Pareto Inferior

Hello Goodbye.

2008-04-14T14:41:00.004-04:00

Today suddenly seems brighter. Its the colors, and how light blends into darkness with lots of hope to spare.

Is it because its day 3 of not seeing you?

Or maybe its that Wellbutrin that I stopped taking.

The summer is setting in and I wipe sweat off my brow and go to Masala Junction where I crib about not being able to cross my legs under the low table and but thank something somewhere for the fact that within arms reach is a good friend.

I turned a year older a few days ago. Strangely, it wasn't just an anniversary of birth, but a celebration of the ashes of love from last year. Last year we were tangled so tight that we floated on joy. We were born together. This year we sat across the table, drank coffee and .... said nothing.

But strangely, there is not much despair anymore. Failure sucks, but nothing beats falling in love with failing. Suddenly the lowest of lows is just an inverted high.

Calvin once said to Hobbes: My new war cry for life is "So what?"
Hobbes: Isn't that really difficult to pull off?
Calvin: "So what?"

Don't ... Need

2008-04-05T14:43:00.010-04:00

Dear A,
You make me feel really really really inadequate. I think you are looking for something you need and totally denying it. And sometimes when it gets too much for you to do without, you wonder if I have what you ... need.

Then you reach out, only to be reassured that I don't. And so sometimes, I wish I did. But I am tired of giving you what you don't want, as much as you are probably disappointed to not find what you ... need. I don't have what you need, A.

So lets strike a deal. Let's stop trying, ok?
Let me go. And I promise not be yours forever.
Love,
A

Summary, as driven into brain by snazzy new age psychotherapist: Commit or fuck off.

The sweetest thing my father has ever said to me

2008-03-29T07:40:00.008-04:00

"We want to take you to see a psychiatrist. But we don't have much experience with those kind of doctors. After all, you are the only pagal in the family. But then, you're such a successful pagal, I wish all the others were crazy like you"

[Awwwww. Silent tear.]

Its just that this is the most incredible thing. My status at home has gone through the roof. Instead of being ostracized and yelled at for the mental fucked-up-ness, I am now the gifted eccentric. Whoever would've thought.

So I'm mostly wondering: a) How long will this last and b) Scenario being partial to generosity, how shall I optimize output to ensure future benefit (aka, what demands should I make while my time is [for the lack of better expression] .... good)

They tried to make me go to Rehab, and I did.

2008-02-29T21:51:00.012-05:00

Yesterday, I stepped out of a plane and slipped out of my coat as if I'd never be getting into either again.

I stood in line, diligent and naive, (near the front, vertically behind the person who was second) waiting for a gate to open, only to end up the last one through, with shoved shoulders and bruised toes.
In the public bathroom, I asked the cleaning lady for toilet paper and then tipped her to avoid eye contact and minimize backlash.
I tried to wheel a laden trolley down a ramp and struck obtrusions three times, flying in different directions, but safe, helped by strange hands that came from nowhere.

Yesterday, I came home to paneer bhurji, yellow dal, baingan bharta, chameli ke phool, slow internet, window jaalis, yoga in the park, marble floors, old cupboards, buckets, mugs and no showers.

Because stuff went wrong, and then wronger, and then got a little bit fucked up. And all those defenses/coping mechanisms just didn't work anymore. To make matters worse, the city got colder till the frostbite warning was at 20 seconds. And a trip home was due, so I pushed my luck, called my department and boarded a plane.

Yesterday, I came home to Delhi.

I don't know for how long, and I don't know, to do what, exactly. I will drive by TC and it will be closed. I will peep into Masala Junction and there will be no familiar faces. I will walk around CP browsing bookshops, relating each to the company that frequented it with me the most. But I will get to say 'Oye' and 'yaar' again and call everyone 'bhaiya' and never pay full price for anything.

Then I will soak up the love my beautifully aging parents will spare me. And I will nod in agreement to every lie they tell about my sudden presence at the fancy dinner party on our rooftop tonight. I will get my eyebrows done, anticipating the blinding reflection off the caterers' white aprons from the glaring roof lights. I will wear my pantyhose tight and high, dig into the kheer, sway to the Brian Silas and Jagjit Singh and hope that Delhi will work its magic.

