Scotland

I once lived in a house. And the house smelled of freshly baked cookies and coffee. I once lived in a house that looked to the Loch Earn. Yes. I once lived in a house in Scotland. Oh, what a beauty.

          And the house told me, sit down, honey. Sit down and lean your head on my shoulders for I will stroke your hair until you pass into oblivion. Sit down beside me while I wrap you around with my warmth for I love you.

          And when it rained, the house danced me to the patio and I stood there looking towards the darkest of the forests. And the house held me from behind and exhaled onto my neck and that felt like rain on my hands. And the house made black tea for me and sat down across from me to know me better as I looked out the landscape.

          And the house glowed in its peace when I hung the fairy lights above the bed. The gleaming fairy lights kissed the house. And the house said, you are a breathless beauty. And the night never seemed better.

          And then I felt pain and worthlessness and the house beckoned me to the library. I sat down there for hours and time seemed to stop just for me. And I sat down without a word from my mouth as I leaned onto the wall in numbness. The house said, come over here, sweet love of mine. Come over here and speak to me about your woe. And the house leaned onto my shoulder while it held my hand and played with my fingers. And I spoke of what could have been and what I have lost. The house listened until I was out of breath. And we sat there, quiet, through the night.

          And once I turned into a passive aggressive monster. And I took my pen and struck the walls of the house down like a thousand stabbing knives. And the house stood strong as I kneeled down in wretchedness. And the house held me and told me, you got me, love. You got me for life. And I looked into its eyes and lost myself as my world dissolved around me into its warmth. And I felt peace.

          I once lived in a house near Loch Earn. A house that was loved beyond perfection. 

Amlokhi

People die. And they leave traces of memories with people. But how do you cope with the death of a person? How do you bring yourself to accept that someone you have known for a long time has ceased to exist?  How do you think?

          You start by thanking them in your thoughts, for all the times they came to you to help you, for all the times they made you smile and for all the times they made you cry because they were annoying you so much. You think about all the times they have loved you, held you in their arms and have allowed you to fall asleep right there. You thank them for stroking your hair every night so that you fall sleep peacefully. For all the times they have kissed your forehead and healed you. You thank them for them.

          But, you should cry when you feel like you need to. You may go to the bathroom with packets of tissues and cry your heart out over a song. You may pretend to fall asleep and turn your face away from the people around you because you aren’t comfortable with crying in front of people.  You may sit down at the corner of your bed and look out at a distant memory and have your tears roll down your cheek. You may choose not to answer anybody; to explain why you are crying. You may cry over all the good times you’ve had with that person and all the good times that you won’t.

          You must write, if you do. Take that pen and write. Let your fingers ooze that fierce energy you hold. Write away your thoughts. Write away your anger at that person leaving you. Write away your sadness. Mourn their death with your words. Even if the first word that comes to your mind is Apple. And it’s okay if you don’t write further because that word will now hold a meaning for you to always remember. That word will now always hold that fierce energy. You will never lose that. Even if you burn that book down or the paper, that word will always remain and strike a chord in your heart and soul whenever or wherever you see it. And you’ll remember.

          You may sit down and not move for a while. You may swallow your emotions down to your intestines. You may sit quiet for an eternity. You may hold them in your thoughts without crying or writing. You may, in the process, sleep. You may let slumber take you in its arms and cradle you to unconsciousness. You may lie under the warmth of your blanket, shielding you from the world. You may embrace peace while you mourn.

          Or, you may sew up them all. You may cry, knowing that there isn't any physicality to that person anymore. But you must realize that you hold every memory of them. It’s okay if you conjure a sad one to a happier one. A memory is powerful, regardless the kind. And then you may write. Don’t worry about the tear drops on the words. They will either leave a mark or disappear completely. But let them be. They are yours and yours forever. You may proceed to sleep in the arms of your blanket. You may bask in their warmth while you slowly fall sleep. Don’t worry about not falling asleep. Crying is like anaesthesia; like morphine. It heals. It soothes. It is peace.

