Is happiness an acquired taste?

When someone asks you what makes you happy, do you always know the answer? Can you put a pen to paper and list five things that unfailingly make you smile--with pleasure and completely and utterly selfish delight? I can't. Happiness is such a swiftly moving entity, such a volatile emotion, and such a fleeting moment in time, that I can never really put my finger on what makes me happy.

Which is something my heart understands and accepts, but my mind finds weird... Because isn't the point of all existence--every action, each achievement, each race, each breath even, to be happy? So by that logic, if I don't even know what makes me happy, what chance do I have of ever being it? So does that mean I'm destined to look for something that I don't know where to look for? It's a little bit like trying to remember someone you never knew, right?

Which made me wonder, if happiness is subjective to each one of us, if it is an intensely personal thought, an idea that our mind conjures up and our heart accepts; how come the world's most freely given but least used advice is always, ALWAYS, an attempt to help you find this happiness thingy? The reasons of the mind are simple enough--if you're poor, money must make you happy. If you're single, finding love must make you happy. And if you live in a shit hole, a big house must be the answer. They're all good reasons, all solid logical deductions.

Except, when you really think about it, all these assumptions are simply thoughts that have been drummed into our heads and stitched into our social fabric for so long that they've become a part of our collective conscious. Everything we've ever read, heard, taught and are exposed to, tells us that a small house, little money and being alone are bad things, and therefore, reasons to be unhappy. But are these beliefs really our own? And when our behaviour is governed by these thoughts, we don't make choices, we simply practise learned behaviour. By that logic, then, what we assume to be happiness, and things that lead us to it, must also be learned behaviour, right?

It boggles the mind, how certain we are of things that we have little or no understanding of. It is an uncomfortable thought, thinking that you really have no clue as to what the path to our ultimate destination is. And a humbling one as well.

I know I haven't been happy for some time now. People around me know it too, in varying degrees. But what bothers me more than the fact that I'm not happy is that I have no idea how to get there. I don't know what's missing. I don't know what I want and how I'm going to get it. That's a scary juncture in life. The day you realise that you're a cliche, just a number in a crowd, the idea of happiness takes on a new meaning. And you retrace your steps in your head, trying to learn more from your journey, from your many mistakes and few successes. At least that's what I think is happening to me right now.

I don't want my happiness to be learned behaviour. I want it to be an acquired taste. Like that perfect dress that you believed existed somewhere, but you were meant to trawl through several malls before you found it in a little store on forgotten lane. Or like the day when you discover that your poison is actually Breezer, a drink you had written off at 18.

Have I found that kind of happiness? No. I'm not even close. Will I ever find it? I hope so. Because it would be tragic if I don't. Not to mention terrifying, because it isn't easy to accept that you really have no control over such a HUGE part of your life. That your purpose depends almost entirely on chance. What if life takes me on a path that doesn't let me try on enough dresses to know which is the one for me? What if I never go on the road that houses that store? What is worse--knowing you're not happy, or assuming you're happy because you're not unhappy?

Does anyone have an answer?

The day a child died

A friend of mine believes that to be able to experience happiness in its purest form, you need to retain a part of you that brings out your inner child. And no matter how hard you have to fight to keep that light burning, it must be done. It could be their ability to see the the light at the end of the darkest tunnel, their ability to laugh at the silliest things in life, the simplistic way they look at the world… It could be anything.

When he asked me what was childlike about me, it took me a while to figure out the answer. I don’t remember how I found it, but I realised that my idea of friendship was exactly the way it used to be two decades ago. Was, because a few days ago, the last of my childhood was snatched away from me.

