Rubber chicken

Sigh....I hate long flights...

Bifurcation.

Hmmm...I have no idea how to start this..

( 7 mins later)

Last night I felt bullied. And I've never known that.
I swear, if my school had bullies, they stayed away from me despite the fact that I was capital nerd. Or maybe Dad was overwhelming in the 'all mine' way he scooped me up on Fridays.
Then I went to college and they never showed up there either.
Then I got to work, and I met cheats, leches, bitches, manipulators and even if all these people had a bit of bully in them, I never felt bullied.

But last night I did. By a friend. All he did, was speak sharply, maybe authoritatively. Not to me, but to another, dear friend whom I was laughing with. And the thing is, I instinctively felt it..some sort of violation. I couldn't retort owing to the nature of the gathering and that preservation brought out the worst within me. I fumed and bristled and made sure he heard exactly what I thought and said. I had never felt the emotion and the only way I knew how to avenge the hurt was to go on the warpath. I didnt care how silly or inconsequential anyone thought it was, I had to feel better. I was determined to tell him exactly what I thought, seconds after the group dispersed.

I steamed and stewed and prepared and hurt and boiled away. It wasn't silly. Not for me. It was about standing up for myself.

And then he beat me to it. Came and apologized. And made me feel about two centimetres tall. He wasn't the bully I'd always feared would catch up with me. He was just a friend..who'd snapped in the crazy moment...like I had so many times, and all of us do.

And for the first time, I wasn't able to take an apology gracefully. I was too ashamed of myself.I knew I might have already and would've definitely tried to hurt him back.
I felt like I had to tell him somehow and we aren't close enough for me to blurt out the meannesses I never knew I had.

So I'm going to send him a link to this post. And hope that he understands.

Conversation..

We were at our usual dinner spot last night. Beer guzzler meets jazz musician meets fervant South Indian, there for the famously great food. Place is owned by a friend who draws like an angel, has a warm,fuzzy heart and resembles a Harley maverick. There are sad goblins on the walls that always make me want to write about them. One goblin gingerly holds a tiny fragile fairy in his palm and is staring at her, mesmerized. I'll never forget that look, of absolute longing and enchantment. It must be nice to be an art whiz with your own pub. Sigh.

Steaming soup arrives and its the best thing I've ever eaten with the rains beating a consistent drum outside.

"What does being in love really mean?"

Huh? Um..entirely wrong person to ask..I..er.. The cornered person in question looks like he'd rather be in jail..

Everyone looks serious. Well of course. This bunch never gets serious about anything! And the one topic that I would certainly mumble my way through, they choose to get philosophical over

Superstar suddenly sheds the style and gets deep. Old girlfriends are drudged up. much debris is discussed. He has a point, a lot of loves are about having fun with someone and continuing to have fun no matter how long its lasted. Most good marraiges seem to be fun.

I apologetically try and remember all the instances where I had fancied the sensation.

Another friend thinks its about middle ground. Yeah, I can relate. Compromise and all that. Your noodles for my rotis. But surely this constant "deal" is not all it's jazzed up to be? Surely it gets tiring? Especially if it's constantly conscious?

My relationship allows me room and breathing space and the random days of cranky solitude that I cannot live without.

Love is...the fantastic high that fades into a fantastic low. We all laugh at her joke. But its true. I've been troubled in situations where my closest friends have said that the pain was too much too bear, that desolation/ anger/ hurt/ weakness was the altar at which worshipping Love, made it bearable. Seems terribly painful..are you sure that this is love..I had doubtfully asked in my head..

My relationship has laughter and teasing and problems that dont become grudges or vinegered anger.

X believes Love has has the properties to heal and restore.
Y wants nothing to do with it, is in hate and likes the armour.
Z wants cotton candy and walks in the rain.

I dislike drama. I found logic and companionship, friendly warmth, even on days that tell me I cannot ever expect salvation. Sorry, Dad.

A likes languid afternoon, makes the time, cooks together.
B believes in driver's seats and equalizing power (Contradictory I know, but exactly what she said)
C is recently liberated from wet toilets and pompous last name.
D wants her to help more at home.