          But know that they have always loved you. Know that you meant the world to that person. Know that they have forgiven you for anything and everything. Know that they have accepted you. Know that you were like that random word to them; know that you held their fierce energy. Know that you held meaning to their world.  Know that you have crossed their mind right before their demise. You have been an incredible part of their life. You have been loved. 

Passive Aggression.

Do you know of someone who is passive aggressive? Well, my friends do. And she is as passive aggressive as it gets. They don’t usually know what to do much like how she doesn't know what to do, either.

          As far as I know, she, sometimes, swallows back those tears she so doesn't want to share or if things get worse, she quickly closes the bathroom door and whimpers about an imaginary scenario. A scenario where someone she was working with probably died. She is passive aggressive.

          Some days, it’s really hard for her. Sometimes, it takes days for her to sit down sedately and not go on a killing rampage. Well, she does go on a killing rampage but that’s just in her head. It’s all in her head. Oh yes, it takes days for her to calm herself, to reason out the actions of that person, to understand the circumstances. Most of the time, she grasps the whole logic behind that; on most days, she gets really angry at herself. What’s the logic behind understanding that?

          Every so often, she has the last remnant of a smile plastered across her face by a joke long forgotten because she was buried under passive aggression. On other days, she hides under a blanket because she is oh so scared of cureless damage her speaking her mind out, while being simultaneously angry, would do. Isn't it always better to curl up into a ball of anger under the blanket and fall asleep rather than regret things that are said and can never be taken back? Of course it is.  

          Do you know of someone who is passive aggressive? If you do, I will advise you to let her be. If she is crying, let it pour. There is nothing more relaxing than letting emotions out. If she is hiding under a blanket, curled up into a ball, don’t try to disentangle her. If you see her smiling and you know that she is angry, smile at her to let her know that it’s okay. If you know that she is passive aggressive, you must let her be.  

Think.

Sit down. Sit down and think; think about that time you hurt someone, intentionally or otherwise. Did the person deserve it? Think about that time when you walked past a beggar on the street, commenting on how he/she could use his/her physical capability to work instead of begging. Do you know his/her story? Think about that time when you sneered at a girl/boy because they were heartbroken due to a break up. Did you feel that pain? Think about that time when you insulted a person publicly because they lost their temper at you for something they were going through. Was the person not worthy of forgiveness? Think about that time when you gossiped about another person’s dressing sense. Do you know why they dress the way they do? Think about the time when you made fun of a person who wasn't able to get over someone. Were you the one who was attached? Think about the time when you made fun of a person’s diction. How good is your diction? Think about the time when you talked about an emotional person. Is it wrong to be emotional? Think about the times when you talked behind a person because they tattooed their lover’s name. Did they tattoo their lover’s name on your skin? Think about the time when you bashed a person on his theistic/atheistic views. Don’t you have your views too? Think about that time when you found out that your teacher had a child without marriage and gossiped on that. Was that necessary on your part to comment on another person's choice? Think about that time when you made fun of your submissive friend. Is being submissive really that wrong? Think about that time when you took advantage of someone’s goodness. What if someone did that to you? Think about the time when you cheated on someone. Was cheating necessary? Think about the time when you made fun of someone by calling them a nerd. Is being a nerd a bad thing? Think about that time when you found out that someone you knew was a prostitute and stopped respecting them as a person because of that simple reason. Does being in prostitution mean that the person is bad? Think; think about all those times when you counselled your friend on not wearing a Burqa to college simply because it’s an all-girls college. Do you know for sure that she wore the Burqa because it was imposed or that it was her choice? Think about all those times when you made a person feel small. Why did you do that? Think about all those times when you judged a person based on zero knowledge about them. Who handed you the right to do that? Think.

          Now place yourself in their shoes. Would you appreciate a person if they treated you the way you treated these people? No, right? Are these people who you mistreated, still your friend? Yeah? Now, would you be a friend to someone if they were a version of you that you were to them?