When I was a child, my world used to be black and white. There were colours, but no shades. No permutations and combinations. And definitely no greys. It used to be simple, and I used to be happy. I’ve always thought that relationships are like colours. Some are red—bright, unforgettable and hard to miss. Others are brown—dull, uninspiring and insipid. As you grow up, your understanding of relationships changes... Just like your understanding of colours does. Categories start expanding and we begin to slot colours, and people, into smaller and smaller boxes. So there’s no longer just a purple; there are violets, indigos, lavenders and lilacs. Similarly, the blanket called friendship begins to shrink, or perhaps our requirements increase as we grow. What once used to encompass the whole spectrum of people that we liked outside our family, begins to be divided into frenemies, acquaintances, friends with benefits, colleagues and whatnot.

Very few people escape the categorisation in our heads. Fewer still become our confidantes…people that we choose to share our lives, hopes and fears with. Understandable. The world we live in demands that we do it. Our instinct for self-preservation demands that we do it. I believe our expectations from people are directly proportional to the tightness of the categories that we slot people into. Just like we know exactly how we’ll look in a particular shade of pink, we have very specific expectations from people once we’ve assigned them a category.

My friend says that our world is more accepting, less judgemental, accommodating and all those supposedly nice things. I think we call these qualities ‘nice’ simply because we don’t have a choice. We can’t hold onto our childlike assumptions because we’re scared that we’ll find ourselves alone if we do. Are we more accommodating out of love, or because we're scared to ask for better? Because somewhere, we can't fathom why anyone would want to give us more...? We’re convinced that if given the chance, people will hurt us. And so we start all relationships expecting to be hurt. Is that acceptance or settling?

I do it too. I have incredibly little faith in people and their goodness. I’m suspicious, wary and a little autistic when it comes to forming close bonds. I expect people to fail. Most of them live upto that expectation. Except my friends. I set very high standards for them. And so far, I’ve been mostly lucky. There had been bumps along the road, but my car had never crashed.

I call few people friends, but when I do, I believe it will last forever and ever. All other relationships come with a shelf-life, a sell-by date, but not friendships. Sure, sometimes things turn sour… Close friends start to get on my nerves and it sometimes takes months for the feeling to pass. But eventually, it always does. Friendship doesn’t come with the guarantee that you’ll never be hurt, but I honestly believed that friends don’t hurt friends unless they can help it… That if they could, they would protect our hearts from feeling pain. I believed the natural instinct was to protect, to shield, to help your soul to heal… Not destroy whatever is left of it after the world is done sawing through it… It never occured to me to think otherwise. There was only this one definition… As timeless and unquestionable as E=MC² .

I live in a ‘me first’ world… A world where the selfish gene always overpowers the giving one. In all other aspects of my life, I’ve learnt to accept, even imbibe, the rule. But not when it comes to my friends. The birthday parties might have been replaced by bachelorettes, but I’d still do everything in my power to make an important day that much more special. It’s as much for me as for them, because there’s no better feeling than knowing that I put that smile on my friend’s face. That joy is pure.. Undiluted and unadulterated. You don't want anything from it but for your friend to be the happiest in the world for that one moment. That's how I felt as a child and that's how I feel even now.

I thought I was well within my rights to ask for presents and expect to get them… That if I want a hug, I should be able to demand it… I truly believed that friendship was the only relationship that came without games… That there was no artifice, no subtexts, no reading between the lines. It was the only part of my life that was still black and white… And the colours were all solid and dependable… No shadows or shades lurking to catch me unawares.

But now I’ve realised that it’s time to let those beliefs go. That the blacks and whites were only a spectre of my imagination. People like that don’t exist. Even friends, given the right reason, will abandon you without a warning. I know now, because it has happened. Through all the warnings, all the doubts and all the inconsistencies, I refused to give in to the grown-up in me. I kept thinking that I’d given up on all relationships, I couldn’t give up on this one as well. And now I’m left feeling like a fool. And a trail of ‘I told you sos’ behind me. And questions that I’d never imagined I’d have to find answers for.

Right now, I feel raw, naked and exposed. And I feel a pain that I’ve never felt before… Because so far, this part of my heart had been protected by bubble-wrap. But now I know that friends don’t always protect you… That they’re not incapable of doing bad things to you… That if the stakes were made high enough, they would be okay with putting tears in your eyes.