Because really, mostly, I hope that Delhi will hug my aching heart tight and kiss that throat-lump into a coma. Delhi will remind me that bad decisions and undesirable outcomes have occurred before and eventually, duly, been overcome.

Already, Delhi has graciously allowed me to hope that before I return, I will be able to wiggle my toes each morning and follow it up with a smile not a sigh.

Delhi makes me feel lucky. Because Delhi is my Palm Springs and Delhi is my Hometown. My vacation, my familiar territory, my cubby hole, my rehab. Delhi is never anything but life and rejuvenation.

Dilli, yaar, tu sach mein hain meri jaan.

Damn Roomates!

2008-02-11T16:11:00.000-05:00

Wish I had this in Undergrad! Click for larger view.

Welcome back, life.

2008-02-07T22:17:00.000-05:00

This blog is such a grey cloud. Oh wait, maybe my life is a goddamn grey cloud.

I've just had a shitty shitty month.

Of course there was the being torn between two men, accompanied by self loathing for being non-commital (something I hate in people) followed by more pining and fantasizing about what I dont have as opposed to appreciating the very wonderful (albeit not perfect) thing that I do.

Then there was the not going to class syndrome whereby I slept through the entire first month of school. Yes folks, Monday to Monday, back to back, four weeks straight. When I look back I remember groggily falling out of bed to drink some water, stumbling back and falling right back asleep to an episode of 'Weeds' (little boxes, goddamn ticky tacky). In my defense, 95% of the time when I woke up, it was dark. The sun only shines here from 10am till 4pm.

Of course it was followed by self inflicted social isolation. No friends, turning the phone off, signing off from Google Talk (which is soo hard by the way, most intrusive IM client ever) and not respondng to knocks on door (not that anyone but maintenance ever comes).

And when it all became a huge snowball of failing grades, deadlines from yore and threats to funding, I found myself stoic, still. No tears, no freak outs. Lots of weight loss (best part of being depressed). Ok some suicidal thoughts but thats like, so normal it might as well be big North American city etiquette.

So, after unashamedly dropping half my workload and taking the funding cut that comes with it, I have now chilled the fuck out. There is a fancy spatial studies project that will bring me joy to last me through the semester (as well as a course credit), a Pacific Coast road trip coming up in the next week (brilliant change from trudging through 6 feet of snow) with my sweeet new T shirt that gets more worn in and comfy everday, an interview with a really great non-profit I want to intern with aaannnnd, to top it all off, the MOTHER or all amazing events: A trip to INDYEAH in March.

Yes, the silver lining exists. Intermittently so, but tangibly enough.

Itchy New T-Shirt

2008-01-27T22:32:00.000-05:00

My asshole boyfriend wants to see this blog.

He wants to see it because I got drunk and told him I wrote about him. Not because he wants to read what I write. He wants to see it because he knows I dont want to show it to him. And there lies the allure. I would show this to him gladly, everything I have written here, but:

a) I despise his reasons for wanting to see this.
b) I would hate to lose an anonymous space where I feel free and un-judged by virtue of being anonymous.

I told him this. I told him it was like a diary. I showed him my non anonymous blog. One that I have written in for 5 years, and barely share with anyone who doesn't REALLY want to read it. He refused to read it and I was offended. This is retarded and I cant much figure out what to do.

Its hard to remember. Its difficult to forget.

2008-01-23T07:48:00.000-05:00

How does one treat obstinate memories of fabulous times with loved ones from the past? How does one replace special things? The new T-shirt eventually starts to feel like the old one your mother threw away. But do you forget the old T-shirt? What if you could choose to keep the old T-shirt if you promised to never wear it? Would you 'cheat'? Or would you forsake it, knowing temptation?

I have always had bitterness, remorse and budding anger against the old T-shirt to help me out. It ripped at a crucial moment. Never warm enough in the winter. Frankly, it just didn't flatter my body shape. Ditch. Trash. Miss for a while. And done. Also, usually, new T shirts are hard to find, and theres some much needed topless time y'know ;). Now suddenly, lacking all of those aids, I'm left with motherly fondness, an inability to rebuild and .... disbelief.

Locking you in the bathroom as the maid swept, joining you for mini smoke breaks with snacks and the newspaper.

