It doesn’t make sense…

Living doesn’t make sense, at all.

Read. Read widely. The old wisdom we all know.

But reading makes me point out, chart out, find out the bad things only. The things which have been prevailing in different structures of the world for so long.

I don’t bode well when I am continuously hyper-sensitised to all these things because the natural reaction is to wreck yourself into seemingly million questions of how-can-I-change-it?

Then my brain comes into an old metaphor my mum used to exactly defined my situation:

“Like a water jug sprinkling into a bed of stones”

Today

I feel hopeless.

 

He is a stranger that I will never meet again and that makes me love him even more

There comes a time in your life when you encounter a person; a person you only see through the digital screen while messing around with a friend’s newsfeed and thinking to yourself “Oh, how fabulous his life must be, he seems to be having a good time, the sun must be still up there and he is still awake, but I’m going to the bed and let me over-think about it until I fall asleep,” a person akin to the ones that you overtly romanticise with when you read a particularly dry and sarcastic but sensitive book. A person far, far away but still busy sharpening the edges of your brain, a person who exists in your curate world. This person when he springs up in real life, stays for just a few seconds or minutes on the human timescale and it will be so random, so ordinary, (so much for taking things for not granted) that you naturally resist to think about it, the resistance is there, up there, but after a few days or a few weeks, everything falls into  place. It is not some sort of a puzzle or a mystery to solve but it seeps inside you, enough to maybe devote many distractions of your precious time, wondering all at the same time but it falls into place as if it’s the one free answer, answerable, for those multiple questions in your life.
I know his name, but not just enough to track him down, bow down to Google Search, and have a spur-of-the-moment-yolo-ing by finishing my last savings for that one way flight across the continent, writing a heart-winning message to him, bumping into him intentionally like an international coincidence and give him the shock of his life as it does in every sappy movies. But there’s something magical about wanting to know a person that is so out of your reach. You don’t know its real yet but you know its real enough to start searching for what to do with that “answer” already on your lap.
I know that he will continue his day until the sun also sets in my part of the world. I know that like everyone else, he must be going through a harrowing moment, sometimes, if things get difficult. I know that he has a vulgar habit of doing a thing or two secretly whenever he is alone and bored. I know that he is waiting and sometimes he let go of the waiting, too soon, only to be dejected and like me, he runs down the street to check the newest concerts with another stranger on her way to figure this man out. I know that he hoards a lot too and tries too hard to be cool and laugh at himself because it is so lame.
The little things that you can read when someone suggests you an endearingly intriguing book on a bad day, while sitting nonchalantly on the subway, is pure joy. Even more, he translates for you so that you know that ‘Atopos’ is something which  is unclassifiable, of a ceaselessly unforeseen originality.
I have read A Lover’s Discourse for the 3rd time today since 2016. I have realised that he was in fact describing himself in French. But he is a stranger that I’ll never meet again, and that makes me love him even more.

Let’s not shit ourselves (to love and to be loved)

It is not possible to love everyone!
Or
Be loved by everyone (!)
An old woman
With
a
vexing situation
Couldn’t sleep without wetting
her pillows of moon
43 degree Celsius at 3.34 AM
She doesn’t yearn the regular cup of coffee,
Temperature doesn’t just work well in her disoriented system, now
God knows why, she was already dehydrated in that furnace of a weather
This morning, she feels
snappish,
vinegary,
out of sorts,
grouchy,
ugly,
cussed,
bad-humoured,
like-a-bear,
mean,
choleric,
ratty,
cross,
crabby,
tetchy,
irritable
and irascible

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The transition for the loneliest people