In the last couple of days, I feel like my world has come crashing around my ears. I’d tried so hard, fought so hard to hold onto one part of me… I’d thought that if I could hold onto this one belief, stay true to one part of my old self, I’d be okay… That I’d be able to find my way back if I ever wanted to. But I guess it’s time to grow up. I guess it’s time to bury the child in me. Goodbyes always upset me… No many how many times I say it, it doesn’t get easier. But it’s only been this tough once before. How do you accept the death of the most treasured part of yourself?

I can’t remember the exact words, but Mark Twain once s aid something to the effect that as a child, I could remember anything… even the things that didn’t happen. As I grew older, I could only remember the things that did. Because they come with proof… I need proof too, now. There’s no blind faith anymore. No closing my eyes and jumping off the cliff, unless I’ve packed in the parachute myself…

It’s time to open up the door to let the greys in.

This is my last blog post… The last time I’ll let anyone peep into my heart and see exactly what’s in it… You’re one of the five people who will ever read this post. Because I think I owe you an explanation. And I know I’d never be able to say the words… Thankyou for living up to my sky-high expectations of you. I must’ve been a difficult friend, with all the dos and don’ts… Thankyou for everything you’ve done for me… It meant the world to me.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

I used to ponder over this question a lot while growing up. The problem was not that I didn’t know. The problem was that I knew too well. I’ve known from the time I was 13 that writing was all I really wanted to do. Even as mum tried to get me to pursue a degree in fine art and papa piled brochures of economics and MBA classes on my writing table, I always just knew.

I thought I’d stop asking myself the question after I landed my first job. It would be ridiculous not to, right? Because I’d managed to battle my way into the industry I’d wanted to be a part of. Small victory, but it mattered. And yet, the questions didn’t stop. Instead, their decibel levels just became higher.

Today, the sound of that question is deafening.

Because suddenly, I don’t want any of the things I thought I wanted. Suddenly, the definitions all seemed to have changed.

I’ve often been told, by people who claim to understand me, that I’m a very emotional person. The definition always makes me uneasy, but I’ve learnt to live with it. Because deep down, buried beneath the niceties, I think I’m a rather cold-hearted person. Because I find it extremely easy to detach myself from people—friends, colleagues, boyfriends, lovers…

There comes a point in every relationship when you throw in the towel. Decide that this is it, the person is not worth my time, energy and investment anymore. For some people that point comes after being repeatedly hurt by someone, after giving the person one chance too many, forgiving the person one time too many… For me, that point comes when the person starts to bore me. Emotionally or intellectually. And I think I reach that point too quickly, too easily and, a lot of the times, too painlessly. It’s frightening when you can immediately disassociate from people and your feelings for them. Out of sight and out of mind. It really is that easy. Which is why the definition bothers me… because THIS is NOT what I wanted to be when I grew up.

I wanted to be a good writer, good daughter, good sister, good girlfriend and eventually, a good wife even. But recently I’ve learned that it’s not easy being all these things, when inside, all you really care about is yourself and what you want from life for yourself. Not what your parents dream about for you, not what you think are the right aspirations to have, and certainly not what you’ve been told is the path to a successful, happy life is.

When you’re in an all-girls school, it takes you a while to understand that not all guys are like the SRK from the movies. It takes a while before you find out that most guys, are, well, assholes, to resort to cliches. But before you catch on, you go through the process of pointless discussions Love, or at least your idiotic idea of what it supposedly feels like, is a big part of all these many dreams and discussions. I went through the routine as well. At 16, I was convinced that I would marry my then boyfriend, make babies with him and live happily ever after.

Somewhere down the road, those convictions lost their grip. And I don’t say that bitterly, because I’ve realised that those convictions were never really my own. These were just the done things to want, to aspire to. Which is why, by the time I found out what really I wanted to be when I grow up, the question began to worry, and even scare me a little. Because the answer was not something that I expected.