          Have you ever apologized to them for the way you treated them? Have you ever said sorry? Sit down and think; think about why you didn't if they deserved that sorry or an act of forgiveness.    

She.

She is Morphine. She is happiness. She is the cement that fills the void. She is beautiful in her existence. She is breath-taking.

          Her voice; It’s a song played on loop. It’s your drug. It’s your addiction. It’s your rehab. It’s the voice that rings inside your head, over and over and you do not complain about. Her voice soothes your inner battles. It relaxes you. It’s that dose of cough syrup nobody has a problem with. Her voice is like blood inside your veins. Her voice blurs your world and it’s just her voice inside your head that you really need.

          Her presence is like sunshine; you need it. Her smile is beautiful. Oh, so beautiful. She is like the sound of waves. She’s like tea; you need it. You need Her. She is like basking in moonlight on a beach, where you are surrounded by the dark blue sky married to the stars and the waves echo your heart beat.

          She is like a roller coaster ride; she will take you on a ride with all your emotions. She is like the Ferris wheel, the London Eye; she is the moment when you are stopped at the top of the wheel. She is like a library; a library with minimal furniture. She is that moment when you are sitting with your love, coffee in your hand and talking about the world.

          She is a beauty. She is the reason why you smile. She is the reason why you stare at that video of a heart beating from a massive hole in the chest. She is the reason why you would do it all over again. She is the one you’ll follow into the dark. She is patience; all the patience in the world. She is your dream about the future. She is the sound of your deafening heartbeat you hear at 2 am in the morning. She is a Swarovski. 

Bullied

I was bullied. It’s not something I’m really proud to admit, but that just happened. And I am guessing it has happened to more people than I can imagine. Moreover, the funny thing is, the bullies actually pretend like nothing happened, when they grow up and they see you somewhere, like “Hey how are you doing?” Better than what you did to me, you jerk. Yes, a lot of piled up anger right there and let me face it, I never did anything. I never stood up or said anything or complained. I took it all in, like most do. And I think they actually feasted on that, on that quality of mine, to not say anything or stand up OR complain. I am glad I didn’t do anything, sometimes. Because imagine if I did something and they swarmed back to me. Like, who wants that? Not me. Not anyone. Never. Most people snap out of it, in two ways: They kill themselves or they actually move on. I did none. I didn’t attempt to kill myself (and I highly discourage that as long as I am not suicidal myself) neither did I snap out of it. I mean, I am writing a freaking blog piece about it. It’s like a bad hangover.

          So, back to where I was. Yes, I was bullied, incessantly. About the fact that I was very poor in maths, lacked genuine abilities and interest in sports in general (PT was a mess), may also have been a joke about the way I looked, or how sparingly I talked, or my logics (which are now fun posts on Facebook, thank you very much).  There were jokes being made at my expense. 5^th grade was a horror movie for me. Things may have started getting better when I entered 6^th grade, I didn’t notice much. I never told mom anything because I didn’t want her to think that her kid was in some kind of a psycho-thriller movie. I wasn’t, it wasn’t that bad. Or maybe it was. I don’t know, I was too tolerant about everything. Be it framing for not helping a friend or for being a closeted lesbian. A, I did help the friend. I was framed. B, I wasn’t a closeted lesbian and neither is it a thing to be made fun of but none of us knew that. In an all-girls convent, things get nasty very easily, because, let’s face it, we girls have a way of being nasty as hell. So yeah, everything noted above combined, I didn’t have many friends. Oh well, I knew a lot of people but I also know now that not all of them were friends. 9 years of bearing everything the school had to offer, you’d think I would have snapped out of it. But no, I’m stuck. See, the thing about being bullied is, nobody ever gets out of it. Yeah sure, they move on and everything, but forgetting is hard. Especially when no one stood up for you or when you never had that one person who was with you all the way. And the only words of console I repeated to myself was that maybe somebody has it worse and that I shouldn’t whine at all because I was in a better place. I was wrong. Nobody has it worse. They have it different.

