Hear me out (2): on love, loneliness and beauty

I’ve promised myself this will be a short post. Given that the corner around which my exams are is inching closer and closer with every minute, one would think that I should be single mindedly breaking my head over academic pursuits. But one needs to vent in short intervals… hence, a blog is born. What is sad is that I’ve recently gotten acquainted with my thoughts. Thinking as a constant state of being, the protagonist, not like some super sexy woman in an item number who does her thing, departs poste haste, absconding for the rest of the movie, leaving you anxious and salivating. But more like a constant monologue, a narrative that follows you around, to everything you do and see and feel and experience, very Kevin Arnold like (these pop culture analogies are really robbing this post of the serious thoughtful tone I was aiming for, I didn’t say that, the monologue did). And why that is sad is just as you start to get comfortable with what and how you are thinking and you envelope yourself in them (the thoughts I mean), looking for the other side of every coin and the ‘blogability’ if you will, of every stray occurrence, you suddenly find that you have no time for them (the thoughts I mean). Every minute thinking and writing is a minute away from some other gainful pursuits…studying or working or cleaning your room…washing clothes…making conversation (all of which have stood neglected off late, except the room cleaning and dirty clothes, that’s a constant feature in my life). And tragically (oh so very tragically) when, at the expense of thinking and writing you indulge in these tedious tasks, all they give you is more fodder for thinking and writing and meandering (which MS Word informs me is not even a verb, its an adjective, but what the hell)

This isn’t exactly a lamentable travesty or anything. And I’m not going to wax eloquent about the cruel world and how it has no room for the softer more abstract things in life. This world is of our own making and we choose to live in it and by its rules. This is just an observation. Or maybe just an excuse to avoid unpleasant obligations.

The monologue is smiling sheepishly…

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The universe is a cruel cruel place, especially to old people. And perhaps crueller still to those who are coming to grips with the fact that they are indeed, ageing. Take VH1 for example (yes my universe as of now is encapsulated within the confines of VH1). Every morning after breakfast, as a ritual I allow myself 20 minutes of pre-study T.V. and I invariably fall prey to VH1’s seductive, instant-gratification charms. But its always a bitter sweet experience. You can’t survive VH1 ‘Classic’ without feeling positively decrepit. Songs that I used to listen to as a child, the first tune I ever hummed compulsively, the first delicious visual treat to which I glued myself, the first crush, the first dirty lyrics we strained to decipher…the first and most harmless of guilty pleasures. And I’m always tempted to say, “it isn’t that old is it (those poofy 80’s pyjamas may still make a comeback)?” But sooner or later you resign yourself to admitting that it isn’t the songs that are old… it is you. And then you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… two whole decades… so much happened while you lived in blissful ignorance, thinking the whole world was standing still for you. Its scary.

And then I look at my old pictures from school and college and more recent ones as well. And I hate myself for ever thinking that I wasn’t beautiful, that I was imperfect. That I wasn’t thin enough or pretty enough, or that I had too much dandruff or that my skin was terrible or that my clothes were distasteful. I ask myself, when are we ever going to be that young and beautiful and happy again? To have so much to look forward to…so much more time to procrastinate and put things off without it bothering you. So unblemished…so un‘adult’erated... sigh…

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While on the subject of VH1, I caught the most beautiful song about 20 minutes ago, which pretty much got this blog restarted after a full day’s hiatus. It was “all I want is you” by U2. I don’t know why that song in particular really made me think. About being in love and being lonely and maybe even both at the same time. About the convoluted ways and means we adopt to get what should be a seemingly simple desire to fulfil. To be loved and well maybe that’s too ambitious… to not be lonely. Most people I know are lonely in some way or the other and almost accustomed to it. With some strange void in ourselves that we think can only be filled by a real live person, anything else just wouldn’t do, certainly not some inanimate object. I remember being very much in love and distinctly recall that it wasn’t even the tangible physical presence that was the most pleasurable. It was the assurance that there was something all my own, that no one could rob from me, that no you realise that 1985 was more than 20 years ago… wasn’t alone. I’m sure there are people for whom completeness lies in their work or their passions, I just don’t know too many people like that or in fact any at all. I know of people who pretend to not care (ahem…). And also of people who will do anything to avoid having to not care, people who cannot stand to be alone for too long. And I don’t know who to feel worse for, because it is something worth feeling sad about, me thinks.

But I’m fairly optimistic, and that just absolutely kills me. Hopeful that we are all heading slowly and steadily toward our respective happy endings. With someone who we hope will understand us or no…maybe that’s too ambitious…someone who will put up with us. And not hold against us the one most inexcusable idiosyncrasy of all - that we are who we are and how we are.

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One last thing that I absolutely must say (if I’m breaking the promise I made to myself, I might as well do it in style). It’s about my neighbour. I think she is a most beautiful creature and my reasons go beyond her obvious aesthetic appeal. Every morning Ketho will spend a full 5 minutes (that’s more time than I spend on one of my usual supersonic showers) in front of the mirror, checking herself out, a nip here a tuck there, fluff her hair, turn around, left right, side profile, front…the works. And it doesn’t bother her that people are buzzing around her…brushing their teeth, washing their utensils in the wash basin, heading to the loo. She just stands there resolutely doing her thing. And every morning I wish more and more that I could be like that. Its not a question of vanity or self obsession, its about being comfortable with yourself and comfortable with the world knowing that your appearance matters to you.

I remember back in the office, whenever we’d go down the elevator, Sutta would invariably sashay up and down in front of the elevator mirror and admire himself. One day I finally asked him why he was being such a girl and he just winked and replied, “must look good for the lady mustn’t I?”. I envied him so much for that split second.

Ponnie used to joke about there being no dearth of reflective surfaces in the metro station and I remember how we used to laugh at the prospect of endless self scrutiny. But rather than embrace it I increasingly find myself shying away. Not that I’m uncomfortable with what I see (cue to the flat club: knowing smiles all round). I just can’t stand that someone else will catch me doing it. Which is strange given that I hold public displays of self directed affection in such high esteem. I sure am peculiar sometimes, even if only to myself.