Us discovering. A new city, far away. Walking out of the airport with nothing but a backpack. No phones. No maps. No plans. The sidewalk and glittery eyes.

A train full of foreign sights. Dutch tulips or Himalayan hills. All DDLJ reminiscent. Catching your bobbing head and slipping my shoulder under. Taking your headphones out and tucking your hair behind your ears.

Snorting and chuckling and getting older together. No inhibitions, no prohibitions, just acceptance. We did it so well.

He makes me laugh too. Though less often. He likes that I need him. And only sometimes. He treats me well. He knows where I'm coming from. He gives me space and then takes some. Not too little, but never too much. He is consistent. And since you asked, he is better in bed. He is what you will be, 10 years from now. He already feels like I've worn him forever.

And suddenly, just when I'm almost convinced that its all poetic and platonically wistful between us, old T-shirt, I'm in the shower, running shampooed fingers through my hair and asking. Was it drunken attraction? Were they co incidental plans? Would you keep a new girl warm as she sleeps on a park bench? Would you also read her humorous prose before her morning beer? Would you scratch her insect bites? Stand up for her against your friends? Can you love? Were you really sad when I left?

Why do I still love you. No. Scratch that. You're amazing and I'll love you forever. But why do I still miss you? Why do I want to take you out of the trash, smell you and put you back on? Why do I still sleep on the left side of the bed?

The KKK took my feelings away.

2008-01-19T02:44:00.000-05:00

He lived in a shithole. He worked in a coffee shop. She was born in the city. To the shrink, said her parents.

He wrote code in his sleep, pretending it was art. She worked two jobs, for the bills and the insomnia.

She cried when she typed, economic analyses. He groaned when he saw, bank statements in the mail.

She lay phone-in-hand, under covers, on the john. He dreamed of vacations, getaways in her arms.

They smoked and they drank coffee and they talked of talking. They wondered what it was. The need to be human, the carnal desires, or the fact that they were just Graduate Students.

Seven years, this week

2007-12-27T12:27:00.000-05:00

Once we were sixteen. And we threw birthday parties at Pizza Hut and went Haunted House wall climbing and Hilly Park loafing after school. And we wore short skirts and were flirtatious.

So when we didn't want to carry our backpacks, all we had to do was sigh and condemn it for being so heavy. It worked such that mostly the first boy to hear you would then be walking beside you, with two backpacks, two shoulders and glee.

Unless of course the group involved a jaded ex boyfriend, a childhood friend who knew your tactics well, a fat class geek who had trouble carrying his own backpack and an aloof I-don't-give-a-fuck looking new kid in school.

I couldn't climb up the hill in the park, I said, with my backpack on. Fuck you, said childhood friend, Ive seen you do it before. Meh, said everyone else: Then stay and watch. I wasn't kidding though, the backpack was heavy and I was pooped, wanting to go home, but not keen on being too much of a wuss while hanging with the dudes.

As they walked faster, I-don't-give-a-fuck (new kid) tagged behind and gave me trailer company. Then he carried my backpack. We didn't talk. It was the last day of high school.

This week I drove down to see him, an hour away, he was visiting a friend. I parked in the driveway, he was waiting for me, with a hug and a cigarette and a beer. In the seventh year of the thank you for carrying my backpack anniversary, we drank and talked and made chai and exchanged books and discussed our love lives stoically.

As I fell asleep on the couch, he threw a blanket over me and whispered into my ear: Mech, I couldn't have asked for a better Christmas present. And in how vehemently I felt the same way, I realized , that life only works in perfect ways.

No More Photos

2007-12-22T11:12:00.000-05:00

No more photos.

Surely there are enough.

No more shadows of myself thrown by light onto pieces of paper, onto squares of plastic.

No more of my eyes, mouths, noses, moods, bad angles.

No more yawns, teeth, wrinkles.

I suffer from my own multiplicity.

Two or three images would have been enough, or four, or five.

That would have allowed for a firm idea: This is she.

As it is, I'm watery, I ripple, from moment to moment I dissolve into my other selves.

Turn the page: you, looking, are newly confused.

You know me too well to know me.

Or not too well: too much.

