To Adult means what?

Image credits: TeePublic

Featured Image credits: TeePublic

No one told me that a big part of being an adult is paperwork. I spent all of last week being a good adult. And must now die in the nostalgia of sweet childhood where being adult was a lot more fun.

I am still hungry for the romance that I assume will only arrive after running away from home. The romance of living alone with a cat which will come and go like in Eunice D Souza‘s poems. Of dealing with plumbing issues on my own. Of having the occasional dinner party where friends bring expensive wine, and after they have gone, of staying up late to wash vessels and finally, of gazing out into the window like Julia Roberts in Sleeping with the enemy.

I have friends who live on their own and as I write this, I can hear their bouncing laughs. It is nothing like this. And I believe them when they say it. Even so, this has been my ultimate love story – to live alone except for those long weekends where lovers drop in and go, but cats always come back.

I digress.

The second thing I am beginning to understand about adulthood is that it’s mostly about being blind to it. A lot of growing up has happened over this year and I haven’t had the time to slow down, to see it, to either congratulate myself or curse it. Early last week, on Ambedkar Jayanthi, I wrote something that I had been trying to write for 2 years now. That post had been sitting in various angry drafts in various folders. It is a story I may have told very often, but for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was pointless. This time I had something to say.

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Until a certain point, my life was overcrowded with people whose victories were quite strangely and rather strongly determined by how pointless they could make me feel about my writing. I have kicked them all out of my life and that is the third thing about adulthood – the gift of being able to say fuck off.

First Post carried my piece. They have some really cool design so it reads differently and better than it does on my blog. You can read it here.

I am grateful to Snegaa, who is famous for making Brahmin bedbugs weep. Snegaa who has always been there – ever since I started this blog. Over the years I have sent her pieces that I’ve enjoyed writing as also those I’ve struggled with. She has always taken time to read them carefully and offer solid advice. As of today, she is my dominatrix agent who sends me one- line reminders about sending writing pitches to publishers.

Namsiess, the love of my life is actually My Brilliant Friend. She is my Elena Ferrante, and my Lila-Lenu.

Very quickly, before this begins to sound like some lame I’d like to thank speech, I want to return to that Saturday evening of December 2012 when I was a newbie in the department. How I shyly took a piece I’d written to show it to AM and how I’d turned around with great speed and ran for my life immediately after.

Over the years, I learnt not to run, I learnt to be less afraid of my writing and what he was going to say about it. Right from calmly telling me for the 100th time, why something wasn’t working in my writing  – to his comments in those balloon like things on Microsoft word that went – ‘Were you fucking sleeping when you wrote this sentence? WAKE UP’  – to ‘Vj, just keep writing like you don’t care’ — It won’t be an exaggeration to say that over six years, he’s the teacher I am still learning from. Not just how to read and write, but also to work, to be a friend, to ignore, and most importantly — to be kind.

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It’s my first time getting paid for something I’ve written. I have been waiting to let that sink in. It still hasn’t. And I hope it never does. Letting that sink in would be to forget the various small pleasures that I can otherwise mindlessly engage in. Like thinking about how all my school and college friends are married, about how I am every day grateful for not having done science/MBA/IIT/marriage/babies, about how I used to fail science and math but still managed to adult well, about how small I’d feel on days they’d return test papers with 9/60 and 3/50 — underlining boldly – the big failure I was to become in life.

I wish someone else was writing this but because nobody is going to narrate my life in third-person Anu Agarwal style, I must do it myself. That is the fourth thing about adulting. That sometimes you have to be the narrator, the writer, the heroine, and the villainess of your own fucking life.

P.S – Today rumlolarum is four-years-old. This baby has helped me grow more than I could have managed on my own. I’m all smiles and love. See? Proof: I don’t have to be married to be a mother.

Today I celebrate rumlolarum and my PCOD- prone uterus. Cheers!

 

rumlolarum

Thank you, WordPress!

 

 

*** Featured Image credits: TeePublic

Hee Hawww!

I cannot describe in too many words the elated feeling of ‘nothing-fucks-with-me-now’, when I hit the ‘publish’ button. It could have been happiness of a different world altogether if I could have hit the ‘publish’ button every day of the week. Maybe that can be my next challenge. But I am not complaining. There were days when I dreaded writing because I was too depressed to write. On one such occasion I discovered by accident, the joy of writing even as my mind was begging to shut off and sleep.

I was sulking, cursing and very depressed because of a love problem. I took a detour and started thinking about the last lake I saw. I had found my story idea – it was stupid and my mind kept rejecting it, partly because I was lazy, partly also because I wanted to open my journal and rant about love problems. I said screw you to both and wrote about the goddamn lake. Not my best, but it did make me believe that even on days that you want to curl up in bed with Dairy milk and Gilmore Girls and do nothing except wallow in self pity, you can still write.

I am not happy about most of my posts on the A- Z challenge but I am glad that some form of a writer is beginning to take over here. For the first time in months, I felt invulnerable. And it felt great. I haven’t felt like this in a long time.

It didn’t stay for long though because then I saw people and my invulnerability left me like color leaves my brother’s face when I hijack his room. It feels good to write every day though, even better when I don’t have to struggle for words. Having finished the challenge in over 2 months doesn’t exactly make me feel good about myself because this was supposed to be finished in 26 days. I am not even sure if I can write everyday now but I am writing more than I have ever written before and that is a happy thought. I also found that I can survive after having written and posted on the internet, bad poetry and short stories. I had to fight crazy urges to delete posts at all sorts of odd hours.

I am going to get me some wild drinks now because I feel splendidumdidum!