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.

What is self-destruction?

As usual, this was a question that came to me while talking to a friend. Mr K, in this instance. Am I self-destructing by hiding my feelings from Mr D? Seeing him going through women like we’re an endangered species, while dying a little every time I see the overcrowded notches on his bedpost? Would it be better if I just blurted it out, let him deal with the daunting prospect of our relationship never being the same again? A part of me is sorely tempted to do just that. After all, it’s at least half his fault that I’m so hopelessly in love with him. Why should he not have to deal with all the baggage that comes with an impossible love like this one?

Another part, the one that’s completely at the mercy of my pride and ego, won’t let me say it. How can I possibly let something as ephemeral as an emotion get the better of me? That’s the part that believes that licking your wounds in private is infinitely better than having to ask someone for balm. This part of me would die, actually die, if I ever get around to saying ‘I love you’ without a 100 per cent guarantee that the sentiment will be reciprocated. With more intensity than I put into it. And so I suffer. Not quietly, as many of my friends, particularly Ms N, will attest to. But I do. And I continue to meet him. Every fucking time he wants to. Again, a saner and smarter person would probably remove themselves from the presence of their torturer. But not me. I’ll dig my heels in and stand taller. Is that self-destructive? Mr B thinks so.

Mr B also thinks I have a disgusting propensity to seek disaster. He says I’m one of those dumb idiots who’ll cut off their noses to spite their faces. Not surprisingly, his declarations are followed by icy glares and long silences on my part and rolling of eyes from his. But every time he holds up the not-so-flattering mirror and forces me to look into it, I have no option but to confront the disconcerting thought--am I self-destructive? Maybe I am. Okay, truth be told, there’s no maybe about it. I am an idiot. Consider Exhibit A: He’s well-read, well-dressed, well-educated, well everything. He’s environmentally conscious, sensitive, perceptive and great in bed. Check, check, check and OMG, check. He’s the forever kind of guy. The Jacob Black of the boy world. And sadly, like Jake, he’s always going to be an option, not a priority.

So what is he doing wasting his time with me? My guess is as good as anybody’s. Slumming it out, I suppose. Or he’s just as much of an idiot as I am. Ms N and I have dedicated many BBM hours wondering how such a guy hasn’t been lapped up by the very hungry, very deprived and very predatory population of intelligent single girls in the city. And after I’m done feeling pathetic and guilty as hell for kicking around a guy as great as him, Ms N and I just decide that it’s one of those rare strokes of luck. The few things that get past Mr Murphy’s radar and happen to you. Although deep down, you feel like you just don’t deserve it. And deeper down, you know you don’t. Which is why you should stop at the second electric blue iced tea. The minute you order the third, you’re in trouble. Because that’s the one that will take you past your ridiculously happy reality and into the scary, dark place where all these uncomfortable truths lie dormant. But that’s besides the point. Coming back to Exhibit A. I was with him last night, helping him pack for London, when the differences between him and Mr D became so startlingly obvious, I wanted to yank my heart out of the rib cage and smack it against the wall till it was ready to listen to reason.

Mr D is messy, selfish, obnoxious and always broke. Which would have been okay if he was a student. Except he’s not. And hasn’t been one for a while. He’s Barney Stinson. But without the money. And yet, every time he calls, every time he messages, I light up. It doesn’t matter whether I talk to him for 15 minutes or 1 hour 15, but talk to him, I must. Everyday. I try to pretend that it doesn’t matter, that he’s just any other friend that I’m happy to talk to at whatever time of the day or night, and that I don’t torture myself with thoughts of who he’s serenading on the nights he doesn’t call me, but I know that that’s not true. For someone who’s always had more pride than needed, it’s a rather large helping of humble pie to digest in one go. I’ve broken pretty much all my dating-dance rules for him. Except one: I simply will not call him. No matter how much I want to hear his voice or see his face, I will never ask him to meet me. The ego won’t allow me to become one of those needy, clingy women that come with the ‘Fragile. Handle with care’ signs screaming from their foreheads. So he has no idea that I wait for his calls with a longing that borders on desperation. Pretty pathetic, isn’t it?