I’ve been in a lot of semi-relationships. Lots of people meant lots of breakups. Predictably, at first it hurt terribly and I thought I’d never get over it. But then I learnt to be circumspect. I realised that I was only hurt because the person had taken away my idea of what a relationship should be like. I understood that the hurt was only about my ego, about the self-absorbed belief that every person I’m with should love me, that the universe owed me that. But most of us don’t understand that love isn’t an inalienable right, that it’s perfectly normal to go through life without ever truly being ‘in love’ with someone. And without having someone be ‘in love’ with us.

The fuckup happens when what you don’t have begins to completely eclipse what you do. How many of us can truly, and without a flicker of doubt, put love above all other things in life? I know I can’t. I’ve realised that unlike my mum, I couldn’t care less about finding the guy who I could make a marriage work with, that unlike my sister, I didn’t want a man who can take care of me, and unlike many of my friends, I couldn’t care less about signing and sealing the deal. I don’t care about the three big Ms in a single girl’s life: marriage, monogamy and money. The order might be interchangeable, but eventually, it generally boils down to this.

The things is, I like the rustle of money, but only when I’ve made it myself. I like the feel of power, but only when it’s mine. And I like being in love, but only when it’s convenient. This is NOT what I thought I’d be like when I grow up. I didn’t think running my show would matter so much to me, I didn’t know it would be so easy for me to dismiss people so completely and I definitely didn’t think I would be such a single girl—in my head and my heart.

And then last week, an out-of-the-blue conversation with a dear friend made me realise that self-discovery shouldn’t bother me so much. Because so what if the world taught you to live, speak and want a certain kind of things, so what if you now want the things you never thought of before, at least now you know what was going to make you happy. Imagine following dreams that were never yours. Imagine the crushing disappointment when you realise that after all the tradeoffs and tax deductions, you’re still nowhere close to finding fulfilment.

Why didn't I do it?

A couple of weeks ago, I really wanted to do something. It was that mad, impulsive moment when you really want something, and for once, that something is tantalisingly close... The opportunity was staring me in the face, all I needed was to reach out and make it mine...

And yet, I didn't.

Sometimes, courage fails you at the most inopportune moments. I'm not someone who suffers from confidence issues. Well, most of the time, anyway. And yet, in that moment, I couldn't get myself to take that leap of faith. Only because the idea of failing, of rejection, was too awful to contemplate. I thought it didn't matter. That it was just one lost moment, more would come along, but that really isn't true, is it? Because now that I realise I'm scared of the possible outcome, I know that the fear will paralyse me. And even if another such moment does come along, I probably won't do anything again.

Isn't love a little bit like that? We feel it, but don't say it--most times until it's too late. I truly believe that every relationship has a time and a place. And if you let that time and place pass, that relationship passes you by. I have friends who've ended up marrying their best friends and could not be happier. Just because they weren't scared to grab that one moment when their friend could have been something more and turned it into a lifetime of happiness. I'm not saying that that's the way to do things. I'm one of those girls that can't imagine marrying the guy who knows all my dirty secrets. But I do think that too many of us lose our best shot at happiness for reasons that seem too insignificant after life passes us by...

I was talking to Miss K a few weeks ago about our play and she told me something a grandmotherly figure had said to her, while she discussed love with another friend. "Bete, tumhare zamaane mein koi mohabbat nai karta," is what she said. Neither of us paid much attention to it then, but somehow, grandma's innocuous comment has stayed with us through all these weeks. It's something I think of every time any of my friends talk about their relationships.

It's sad, but it's true. No one in my world loves in the way we all secretly want to be loved. That madness is missing. That devil-may-care attitude is missing. Nobody sweeps anybody off their feet anymore. Nobody suddenly takes off from a meeting to be with someone anymore. Some of my friend's would say I'm just buying into the crap that Hallmark and SRK have been trying to sell to us for years now... Maybe it is. But don't we buy it only because deep down, that's really what we want? Why would an otherwise sane, focussed, successful career girl fall for an illusion of a man? And more importantly, why does that girl then go on to marry the guy she can make a successful marriage with, but not lose her heart to?

