tum gaye ho kyun, raat baaki hai
this is very long (so please visit the substack site for the entire thing) so please make sure you are sitting, or at least in a long duration train journey. maybe the world is going to be yours soon
April is here. I am sitting on my friend’s bed, listening to “Jiyein Kyun,” by Papon. The first time I heard this song intently was when a pretty girl sang it at some competition I had gone for. I was not singing, I was doing the boring old debate. I have never been really good at those, I have the facts and cutting remarks, but something in me never really lets me loose. So I am always nervous, uncomfortable, on the verge of giving up. If I give an exam, I do not think about it until the day of the result. I hate it when people ask me about the exam, or want to discuss it. I do things and am done with them. Sometimes, you should try that too.
I have been up at night studying. I end up sleeping on the floor, without any mattress, just a floral sheet over me. My roommates have asked me to Not Sleep Like A Cat. One of them has said to not sleep like a depraved person.
(The writer wants you to know that the duration between these two songs is over more than four years now, and both of these songs are associated with the same person, who is still in my life, on my mind.)
But the thing is, nothing is more comforting than settling down on the floor. It is the perfect place if you want to just spend your afternoons trying to make sense of your feelings.
Like I was doing today, two days after the entry up there. I got back after my exam, earlier than most people on the floor. I played my favourite playlist (I am lying, I do not have one favourite playlist) and started rereading The God of Small Of Things by Arundhati Roy, and subsequently fell asleep on the book. But before doing that, I remember reading the line She hadn’t learnt to control her Hopes yet. I remember feeling a bitter laughter growing inside of me, thinking of the past few months, and then I remember sleeping and dreaming a little dream with a big dream contained inside of it. I woke up, still riding the high of the dream and called Hot Knife (if you remember from a few issues back). He did not pick up. Thank God. I cannot do miserable awkward senseless conversations that will make me realise reality in a harsher way than I want.
I ate a really pretty mango three nights ago. It was pretty and juicy. I wish your first mango of this summer, or the next one is fat and full of sweet anticipation. Read about mangoes in three different places as well – Good old Roy, Charming Babitz, and a local poster on the wall in the market.
Speaking of Babitz… She is Cool. She was born with a golden cunt. I like her, but she is not Good Enough for me. I feel just a little rude saying that, but I know she would understand. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. Let’s just say I need to have something spicy or tangy in my mouth while reading her work to compensate for what all she leaves to our imagination.
Finished Black Swans recently. I like the image she has painted of LA and such – it truly does feel like a foreign place, and I don’t like the kind of world she lived in. But it is amusing to read about though, and picture the expensive scenes and pretend I could be one of them. Me, with my brittle nature and dwindling finances.
The way she writes about her city, I wish to write of my own. Not talking about her writing style, but just, make it a part of me, my first lover. My girlfriend, Delhi. I wish I could talk more about it, but I am afraid I will end up abandoning the project and then I will have to run away with my face (less entity) from you all in the hills and never come back.
However! Here’s a small way the universe has reassured me recently. An acquaintance was telling me about her moving out plans. I move out on the 13th. And on 13th I found out she had decided to stay because it did not work out. I’ll stay for a couple more months.
The point is, all of us have plans that fail. You should not be afraid of discussing things with your friends, or declaring things just for the fear that it won’t work out. So what? Nobody has had everything work out for them.
I also know that I am telling you all of this with full conviction but I would still prefer to soak in my failures in private, just like my joys. I wish I had some super ultra-terrifically happy moments that brought something akin to a pregnancy glow to my face so that everyone who saw me in the streets would be like, oh look at this person, they are So Happy.
But, sadly (ha), I have protruding cheekbones and dark circles and my colour is dull. Due to my features, I apparently look like someone whom no one should trust, my roommate said once, but I trust you.
Maybe this summer I should get darker and start wearing dresses more often. Maybe start carrying binoculars. What about buying the shoes I used to wear when I was in seventh grade, those North Star shoes, blue and white and so comfortable? I bought sturdy black sandals in a local market in Delhi and they are still surviving – all these weeks of rocky terrains and running past midnight. My feet are tanned in two parallel lines, like railway tracks. Mini trains running over my feet etc etc etc.
I have to study, read, write, eat, walk, run, kiss, paint my nails, pay some bills, buy a gift for my Naani, listen to more music, visit new places, speak out loud, call people often, get honest but,
All
In
Due
Time.
Thinking of writing it on a sticky note and sticking it on my wall. All in due time all in due time all in due time all is due in time all is time all time due all due in time due to all time all in due time.