Turning off a tap, learning to cook, watching films alone, watching films together,...adulterous, juvenile, cuddling, candour, sex, hate, loneliness, organizing, bills, trips, fights, make-up sex, fantasies with other people, money, stability...

I chew slowly..my head swims easily. I wish my partner were here. I think we would've both been bewildered.

Love..seems complicated.

Habit..

I crawl out of my fluid shawl..warm, enraged, pink and red ...sentences written across my temples..blue gelatin suffocating me..and my mother looming over a giant shadow, her angry heat blazing over me..

Can I climb over the iceberg?

Its frozen, its transparent juts will pretend to be meant for your trust and grasp..its ridges will covertly transform into transport and hooded accomplices will talk of safety on the way...and you'll clasp a knife of ice with your little fingers wrapped around it, and just as you begin to hoist yourself, you'll find the ice has held you forever...you're frozen and joint to the monster and you'll never be able to let go..naked and climbing an iceberg? Do you know it took centuries to shape a tiny cube made uneven by a chipped tray.

My rocking chair jerked frantically. The toes that hadn't formed yet shivered in anticipation. The cube was little and unwanted. You see, It had been tainted. At the very centre of its frozen beauty, say an accidental drop of blood. And since then, anger and astonishment had ostrasized the cube. It felt lonely and left out. It felt anger and apathy. It grew..it filled...with neglect and fear and hollow round holes in its enlarged core. And it took on a new name, because now, it had become large and strong and powerful..and had understood superstitions and tradition..and now when it laughed it became a terrible deafening roar that silenced people's hearts and made them afraid to think.

Turgid water balloons burst aginst my puckered angry fists. Silent rocking back and forth. I was the iceberg, the iceberg was me..we have so much in common..
Why couldn't I climb it?

The iceberg knew, and smiled through its slits of vision. It knew I could hear polite laughs and unnatural high pitches..it had known the permeability of amniotic fluid..and that its icy breath had snaked its way in, and curled aroud my brain...it knew my mother's fears..and my ancestral prejudices..it had sneered at the occasional Thought...and clamped its habitual forces around my arteries..I would never be free... free..I would never see the tinkling chains of tiny icecubes...wound around my willing wrists...each with a warm, red centre.

I could never climb it.

Unless I chose to.

Addendum..

Yesterday's post was intended to be about the beautiful, beautiful Indian rain that Mahima talked about.

The thing is, my superstar hates it. And is absolutely foul when wet. Also funny and cranky in a pretty way..but mostly foul..and that evening was no exception.

The post just went another direction, all by itself.

Alarm..

I was drenched again last evening..
It looked like it would rain..but then, in this city, it always does. And this time of the year, the clouds are usually conscientious about their promises.

Milk ,eggs, lettuce, butter, bread, noodles, mushrooms.. lovely rounded discs, raspberries stained with cocoa..gorgeous sparkling bottles pregnant with their enchanted aerations..guilt, first pangs..steering, veering, giving in..more beauty, soft dough..twisted temptresses...erect french fantasy..more milk, more eggs, chicken, wheat, soup...I breathe,mutter, confess, purge,relieve..relive.....Murky waters filled with fairies...no, no, no... Salt, fish, juice, soap, mugs, scrubs, tea, grapes....mutter, mutter, list, mutter...magical madness away...straight and narrow, focus, focus ..breath, breathe, chant, breath, envisage, vision, light...oh demons, angels, satanic pleasure...weeping, wandering ,wanton..cubes of darkness and danger..nestled in fragile tissue..rustling in my ears, my heart, my mind...fierce lust..fantastic fear...decision, diversion...the redness of pulp, warm, trickling, sweetened by desire, bottled by blasphemy..pure white sinner...shamelessly aged..masquerading ..mocking..pouring out its evil heart...beckoning at my heavy senses... milk ,eggs, lettuce, butter....breathe...

Oh lovely breath of rain and tea, sweetened by ginger and post coital-ish candour..

Gorgeous rain-streaked streets soak in their sodium shards..
I'm so late...

Apology

Someone I love woke me up today.

Literally..because my semi-largish( I love, absolutely adore being able to say that..no more tiny cubes of sitting room space..yay!) living room functions as rehearsal arena for this friend. And despite spare key, doorbelling plus plenty of thudding/dancing/ yelling/ jangling/ singing (performance piece..sigh..)ushers my scowl into this lovely, awake world. So at 7 a.m , life begins.

