Tag Archives: connection

A Momentary Lapse of Reason

In a motion jaded, a memory slips off the periphery.

A memory you so fondly remembered a second ago, vanished forever as if it was never there. Was it about the way your high school sweetheart’s hair smelt, on a morning you both were supposed to be in school? Or perhaps about the song that was playing when you; in all your brazen glory, drove back home in moonlight? I wonder once they make their discourteous exit, do they vacate their quarters for the newer ones? Or are they now masters of their will returning unceremoniously whenever they fancy?

In moments like these and those I cannot recall, I often wonder if they, in a orchestrated feat of human nature, have coalesced into the sweetest pain I’ll ever feel.


This post was originally written by Aman Gupta.
All rights remain with the author.

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When Life Gives You Lemons

Nobody tells you that when you wish upon a star, you’re actually a few million years late. That star is already dead. Bummer, eh?

I turn twenty three in two days. I’m kind of in between moods right now. You know how it feels to be pissed off and ladylike? Utterly confusing. I suck at it. Of course I don’t know how to act my age. I’ve never been this age before. I’m usually a calm person but some situations really test my giveashitometer. Like when I see fresh bird droppings on my car and I go out  and eat devilled eggs by the window just so they know who they’re messing with.

I wish men could be dealt with the same way. You get over the bunch of them and you meet someone tall with a crooked smile and there comes that feeling you thought you’d forgotten. But sooner or later you find out that he’s the same old dal-chawal sold to you on the menu as well steamed long grain fine white rice from the brilliant yellow fields of Punjab, a golden lentil broth on the side, garnished with pixie dust.

And then the inevitable happens. Khichdi.

I’m feeling a little over-worked and under-intoxicated. Break ups usually leave me feeling a tad bit wild, I think. I start booking tickets to all corners of the world and getting new piercings and not waxing because lulz, lemons.
Nowadays I just get home and get the cheese and crackers out and think Screw you, recommended serving size. You don’t know my story.

I don’t know what happened. It’s sad and hilarious at the same time. But I think I learned things from my time with him that one should eventually learn. People love differently. Silence, I discovered, is something you can actually hear. And you can tell so much about a person by how they leave you. It’s sad how Wile E. Coyote is remembered for his barbarity, and not for his insanely realistic paintings of tunnels. People never forget how you make them feel. And be careful, sometimes what’s left unsaid says it all.

Then, of course, there’s the mommy angle. From what I’ve heard, parenting is mostly about telling your kid how many minutes of something they have left. Moms, spurring their offsprings to go forth and conquer the world and also get a mani pedi and find a suitable boy and HAIYO RABBA IS THAT A TATTOO AB SHAADI KAUN KAREGA.

So when life gives you lemons, contrary to popular belief and one too many T-shirt quotes, there’s not much you can do. You don’t even get to ask why. And some part of you doesn’t even want to know. Sure explanations can be helpful, but so can ignorance, paychecks and new senior recruits at the office.
So helpful.

And as I move a day closer to the first time in life I’m not excited about my birthday, I ponder over the idea of possibly not letting life happen to me again. It’s time I owned this shit. With abs and stilettos and calculated risk and my own little business because heaven knows I make one hell of a difficult employee.
Those shooting stars are long dead, and I’m feeling more alive than ever.

I’m in a really good place spiritually.

Please fuck off, lemons.

Namaste.

The Green In My Autumn

Some people bring out the best in you, some bring out the worst. And then there are those remarkably rare addictive ones who just bring out the most. Of everything. They make you feel so alive you’d follow them straight into hell, just to keep getting your fix.
– Karen Marie Moning


It’s just that time of the year. October, with its purpling skies and orange backdrop. With its smell of bonfires and warm vanilla sugar. There’s this nip in the air that makes it a bit harder to get out of bed every morning. I push my foot out from under the covers and quickly pull it back in. No. This can wait.

Whatever it is, it can wait.

The trees are busy showing the world how lovely it is to let go of the inert. I walk on pavements, occasionally smiling with these lips more scar tissue than skin as I saunter out of my way to step on a crisp leaf, brown from having lost its soul, still making me smile in its afterlife, and I think to myself how  this fallen leaf can be dead and still dance like it does on a windy day.

It’s so easy to be completely wrong about people. To see one tiny part of them and confuse it for the whole. What if we only notice the unfamiliar parts later? Sometimes we see something perfect and we fall in love. Sometimes we get lessons and sometimes we get lucky. In time we see the imperfections, and we either get scared or we fall in love even more. Or both. People can be adventurous these days and souls do not have calendars or clocks, nor do they understand the notion of time or distance. They only know it feels right to be with one another.

I could write a dictionary on all the words I have used to describe how it feels to have finally, finally found him. But ask a painter and he’ll tell you, there are olive green, bottle green, peacock green and sea green, but not a green in the world can capture the image in the painter’s mind.
Well, I think I found my green. Is there a word for that?

No one can tell you what goes on in between the person you were and the person you became. There is no conversation, no overlap in time or space. There’s just a feeling. The kind of feeling people write novels about. It’s the oldest story in the world. One day you ask someone their name and the next, you can’t imagine a time when that name wasn’t set on your tongue like stone, repeated over and over again through the day in every tone and decibel level possible because he makes you happy and sad and crazy and excited and furious all at the same time. You feel your walls coming down like dried leaves, and you smile even though you’re terrified, because intuition says you should.