"No More Photos" from "The Tent", by Margaret Atwood

Blog it.

2007-12-16T22:24:00.000-05:00

Aaaannnd so you phoned. And I didn't know enough to pick up.
And so you emailed.
And so I broke.
Not slowly like I had imagined. A cracking windshield leafing outwards, taking its time.
But unexpectedly instantly, an expectant mothers water.

Now that the semestorial phone call count was up to two (or three), I came clean again. I didn't hedge when I told you I would have liked to see you, it could have been nice. You said you wouldn't have been able to, even if I came. I said come on, at least feed my hypothetical holiday (can't be that hard).

Anyway, so then I lied to you. I said I dreamt that we were hanging out as buddies, and that you turned out to be really quite boring. I imagined you laugh when you asked why there was no beer involved....not knowing that I really just dreamt that your emotional unavailability didn't mean a lack of feelings. But a holding back, for the right time. Because. Because the time is as wrong it can be right now. And this could be something more than right, if we could live through it changing.

So I may keep on walking, and I might try not to run. And of course, I will try not to hope, because to hope is to kill.

You see Reality, Yeah.

2007-12-15T22:39:00.000-05:00

Ive been sitting on my desk hunched over making that arch with my back that ensures the sharp pain after a few hours. I have papers to write, long ardorous papers whereby I speak from my heart and share with my department, how to really make decisions when you are valuing the environment against the very valu-able economy and how the clean water act in the province actually hinders the public's access to clean water. And many many more.

I am also compulsively reading girl blogs again. I cant help it. Theres something about women confessing, uninhibited and articulate that leaves me clicking on archives and forming mental pictures and for hours at end, just living their lives with them. I wonder if I could write like that, but no, not me. I lend myself to obsession, and a good writer doesnt obsess. A good writer starts broad, chisels down and then wham. Leaves you thinking.

I'm obsessively thinking about India and how last year this time I was living my teenage dream. I was an independent woman who had chosen to return to her own country. I was living on my own in an Indian city I had never even visited with my parents. I had a flat, a potted plant that I watered, autos driver to haggle with and work to do that involved making a difference and therefore feeling good about my existence. I had a trip to Goa planned out with friends who knew me since pigtails, in sleeper trains that I had never taken before with stolen cigarette breaks by the loo and hanging on to the door of the train as one leaned out and let the wind act like it was going to take you away bollywood style.

And it just seems like life shouldn't be about doing things that are so painful. It seems like I made the wrong decision when I signed up for a degree that I dont give a fuck about, not because I dont want to learn, I want to learn what I am learning now. Just differently. And in a way that reeks of REAL.

Daddy's girl forever

2007-12-14T00:32:00.000-05:00

Everyone has noticed I am happier. There is only one reason and its not Christmas. My parents are here and they are fucking hilarious/awesome. Like, how can I sit on my bed and cry about my sad life/questionable intellectual abilities when:

1. My mum yells at my dad (in aforementioned high pitch) while he mops the floor in his jumpsuit singing "Bura hai bhala hai, jaisa bhi hai. Mera pati mera devta hai" [He can be alright, and he can be terrible, but whatever he is, my husband is my GOD] in his best impression of my mothers voice. Pretty confident, this love.

2. My dad snatches away my reading material at 10 every night, flips my laptop shut and replaces it with Cabernet Sauvignon. Sometimes, we drive to the liquor store and spend my one hour break from studying picking out the cheap wines that may taste good. Or the same wine from different years. Or just one of everything Chilean. What Passion!

3. When I attempt to whine about my life, my mother says shut up and my dad laughs. If I am relentless, I get awarded with lots of great self esteem boosting pep talk and the opportunity to ask for pretty much any material thing short of a nuclear bomb and be promised it if I keep a positive attitude.

4. I open my eyes to steaming coffee a la daddy, I come home to biryani a la daddy and I travel with a backpack full of fruit salad a la mother. I open fridge and I see food! (in contrast to eating one meal a day at local falafel hole)

5. My dad's friends from India call on my cellphone while I am at school and make me phone my dad on conference while insisting that I stay on. I go to a snow filled courtyard and spend my breaks offering my opinion on Manna De's Madhushala, the Bombay Stock Exchange and the price of Whiskey at the Duty Free store. Did I specify I <3 old men talk.

