I know you think about me, more than you probably should, perhaps in more ways than one. The crumpled paper with struck through lines possibly has my name written all over it. It's hard not to look at you and think of what we could have become. Your brevity, my oddity, we could have been them, hopelessly and carelessly in love, throwing caution to the wind, building castles on the sand, crashing against the rocks like waves, rising and falling with the tide, sweeping away everything like a hurricane with nothing left but our bare, naked selves to begin a new evolution with. 

I cannot stop thinking about you and maybe this is the beginning of something that will destroy us both. But I am absolutely ready to take that fall with you, because I also cannot help thinking that maybe, I am slowly and hopelessly falling in love with you anyway. 

Aren't you tired of running around in circles? Because God knows I am! There's him, there's her and there's us. I haven't said much, but sometimes I wish you could hear the things in my head, the conversations I have with you in my head. I picture us lying together, not saying a word and yet, understanding each other perfectly, our bodies in sync, catching rhythm to every dropping beat playing in the background in our heads, our fingers maneuvering the contours that hide secrets deeper than the ocean, my thoughts galloping with yours in the abyss that we both know so well. Like in a drunken reverie, incoherent sentences fail to describe how this is all too real for me. I wish you knew that I want the same things as you. I wish the tremor that breaks me from the insides, every time you touch me, broke you into a million little pieces too. But then again, there's him, there's her and here we are, free to choose, but not free from the consequence of the choices we make. 

A woman scorned

Why is it so hard for me to forgive, you ask.

No, I cannot forgive you. Don't ask me why. I have lost count the number of times I have stared at the ceiling wondering if it was something I did. You see, heartbreak was easy. But sleep? That shit wasn't. Every time my phone beeped I'd hope it was you, texting to say you were sorry and what a terrible mistake you made. Yes, you did ask for forgiveness, I remember. You did say that it was a mistake we ever dated. You were sorry that I fell for you despite all your flaws, you were sorry that you had to move on. You were sorry that you wanted a life without me.

No, I cannot forgive you. That would be unfair. You drove me crazy with your silence. I was a damaged woman. I was a wreck. I was a fool. I was hopeless. I felt things that I shouldn't have. I begged you to see reason. I wanted to show you that we could be good together. How was I to know that you were as damaged as I was? How was I to know to know that our worlds would collide and we would self destruct? Except, you knew it from the start. You knew it would end before it began.

No, I cannot forgive you. I tried, but I failed. You see, you are like damaged goods with no return policy. What do I do with damaged goods? Should I put them away in a box? Like how I put away your memories in a place where revisiting would be a torture? But hell, I can deal with torture! I wish I could return everything-your words that cut like a steely knife. It still hurts, thank you very much.

I cannot forgive you. Forgiving is easy. And I don't want the easy way out for you. I want you to feel what I have felt. I want you to understand what is it like to have loved someone without conditions and then have your heart broken into a million pieces. I want someone to do to you what you did to me. I want you to drown in your own "confusion" that you so conveniently hurled at me like an abuse when I asked you why. And then maybe then you will understand why it is so hard for me to forgive.

Until that happens, I cannot forgive, and neither will I forget. 

Of Insomnia

2:00 AM

What is it?

I cannot sleep.

Shut your eyes and think of good things.

What good things?

You know, the ones that make you happy.

I don't know.

How about food? Food makes you happy right?

Pause.
Not really. I get hungry. And that is even worse.

Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend right?

I don't know.

Oh c'mon, I have heard you speak to him.

Yea, whatever. But don't eavesdrop.

4:00 AM

Hey can I tell you a story? To put you to sleep maybe?

Ok. Go on.

Good. Well I know a girl who stays awake at night and has trouble sleeping...

How original!

Haha! Okay I shall stop. But seriously, what's wrong?

I don't know. I think things...

What things?

Just things. You know,things that might have happened, things that are happening and things that might happen.

That is a lot to think about. Relax. 

Hmmm....

I don't know. I am not getting any younger you know...

Yes, but you are getting wiser....I think. 

Whatever.

5:30 AM

Maybe I should do yoga or start running.

Yes, brilliant idea. It'll do you good. You have gotten a bit out of shape lately.

What? Really? But I hardly eat.

You must eat.

Eat what?

Food! Good lord! What is wrong with you!

Yea okay. Balanced diet. Starting next Monday. Promise.

Well, you better! Don't be a procrastinator 

Who said I am?

Do you want me to spell it out for you?

You are pathetic.

So are you!

Whatever.

7:45 AM

Still can't sleep?

What do you think?

You must be stressed out or something.

Stressed about what?

How should I know?

Pause.

Read a book.

Don't have the time.

Really? You are home all day! 

Don't be so condescending! I am figuring things out for myself. It takes time.

Ok. You know best. 

8:15 AM

Do you want something to eat?

No, thanks.

Green tea perhaps? It'll really enliven your senses.

What are you? An advertiser?

Just saying it is good.

No, I don't want green tea. But thanks for asking.

Pause.

Ok. I am sleeping now. Bye.