Today, he barges into my bedroom with usual flamboyance and outrageous hair. Says something (presumably Good Morning)..I mumble back....open eyes partly and affectionately regard the sweaty superstar.

"I had three bad dreams last night"..I state sulkily, proceeding to explain how weirdly the three were inter-related and yet had had substantial breaks between them..All three had left me with that unpleasant uneasiness that bad dreams produce, as opposed to the cold sweat that my nightmares are happily defined by.

As always, he interrupts me somewhere mid sentence. Unfairly, he takes complete advantage of our platonic bond and remains the only person whom I grudgingly forgive for outrageous interrupting. Probably because he's promised to let me live upstairs with my cats when he has a wife and kids and we're both juggling false teeth.

"Hey! Really??!! No wayyy!!( Despite pushing 30, anything this man says is a sort of exclamation) Me too..I had this horrible dream !"

I sceptically survey the interrupting oblivious offender. But I'm interested. How can I not be? The man is a live wire and a born entertainer..A can of beans that want to audition for Jesus Christ Superstar. Also it must be admitted, full of dramatic potential ever since he began (Good Lord), taking himself seriously. So I am interested. In both the bad dream and what will surely be an entertaining rendition.

"We were in a train and going somewhere"...He starts off and I immediately foresee the rest. There was this one instance when I made a trip to see a boyfriend and Superstar had been uncomfortable with me traveling alone (I had bravely bought a bus ticket)and accompanied me with an injured ankle. Being almost six feet tall, the bus ride and it's tiny seats( large for my frame) lasted a painful 20 hours and then he had hobbled around the city with me ,drowsy on painkillers and full of reproach on my insensitive desires to climb mountains. I predict that the 'dream' would have something to do with the bad karma I accumulated on that trip.

"We were in a train and going somewhere and suddenly X appears"( X is scum bag who tossed me around and broke many things- refer to earlier post )
He continues,"..And all of a sudden, you're going to sit with him, like you used to..and comforting and hugging him..like you used to. And you keep coming to me and saying that you wanted to give him a chance and that it was important..like you used to. And I was feeling really horrible, helpless and afraid throughout the whole thing..like I used to."

I told one of my grandmothers yesterday that it was such a wonderful thing to have no dog, kids, spouse, etc etc..and that while I would be ready for them someday, A responsibility-free life was a beauty.I also operate that way emotionally. I just go ahead and do what I feel like. Hell hath no fury like Tara stopped on her way to doing/getting what she wants. And that includes any friend, family , foes..take your pick. I do what I want.

And that I didn't realize the hurt caused. I'm sorry. All of you.

Other people's babies..

My dad's leaving for five years. It should be okay. I mean, I'm the independant black sheep. Why would it be a problem. Besides, visiting London will be great. All that theatre, delicious pursuits that struggling artists only fantasize about.

I've lived alone for two years. Its been rough at first given that I was clueless about plumbers, potties, bills, other people's noisy animals/babies/ spouses..

Now I have sense, experience(I am FanTasTic at dealing with overflowing pipes)and a maid. Also, nice flat where my bathroom and bedroom are not roughly the same size, shape and colour.

The thing is, I need dad. In the same city, not too far away. Horrendously selfish I know but there it is. He's the place where I feel safest. He's the home I know will always take care of me. Or want to at any rate. He's also the one person who'll probably be completely okay with all my eccentricities. And not think of it as a middle ground.

So anyway, I love dad. And I'll miss him like crazy. We grew up together, a team, just the two of us. This is rotten luck.

Incomplete..

I'm a little troubled, a little bare,
nude at the core of its truth..
I'm not supposed to feel this way.
Its why I flew the coop.

So you're leaving. Its only five years..
I'll visit, you'll visit, there's mail.
So why do I feel like I'm five again..
( bitter tears over the blamed airplane)

Photograph courtesy Nyc London

The Monologues (Other things)

In the passion of point A., I forgot or passed by other stuff that came up in the meetings.

Also, since I forsee many posts on this theme, so I'm going to give them separate titles in brackets. Hah. So there, to all those who call me disorganized.