Gah. Don't leave!

Federal Express

2007-12-12T01:57:00.000-05:00

Momma Trauma

2007-12-08T17:21:00.000-05:00

My mother can be a bloody pain. She yells in a migraine inducing pitch, offers the same old advice as an adage for any trouble, refuses to quit going through my stuff and is just never generally satisfied with the quality of my existence. But, she is also the one I call and silently cry to because I don't have to say why, the best hug dispenser on the planet, my one and only source of endless monetary support and the one who's judgment I will be relying on, when all else fails, to find me the best possible mate.

Its a tricky thing, balancing your feelings towards your parents, but my accounting has always spat out a positive number [barring the times I do it right after slamming a door of course]. So well, its no surprise that I like people who respect their mommas. But apart from the common ground, there's more...

Some of it is the femininity attached to motherhood. If you respected the first woman in your life you are more open to respecting the others who come along. Women who get along with their mothers just make better friends. Even if you and your mom were the annoying BFF types and you told her everything I ever entrusted you with, being used to opening up to the primary woman in your life makes you slightly better at female bonding in the big bad world. You develop feminine loyalties as basic instincts and for that, you are better girl friend material! Men make it pretty evident. Boys who have messes for moms usually come with the opinion that women are daft or unworthy or something ridiculously negative and generalized. I don't think I have ever bothered to work on one of those, though I do have many for close friends. They always make me go home and give my primary woman queen-treatment for the day. Thanks for not being fucked up mama.

The phenomena is however absolutely, undeniably true and very applicable for lovers. Women see lovers in a future light, no matter how much we claim or try not to. When you [willingly] wake up with someone and are feeling sort of pleased, don't even bother watching out because there they are, flashes of the future: Would he make me coffee? Would he kiss me on my forehead[the best kind by the way]? Would the sun shine in through the flapping curtains as our kids run into the room? What will it be like? Yes, what will it be like when and if its twenty years later and I am still waking up next to him? And what do you have on most men to make a decent guess on their long term behavior towards women: Their relationship with their MOM.

If mama wakes her baby up with coffee every morning [which mine does, when she is around, and I couldn't love her more for it], you can be pretty assured that you will be playing the role if you happen to take over. But if kiddo takes out the garbage and brings in the newspaper, you're golden. I guess what I'm saying is that one's mother is usually ones functional half. Think of your weakest life skills, functional, not emotional (cleanliness? packing a bag? folding clothes?). And think of who would be best at filling in the cracks [Dude I think I need to keep my mother around forever]. This is definitely way more applicable to men, because many women tend to emulate their mothers and end up acquiring some of these functionalities at least partly. Wish mine would pass me over some skillz already.

I would guess fathers are more the aspirational half. I love my daddy too, but I'll leave writing about him to a suitably enthusiastic future moment. By the way, the boy I currently adore, the one I so vengefully wrote an emo post about, happens to think of his mother in a light that makes me shudder. I have trouble breaking away from him because he is so perfect in my starry eyes, but yesterday I had a vision, kind of a daydream, of me in a crimson red dress [with silver musical notes on it] by a window framing a setting sun, [the evening before my wedding presumably] confessing to my mother that he didn't respect his, and then contemplating getting on his horse and riding off. I'm beginning to realize this post is really all about developing reasons to finding fault with him. Really. Oh Dear.

Due to the year I was born in, I have no photoshop
skills (and nor does my mother). I do have paint
skills. In grade three, kids would always marvel
at my dexterity with the mouse as I drew aquariums.
So above is my wedding dress (and scenario), as

portrayed in my dream. [Edit: And then it looked crappy so I removed it]

Go Away

2007-12-07T00:45:00.001-05:00

When I was 19, in first year of college, my roommates bought me a welcome mat to put outside my dorm room that people could wipe their shoes on and stuff. It was those very regular jute things except that in the middle of the brown ugliness, in bright red, it said "GO AWAY". I would put it out during that time of the month, every month (yes, announcing the bleeding from my vagina) and then sometimes during Christmas and thanksgiving and other such sappy events where the Scrooge in me couldn't be trusted to interact with people.