It all boils down to our risk appetites. And in my world, when it comes to matters of the heart, there's very little of it left. Most often, the stakes are simply too high. The gamble is too big. And the water is too deep to dive into.

And so we remain in the shallow end of the pool... Safe and secure... But every once in a while, we look at the deep end... And wonder... What it would be like to be swept along by the waves, how would the water feel over our heads, what swimming with the sharks would be like...

But we'll never find out, will we? Because hamare zamaane mein koi mohabbat nahi karta.

The patterns in life

Last week, a friend of mine was telling me about her dating pattern. She's recently started seeing a healer and says that it's made a world of difference to the way she sees herself and her relationships. And she says she's finally identified the problem that makes her fall for the worst kind of men. And I'm not even talking about bad boys. Because bad boys are predictable and almost always follow a universal pattern. The way I see it, my friend seems to have a thing for emotional wrecks. Men who think they want something and the moment they get it, they want something else. So her dating, semi-dating and fling history consists of a series of men that have spent the best years of their life fumbling around in the dark. Nothing wrong with that, but only until you don't hurt other people in the process. And my friend's been hurt, multiple times.

Her newfound realisation about her dating pattern got me thinking about the patterns in my life. And the only unfailing constant in my relationships is that all of them are destined to fail. From day one. So my pattern seems to be impossible relationships. I seem to be incapable of being in a healthy, happy relationship. You'd think that the realisation would leave a bitter taste in my mouth. But it didn't. Because I guess it's one of those truths that my heart has decided that my mind can finally handle.

Thinking about this pattern also got me thinking about the reasons behind it. I don't know why, but all of last night, I wrestled with my comforter, almost like my mind refused to shut down till I found an answer. Like it was imperative I find this piece of the puzzle that very night. And so I did something that I haven't done in a long long time. I called V.

Because he's the only person I know who can make sense of my madness. Maybe that's the reason we lasted for as long as we did. Because I could cling to him every time the questions in my head scared me. Because he could make me believe that eventually, I'd figure it all out. I needed to know if he'd seen my relationship pattern before I had. He had.

V has a theory. One that makes sense but is too awful to contemplate. According to him, I have so little faith in people, particularly men, that I gravitate towards the ones that will do exactly what I believe they will--hurt me. And the ones that seem like they won't, scare me. Because then I'd have to relinquish some control over my heart. And because I am a creature of the mind, this is something I will simply not be permitted to do. And so I go along life, one hopeless date after another.

V also believes that my lack of faith comes from that time of my life that I never let myself think about. But yesterday, the memories refused to lie still. And V would not let it go. When I was 10, someone in my family did something bad to me. I was in his house, sleeping next to his daughter in her bed, when it happened. He didn't rape me, but I felt violated. I remember shrinking into the bed, confused, scared and guilty. Confused because family shouldn't make you feel threatened, scared because I didn't feel safe anymore and guilty for thinking such thoughts about a man who was supposed to be like my father. I stayed in his house for three more days and we'd go out every night. And every time we went out, I wondered whether it was pure coincidence or design that he happened to be seated next to me during the movie, at dinner, at the ice-cream parlour. Each time there was even the remotest possibility of him touching me, I would scurry around the place like a demented child. I didn't sleep a wink in the time I was there. But I'd lie huddled next to my cousin, pretending to be asleep, as still as a dead body, while he stood looking at us in the doorway. The tears would come only after he'd finally go away.

Time moved on and eventually, I forgot about it. Completely. I buried the memory down so deep that it was like nothing had ever happened. It was like someone had wiped that time from my memories. I still saw uncle at family functions and during vacations. He'd joke with my parents, praise my marks and I'd smile back happily. But somehow, I never went back to his house.