A week ago, after 3 days of not having heard a word from Mr D, I called up Mr B in a stinking, foul mood. I hated him for what he was doing to my head and I hated myself for letting him do it. Except, since he had no idea, in all fairness, his behaviour was completely in character. Mr B heard me rave, rant and bitch. And then calmly told me to stop behaving like a 16-year-old girl with raging hormones. That hurt. Big time. And so I decided to give him the silent treatment. But in the way that only your very closest friends can say the nastiest things to you to jolt you back to reality and get away with it, I realised that Mr B was right. I really did need to make a decision about this idiotic situation and see it through.

I had two options: either tell Mr D what’s going on and see where that leads, or, if I was convinced that nothing could be gained by going down that road; to cut him off, wait till I stopped feeling quite so much and then get back to our friendship. And if I was brutally honest with myself, if I did go cold turkey, Mr D would probably just be surprised, maybe ask me why I was being weird and then decide that I would come around eventually. He’d probably just get on with it, onto the next girl and onto the next level of his grand seduction game. So where does that leave me? Exactly where I started. In the middle of a mess of my own making.

I hadn’t decided what I was going to do, and then something else happened. A few of us friends were out for dinner a couple of nights ago. One amongst us really wanted to meet the current flame. They’re in that strange space where you’re intimate enough to know that friendship is a milestone you crossed a long time ago, but you haven’t quite reached the relationship stage yet. Now if you’re both happy enough to be in the middle ground, this no man’s land of the dating game, it’s fine. But if one of you wants to move in one direction while the other wants to stay put, it’s a problem. A big one. And in this case, until that night, I was under the impression that this friend wanted a relationship while the boy was happy to be in no man‘s land. Which is why I kept ignoring her fidgetiness and distractedness over dinner. I was not going to encourage her to go meet him because I thought it was going to screw her up eventually. Yes, talk about the pot calling the kettle black. But then again, it’s always easier to hit on the solutions when the problem is someone else’s. But as I ignored her restlessness, another friend, who knew exactly what was going on as well, decided that self-destructive or not, if she wanted to, she should go and meet the boy. Now this guy hates the boy’s guts, for whatever reason, but he still held our friend by the hand and took her to meet him. All because that’s what she wanted. It might not have made sense, and he’s probably going to be the shoulder she’s going to cry on if, or when, she realises that she’s in deeper than she thought, but he still did it. And although we had a mini-argument about him sending her off, I couldn’t help but thinking that maybe I’d be better off if I didn’t have quite so many rules, if I didn’t stop myself every time I wanted to pick up the phone and ask Mr D to meet me.

Maybe, at the end of this road there is heartbreak. But it’s not like my cup is overflowing right now, anyway. If it’s my lot in life to be miserable in love, wouldn’t I rather be miserable with him than without? Because cliché as it is, pride really is a very cold bedfellow. And I know that despite all his you-have-to-grow-up speeches, when the chips are down, Mr B will be around to help pick up the pieces. Because he’s used to me not listening to him and landing in trouble. And after the fifth I-told-you-so, he’ll forget about being angry with me for being an emotional pushover.

Yesterday, Mr D asked me to go away with him for a mini-vacation. I think he needs a break from all the sex he’s been having. Do I want to go? Hell, yeah. Will I actually go? I think I just might.

So yes, I most certainly am self-destructive. But if I wasn’t, I’d hardly be me.

Sex is the simplest part of a relationship, why do we make it the most difficult?

A couple of weeks ago, I had some very interesting conversations with a few friends. All separate conversations, with widely different personalities, but the topic was the same: relationships and sex. Now if there’s one thing on earth that ALL of us--regardless of the depth of our experience--have an opinion about, it’s love and sex. Which is fine. Until you confuse the two. Or worse, believe that the two have a cause and effect relationship. Mr D seems to think that most people, particularly women, cannot view the two as separate and wholly independent entities. My friend, Mr K, agrees with Mr D. Which is not to say that they think women assume love where there really isn’t any (which, in many cases, might not be entirely untrue). What they
mean is that sex shouldn’t define your relationship, love should. And sometimes, love doesn’t come in a neatly packed, signed and delivered package called monogamy. So does that mean it’s a lesser love? I don’t think so.