We talked a lot. Her talking had opened up parts of us that prefer seclusion. I'm the reticent one. I talk a lot, but little that really reveals much about me. Maybe thats why writing is such a big part of who I am. While I talk here far more than usual, the general percentage is low. And I guess I also did the same here. But I winced, and felt..and generally, experienced, in a way I never have. The shocking revelation that so many women had faced abuse in their daily lives that my sheltered existence had relegated to "the unfortunate"..

And we talked of healing. One of us has worked extensively with women's groups, another with spirituality that prescribes massage..etc.. I wondered for a moment whether I fit into the conversation. And wonderfully enough, I did. For the first time in my life, I felt a kinship with my own sex. Beyond femininity.

We talked about our appearances. How one gets the silly bimbette roles and the other is constantly forced to be the mother/sister/maid..The occasional director who gratified us with vision was duly showered with praise..

Feeling fat in the mornings..feeling far too skinny every day..Sexy, bitchy, guilty, diabetic, depressed, beautiful, rotten..

I have to be careful or I'll end up on Oprah.

But its true. We, with our crazy mix of all types and stereotypes, represent all women.

I'm loving it.

Wanted : An Old-flame Extinguisher.

The Monologues..(contd.)

I'm glad I got a fresh blog.

Its a little bit like a new adventure..

And I'm determined to have a new set to talk to..read with..

We got together last night.

And this morning for what we've termed 'Technical Meetings'..dreaded subjects like funding and grants and advisory committees and not collaborating with traditional cultural bodies that seem interested{Masochistic since they have lots of moolah}.

Last night was a Creative Meeting. We got talking..about the eventuality of creating a script from the narratives that were forming through our conversations( For the record, the possibility of a set of monologues is slim, particularly for me)

We had chai and admired my photographs and the staircase in my flat that leads nowhere( I love it).

The sixth woman came on board.

Even before she rang my bell,( Allow me a little drama please, it is but natural) I was apprehensive. I'd met her before professionally and bracketed her instantly as "the kind of woman I don't get along with". Yeah, I can be judgemental but I do find men less complicated and I have very deep connections with the few women I can forge bonds with. That was that. She had been frosty, a natural reaction to my indifference.

She sits, smiles and I immediatly know that some of the others feel my trepidition. "Give it a chance"..I chastise myself. But I'm afraid. That the beautiful, open energies here will tilt with the politics that certain people cannot help but bring with them.

We talk. Fill her in on last time - the original script, everything we'd discussed, our individal desires from the project... She looks puzzled. " You're asking me what I want from this?" I nod. "This whole thing about My wanting something is all very new to me", she says, shaking her head disapprovingly.

Uh oh. Trouble. She'll tell us how selfish we and this whole free Indian woman with its struggles and identity are. And we dont want to be chastised or trashed for wanting more from our lives.Not any more. We dont want to be berated and reminded about our existing opportunities and gratifying lives. Not here anyway, not in this private sanctum that accepts and understands. I'm vulnerable here, unprepared. I may not be able to fight you as well as I can in the World outside.

She quietly sliced into my fear. " I've never really had the chance to do that, you see. I come from a world, where since I've been little, I've been told what to do and taught not to want"...

A different world tumbled out. the repression of not having ever been allowed to think for herself, the lack of even a stringent private space, the literal fact that she was never allowed to close her door when alone, the torment of not having the luxury of even a journal that would be respected as private..being called dark and ridiculed by family and friends for the color that defines our wheatish race..

And a childhood of sexual abuse that could never be talked about. The inability to confide in a family that had chained her to mythical ancestral glory. Innocence lasting till the realization in a seminar that one had, after all, been violated and abused. The horror that seizes the mind, that can never be articulated in how much it defines. One becomes the abuse, takes it on, gives it a shape, a form , one's own body. And voiceless, nameless, that choking, abused body cloaks itself, in dark colours, shapeless clothes, adipose tissue.....

And the ugly rebellion that came years later..The confused grappling for an individual mind..The storms, the alcohol, the bewildered, frenzied search for some sort of peace..some sort of rebirth..

I told her later how lucky I felt to have the opportunity to be able to be a better person. Through these women, through our search, I might just end up free.