Then a year-and-a-half ago, while V and I were going through a particularly rough time, I went to a hypnotherapist to seek answers. And that's when the memories came rushing back. And now, every time I think of Uncle, all I can see is his large looming figure blocking the doorway, blocking my only route to escape, as I peered, petrified, from under the sheets. For all the years that I buried them deep inside, hoping that they'd die, the memories are now more alive than some of the people I move around with.

V says that the doorway is my relationship pattern, that I always have one foot jammed at the entrance, keeping the door ajar, in case I need to bolt. Which is why I only go for men that allow me to keep not just a foot, but one leg out of the door. Because I don't believe there can come a time when I won't want to run. V says that the closest I've come is with him, and although I'd let go of the door, I still had my eye on the fire escape. And when the time came, I did use it.

Is it time to finally leave my spot near the door? I don't know. Should I decide to do it, will I be able to, even? I sure hope so. A few weeks ago, I was in bed with one of the Mr Inappropriates. Our relationship, or at least one part of it, is over. But I was still somehow in bed with him. Because that night, I just needed to not be alone. And he's actually a nice guy when he wants to be. Sometime in the middle of the night, I hugged him. It wasn't a sexual touch, it was an intimate one. Because I wanted to be held. And I wanted to feel safe. It's surprising how often one has every luxury in the world but not a basic need. But he shrugged me away. And although it shouldn't matter, because I've been equally blase about relationships based on nothing in the past, that night it stung. Painfully. Maybe that was the cue my heart had been waiting for, a sign that it could now go ahead and tell my mind something that would cause it distress. That maybe it's time to make a conscious attempt to break my own pattern.

It would be easier to put it off for another day. Give myself some more time to accept my truth. But deep down, I know that it's time to let the wound heal. It's been festering for too long. And writing this post is the first step in that direction. I hope some day soon, it sees the light of the day.

Life is larger than logic

Life is larger than logic

It was a dialogue in a movie. But when I heard it, it first made me smile and then cry a little bit. Now normally I’m not a very tears person, but this year promises to compensate for the previous 23. The dialogue struck a chord. Probably because lately, I’ve been feeling rather down and out. A little useless and hugely untalented. And it doesn’t help when people close to you decide to pick such a time to tell you how illogical and juvenile they think you are.

Which made me wonder, what exactly does juvenile mean? And considering I don’t quite seem to see juvenile-ness where others do, I probably don’t understand what maturity means either. So I thought I’d define it. Does juvenile mean walking out of the house at 3 am because you’re too scared to sleep, or is juvenile the act of taking someone’s demons and converting them into social currency? Is it juvenile when you either never ask for advice or never take it, or is it when all you ever do is agree with a more worldly-wise person's views on how you must lead your life? Is juvenile the spoilt little princess, or the adult who resents her her accident of birth? Is it juvenile when you make a mistake knowingly, even if you’re prepared for the consequences, or is it when you’re so afraid of finding a glitch in carefully laid plans that you never take the risk? And most importantly, is juvenile a function of age, or a story we concoct so we feel better about the choices we make and the life we’ve chosen to lead?

I was talking to my friend Z the other day and she said that as often as they’ve landed me in trouble, she would have loved to make some of the mistakes I made. Now Z is a girl who has spent the better part of her life trying to get me to “mend my ways”, as she calls it. In kindergarten, it was by getting me to sharpen my pencils before class; in middle school, it was by ensuring that my homework was done; in high school, she’d stop me from needling my most-hated teacher; in college, it was by calling me five thousand times a day to remind me of all the horrible things that would happen if I went out with the bad boy. Ever since I turned 18, she’s been terrified that one day, I’ll fall in love with a man twice my age and end up pregnant and barefoot in his kitchen. She often jokes that hopefully, when that day came, at least I’ll be married to the asshole and can claim the one-bedroom apartment in the chawl that we’ll no doubt live in. She is like a mini-parent, but in a nice way, because she won’t embark on emotional onslaught to get me to do what she thinks is right. She’ll just sigh and mutter “sudhar jaa” 500 times, every time I tell her about my latest adventure.

