taazi taazi lage humko rozana, teri meri baatein yun to purani hai

just entering nov for now, lots of stuff to come soon!

here's a less sad one for you, my travelling salesman

9TH November 2022

There is warm sun on my right thigh, and the faded pink curtains move to the rhythm of the onset of afternoon. There is a humming in the air, the mechanical kind which informs me of a machine far away, going about its day. There is loneliness, still, but the breeze is good company.

I stood by the kitchen sink and thought of the possibility of a life that’s not like this one, the only thing similar in both being you and I. I thought of killing myself, and of immense happiness that comes from being in control of your own situation, even if for a mere fleeting moment, and then I went back to doing the dishes.

grailed

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Writing about this ordinary life might be silly. Maybe a lot of you are telling me to just invest in a journal right now. I have, actually. I have like four different journals, and there are things that need to remain between me and pages that no one will ever get to turn. But what I am doing here is just a refined version of what I have been doing on the internet for about a decade now, putting things out in the universe hoping someone who needs to hear it will do, when the time is right. I have come across the right poem, the right song, the right message a lot of times, and it has made me feel like someone out there is indeed listening. I am not here to indoctrinate you into believing there’s something bigger than us, but my point is, we truly can’t be this alone, can we?

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Having an entire apartment to yourself is very freeing and isolating. I have this temporary living arrangement for cheap, and it is really nice. There are four other women living here with me, but our timings are such that I am mostly alone during the day. At night, we meet in the kitchen and the empty living space because we can’t afford proper furniture for now, and then we are off to do our own thing. At night, I look out of the multiple windows and see people milling about. I see other women my age sprawled on their beds – if I raise my voice and call out their name, or just the flat number they live in, the night breeze carries it to them and they look up and wave. Sometimes we end up at each other’s houses and talk, do our nails, you know the drill. I know the drill now; it is so, grown up.

Two nights ago I cooked a little and took some of it to the boys in the neighbourhood. They sent me back with some tomato curry and have promised to give me the recipe as well. It is very endearing watching these 20 something men milling around awkwardly, trying their best to make me feel comfortable. All of them are on the cusp of proper adulthood, doing odd jobs after college, calling their mothers diligently at night, walking around the neighbourhood with their boyish memory like a phantom limb that gets activated when they are around other boys. This is what we mean when we say boys will be boys.

My neighbours at the other flat I sometimes occupy are lovely. They have two sons, both under the age of ten. They are fun company except when I am sneaking back in the morning and they scream “didi!” from the terrace. I painted a white canvas bag I got at some workshop black, and it is now my go to bag.

I have been running around, feeling anxious about a lot of things. Some good news has come my way but I am wary of it, like a feral dog. I just want it to go well, I want the tide to turn. Maybe by the time you are reading this, all will be well. Please hope all is well.

I dyed my friend’s hair red today, and then oiled my own. The smell of amla oil made me miss my mother who would massage my scalp and braid my hair. After that I would lie down next to her for a while, and we’d either listen to a story on Youtube, because our radio ritual is now a thing of the past, or she would recap all the phone calls she attended to that day. Sometimes my friends oil my hair, and I return the favour. Such is the gentle nature of our hands, we can find home in them as long as they are willing. As for me, I am always willing for a home, keenly looking for one too, but I have been quite homeless for the past entire year.

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Speaking of homes, this is for my fifteen-year-old self –

(the writer urges everyone else to politely look away, or read this and treat younger me with the same kindness they expected from others at that confusing age)

In November 2022, you got something that you heard in all those songs. You got some tenderness. I am lying. You got it in abundance. So much so that you now believe you know how to swim. There was someone next to you every night, and every waking moment and yes you might be raising your eyebrows and looking away and mumbling something like well I like being alone, but listen, hey, you still have your alone time, and you still enjoy it, but this, this is something you might not get again ever. But you got it once. That’s more than never. You were fed, well kept, and paid attention to. There was love even though nobody really said those words (you did first, you always do, don’t you?) You had someone to hug you and kiss your face when you broke some good news to him and all of a sudden it made sense, all of it. The spool unraveled and you were left with a thin warm yarn, not static, not electricity, but capable of warmth – it now connects you to him forever, and he doesn’t even know. Do they ever? My point is, the nights spent crying in June, and the desolate Decembers all ended up being worth it. Not that you have to make all your living moments worth it, or make one year answerable for another. The entire point is still the same – you have to live, and you have to live good. Yes, circumstances, chemicals in brain, and people around you will make you want to die sometimes, and sometimes make you want to explode yourself on spot if that meant concern would be thrown in your direction like a bone to a mongrel, but none of that is you. It’s something that is a part of your existence, but it can never define you. All of us are on this earth trying to look every way possible for whatever amount of love we can collect for our way to the end. All those letters you read on the internet that people wrote to their past selves, this is my way of doing it. Someone who always thought of themselves in the past tense is now sitting on the kitchen floor after making tea for her friends and doing the dishes, writing this on her father’s hand me down laptop. Tomorrow you have a lot to do and then you have to run some more. You will get there. I am not so sure about myself right now, but you, I will get you there. I promise.

I usually do translations, but here’s just some lyrics from this week that have stuck with me –

I tried to do handstands for you, every time I fell on you; I tried to do handstands for you, every time I fell for you; I’m permanently black and blue, permanently blue for you (Bruises Chairlift)

Taazi taazi lage humko rozana, teri meri baatein yun to purani hai – We have had these conversations before, but it still feels new to both of us (Bheegi Si, Bhaagi Si from the movie Rajneeti)

Chahat ke iqraar mein, anjaana gham de gayi – Even though she accepted my affections, she left me with some unknown grief (Lafzon Mein, Abhijeet Sawant)

And I bathed in the light you gave, but it’s dark in another way; and I bathed in the light you gave but it’s dark in another way (Eyes Off You, Bombay Bicycle Club)

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The trick is, when you have something good happen to you, just assume it is the last time. This makes it feel bigger, and leaves you surprised the next time it happens again. This is not a trick; this is bad advice that has sustained me.

rancidgrl on tumblr

See you on the interstate,

Heera