G – Green eyed wala monster

Why are some people different than most others when they are in love? Why does jealousy accompany love with so much passion? Why does the absence of it bring coldness in relationships? Why is the lack of jealousy frowned upon by some and celebrated by some others? I have been pondering over relationships and jealousies for sometime now. And it has left me more puzzled and watchful of my thoughts than anything.

How do you explain that surge of bubbling blood and vital organs turning inside out when the person you desire desires somebody else? Do we feel jealous because we think we are ‘supposed’ to feel jealous? Do we feel jealous because we think it’s the most reliable and convenient way of declaring love to somebody? Eventually do we end up desiring them because they invest so much energy in feeling jealous?

A wise woman once told me that she doesn’t really care about her partner’s desires for other people as long as their desire for her remains the same. I felt almost handicapped when I heard that. Without much sequel to that conversation, I found myself desiring that state of ease. I wish I could say that some day. I wish I could mean it when I say that someday. 

I have had conversations with many people about this. And most of them think it pointless to be jealous because it’s beyond our control. We cannot decide how those that we desire ought to feel about others. But isn’t this untrue? Because we do decide in more arrangements than we take credit for, how those that we desire see us and other people.

The jealousy could be pointless but not because it is beyond our control but because why we feel jealous has nothing to do with us. It shouldn’t have anything to do with us. We feel jealous because we see another person as whole and his/her belonging to us in wholeness. But this a flaw we tend to overlook. When did people become wholes? Why do we see them as wholes? Isn’t it because we think it’s not normal to have many personalities in one? Because Psychology calls it a disorder to nourish many selves within one self? 

What if it were completely normal to be schizophrenic and by that extension, free of ourselves? I would be very happy if I wasn’t curious about who else my partner is sleeping with. Curiosity getting fucked here because I don’t see them as one whole belonging to me but as many parts, only one of which they choose to share with me. Is it now possible to keep track of what they do with the other selves? 

Does this mean freedom finally from wanting to know everything about them? 

Am I going slightly mad?


To Ashish

I started writing because I wanted to hide from my mother. I needed a space that could be only mine, that nobody wanted because they didn’t know it existed. It gave me some kind of thrill to hide when I was wanted the most. I treasured those moments when I could just hide and watch them look for me. To not be seen when they were frantically looking for you gives you some kind of sadistic authority over yourself and your space. Some similar kind of thrill was transferred onto that moment when I first wrote a full sentence. For those kind souls who do read my blog, you may remember a boy named ‘Ashish’ that I mentioned in a post titled ‘Poof’. For all the times I have fallen in and out of love with god knows how many people, I remember Ashish very well. He was chubby (just the way I like ’em even to this day) and had brown, wavy hair. In all that time that I was in love with him, he must have glanced at my direction once, maybe twice. We never talked to each other.

So him and Rashmi (also a girl I was in love with) were friends and it seemed like he spent all of his life with her. This drove me insane one evening and I wanted terribly to do something about it. I did the only thing that I felt like doing. I wanted to write “I hate you Ashish” hoping it would help me out of feeling lost and small. And where did I write this bit? On a wall in my Mother’s bedroom. I don’t know why I picked her room. I didn’t really pick actually. I remember I had a red pen in my hand and I was in her room and I just walked up to the wall and wrote it. In awfully small font. So small that even if everyone in the world would overlook it, my mother would read it. Because I wrote it and it was THAT small so she had to know what I was hiding (?) from her no?

The woman bawled my name out soon as she read it demanding to know why I had written what I had written. I remember feeling terrified when I had to explain it  to her. So I made up some gibberish and ran away. That may have just been the first of the many ‘Explain yourself’ encounters I was going to have with my mother in future. But I remember feeling devilishly happy because I had managed to piss her off. That episode triggered so much pleasure in me that I decided to keep a journal in some freudian hope that she would read it and be annoyed.

That’s how and why I found writing. It became my most sought out hiding place and promised me guilty pleasures like hiding and watching someone looking for me, hiding and watching someone read what I have written and other such nonsense. Eventually, writing has helped me move closer to the woman I want to become, even though I don’t know who the hell that is.