I am amazed that I’m still blogging for the third day. It is quite a transition from my journaling on notebooks. I admit that I also feel the weary eyes here, writing with my digital typing ink. When I was 14, someone who told me that people who likes to journal are the loneliest people, that they would rather observe and listens quietly and note down every tedium of daily life. Some you’d make up on your own and some, doesn’t even exist when you are recollecting through inside your brain, years later. For me, I knew from then beforehand that it was not possible to remember everything in life. I was also afraid that I would disappear slowly and turn into a small piece of bar of soap and then a lump of Mango Bite candy and then a tiny speck of dust into the void or nothingness. I experienced the-fear-of-missing-out as they said in today’s vernacular. Additionally, I was quite grateful and I still am that it allows me to be as moody as I want. I write in big letters when I’m embarrassed, scrawny and narrow ones when I’m sad, and a clear-upright handwriting I commit to, usually, when I’m upset with someone. In fact, I was so emotionally invested with my handwriting that I have never come across a journal of mine where the entries are looking the same way.
These days, I fear that I’m not as accessible as I used to be, as a person, as a human being. this thought came to me because I no longer have a Facebook account for years, neither I am on any other social media; currently in vogue these days. Of course, I used to have several accounts but I closed them all or they are in the abyss of forgotten passwords and hence abandoned scenario. But rather than dwell on the absence of the technological currencies, I am concerned about the things that I completely owned like my set of journals which are now sitting, covering in dust and indifference on my study shelves. I’m sure that no one will read it ever. I’m positive that  if something does happen to me, these are not the things my loved ones would try to open first. But writing here gives me a sense of an ephemeral transparency and I find it alright. I find it okay enough to come here and just type down, not trying to make things up and messing around with my introverted-observation skills.
This is the transition. I still write in my journal though.

 

It’s time to leave Delhi

 

A few months ago, I over-confidently wrote to my father a letter with a quote from one of Jenny Holzer’s Inflammatory essays, saying “Nothing essential changes. it is a myth”, which made me (in hindsight) cringed with self-loathing because he knew that I wouldn’t last long —  and my mother — who couldn’t stand the sight of me at home told me; at last night’s conversations that I can still float around on the sofa (if I’m there soon). I never needed her permission for floating on the sofa but to hear from that made me suspiciously question so many things at a time.  I can’t start where.
I left home when I was 20 years old and since then it has become habitual to float, grappled-around-floating in other parts of this country. I can survive in my place but to live, you need to leave, and many a times, a place becomes a prison if you don’t leave. (Am I implying that in a prison, you don’t actually lived? Let’s not get into that.)
This is so quite not true for Imphal, though. Despite the overwrought stories you’d hear everywhere from essays, to articles and reports, it is a place that I can truly call it my home. I have not faced any horrifying moments in my life. I mean, yes, I have been through the bad ones — but I have no recollection of an incident that has profoundly traumatized me. Although, I hated being bullied, suppressed and confronted by my older, useless cousins when I was a teen. More so, I hated them deeply for my brother was also falling victim, right in front of me. A few personal stories are there but it’s not something that I want to write about when I have just got up now. Maybe, I have grown older and my memories’ neurons has started to fade away, somniferously.
I have this weird straining of melancholia ever since April has started. Despite all the grandeur of capitalism and poverty sprinkling all over the city, it is not a place where you can cultivate your ideas and thoughts. A stranger, a native of Delhi (?), told me how it is actually the dustbin of the world which made me feel amused, slightly.
Time to leave.

 

Down to the grocery roads

There is something inevitably joyful about grocery shopping. It makes me agitated, a bit but in a good way, excitable-agitation, I suppose. I have tried to hide this from everyone but everyone knows that I am making quite a deal about it already. It is that one thing; I earnestly ‘pine’ to do so every day but my budget allows me to do it once a week/several weeks. The last time I went — it was 5th of April. I can’t wait.

 

 

The mothering of all things indispensable

How I never wanted to become a mother? But found myself slowly creeping to behave like one, think like one and complain like one? The realisation only makes me feel bitter and the tireless binding of care and worries nauseates me. Worrying about myself is a full-time job but it is quite an another thing to worry endlessly for someone that you know will only leave you soon.
Lately, I am sort of surrounded with a supportive male figure who probably listen to 30% of my words. A simple person, he is with a superficial outlook on life, but it is superficial to the degree wherein my life DOESN NOT automatically relates to being more valuable or deeper than him. Such is my life. You talk about constant shortcomings, the wants, the hateful habits, the loopholes of every bureaucratic workplaces, the disappearing savings, and the narcissism that just grazes on people’s faces these days but it doesn’t mean that you and I are any different.
This person is indispensable though. This person is the only one I can talked to when the walls of my room starts to collapse. When I’m shaking my purse to let the sucked-up coins to come free on the carpet, this is the person who understands me and tells me that he has enough to buy the bread, today. I, subconsciously starts to mother him. Because I find that I could do so much more for him than I’d be able to do so, for myself. Rules and things to be forbidden are starting to revolve around every weekdays. Some, I made them up to align his routines. I feel uneasy with the sudden wave of protectionism that is developing around me. Somewhere deep down inside, I questioned the morbid probability of what will happen — if our real mother does go away. I shuddered and opened and shuddered and opened to the vast land of my mothering imagination.