decide to give it. No one asks me to follow any private or public traditions. Of my circumstances' volition, I've become a point on a social margin. A small point of a big white circle. The image flashed in my head one morning when a friend's wife called and he promptly left to "take care of things at home."
How does being a secondary choice, an emotional haven or a physical magical escape make me feel? It re-defines me again and again. For one, I'm the bulwark of good advice, for another I'm good alongwith a book, soft music and a peg or two in lamplighted evenings. For a third, I'm the accomplished swimmer in turbulent waters. They look up to me, fear me in part. All wish to posses me. But do I wish to posses them in return? Perhaps a little. Just a flickering part of their flaming lives.
What have I been looking for in every person, emotion, action?
The answer eludes me now. I have fought hard for my freedom. I've fought hard to eat my fish with tomato sauce and ban Maggi from my apartment. I've bought every lamp at home after extensive search and slowly tranformed thw shed of concrete into my only refuge. I've met people who've challenged my worth, purpose, motive and interests on many levels. I've enjoyed warm baths in tubs at hotels where they serve you cocktails in a tub beside the spyglass (from where you can spy on hunks at the beach).
It can be called a glamourous life. It looks like one from the outside. I can see envy flicker in women sometimes when they meet me. I attract young strappily dressed things because of shock value. They think its a 'cool' life I lead. Especially because I'm curious to know. After phases of looking inwards, I always look out - see people - the shape of their necks, the size of their bellies, their shifty eyes, their arms full of babies, groceries, car parts, earrings or guitars.
Have women ever thought about the virtues of extra marital affairs? What do they look for all their lives? Did they have crushes on cousins? Were they ever interested in two women at the same time? Did acceptance or love matter more than money? How much does cloth-tearing passion cost? Have all men at some point raped their wives?
Does a person walking the walk ask such questions? Why do I sit here, looking out at the lights dotting the lake at dusk, hear the geese cluck behind me, clutch a sweltering cappuccino in my cold hands and breathing mist into the air, feeling elated and bogged down at the same time.
Why, when you stem the flood, stop asking one question, several others sprout like hyacinths in steady fresh water, sinking their roots deep in your soil of your mind?
I've stopped tormenting myself with this question. If there was any love, it was probably between my parents and me - the kind where you feel protected and irritated with that protection at the same time.
I have men in my life. I have friends with benefits, but it doesn't feel like the warm showers we used to take together, or the hours we read in each other's arms; words bringing us together to philander in love. Your lean arms surprise me with their sturdiness. You didn't mind the weightlifting I required you to practice.
But that was a cloud's passing over the blink of our sky. You went off to study. I got married. You decided to stay put in Europe. I got divorced.
I've lost count of the times I've wondered, what if I'd have waited. Would it have been the same, would your sweat still possess the power to grease me like butter.
The freedom that bubbled in bed between us is a sliver of smoke of what's left. It doesn't matter, I told myself, crushing my cigarette and dumping the ash in the wastebasket. Neither the sex nor the warmth mattered much. What mattered was you achieved each small thing - the getting out of bed, building a purpose, a goal to grasp, do yoga in the evenings, seek out quiet places, close eyes and feel the breeze through my freshly cut hair.
I'd have shown them to you. Cut in waves, they flow down to my neck. For once I'm not bothered about combing them into shape. They've found their natural repose.
Where was the desire or the love when I needed it the most? I've stopped asking myself that question. And once I stopped, I was able to sew the right patches on the quilt of my life. I began to enjoy the long warm showers alone on soggy nights when sleep pleaded ignorance of my existence. I began to savour curling up in the chair and reading poetry aloud. My voice began to fascinate me. I used lilts I remembered in bits from people's styles of talking. I developed a fascination for the name 'Lalit'. I imitated your rhythm through Neruda's words and began to smile at the tulsi plant at my windowsill.
There are times when my eyelids refuse to stop their shuttering in the night. Protocol to follow at such times: stay by the window and look at the empty silver roads, waiting for the sun to rise. They drill in me the virture of patience. They allow me to turn the shards of memory around and search for you or lost words. Times when the food loses taste and silence sucks the magic out of my cozy home, I go out.
I stay out. I've to incite my longings. Stir them up. Revive them, like the air revives sounds of far-off wind-chimes.
And friends with benefits provide the cuddle I wish, the ghost of warmth I desire.
From the teenager who fell in love with Darcy, Rhett, Rhys, and countless other men in books, I've grown to be a woman who can't find a single mister Right to fall for in life. We've all arrived at a simple equation of barter - giving what you can in exchange for taking what you need. It's the cotton that fills up my quilt and shelters me to oblivion on evenings when the cold breeze spills over my fingers.
Our skies blink change in the course of the moon and clouds. I see my friends who love their children, who hate them, who juggle work and house chores for their partners everyday, who take care of their in-laws, who attend all family functions, I see them from my office room and feel a sense of intense relief. The distance from their fuller-of-hassles lives buoys me up. No one ties me down. No one demands my time, unless I decide to give it. No one asks me to follow any private or public traditions. Of my circumstances' volition, I've become a point on a social margin. A small point of a big white circle. The image flashed in my head one morning when a friend's wife called and he promptly left to "take care of things at home."
How does being a secondary choice, an emotional haven or a physical magical escape make me feel? It re-defines me again and again. For one, I'm the bulwark of good advice, for another I'm good alongwith a book, soft music and a peg or two in lamplighted evenings. For a third, I'm the accomplished swimmer in turbulent waters. They look up to me, fear me in part. All wish to posses me. But do I wish to posses them in return? Perhaps a little. Just a flickering part of their flaming lives.
What have I been looking for in every person, emotion, action?
The answer eludes me now. I have fought hard for my freedom. I've fought hard to eat my fish with tomato sauce and ban Maggi from my apartment. I've bought every lamp at home after extensive search and slowly tranformed thw shed of concrete into my only refuge. I've met people who've challenged my worth, purpose, motive and interests on many levels. I've enjoyed warm baths in tubs at hotels where they serve you cocktails in a tub beside the spyglass (from where you can spy on hunks at the beach).
It can be called a glamourous life. It looks like one from the outside. I can see envy flicker in women sometimes when they meet me. I attract young strappily dressed things because of shock value. They think its a 'cool' life I lead. Especially because I'm curious to know. After phases of looking inwards, I always look out - see people - the shape of their necks, the size of their bellies, their shifty eyes, their arms full of babies, groceries, car parts, earrings or guitars.
Have women ever thought about the virtues of extra marital affairs? What do they look for all their lives? Did they have crushes on cousins? Were they ever interested in two women at the same time? Did acceptance or love matter more than money? How much does cloth-tearing passion cost? Have all men at some point raped their wives?
Does a person walking the walk ask such questions? Why do I sit here, looking out at the lights dotting the lake at dusk, hear the geese cluck behind me, clutch a sweltering cappuccino in my cold hands and breathing mist into the air, feeling elated and bogged down at the same time.
Why, when you stem the flood, stop asking one question, several others sprout like hyacinths in steady fresh water, sinking their roots deep in your soil of your mind?
posted by Chaotic at
10:04
1 Comments
