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Archive for the ‘With a little help from my frunds.’ Category

What do you see?

What do you see?

¡Que Guapo!

Retro, i see a cute football player, I have the hots for Cesc Fabregas. You only see the Arsenal shirt, don’t you?

At least give it to me, I find cute football players in the RIGHT team.

Torres was also being considered.

Fernando Torres.

Fernando Torres.

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A while back.

You know about Jake and Murray, yes you do, dear reader.

And isn’t it obvious that I will have had the best two days in recent times in their company, in NYC? Theirs have been parallel, eventful mini-lives to mine as well…

Murray has become warmer, more human, Jake and I agree.

I have become more mature, Murray and Jake agree.

And Jake, thankfully, has not changed at all, Murray and I agree.

This, readers, is the best case scenario.

They have never been judgmental. They have had great lives themselves, and have wonderful stories to share.

There’s respect. There’s banter. And surprising as it is for different brands of macho retrosexual jocks, there’s affection.

I am glad I know these guys.

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You have excellent English!

Mentioned the Boston-Brahmin to me. You know the concept of whites and grammar, you read stuff white people like, don’t you?

But somehow, I am not chuffed, as Indians are expected to be when similarly praised by whites. There is something just not correct here.

Well, we both got it from the same source, the English! I mention.

He is way senior to me in the organization, but we get along really well, so instead of getting angry, he smiles it away. Backs off.

So, touche, Mword.

There is no reason to be proud of me for having gone on a trip alone.

I understand. Wrong compliment.

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After coming back, the toughest part has been answering questions on why I decided to travel alone. (I did get the question there a lot as well, but they seemed a little less judgmental.)

Ma finally hyper reacted, like I had originally expected her to. I told her about the little fight, she blew her top saying I should let JT be. That he cares, that she is scared. She said in her own characteristic way one or many of the following –

– You are mad. You will drive PD mad.
– I will send him a blanket and an umbrella. He would have to become a monk.
– He made a mistake marrying you.
– I haven’t told anyone, I am ashamed of you.
– The whole family is mad. All you people are like this.
– This is not the way to live your life.
– Why cant you want normal things?

I was terribly jetlagged and she could have well played against the mother stereotype. So to match the drama, I hung up on her. Ekta Kapoor could have taken tips from us.

I secretly hope she doesn’t mean it when she says all of that. I really hope. Even if she did, I really don’t think I can do much to change her or help the cause. So all I need to learn is to not let it bother me. I am 28 (drumroll), and one has to come up with a number they set for themselves after which it would be okay to say fuck without checking from the corner of your eye if your parents are within earshot. I had set the number to 27. And even then –

Going into the “It’s my life” rhetoric would be easy. I could say it’s none of anyone’s business, but that would make me a rebel without a cause who wears a weed t-shirt to prove they have a “life”. I am not interested in that. What I truly felt, is that a human being is capable of finite number of experiences. And there is nothing wrong in being greedy for new ones. One should NOT be ashamed of wanting them.

And I know that everytime I step aside from three weeks of rigmarole to experience something new, I am learning to stand tall against fear. And stepping aside from mediocrity, even if it’s ever so slightly. And I will have to go through this cycle again.

And trust me, given a choice, I will do it again. And again.

And in that way, I realized why people are scared of getting married. It just changes something the way people perceive you. I could have well been 35 and seeing PD, and it would have been fine to travel alone. But being wrapped around his finger at 28 is not the same.

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There are three sections I categorize my male friends under. A, the type who can’t stop talking about how much alcohol I can guzzle. B, the type who assume the role of the protector, and can’t stop talking about how insane or mad I am. And C – the ones who are genuinely happy for me, and cant stop talking about why I should not be afraid.

JT and I have known each other for the longest time. We are very different people and if and when you find us in the same room, you would be surprised we even know each other. And in any case, we haven’t spent much time together in the same place, but phone calls and emails always worked. For everyone. Over years we grew close. Hell, he even knew my password at one point of time. I did confide in him to get an opinion, to get the occasional reassurance.