Peace is not an infinite state. It exists in fleeting moments, silent more often than not. Eyes meet, fingers brush, sometimes there’s no contact at all. It’s just in the air. And you spend all your time with this person in silence, and try not to laugh at the days when you fought with people for space, not knowing that your space was a person. There’s no peace in the world like being in love with someone who wants to be loved. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

They fill up your glass with responsibility for their smiles and tears and you take it with open arms because this can’t wait.
Whatever it is, it’s the green in your autumn and it can’t wait.

I think I like who I’m becoming.

Grown Up Fonts

Hi.

It’s been a while I think. I used to write in Calibri 12, its Arial 10 on a 120% zoom now. It’s weird. Not bad weird. Just different weird. The kind of weird that takes getting used to but you’ll do it because you know it’s good for you.

Arial 10. I never would have imagined.

I’ve had this strange feeling inside of me for a while. Like while I was asleep, somebody disassembled me and then hurriedly put me back together. Like I’m made of the same pieces and the same experiences but there are air pockets from the haste in which they were put back together. Air pockets trapped in spaces that used to be filled with something I can’t quite remember.

These days sometimes go on for days. Some days I function on caffeine highs and praises transferred via email and some days I get my soul pureed and served to me in a melancholy cup of leftover tea. I feel people jump into the corporate whirlpool just to have an excuse to not think. About songs that get them nostalgic or places that get them dreamy. Sometimes one sees someone who looks like someone they used to love but luckily there’s so many floors to shuffle through and heels aren’t easy to walk around in and calls go on for hours at times and they forget. Sometimes a song hits them but then their playlist is on shuffle and they’re holding coffee in one hand and taking notes with the other and  probably already late for something and they’re just like ah well fuck it.
They start clocking the hourglass instead of wondering whether the sand comes from a special beach.

I think it was feelings, that held in those air pockets. I think it was superlatives too. Nobody ever warns you about the barrenness of a busy life. They say it’ll be difficult but it’ll be worth it. They say you’ll earn enough to eat whatever you want and live wherever you please and drive whatever you fancy. They don’t tell you about the spaces that stored the smell of his daily cologne and the feel of callouses on his palms, now lost in the 9278 tabs open in your brain. Work until your bank balance looks like a phone number, they say. Work until you don’t have to introduce yourself, they say. Funny thing is, we forget that we don’t have to do it all; we don’t have to prove ourselves to anybody.

And yet, life is short and good energy is contagious and the air pockets can only stay empty so long. So you stop waiting around for feelings and you try working with energy. Good vibes and new music that don’t violate your rhythm. It may have something to do with growing up. I think I like who I’m becoming. I’ve realized that people aren’t good or bad, they’re just either charming or tedious. And everyone is someone’s devil. I’ve learnt some stories don’t need endings and secrets are only safe in pillowcases. I want to be spoilt with loyalty and witty comebacks in the midst of food that feeds my soul and art my eyes can feast on. Everyone has a deep end, but people are so afraid to dive, busy worrying about tomorrow like it’s promised. I don’t care what you look like, just make me laugh.

Maybe it has something to do with growing up, but the air pockets now feel full. There’s a voice in the air that doesn’t use words. Listen. Some people are whiskey is a teacup. Taste. Eye contact is a dangerous thing, but oh so lovely. Look. Everyone’s in love with either a person or an idea. Feel. And at the end of it all, trust the timing of your life.

Maybe it has something to do with growing up, but 650 words through, Arial 10 feels just fine. It’s just not superlative enough, but then these days, what is?

Arrested Feelings

I slept on the couch last night. I felt like a visitor to my own life.

The coin spun thrice in the air before it landed on the cold marble floor. Even so, it continued spinning, displaying unnecessary theatrics as I held my breath waiting for it to decide for me. My head prayed it was tails and my heart prayed it was heads while my stomach and lungs prayed the coin would just stop spinning. It slowed down and I lowered my face so that my eyes were an inch away from the coin, a million thoughts passing through my head.

Do you know what the word xeno means? I chanced upon it once, a long time ago, I don’t even know what language it belongs to. It was explained to me as the smallest measurable unit of human connection. How beautiful it is that someone made a word for that. Moments that are fleeting and random, yet enchanting. Isn’t this a strange thought? That the people we’re walking right past are people that we could have real connections with. What happens if you just keep walking past people? How do we forgive ourselves for all the people we leave behind, all the people we don’t allow to affect us?

Cosmic collisions are uncertain, we find each other on accident, there is no meant to be. You don’t choose the tides, yet your heart chooses who you call. But then again, for something that single handedly keeps the body alive, the heart’s a pretty stupid organ, don’t you think? It continues to hold on while the head is letting go. It holds on to this person so eager to learn about the strange, dusty and awkward answers I offer so earnestly  as I mumble in my sleep about my inspirations and ambitions and insecurities. I bare my soul in staccato rhythm and he listens to all my disconnected stories.

There’s so much lost in between thought and action, half my feelings are just consumed in themselves in time. Yet, people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood, how divine it is to have someone respond with a passion you seek on utterly random chronicles. It’s exciting when you find parts of yourself in someone else. And at the end of the day, it’s always words that undress you.

Not everything is meant to last, but sometimes, just sometimes, you find someone who loves like you do. And it’s worth the fleeting moments. I ignore the coin and pick up my phone.

Xeno is a strong thing.