Thoughts of three people aged 19, 20, 21 (more or less) on 20th March 2010 [9.30 to 10.30 am]

Fantasy. Free Association. Andhra. Telangana. Naghakshathangal. "family breaks happiness". Kavita's big belly.Pregnancy. Again love. YFA. The Beatles. Velvet underground. Sadomasochism. Libertine. Contacts. Lovely. Fuck All. Sade. Ignorance. Bilo and blue eyes. No love is better than other. Roald Dahl. New love grows on trees. ethereal minstrel. Corrs. Catgut binds my ankle to your bedstead, that ain't love. Blanknesss. Black. A glimpse of paradise in the middle of it all. Union of heaven and hell. The Way Up to Heaven. Imagine there's no heaven. The ultimate rockstar. Paris Commune. Our lady of the flowers. Only Red and love. Give me your blood, and I shall give you freedom :P. Send me the pillow, the one that you dream on. Balyakalsakhi. Malayalees and true love. Rakthanakshatram pole kadum chemaparna aa poovu. Basheer rules. IP sucks. Why should I be free? Who wants freedom?. Orkut. I have seen you wear your freedom as a yoke. John. Jeffrey. Not a penny less, not a penny more. Money, that's what I want. Money cant buy her, she's my valentine. Sookie Stackhouse and lame vampire stories. Philanderer poets. Shaw. Life's quest for something better. So, where are you tonight, Sweet Marie. Dead in the woods, where the cold wind blows. It's dark, too dark to see. When its dark, I will sing you a song, and I will love you forever, or till morning comes. Bob Dylan. Free Masons. Fuck forever. Jaimini and his eggs. The ugly grey eyed man who was killed. A dream you dream together. Just another dream. Dream a little dream of me. Tread softly, you tread on my dreams. Clothes of heaven. Rohan's lame curls. When the music's over, turn off the lights. And there's nail polish on his toes.

Calcutta and me

July 2008 - His mangled face lit up when he saw me, and he gave me a grin of genuine pleasure. I couldn't bring myself to return the smile, I was revolted. He was naked, his body blackened with grime, insects enveloping his body, seeming to do a better job of covering his nakedness than the tattered piece of cloth on the lower part of his body (which might have been trousers at some point of time). The rotten banana that he had picked up from the dustbin and was now greedily devouring stank, of death and degradation. There are thousands, perhaps millions, of these people, less in my area because it is newer, but when I'm walking down Park Street trying to find a bus or taxi to take me back to the safety of my room in the hostel, I occasionally trip over their huddled bodies, and recoil in terror. I don't think I'm ever going to be able to live in this hell-hole. I want to run away, far away, where I don't have to see their wretchedness.

 
 

December 2008 - An overwhelming feeling of pity had me hunting around in my pocket, and triumphantly handing her a 50 rupee note. The shock on her face pleased me. I smiled. She did not return the smile, but quietly took the money and went away. I was positively glowing in my feeling of self-righteousness. Two minutes later the smile on my face vanished, as did my conceit and vanity. She was being brutally battered by a man, almost twice her size, either her husband or her boss. He had seen me hand her the money. Her pitiful pleas that she needed the money for her two month old baby, fell on deaf ears. I saw him pluck away the note I had given her, and slap her so hard that she was knocked over, her baby falling with her. I saw him coming in my direction, and left hurriedly, hoping he hadn't seen me watch. I couldn't talk to anyone for a week after that, my food tasted bland and going to class seemed hypocritical. I questioned everything, my existence, the purpose of my life, wondering at the unfairness of it all, believing in the absolute pointlessness of trying to help anyone. My bubble of idealism had just burst, and how!

 
 

October 2009 - The tug on my t-shirt annoyed me. I knew what it meant; I was being accosted by the usual horde of ten year old pests begging near the City Centre. I turned around, and angrily screamed at them to go away. It was pointless. They wouldn't budge. I tried ignoring them, and took a sudden interest in my friend's boyfriend troubles. They still wouldn't go away; walking behind us, begging, making pathetic faces. I finally gave in, and handed them a 10 rupee note with a look clearly expressing how exasperated I was. They quickly pocketed it, and ran away, but not before sneering at me, some even blowing me exaggerated kisses. I turned back, nodding my head in frustration, realizing for the millionth time perhaps, that they were the real masters of this city.

Nothingness

They look with their eyes half closed. They see my body, but not my soul. They see my religion, but not my God. They take me to be what I am not, because they don’t look, not well enough, not deep enough. But why do I care? How can I blame them for not looking inside me, when I cannot see inside me either? Maybe, I want them to tell me who I am. Maybe, I want them to be deceived. Maybe, I want to look through their eyes, and see the person I am not. Maybe, because I am afraid, afraid to know myself. I don’t know. If I did, I would know myself. But I don’t. Sometimes I think I do. I feel I’ve searched my soul and know everything there is to know about me. And then I sit in smug satisfaction, feeling good and righteous, and pitying all those poor souls who don’t know themselves; not realising that it is not they who are blind. It is I.
I don’t know what I believe in, maybe because I don’t know if I believe in myself. They tell me I am thus, and I would like to believe it. Sometimes I do too.
I don’t know who I am, or where I come from, or where I’m going. Or whether I’m standing still. I don’t know if I’m supposed to be going anywhere. Is there a road I must travel, a path I must trudge? Sometimes I just want to be. I don’t want to do anything, don’t want to go anywhere, don’t want to live, and don’t want to die. But just be.
Be nothing, but be everything; the alpha and the omega, the beginning and the end. But that is not me, that is God. The God of the poor and the rich, the God of the living and the dead. But who is this God? Is my God the same as theirs? What if I say I have no God, that I am my own God and my own Devil? I am the Good and the Evil, the Love and the Hate. I am Woman and I am Man. I am, but I do not exist. Not in this world, not in the next. Not in the past, nor in the present, nor even in the future. I am a black hole, a burnt out star. And yet I glow with the brilliance of the sun.
I do not believe in anything, but I believe in everything. I cry but am indifferent, and laugh but don’t know why I do. My Love is as pure as my Hate, impure yet chaste, sacred yet unholy. I think faster than light, and yet my thoughts never move. I know everything and everyone, and yet understand nothing. I feel nothing, yet am full of emotions. I care about nothing, but am full of worries. The world’s burdens are not mine, but I am weighed down by them. I don’t stand up for what I believe in, and yet protest in my loudest voice. I can’t stand injustice, yet watch it every day. The world has made me what it wants me to be, and yet I am of my own making.