Considering all this, I was rather surprised to hear Z say that she envied my “mistakes”. Because Z is one of the most practical, poised and perfect people I know. Her responses are always measured—whether they are to people or situations. She does what needs to be done and when it needs to be done. I have never seen her as grossly underprepared for exams as I usually was. Nor have I seen her lose her temper over nothing issues, stamp her feet in irritation or be impolite unless it can be helped. The one time she called me up at midnight to cry and wouldn’t tell why, I decided that either she was pregnant and didn’t have the money for abortion, or was being blackmailed by an asshole ex-boyfriend over a vacation she may have lied to her parents about. I remember furiously calculating how much money Z, D and I could raise for the abortion/ blackmailer to shut up, if the three of us didn’t shop, eat or go out for a couple of months. I can’t recall what the “emergency” was, but I do remember laughing my guts out when we finally found out, huddled over a corner table at Barista the next day. We were 17 then. And I hadn’t still figured out that such situations simply didn’t arise in Z’s life. She was much too sensible for that. These things were more up my alley. Not quite, but close.

I must admit that it felt good. After the battering that my confidence had taken at the hands of my more “mature and together” friends, it felt good to hear someone like Z tell me she envied the very thing that was making me feel like the black sheep of my social set. Because she’s one of the very few people that I have ever respected. We may not always agree and our way of living life might be diametrically opposite, but the respect I have for her is impregnable.

When I asked her why, she went quiet for a few seconds. And then asked me, “When was the last time you did something stupid and regretted it?” And I didn’t have an answer. Because I could say that I regretted having gotten involved with some people for all the heartache it has caused me, that I regretted picking the bad boy over the nice guy, that I regretted quitting my job without finding another one first, and I regretted running away from home every other weekend. But the truth is, I don’t. Because even while I was making these seemingly wild and pointless decisions, I knew why I needed to do it. “So as long as you know why you did what you did, the reasons make sense to you and you’re prepared to deal with what the ‘morning after’ will throw at you, why the fuck do you care what anyone thinks?” she said, almost as if she was bored of the conversation, because the answer was so painfully obvious. “Of all the times that you refused to listen to anyone, you decide to start now, when you’re finally old enough to make decisions and not have them questioned by the world and its cousin?”

Again, I didn’t have an answer to her question. Why did I care what anyone thought. I never have, then why did I suddenly start? And then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “Sure, there are people who’ll think twice and then reconfirm before making a decision, but amidst all the thinking, we miss out on the feeling part. You don’t. Which is fantastic. It might be illogical, crazy and wild, but people who know you, know that when you feel something for them, it’s one hundred per cent true. You know how loved you made V feel? Why do you think that idiot can’t stick with his wife? And D and I can’t imagine you cheating on us. You know how rare it is to feel this sure of someone?”

And that’s when I teared up again. It feels good to know that someone gets it, gets you. Because no matter how much you tell yourself that you live life on your own terms, everyone needs someone. Like I’ve said earlier, up until a while ago, I didn’t really believe in soulmates, but maybe such a thing exists. In my case, my soulmates are my friends. There’s B, who’s long accepted that asking me not to overthink and overfeel is a massive waste of time. Then there are D and Z, who, after almost two decades of friendship, still don’t know what to do with me. So they just love me. Without questions, judgements or conditions. Illogical, as my relationships might be, they’re precious. Because life is larger than logic.

Monday, motherhood and men

Last week was a week of many firsts. It was my first week as the editor of a magazine, the first time I felt like a parent and the very first time I’ve looked at sex as something more than the union of two bodies.

Lets start at the start. On Monday, I started my new job as the editor of an upcoming webzine. To say that I had had apprehensions about the job would be an understatement. In a fit of stubbornness, I hadn’t discussed the offer with any of the people I would have normally turned to for advice. So I’m incredibly thankful and relieved that the job is everything I had hoped for after one-and-a-half-years at a boot-camplike job.