          Reading all of this together would obviously make you think “awh shucks. This girl had it bad” (or maybe I shouldn’t really get my hopes high on that thought) but I had my fair share of good times too. Being bullied was probably one of the life changing things that had happened to me because I learnt a lot from it. I wouldn’t say that it made me the person I am today (I’m yet to become a person I’m supposed to become one day) but it has a big part to play, for the future and also what I am right now. 

Bangalore

Bangalore, or as they all call it now-a-days, Bengaluru is quite an amazing place to live in. I, for one of many, like these two particular streets, Brigade Road and Commercial Street. Not that I don’t like MG Road, it’s just that I never have been able to distinguish between MG Road and Brigade. Yeah, now I really sound stupid but anyway, moving on, Brigade Road is that place where you see your dreams and aspirations and everything glitteringly good. While, Commercial Street is where you buy those dreams and aspirations and everything glitteringly good. But I must say, Brigade has been a true inspiration for me to plan my life ahead and then go back home and sleep. Recently, I and a friend went to Vero Moda because she had to buy something (and I didn’t know shops now provide invisible stuff to customers with low expectations about their future and no money) and I swear to God, that place is the Mother of Inspirations. Every dress I looked at, every Jacket I laid my eyes on, my motivation level went on a power trip and I could see myself sitting on this big comfy chair with the dress I was holding in reality and then I slowly revolve around and talk to my PA because why the hell not? Also, my only purpose of ever going to Brigade is Blossom Book Store or Krispy Kreme or I don’t know, use the Metro to go to Indiranagar. Indiranagar, uh huh! This place! I’d like to call this place The 50 Shades of Range Rovers. At first I was like, aaaaaaaah! Range Rover! Now I am like, eh, Range Rover. You name it, I have seen that Range Rover. But I like Indiranagar for a different reason altogether. Goethe-Institut. I did my German A1 and A2 there. Ich liebe dich. And no, I haven’t learnt the slangs yet. I loved Toits with those three very funny people I went with, one who happened to have had a Long Island Ice Tea at one go and survived to tell the tale. Yes, I have superheroes for friends. I loved Heiken-something where I had a “fucking orgasm over Foosball”. I did; not even kidding. But I am sure, if I ever went shopping in Indiranagar, that’d be an inspiration too, for my you-know-what. Another really fun thing about Bangalore is fighting with the autowalas. They think they have bad Hindi skills? They should meet me. Hah! Also, when they are really pissed, they start shouting in Kannada and I just sit there like, Really? You gonn’ shout at me with that? You wanna go down that road? So be it! But honestly, I have never once shouted in Assamese at them. I’d love to, however. Once when an autowala did shout at me in Kannada, I just ended up saying “You might wanna do yourself a favour and talk to me in a language I understand” in Hindi. He must have figured out, that if I have such a bad Hindi skills, Kannada must be Pluto for me. And they can speak English! Which is awesome on many levels, but sometimes it’s unnerving. Like, when I first moved to Bangalore, the maid who cleans my pg room started talking to me in broken English and I was left with a whaaaaaaaaaa just haffen!? I once talked to her in Hindi because that might be easier for the both of us (because speaking a language I am not really good at is my speciality) and she gave me a look which reminds me everyday why I shouldn’t talk in Hindi with people with greater Hindi skills. Not that I can speak amazing English like Tom Hiddleston. I stutter a lot. And a lot really means a lot. See, when you are learning a foreign language, the language you always converse with takes a sabbatical. For example, in German, the verbs have different positions for different tenses. While in English, anything that sounds remotely correct becomes a rule. But on a serious note, I have come to realise that English has a lot of rules that we never even knew existed. I have also come to realise that I am going off topic. So, anyway, Bangalore is a really good experience and a really good source of entertainment when you have friends who can gulp down a full glass of Long Island Ice Tea and people who call you whore for no reason. “Hi, Deepa. You look really good today” “Shut up you fucking whore” “Wow, someone’s pms-y” “I know right!” *sudden hug*. And look, we also have Mount Carmel College, where people have weird traditions and awesome people. Like me.