Tag Archives: heart

#tbt

I was seventeen when I first stole something from a shop. It wasn’t something I couldn’t afford, or something I was embarrassed to purchase. It wasn’t by mistake. It wasn’t deliberate either, though, it was no well thought out heist. It wasn’t even something I needed. Not at the time, anyway.

I was walking through the lanes of the supermarket near my house. The shelves always looked overstocked, bursting with variety only intended to confuse the onlooker into purchasing more. I wonder if they kept the shelves stocked like that purposely, fifty-two bars of soap in an area meant to hold fifty. One couldn’t resist picking up the two extra bars of soap, thinking they can help restore the natural order of the lattice some night shift worker had terribly failed at.

I wonder if the night shift worker, on the other hand, had a tips and tricks manual, where on a page titled “How to con a shopper into buying more soap”, he had read that he must attempt to fit fifty-two bars of soap on the shelf designated for fifty. A corresponding manual for the day shift worker probably had a page with the same title, but this notified him that he must constantly replace the extra bars of soap that shoppers picked up with new bars of soap, to keep the gratification of restoring order on the soap shelf alive in every passing shopper.

For years and years I walked the same lanes, pushing my cart with all the items I had been passively manipulated into buying, sifting through the same shelves, and one day, I saw her. She was new, her apron too tight on her bosom (obviously belonging to the frail old lady who used to manage the makeup counter all the years) and her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm reserved for people who don’t manage make up counters in supermarkets. She would, every now and then, glance at the mirror and fix something that didn’t need fixing – her eyebrows, her ponytail, her mascara.

The make up counter was bang opposite the entrance, and every man who entered through the door noticed her the way I did, and every woman who entered through the door noticed her, differently, but undoubtedly. The day I noticed her, I heard one of the staff telling another “We’ve sold no makeup since she’s come. Something needs to be done.”

The other replied scornfully “It never helps to have a pretty girl on the makeup counter. Men want to go there and make small talk and never buy make up. And the women just never buy make up if there’s too many men around”

One of the staff quickly added “Besides, the whole point of buying make up is to feel prettier. Imagine going there and trying on a shade of lippy. You’d still feel so unattractive standing next to her”

The next day, the New Make-up Girl had disappeared. No doubt for all the reasons discussed between one of the staff and the other. The old lady was back at the make up counter, as she had been for many years, and I walked up to her to welcome her back.

“Good day, my dear, what would you like?”

“Just some kajal, thanks.”

“Wonderful. Here you go. All these years I’ve seen you here and this is your first buy from the make up counter!”

“Yes, I just never noticed I needed anything from it before”

As soon as the words escaped my mouth, I saw a smile on the old lady’s face and realization dawned on me. The New Make-up Girl was the two extra bars of soap.

I was seventeen when I first stole something from a shop.
A stick of kajal.
Out of spite.

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The minutes you spend.
Looking at her clothes. How the neckline of her blouse is just shallow enough to give away her delicate collar bones. You spend a minute too long on this, in fact. And sigh.
Onto the next. Your fourth grade crush has bought his own BMW. Ah but, you think to yourself, it’s commonplace in the states.
Onto the next. Your ex boyfriend’s ex girlfriend. You make a mental note to unfollow her. Another time. Right now she’s got a cute puppy and you’ve forgotten you hated her.
You scroll down. It’s your mum’s cool friend, showing way too much cleavage.
Further down, your own ex. A post about his football non profit. Unfollow.
Next, your other ex. Married now, posting a picture of his brand new six pack abs. You smirk and don’t unfollow him, because it mildly amuses you to see his scantily clad calls for attention, the same reason you’re still following the girl from high school you never spoke to, who makes an appearance in the next picture.
You continue scrolling, fast now because the promise of entertainment from this app is slowly waning and making you restless.
And then you stop.
Scroll up just a bit.
There.
Right in front of you.
The tiny thumbnail picture of the man you have a crush on.
It’s funny, you never thought you’d say man and crush in the same sentence. He’s posted something after two months. Not his face, not the weather, not some wannabe poignant picture of a derelict alleyway with a cheap filter and a borrowed caption. It’s a post of his latest animation, that he probably coded lying down casually in bed on a Sunday between his morning dose of Economic Times and his afternoon reading sesh (you think he likes reading Manto but you’re not sure it’s his Sunday vibe, so you don’t feature that into your imagination).
And then you scroll further. Slow now. Not really taking in anything. Memes. Selfies.
Comic strips come and go. By the time you’re back to the present, you’re already looking at pictures posted last night. With a pang of guilt you continue.
A quote with a bright background. A close friend’s terrible attempt at sketching. A stranger you follow in her latest gym attire (holy shit she got so fit so fast!). Because you like to know what exactly is up in their lives, three celebrities one after the other.
Your ex best friend with her new best friend. Your token cool colleague. And (just before it’s time to get off the cab) the guy who took his life last night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mohali Skies

All know that the drop merges into the ocean, but few know that the ocean merges into the drop – Kabir

For the first time in almost 3 years, I sat in a classroom today.