Anyway, wasn’t I talking about Delhi? I have been looking at photos in my gallery, listening to songs that I used to when I’d hop on the metro to waste my day away in the city. It is such a beautiful place, and so kind too. Delhi accommodates and accumulates, but never runs out of space for you or your feelings. Got my heart broken in Delhi, so I have decided to not fall in love with anyone who lives there. I am looking forward to going back next month, and having all the feelings that I stored away in nooks and crannies come out and pat me on the back or hit me in my gut, like a good old wild game of hide-n-seek. Memories win, always.
I stumbled across these two photos on Instagram recently, and I love them so much, so I am sharing them with you. It is now an unspoken realisation that lives in all of us – it’s always the mundane that haunts more, it’s always the background that spreads over you like a blanket in unsuspecting moments. How many times have I passed these places, sparing a glance like the one you’d spare your old chest of drawers in the living room? And when things are all whirlwind, and you are miles away, you’d think of the drawer, it was indeed a sturdy drawer. And here I am, away away away, wishing I was standing in front of Qutub Minar, thinking of the woman, who was royalty, who made herself fall to her death and barred the gates of the Minar for all of us until. I think of how all of her sadness must be trapped inside, locked away. Maybe she is trapped inside. Bollywood directors, stay away.
When I look at the crowd at India Gate, I think why did no one ever jump from this wretched monument ever. It is a reminder of a horrible time that no one had the luxury to live through. I like the park, I like licking the melts-too-soon ice cream off my thumb, and I like the spicy bhel. But I do not like the overall virtue of the place, if there is any. Maybe I am turning into a bitter old woman. Bitter baingan, like my mum would say (baingan is brinjal aka eggplant for literally 80 percent of my readers who probably don’t know Hindi)
Talking of unsuspecting moments, I had a melody stuck in my head for at least a couple months now. While I was falling asleep today, the song came over, and I felt like some knot in my head was let loose. I stumbled in and out of my horrid dreams in the horrid hot summer afternoon, but at least I had good music.
Okay, quick roundup time. Weekly roundup? Monthly? Issuely? Is that a word? Should be a word. Anyway
Going on a solo trek this weekend, with nothing but a water bottle and cigarettes. Concerned friends if you are reading this on time, feel free to ring my phone, or text me incessantly, I will not get back to you on time. Working on the weekend as well, if I come back alive, because I have not worked in a week almost. Have to get a photograph clicked so hoping this huge forehead pimple just disappears in a couple days. Running a little here and there. Have to wash my shoes and fix the sole of another one. Have to get a couple clothes tightened, I seem to keep buying the wrong size because they come cheap. Have to book a flight back but I am not sure when to go back and where to go back from and what to do what to do what to do. Been eating breakfast regularly, and have developed a reputation in the canteen as the girl who drinks two cups of chai every day. Harmless, personality defining reputation. I am not a girl but it’s okay. Some guys have admitted to finding me intimidating, and while I personally have no problem with it, I do feel left out sometimes. We’re making do as we go. I feel like I am becoming more spontaneous as the days go by. I like it. I like it a lot. This week, I am getting back to my lovely online pen-pals who have so kindly sent me emails and lovely messages. I will do it I will do it I will do it. Declaring it here so that I develop some sense of shame. I need to be a better friend. My hair is softer now, and it is dyed red pink orange and brown, all in one. It is like a sunset on my head. I like it, and so do all my friends whose opinions I care about. Mother doesn’t but then… mothers, am I right?
Did you like this new format of me just dumping everything on you. Channelling a little bit of Woolf and Didion for you. In unsuspecting afternoons and early mornings, when I am alone with just my thoughts, I figure out the Anais Nin aspect of my personality. All you need is a face in your head, all you need is the belief that your touch is the touch from the right person...
Now, the writer wants you to imagine her laughing a raucous laugh, and I want you to imagine uncomfortable perverse men looming in the background and a lot of beautiful women around me, smiling themselves. Smoke and mist and perfume. Alive roses, and expensive rugs underneath me. Is this the Harem of Heera? Kind, soft-spoken men, where are you? Would you like to join?
Now the writer is tired, and also has to study. Kisses and hugs and the promise of return. Do tell me things if you want to. Take care!
Phir milenge, chalte chalte, (Once again, we’ll meet, on this long walk of life)
Heera
I apologise for the lack of an advice column yet again. I will resume it in May when I will be lost and confused and back in my rotten bedroom. If you wish to send some questions, be it about the heart or about the world or something in between, feel free to do so at twotl1303@gmail.com. If you want to merely tell me something, you can do that as well, however responses will be delayed because I am currently meditating in the hills as you read this.
every time i read your writing i fall in love with it — and perhaps you, in the strange way you fall in love with writers — even more and more and more and i am so thrilled you keep writing and sharing it with us. it's beautiful, it's stunning, it has been the favourite part of my day. sending love <3
love how you always make me feel things