I am fearless, but my heart trembles with terror. I stand my ground, but try desperately to run away. I try to be rational, but no there’s no reason in what I’m thinking. There’s just fear, unreasonable, terrifying fear. Fear that engulfs, that swallows, that pulls you down into nothing, that leaves you faint. Fear that overwhelms, fear so great that it fills everything, and leaves you dazed, and trembling. Trying to run away, but not knowing from what.

There is no yesterday, and no tomorrow, and no today. There’s not a single whisper, yet it is booming with sound. There is no Light, and no Darkness. There is no Fire and no Earth. There’s just me, and the abyss of nothingness.

Money

Don't listen to those people who tell you that it's just some pieces of paper. By my grandpa's graying beard, I swear they are lying. No one who hasn't experienced a limited inflow of it, coupled with an unlimited outflow of it, can ever claim to know what money is truly about. It has the power to change lifestyles, to change beliefs and principles, to change friendships, and to change character, in essence to change, you. It can completely alter your idea of the priorities in life, making what once seemed trivial, the most important thing. It can lead you to equate that ill-famed "material goods" with all the abstract concepts of pleasure and happiness that you have only heard of. Your idea of the 'small joys of life' changes from watching the sunrise, to going for a fancy dinner. Everything is suddenly about money - "How much will I get if I do this? How much do I have to spend on this? How much money do I lose if I go for a movie instead of working?" I have been bitten by this 'money' bug; learnt its value the hard way. And yes, not only did I equate money to pleasure and happiness, but also equated it to my ego and independence, and gladly turned into a workaholic. Oh they may only be pieces of paper, but they made me age by a decade, and turned me into a real, typical law school student.

Workaholism

It's addictive, worse than a drug I should say, though I've never taken any. Now I understand why the suffix meaning 'obsession' is attached to it. You can't stop it, can't help it. You'd gladly and willingly kill yourself in the process. The stress keeps you going, the adrenaline giving you energy that you never knew you had. Another deadline. Another late night. More coffee. More mint. Another waking up feeling like shit after two hours sleep. Putting off that hunger so you can finish a little bit more. Another friend who wanted to talk biffed off cuz you are 'busy'. Another week without talking to your folks. Feeling restless if there is nothing to do. Oh yes, it's addictive alright. Like a drug, but more. You never ask yourself why you are doing it; you can't, you don't have the time. You've lost a ton of weight. Your skin is already wrinkling up. But you haven't noticed; looking in the mirror is not high on your priorities. When your friend says you look sick, you give a faint smile and go back to work. Even half an hour of sitting idle seems like a waste. Talking to a friend is just crazy; you have so much more to do. It's never enough, how much ever you work. There's always a little bit more. Another deadline. Another late night. More coffee. More mint.

Hugs...not so warm anymore

It upsets me. There's no reason why it should, and my friends tell me that it was only to be expected, but I cannot seem to get that nagging disappointment out of me. It has upset me enough to write about it. Yes, I am talking about Anupama's 'Free Hugs' gesture. It might be crazy, but I never thought people had such a problem with being friendly to strangers.

'Spread cheer in the world', we used to be taught in my 5th grade value education class. I never took it seriously. But I never did expect that when one of my friends tried to do exactly that, she would be met with such resistance. People looked at her like she was drunk, like she had gone crazy, like she was a suicide bomber, and I'm sure some people thought she was just looking for attention. All supposedly perfectly understandable emotions, but not to me.

For me, a hug has always meant a lot of things. A warm hug from a friend when I'm upset means she or he cares. A hug from my dad means that he'll always support me. One from my boyfriend means he loves me. An awkward one from my brother means that he is fond enough of me, to let go of his stupid image for a bit. A clumsy hug from my little cousin means I'm her favourite. But the most precious of them all, for me, would be a hug from a stranger. Because that would mean that, that person considers me a significant enough unit in the universe to share his or her happiness with me.

Maybe I am naïve, immature, don't understand other people's feelings. But it upset me, because I don't understand it, and would like to.

Reminisces about the day I was molested

I thought I was over it. I always think I am. But with every new incident I realise that it is so much a part of me, that try as I might, I cannot separate it from who I am. It has defined me, shaped me, given me a maturity too great for my years. It taught me cruelty, but also trust amdist it. It taught me to keep buried within me a part that is so much me, and yet, not me at all. It taught me that it isn't my fault, that I need not take blame for something that someone else has done. That I can get through it, no matter what. And it will make me a stronger, wiser person.