It was hours past noon and my eyelids were fighting gravity, my hands periodically jotting down sentences I barely managed to hear to completion. From across the room, a friend would pass a sly smile in my direction every time the instructor made an attempt at a joke.

It wasn’t so different from sixth grade after all.

We were just studying scarier things from friendlier people, finding comfort in the midst of strangers, united by anxiety, fear, ambition, and luckily, a sense of humour.

Just till a few days back, the previous class was still here. Guiding, supporting, frightening us for the year to come. We learned forty five new names a day, twenty one new background profiles, maybe one odd fun fact. And then next day, we all had the same questions – What’s your name? How old are you? Where are you from? Gathering information on demographics, as if it mattered.

This is why we forget people – we don’t ask the real questions. Ask a person how old they were in their earliest memory. Ask a person what fuels their midnight lamp. Ask a person if hot chocolate and Ed Sheeran give them the same feeling. Sing a song with someone. Run a race against someone.

Then try forgetting them.

All of a sudden we’re walking on grass at four in the morning, fuelled by wine and the need to let out our ideas, pausing for breath now and then because we’re overwhelmed by the pace of this time machine we’ve volunteered to ride in. We let ourselves into each others minds, too much too soon, for better or for worse.

We learn. We had been waiting only to realise we shouldn’t have waited to create the things we wish existed. We learn that almost everyone is just skin, bones and questions, and that’s okay. We learn that we have more patience for others than we do for ourselves, and that’s not okay. We attempt to walk down a path with it’s jarringly new topography with someone who can’t adapt to our pace. We learn from what people say. We learn from what people don’t say.

“Averaging reduces variation,” I scribble onto my notebook as I look out the classroom window. The sun is setting in colours I can’t name. Blues merging into pinks, oranges emerging from yellows. It takes an uninterrupted sky to realise the horizon is infinite. Luckily, we all start as strangers.

Something to Forget Me By

Why was it that during the first ice-breaker in college, when the whole class had to go stand up and say their name and where they were from, I got so incredibly nervous? Like, I know my name, I know where I’m from; this shouldn’t be a problem.

Maybe it’s the pressure of first impressions that society’s created on us now terrified mortals. That’s probably why my best friends on campus include a girl I hated for the whole of my first semester just because she gave me the heebie jeebies and a boy with whom my first interaction included him running after a mini-football on the Bogmalo Beach shouting “Hey! Easy! Mommy told me not to get my ball wet!”

There was a time I’d complain about the freeze-dried fruit distribution in my Gelato. Now the post Sunday lunch Mother Dairy butterscotch ice cream makes me feel sexy. Like I’m eating a soft spoonful of an affair. With crunchies.

But time moves on and so does life and the fat get thin and the thin get fat and group dynamics change and re-change because nobody really likes fat people, and at the end of four years you’re left wondering how you ever got along without these people who are now more family than family itself.

And yet, forever’s not what it used to be.

He’ll finally get out there and become a standup comedian, flying for a show to Russia, flying business class, in fact, because that’s just how he rolls now. She’ll probably be the CEO of some company that you always thought was a bank’s name.
And you’ll read about them in the papers and wonder if you should call. But instead you’ll just post something on their Facebook wall and get on with your life. Damn shame.

And yet, they’ll be a part of you. In their own small way. Even the random people you interact with everyday. You might not remember their name or face ten years from now. But you’ll remember them as the person who introduced you to your now favorite music, or the guy who helped you pass that godforsaken subject, or the girl who saw you crying and said “If someone breaks your heart, just punch them in the face. Seriously just punch them in the face and go get some ice cream”.  Even if she was just quoting Wiz Khalifa.

And suddenly, after your college years, you’re not the same person anymore. You like sleeping because it’s like being dead, only without the commitment. You aren’t ‘weirded out’ by alcoholics and junkies because you realize they’re just humans with a different passion than yours. And you realize fat people are the nicest of them all.

In French, you don’t really say “I miss you”. You say “tu me manques” which, I am told, is closer to “you are missing from me”. I love that. It’s beautiful, really. Like you’re a part of me that I’m currently functioning without. I’ll miss everyone I leave behind. And when I do, I hope there’s a part of me in them. Something I left behind. Something to forget me by.