For most of us, sex comes naturally. We’ve all experimented, rebelled, been madly in love and had flings. And I’m assuming sex has played a fairly regular part in all these phases. Sometimes as a much-awaited houseguest, other times as a regularly visiting friend, but it’s never been a ghost that you only dream about when you’re alone at night… At least I hope it hasn’t. So as somebody who’s had a quickie under the bar just for the thrill of it, and enjoyed it thoroughly, I refuse to judge my relationship on the basis of who I did, or didn’t do. Would my romp under the bar have been any less enjoyable if I’d had a boyfriend waiting back at home? Probably not. Because that romp wasn’t inspired by the desire to share my thoughts, hopes and dreams with the hottie with a three-year subscription of Maxim. My relationships, on the other hand, are. Which is why they are infinitely more important and worth investing in.

An average relationship has several benchmarks. The first time you kiss, the first time he holds your hand in public, the first time you speak till 5am despite an early start the next day and the first time you have sex. But that’s only one part of it. The shiny packaging on the Pandora’s box that accompanies most relationships. Beneath the packaging are a whole host of other firsts. The first time you decide that finishing your story is more important than keeping your waxing appointment, the first time he doesn’t rush out of the room when he feels the need to fart, the first time you pick flannel pyjamas instead of lacy bits of nothing and the first time he smiles back at the bombshell flirting with him from across the bar. All the not-so-pleasant trappings that come with sharing your world with someone.

For most of us, the shivers running up our spines and hammering pulse rates settle after the twentieth time he kisses you or holds your hand. Or two hundredth, if you’re the overly romantic kind. But subside it will. And somewhere, at the back of our minds, the yearning for the thrill of the first kiss begins. We begin to long for the feeling that comes with being wooed and seduced, with being wined and dined. The heart might still belong to the girlfriend who’s the only person alive who understands your rocky relationship with your parents, and she’s probably still the only girl you actually want to hug and sleep with after sex, but it’s undeniable that the mind
wanders, weighs the possibilities and imagines things that we would never admit to. All because we’re in committed relationships and loyal partners don’t think about other men and women like that. But we do. Then why don’t we admit? And why do we judge people who do? Now if you’re the kind that can make peace with the flights of fancy and locker-room talk, more power to you. But some of us aren’t. Which doesn’t make anyone better than anyone else. It just makes one set of people different from the other.

Coming back to my relationships, or relationship, considering my grand total is one, it was nothing like I imagined. But everything that I could have possibly wanted. There were nerve-wracking moments, pounding hearts, murderous rages, crazy dates and mad fun. And sex, lots and lots of it. With each other, with others, with each other AND others and whatnot. We tried monogamy, for six whole months, but it didn’t work. We were miserable and the relationship would probably not have lasted as long as it did if we’d decided to stick to the gospel. At the end of the six months, we could have called it quits, gone our separate ways and probably been happy. But we didn’t. Because he was still the only one I wanted to be with. And I was the only one he could be his arrogant, asshole self with. So we decided to stick it out.

Only this time, there were no rules about who we could sleep with or couldn’t. We both had our reasons. I wasn’t prepared to give up my childhood for the relationship and he wasn’t okay with having sex once in three months, which was how often we usually met. And so we stayed together, doing our own thing and living by our own rules, most of them so weird that our friends still don’t know whether we were ever actually together. Those were four of the best years of my life. Sure, there were fights, an alarmingly large number of them. But only because we’re both
stubborn as mules. I hated his arrogance, he hated my vagueness. I hated that he expected me to magically read his mind, he hated that I never answered any question straight. Adjusting to each other’s eccentricities took time. And patience. Something that neither of us had an abundance of. Imagine complicating an already difficult relationship by adding sex to the list of things to fight about. Something that both of us enjoyed immensely. Then why change the status quo? Why fix something that wasn’t broken? Simply so that our relationship could fit into a convenient label?