Thank god. Alright. Sleep tight.

Hmmm...

I'll come visit tomorrow. Wait for me.

Yea, whatever.

Of momos and butter chicken

“You are dating who!” I could sense the bewilderment in my best friend’s tone over the phone. “You are dating an Indian!” she exclaimed again. I could not understand what that was supposed to mean. “Ermm...I am an Indian. You are an Indian,” I tried reasoning with her. “Yes, but you know what I mean, don’t you?” she said. I did. I knew exactly what she meant.

I met S three years back. We went to college together. He was a thorough-bred Delhite- talkative, flamboyant, attention-seeking, and overtly confident. He who loved the two BCs that define a Delhite-Butter Chicken and the other of the “sisterly” variety. I, on the other hand, his exact opposite. Even after spending almost six years in two different cities, I was a complete recluse, mingling only with people from my hometown. So quite naturally, when I first met S, he got on my nerves. We had common friends but I deliberately avoided any form of interaction with him during the initial days of college. He asked too many questions and that made me uncomfortable.

Gradually though, we found a common ground-tacky Hindi movies. He was genuinely surprised at my adept knowledge of B-grade Bollywood flicks. “Dude,” he said, “You guys have cable TVs back home?” I almost choked. I sighed and nodded quietly rather than pursuing the matter any further. We exchanged numbers and got along famously over the next couple of days. I eventually found out that behind the loud Delhi-boy exterior was a simple, sensitive boy with an unmatched IQ. He was also very hardworking, highly ambitious and an extremely gifted orator. The only problem I had with him was his attire. “Wouldn’t have happened if you were dating a North Eastern boy,” my friend said as a matter of fact. I laughed. S grumbled and complained when I requested him to come to college wearing jeans and shoes and not his usual half-century old Bermudas and slippers. I took him shopping within a month of us dating.

We both love eating out. When S asked me out on a date, we spent more time arguing over the all-you-can-eat buffet and the ala carte. We settled on the former. “What is your favourite dish?” I once asked him. “Momos,” he replied, “and noodles. I can eat them every day.” I thought he was being racist. “What’s yours?” he asked me. “Butter Chicken,” I replied with a straight face. He seemed surprised.

We had our first big fight when he accused me of lying to him. We’d eat out often and every time S would order Butter Chicken. I’d grown sick of it. I actually hated butter chicken. Couldn’t stand the damn smell, still can’t. He said he felt cheated. “How can you hate butter chicken?” he shrieked, “So do you hate me too?” So dramatic!

Our second big fight was started by me. I was in a despondent mood all day. I was ready to pick a fight with S-unprovoked. And so I did. I told him that if he wanted to be with me, he’d better make an effort-learn about my hometown-Darjeeling, my culture, my heritage, food and my people. He said he would. Next day he came up to me with the choicest Nepali cuss words. I forgave him instantly!

Curious stares follow wherever we go, but we take it in our stride. I remember this one time when we went to GK, I saw a dress that I liked and I insisted on trying it out. After few minutes when I came out of the trial room, S looked visibly awkward. I asked him if he was alright and then he replied that how for the first time, he felt cornered, as he was the only boy in the store surrounded by all-female staff from the North East. He said that he could feel all seven pair of eyes on him-judging him. I thought it was rather funny. Also, there was this time at Jama Masjid when we wanted to eat at Kareem’s and the line outside was painfully long. So, S walked up to the manager, said something and lo and behold, we were immediately ushered inside. I asked him what he had said that got us inside the restaurant so quickly. “I told him that you were a tourist visiting India and as hosts we shouldn’t keep you waiting in the line outside,” was S’s reply. It was the most absurd and witty nonsense I had ever heard! But it seemed to have worked like magic.

We’ve grown into each other, S and I. Like every normal couple we fight and we make up. Some of my friends have tried introducing me to “eligible bachelors” from my community. Initially, I thought it was rather funny. But now, they know that S is the best thing to have ever happened to me. “What does he smell like?” a friend once asked me. “Is he hairy? Does he burp a lot too?” are the stereotypical FAQs I find rather amusing and therefore choose to ignore.

It has been close to three years now. From Yo Yo Honey Singh to butter chicken and butter naan, I’ve learnt to accept S the way he is-warts and all. Yes, we are culturally and racially different. He will forever remain the over enthusiastic Punjabi and he will probably keep believing that momos grow on our trees back home. But the boy eats bacon and pepperoni pizzas with me and how! He even got me a Thangka all the way from Dharamshala with His Holiness’ signature on my birthday because he knew that would mean a lot to me.

So, next time, when I offer him yak cheese and fermented beans and he willingly eats them, I will know that he is for keeps.

Of passion and words.

I swallowed your words,
After they melted before my eyes.
They grew inside me.

I am a plant now.
Of stunted growth-naked and dry.
You see, winter was never my season,
But nobody questions my nakedness.

Do you see the words branching out?
They are your words,
Words of Passion.
Your Promise.
Our affair.

I shall water the plant,
With your melted passion,
And let it grow in me.
Again.