Hmm.

In all the great stories we're told, it's the calm ones who have the happiest endings. The ones who swallow their poison with a straight face. The ones who never want things for themselves and who, having been denied chances at happiness, smile sadly and shrug.

Having never been such a person, having never had the strength to do this, preferring instead to lock myself in a room for a time when things do not go my way and simply scream and cry and make no attempt at a straight face when my heart is twisting inside me, does this mean I will not have a happy ending?

Wow, I really can't shake off the maudlin-panna right now.

Note to Self

Dear Desire, dear Lust, dear Need. Dear Ambition, dear Curiosity, dear Angst, dearest Fury, dearest Rage:

Please, please come down. You're going to get me killed.

Much love,
Tara.

Sigh

This blog has always been sort of my personal diary, about me and the things I think (shoddily) or notice, but lately it has been turning into a lust-fest (cheekbones) and a corn-factory (wedding vows and teary soup).
I shall change that, though really, is there anyone reading this? If not, why not just type whatever I like!? (Come to think of it, why not just type whatever I like anyway).

Anyway the point I wanted to record was this.
M. came downstairs yesterday evening post-dinner. I was at the dining table wrestling with a bit of proofreading on the laptop.
He wore a deep red kurta that I bought for him at Westside when he came to Pune and flipflops that I bought at Koregaon Park.
When he dresses like this he looks like a social-worker-phirangi-prince.
I am approaching my 28th birthday rather rapidly, so this is perhaps a juvenile thought (hehe) but I would just like to say:

Dear M:
Wear nothing.
Alternate nothing with that kurta.
That is an order.
Love.

For the record

(FTR)
I am PROFOUNDLY Disinterested in the World Cup. I've been wanting to say that since the damn thing began.

And Also:
Not that it matters at all to anyone (as with the rest of the content on here, tee hee, but still I thought I'd scream about stuff anyway), but:
I dreamt of a kiss I had fiveish years ago now at Home. Last night. Kisser was on Facebook and chatting, so... Must've jolted the old brain cells.
But.
He told me was getting married and has become as raddled as... as... the most raddled person I've ever seen.
Why does this happen to everyone?!
I told him I was still 'just' living-in with the Man.
He said: 'Oh. haha. Grow up na. All that romance is so juvenile.'
Not what he said when he was salivating for a kiss under my mother's neem tree in the garden.
I hope he falls into the fire and burns his lungi off in front of his mother.
I wanted to say that out loud too, but I controlled myself. I have greatly improved.

From a facebook note. Beautiful bit of script.

Couple fighting, about to end it for good, realising they don't know each other, and trying, last minute, to save themselves:

Mariam, thinking to herself, after she's said the horrible break up words: "... it's not easy being in a relationship, much less to truly know the one and accept them as they are with all their flaws and baggage... It always fascinates me how people go from loving you madly to nothing at all. Nothing. It hurts so much. When I feel someone is going to leave me I have a tendency to break up first to avoid having to hear it all. Here it is. One more, one less. Another wasted love story. I really loved this one. When I think that it's over, that I'll never see him again like this... Well yes, I'll bump into him, we'll meet our new boyfriend and girlfriend, act as if we had never been together. Then we'll slowly think of each other less and less, until we forget each other completely. Almost. Always the same: Breakup, breakdown. Drink up, fool around. Meet one guy, then another. Fuck around to forget the one and only. Then after a few months of total emptiness, start again to look for true love. Desperately look everywhere and after two years of loneliness, meet a new love and swear it is the one. Until that one is gone as well.

There's a moment in life when you can't recover from another breakup. And even if this person bugs you 60% of the time, well you still can't live without him. And even if he wakes you up every day by sneezing right in your face, well, you love his sneezes, more than anyone elses kisses."

Cut to: Them dancing, post-fight, laughing and kissing in the street, break up forgotten, and love re-remembered, because "There's a moment in life when you can't recover from another breakup."

Beautiful piece of script.

Number 62.

I use the busride to think. Mostly maudlin bullshit. Faux profound. But still.
This afternoon, on the 62, I thought again:

Attachment,
Non-attachment.
Desire is pain.
Desire is beautiful.
How to reconcile these?

How to be utterly non-attached, but still entwined in the beauty of his cheekbones? How to feel the throbbing pulsating Utter connection I feel when my mother holds me? How to feel, like I sometimes do, like flinging myself across the earth, arms outstretched, hugging the mud and the roots of trees?
I love it here.
I love the ones who're with me. And some that have passed. How to feel them across that divide except through my awful Missing?

How to be an environmentalist, to care, to feel pain, to scream, if I am non-attached?

And yet, how to be peaceful?
When every desire, every beauty, every thing is transient, fleeting.

I have to learn how to look that in the eye.
I can't, yet.

I am:

Maudlin.
Magpie.

_________________

This morning, sauntering into the room, I saw that his cheeks have turned golden brown like the darker curve of a nectarine.
I kissed him there, and said happy birthday.
He half-smiled, half-frowned, and turned over.
I left his birthday present on his computer chair and a birthday card on two pink post-it notes.
One of the presents is a fabulous pair of shorts. He has blue legs. A tan is essential, if only to avoid severe vitamin-D deficiency. Vampire.
The other is Silence.
No more: When're you getting a job, why aren't you happy, are you happy? What can I do? What do you want? Do you still love me? Why do you love me? Are you sure?
The last, especially. For his birthday present, I am boxing up those questions. Topping the parcel with a big red bow. And throwing it out the window.
Que sera, sera.