My friend M says that we spend 80 per cent of our time worrying about things that are 20 per cent important in out lives. And leave only 20 per cent for the truly important 80 per cent things. I think he might be right. Which is not to say that sex was only 20 per cent important in our relationship. But there were other things that were equally important. Things that needed our time to fix and mould, time that we would have probably spent bickering if we’d decided to continue with monogamy. So we spent the precious little time we had together exploring each others minds. And by the time we finally split up, I knew him almost as well as I knew myself. I knew what his looks meant, what was going on in his head and the exact moment when he switched off from a conversation. I had his heart early into the relationship, but by the end of
it, I had his mind. And that’s the most powerful aphrodisiac there is. V once told me that orgasms with me started in the head and then moved on to his body. That night, we had the most spectacular sex of our lives. His thoughts were all mine, and that was power so addictive that I couldn’t think of relinquishing it. I could share his body, but not his brain.

What I learnt from the relationship was that I’m a very possessive girl. Only, possessing the body means little to me. V made me the queen bee, and now I find it difficult to abdicate. I realised this a few days ago, while talking to Mr D. It would be all too easy to become a part of his harem, there’s enough sexual energy between us to light a village, but somehow, that’s just not good enough. His mind still hasn’t found The One. And even though it’s an incredibly selfish thought, I hope he doesn’t find her till I’ve fallen out of love with him.

For the first time in my life, I feel like someone’s dirty little secret. And it’s a hateful feeling. Karma really is a bitch, and it’s come back to bite me in the ass. And how.

More on that later. For now, this is it.

Would you rather be an emotional fool or a heartless bitch?

Somehow, I've never been able to decide what I'd rather be. There are days when I feel invincible, like nothing and no one can hurt me. Those days are fantastic. I write brilliantly, focus on the goal and make life work exactly the way I want it to. But most often than not, those days are followed by nights that are excruciatingly lonely and pitifully silent.

Other days, I'm a blithering mass of emotions. Like I have been this past week. And no, unfortunately, it's not just PMS.

A few days ago, I realised I was hopelessly in love with a person I shall henceforth refer to as Mr D. Simply because he's a friend and I never want to be at the receiving end of that part-pitiful and part-knowing smile that one gives to the friend that has gone and fallen in love with Mr Wrong.

So what do you do when you're in love with a person you can never reveal your feelings to? Do you bury your head in the sand and wish the feeling away? Or do you go on a rampage to try and find a replacement? I've tried both, and neither solution seems to be working. For almost a week now, I've been wondering what to do with this newly-acquired information. A part of me wishes I'd never realised how I really felt about Mr D, that we could have continued living in our parallel universes that come together only when friendship demands it. That's the part that has to grin and make jokes even when the heart feels like it's being ripped apart and fed to the shredders. Then there is the other part--the one that lights up when he calls, wills the BlackBerry to buzz during the day and dies a little every time I look at the phone in anticipation, only to find it's just another message from someone I couldn't care less about. Against my better judgement, I've given Mr D the terrifying power to hurt me in a way that I've only ever allowed one other person to. But the strange part is, despite the confusion and emotional chaos it's causing, I'm not sure I want this feeling to go away. Sure, my mind would much rather have me feeling nothing if I can't get myself to fall in love with the pre-approved Mr Right, but even if it cuts me up and threatens to choke me, the heart is happier for being in love with Mr D. That's the funny thing about love. Even when it makes you miserable, you don't want to fall out of it.

Which is what brings me to the original question--would I rather be heartless than have to deal with the inevitable heartache?

They say one is a lonely number. It isn't. The loneliest number is the one you get when you add one plus one but the answer's never quite two. Something like a marriage that neither partner feels like they belong to. I guess there are fates worse than knowing exactly who you're meant to be with and not being able to do anything about it.

Yes, I am now accepting donations to pay for therapy.