Next, the part about feeling like a parent. My office has a little stray kitten who we call Ek, for no reason more intelligent than the fact that he was less than a week old when he was found abandoned in a dumpster. And now he’s part of a loving family of three dogs and two very moody cats. Ek is a little brat, spoilt by the loudmouth Janice and the picky eater Naomi, and watched over by Tyler, the fatty of the house. The kutta-log, as we call the three dogs, are Ek’s protectors and pamperers. Ek scrambles around the house, mewling loudly when he feels ignored, while the three dogs tiptoe around him, careful not to hurt the six-inch-long ball of fur. And every time I look at them, my heart melts. Maybe it’s got something to do with playing the editor of a parenting magazine, or maybe it’s the aunt in me reacting to the separation issues I'm going through at the moment, but my world seems to revolve around babies these days--human or animal. The first time I fed the screaming, kicking Ek, I felt my heart squeeze and morph into a big blob of mush. Yes, me. Imagine that. Suddenly, all I want from life is a baby. A gurgling with laughter, running around the house like a mad puppy kind of little girl or boy. No? Then at least a little puppy or kitten who'll rush excitedly to the door when I come back home.

And last, the part about sex being more than just a physical thing. We’ve already established that in that department, considering what my friends have to say about their sex lives, it would be fair to assume that I’ve been pretty lucky. But even so, sex, although an intensely pleasurable activity, has been just that--an activity. I’ve never been big on all the spirituality and soul mates talk. Turns out, there might be something to it, after all.

Last week, I went for an alternate youth culture party (Make what you will of that!). I met a very interesting person, let’s call him Mr A, there. I don’t know whether he’s single, married or in a relationship, but I can say one thing for sure--if there’s one man who knows how to make a woman happy, it’s him. No, I don’t know this because I tumbled into bed with him, with some people, you just know. The way they look at you, the way they listen to you, simply the way they hold your hand while steering you in a crowd, positively screams eroticism. And not in a trashy, booty call way, but in a way that makes you feel like you’re being wooed, like you’re a treasure that needs to be explored, cherished and only then plundered. A considerable number of drinks later, my brain to mouth filter had all but vanished and I told him how hot I found his attitude. And that’s how we got talking.

And talking to the man was by far the most intensely erotic experience I’ve ever had. Barring nothing. The men has refined the act of sex to an art form. I have never met a man so in tune with a woman’s responses. We’ve all had times when we wanted our men to stop fumbling about, to take us like cavemen, against the door, by the bed, in the kitchen… yes, for the men who didn’t know, sometimes, we couldn’t care less about foreplay. For some of us, tender is highly overrated, altogether dispensable even. But that lends itself to another post altogether.

Anyway, I would be very surprised if any woman with Mr A has ever had that problem. The man seemed to know bloody everything. He even knew what I was imagining doing to him, at one point in the night. Our only real physical contact in all the time we were together when he took my hand while navigating through the crowd, and again, when he hugged me goodbye. I’ve read about exquisite torture, but you don’t really know what that means until you meet a person like Mr A. He’s not the most good-looking of them all, not even the funniest or the most charming, but there’s something about him that will make you look a second time. In my case, it was because he was the only one in the group who understood the reference to what I was saying. (Yes, I‘m deliberately being vague here.) We were going to meet at a party the next night, but as luck would have it, I didn’t end up going. I don’t know what might have happened if I had. And I guess I’ll never know. But that doesn’t bother me much. For a while now I’ve been telling my friends that I’d love to meet someone who taught me something new. Or someone who made me break my rules. Mr A made me do both. Without even touching me, he‘s got me so tightly strung, I could snap any moment. It‘s not a feeling I’m too familiar with. And I’m loving it. If this is foreplay, perhaps it isn’t so bad, after all.