Categories
In Between

30 days into Summer

I get an erection when I think of free time these days. Yet somehow all that glorious free time is spent watching Season 2 of Gilmore Girls. I am not complaining though. I noticed a guitar in Luke’s apartment in the episode where Jess comes to Stars Hollow for the first time. I might be growing fonder of Emily than Lorelai – this is when I slow down, shut my laptop and contemplate life.

Summer is here – there’s blood and pus in my nose, boils the size of balloons on my face, grease and leaves in my hair, an egg that I am sure will neither fertilize nor crumble in my uterus, leading me to believe that much like me-that damned egg will live and die alone. In my uterus.

So PCOS 10: VJ Loser. It’s alright actually. I don’t even realise I have a malfunctioning uterus until a drop of the theertha is eventually squeezed out, once in three months.

Mintu and I went to Fenny’s last Sunday. Madam wanted to watch the match so she got there 30 minutes early and sat annoyingly close to the projector. I yanked her away to a nice little table with tall stools under some tree. I am yet to figure out how people grow so many trees on the third floor. Next to us was what they called a Lucky Ficus. Here’s something about sitting under trees –no matter how calm I am from the inside to be sitting right under nature’s bosom and all, I am permanently worried that there are snakes in nature’s bosoms. I kept looking up to see if there were any snakes hanging above my head and hissing. I didn’t tell Mintu because she would start crying and screaming and make us switch tables.

Mintu starts shaking if you so much as say ‘snakes’. Even the word, she says is snake-like.

In other news, I am no longer practicing tolerance and non-violence when people start screaming their guts out while watching cricket. At Social the other day, the waiters whistled with actual whistles everytime the blue men caught a six. My ears bled. I wanted to make something of theirs bleed. The drinks were nice though. The LIIT was an actual tower, a drink called trip on the drip actually came with a drip bag, and there were appetizers called crab balls to you.

Later that night when I went home, the match was still on and the peeps were mental. I was too happy and tipsy to complain so I joined in. But mother, B, M and V started throwing things at me because I was cheering for Bangladesh. When the match came to an exciting near end, my mother kept bouncing up and down, my brother was half sitting half praying, B and M were kicking me because I had spotted a man dressed as a tiger whom I decided to call Bengal Tiger for the rest of the night. Bengal Tiger beat his chest at various points and wept when India won. He had both his hands on his head and cried like a baby. Everytime he appeared, I yelped. Soon, they all joined and laughed the match off whenever they saw Bengal Tiger. He looked so sad – I think he died.

I am reading Tipping the Velvet and feeling bad for myself because after this and Night Watch, I won’t have any more Sarah or Waters to read. She reminds me of London, and the coach we saw London in. I can’t think about London without sighing and also feeling a little guilty. It’s close to a year now and I am nowhere near to finishing that Europe piece.

B is engaged! The wedding’s in August and I promised to wear a saree if she came with us for a vacation. B will celebrate her bachelorette or the Konkani version of it, on a cruise. I am making my list  for the vacations– hopefully I will find the courage to let go off Gilmore Girls and get a life.

 

Categories
In Between

When in Goa, watch Magadheera

I was watching Magadheera. I was minutes away from sleeping all by myself for the first time in my life and I was watching a movie so lame, it was that good. The cottage was lovely. It wasn’t too far from the beach so I could listen to it and wasn’t too close so if a Tsunami came swimming by, I could make a quick exit. I think Magadheera will be my favourite movie for a long time now because it kept me company when I was trying to postpone the grand event of finally switching all the lights off to sleep. That yellow bottle of pepper spray could only do so much. I kept it close by at all times, but I knew when the time came, it would not be able to do much. I was able to forgive its uselessness sooner than I thought. I didn’t need it though. The occasion never arose. But I was scared, my toes kept feeling it all night. There were strange noisy men around the cottage. Their noise kept me up and I slept restlessly. The morning was innocent, like all mornings are. As if my toes hadn’t curled up at all, as if the men and their voices hadn’t reminded me of all those rape and revenge movies I had binge watched long ago, as if the morning was a different morning, tail to another event-less night at home. It wasn’t a memorable night but it was my first time alone away from home.

Categories
In Between

Crying

There is nothing in the world that I hate more than crying. And feeling stuffy but crying comes naturally to me. Just as naturally as feeling sleepy which requires no stimulus really. My biggest stimulus to be able to cry is me with a good memory. You don’t have to do a thing. On bad days, I can wake up crying and go on for hours together and nobody, including me can tell you why I am crying. You know how articles on thought catalog claim that crying actually helps reduce stress. Buggers are lying. Crying has never helped me. It has made things go from bad to ‘I want to kill myself – bad’. It makes me a huge drama queen. Not because I can cry and I do but because I cry about every damn thing. I cry when somebody I am fond of yells at me, I cry when I find out that I have hurt them, I cry when they do a nice thing for me, unexpectedly or otherwise, I cry when I am incredibly happy, I cry when I am at peace, I cry when I am in love. My tears are guaranteed to make guest appearances at all kinds of occasions.

I knew I could cry easily even before I discovered the many irritating attentions that it pulls- from self and others. I cannot help but feel that longish, frustrating kind of guilt soon after I am through crying. Guilt comes just as naturally as tears. I feel guilty about having cried in front of people and embarrassing them. I feel guilty for forcefully demanding that kind of attention. I have tried, believe me, to see what is it about that heaviness that just has to come out no matter how hard I bite my lips and try to yawn to keep from bawling. The throat gets all weird and swallowing doesn’t help. My eyes go as wide as they can in the hope that the tears dry up in the eye balls or whatever part it is that they are threatening to come out from. I look away, fiddle with whatever entity is in front of me. Usually, it’s my bag, mobile, a book or a spoon.

Once, I touched an animal. A cat. I am not big on animal touching or petting but I did it that day because I didn’t find a spoon or whatever and I was in a public place. Have no idea how the cat got there. All I remember is that I was going to cry and my throat was heavy so I picked it up, put it on my lap and started petting it. I didn’t realise that this thing was on my lap until it got bored and leaped out of my lap leaving me curious more than anything. Still wasn’t enough to distract me from the waterworks that were beginning to shower.

Anyway, I have found that yawning and pretending to yawn are major rescuers when I want to hold from crying. The yawning helps me beautifully. I have gotten out of many crying sprees from just pretending to yawn and then quickly thinking of something funny.

Why am I writing about crying?

It was a choice between my 16 year old self in love and this so I chose this.