Its almost nearing that time now and to my Christmas hating, pre menstrual achey and hormone overloaded (aka SUGAR CRAVING) delight, I walked into the 24 hour supermarket on my way back from grabbing my coffee. Once in the store, I wanted to buy:
- Ice cream sandwiches
- Mango sorbet
- Ferrero Rocher
- Box of Turtles
- Shortbread cookies
- Chocolate chip waffles
- Cool whip
- Carrot cake
- Lemon meringue pie
- Ritter Sport chocolate bar with Hazelnuts

Thankfully, what I bought was:
- Baileys Ice Cream (Small Tub)
- Box of Ferrero Rocher (all for myself)
- Slice of gateux des carottes (Carrot cake)
- Shortbread Cookies (covered in chocolate)
- Spinach Nuggets
- Cheese
- Rice Crackers

To the man behind me, who first threw in his cookies into my stash and then took them back commenting "She cant have ALL the sweet stuff!", to which I said , while pushing my sugar load forward, "Only MOST of it.", eat them with a glass of cold milk and drown in it kay?

People, dont look into other peoples Grocery piles. Especially if they are young lonely haggard looking love deprived women, especially when its Christmas, and particularly, don't judge them on their choices.

They could be freshly single or newly married or post partum or just divorced or worst of all, pre menstrual. Go away.

This could be messy

2007-12-06T16:56:00.000-05:00

I blocked you from my list today. If we were real, this would mean I stopped answering your calls, or that I had a 'talk' with you, or that I started telling my friends that it was dying. All of those done to preserve my self dignity, and make me come out on top, still almost in one piece, even though much has been chipped away.

The truth is, I cant chase you anymore. I cant sit back and enjoy the funny things you type and the once a semester phone call you make and wait for the 3 times a year that we meet when you walk me to a corner breathe down my neck and try to kiss me. And even though I reject you a few times over, we eventually end up in a fluffy bed emanating passion and I fit so perfectly into the crevice your body creates and we laugh.

Because at the end of the session, or when its been done a few times over, I will turn around and shed a tear and you will either comfort me and give me false promises of nothing going wrong or you will turn around and admit your emotional unavailability or as the slope of the graph predicts, you will not be there anymore.

And that, is the equivalent of me telling you online that I missed you and you not reacting. And then me sending you a message and you not acknowledging. I think I could love you but I would rather not, if I can.

PMS

2007-12-05T19:06:00.000-05:00

When my parents go shopping for duvet covers, I cry, because I don't think I'll ever have that.

Shopping for duvet covers. Folks, it really must be true love.

Privileged Poop

2007-12-04T01:01:00.001-05:00

I want to "regress". Regress because thats what the world's perspective is, of my ambitions.

I want to be an upper middle class Indian woman with a maid who keeps house and a husband who provides for material needs. I want to not "have" to do anything, for a long looong time. Because I want to sit and let my brain discover what it actually is that stimulates it. What it does when it isn't frantic or obligated or avoiding or expected-of.

I want to un-condition and recondition so that I can start thinking beyond a job as success, education as progress, knowledge as attractive, TV shows as procrastination, smoking as de-stressing, drinking as socializing...

And so when asked about my goals, I say, "I want to be an upper middle class urban housewife", at least for a while, and definitely next. Yes, thats what I want to do next, because, and I'll say it again if it helps make the point, its about HAVING to do nothing. And so for my purposes, my progressive little Punjabi family is quite a pain to deal with.

Overheard in the fire escape

2007-12-03T07:12:00.000-05:00

Girl in skinny jeans and plaid UGG(ly) boots. 3 am. Puff. Exhale. To her straight-from-china roomate:

"I like, like boys who dress well, you know, because it means that they care about themselves, and that means that they care about others, so like, they totally care about you"

(Really?)

Jhooth Bole Kauwa Kaate

2007-12-02T23:44:00.000-05:00

While eating my iceberg lettuce and garlic croutons with carrots and ranch loaded salad while compulsively reading the blog of a girl who has a friend who macked a guy that I almost once made a move on (but didn't, because you know, I just don't do that), I figured I should move to this thing called Blogger.
Livejournal is old, and somewhere, there needs to be proof that I really did spend the weekend before my Econ exam doing Jack (and wishing he was real).