JT takes the role of the protector seriously. He worries about my well being, worries about who I meet and worries about how long I stay out and how much I drink. He even worries about what I write on my blog, and if I indeed am in trouble. Much more than PD. PD has a sense of trust in me, JT doesn’t. I thought being married would change it all for him, that he will be busy with his wife and times. Doesn’t seem to have done a thing. Needless to say, when I informed him I was doing this trip thing on my own, he freaked out. Needless to say, he was the last person I dared to inform. He asked me four hundred questions of hows and whys and how-could-you and why-should-I. Needless to say, it upset me to no end. Because I assumed he would be happy for me.

So during the trip, I made the (fatal?) mistake of sending him my phone number to inform I was safe and sound. Which started a barrage of texts and phone calls at odd hours – real late nights, real early mornings.

I accidentally left my phone at home one day, came back to see 6 texts all of which said “I am freaking out here, there is noone I know who is with you, call me back, text me back, why did you have to do this?”. I called him back the next day, a little unsettled, and said “I am fine. Safe. And, I assumed you would be happy for me”.

Then that day, in the height of all that excitement, there were only two people in the world I wanted to share it with (PD not being one of them! And sorry Retro, I didn’t have your phone number). JT called, I screamed on top of the crowds’ euphoria saying he will have to call back in 10 for it was all madness and that I really want to tell him what was going on. Like, give him a live feed. He texted back saying he is freaking out, he is worried about me getting back home. He didn’t pause for a second. I assumed, he wasn’t happy for me.

That did it for me. I called him back in ten, and fought back. People around me assumed I was fighting with my boyfriend. After which, I didn’t take his calls, or reply to his texts. Occasionally 6-7 would come at one go. Some would threaten. Some would say “Screw you. Goodbye”. I didn’t reply. I didn’t pick up the phone. I did a mean thing, I know, but it was getting too much for me to deal with. And I wanted a peaceful 7 days.

He is like family. And family is entitled to obsess. But more than anything, he is a friend, and it bothers me to see that I can’t be honest to him. That I am so afraid of him.

And I really am not sure if I need to explain to him. I have no siblings, so I am not sure how this elderbrotherlylove thing works (Post idea: Retro). I feel 28. Old enough to not inform people constantly of my whereabouts. To PD, maybe. My parents should have realized by now that it’s an impossible task. (I left home roughly 10 years ago) And I realize, again, that people (family or otherwise) will do this to me only if I give them the liberty to believe I am answerable to them. Constantly.

I know this too shall pass. We will patch up and apologize. But I am heartbroken, somewhat.

And in a moment, I have figured what really makes a friendship tick: it’s honesty. You can have selective truths in a marriage, but not in a friendship. I should have the guts to tell you everything. Don’t get me wrong, I want you to worry. I want you to care. I want you to ask if I am doing fine. But all that shouldn’t take over the one premise that’s precious in friendships, that I want to very unselfishly share my emotions and experiences sans fear.

PS: There is no reason to be proud of me for having gone on a trip alone. (My mother now claims, she is ashamed of me) There were 20 other <25 year olds. At least at my age I can pay my way out of troubles.

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is Bluegrass….

The question, if you were wondering, was asked a while back….

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You are lost, mind you. You haven’t lost, you haven’t lost it, you just are lost.

You were never gregarious. You were snappy. You were fun alright, and good ….

And we, all of us, had the need for people. Four years in a hostel make us needy. Make us needy for other people. For conversation, for banter, for the pulse of being. For the proximity to other beings.

And then you left the country. I am sure the Masters were fun.

And now you say you don’t like it here much. You say you have a circle of friends, but you don’t meet often.

And then you are sad that you don’t have a girlfriend. And you are sad that your parents come along only about once a year.

And now you refuse to go back to India. And I know why. You think that going back will be akin to accepting that you have lost. You haven’t, believe me. You have done well for yourself. You have the degrees and the credentials, and a nice job. You have secured your professional future.

Be strong. Do what you know is right. If you are too ashamed still, maybe Australia? Shanghai? Hong Kong? Singapore? Closer to home?

Just don’t ever say that you cannot go back to India because there is so much of pollution there…

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