waqt ka dariya behte behte

mujhe bhi baha le jaaye

There’s a manner to living full. The Mysore Sandal Soap bar in my pink soap dish is soft and at the point of decline. I intend to use it until it is no more, a soft death that leaves its scent all over me. The next one is going to be this black coloured cuboidal softness acquired in Delhi, with neem and charcoal in it. It will last me a long time. Probably until the end of August.

I washed all my whites separately, the clothesline fluttered a fabric of white time in the air, each piece a reminder of a certain phase in my life. Now they all sit on the same shelf, waiting to be paired with the same jeans over and over.

I learnt how to wash clothes from my father. Not that he taught me, I would just observe. He insists on ironing his own shirts. To indulge him, I take my unironed kurtas and shirts with me whenever I visit. He gets impressed by how clean they are and proceeds to iron it all. I need to get an iron of my own. I can picture myself sitting by the window, a silhouette akin to my mother’s; hunched over the clothes, listening to old Hindi songs, thinking things that are inaccessible to everybody else in the house.

To develop a routine, one needs discipline. My entire life I have taken the concept of discipline very lightly, getting by just the way I am. Now that I have to investigate things more thoroughly in order to allow myself to sleep at night, I am realizing that I, too, have discipline in certain ways. It’s like an energy running through me that I have failed to harness properly, simply because I spent so much of my time being a laid-back man, casual, in the body of a woman.

All these notebooks, these annotations, noting everything down diligently, eating very specific things – I would like to consider them all pillars that have held up my definition of regulation.

It has often been a pattern that women who have a certain manner of existence that they refuse to compromise upon are termed uptight. I have been a victim of this criminal categorisation as well, always from men. I remember my university “best friends until they weren't” get accused of this as well. When I would hear them out, I would understand their system. I wouldn’t get the logic, the inner math, but I would get it. We are all veiled under the same concepts, it’s the same vessel. From a personal angle to politics, everything seems to be a big deal only to women. The world is an oyster and we are the pearls only if we are talking about the finer and good things in life. Everybody conveniently seems to forget the parasitic and self-preservatory angle of it all.

The metaphor of pearls is right in front of our eyes. Oyster sets such a delicious tone when spoken of, an image of luxury. Bourdain wouldn’t be Bourdain had he not eaten an oyster.

"I took [the oyster] in my hand, tilted the shell back into my mouth as instructed by the by now beaming Monsieur Saint-Jour and with one bite and a slurp, wolfed it down. It tasted of seawater . . . of brine and flesh . . . and, somehow . . . of the future."

suzuki kiitsu

This world is ready to feed you, but it never specifies what. Hunger leads you to opening your mouth wherever there’s a promise of any kind of fulfillment. Perhaps because I am only two decades or so old I carry such a notion, but this is my truth for now, and I stand by it.

The world gives you the classic goodbadugly, and some of the residue refuses to leave your insides.

So what do you do?

You scrape, you self-preserve. You question everything. You do not become a pearl overnight, you do not become a pearl without the pain. Perhaps too simple a maxim for people who are searching for the Bigger Truth, but I am fond of this notion. All the pain will result in value someday. The only difference is, self-inflicted pain is rarely rewarded in this manner. The common factor is, you need to grow the fuck up and not romanticise things that are eating you up, whether by your choice or not.

My days are very silent lately, I play music when I remember to. My cats meow all day, and it’s a pleasing thing to talk to them. I stand in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette, telling them things, and they meow back, slurping on whatever food I have managed to acquire for them. For the first time in my life, I am responsible for a life in its entirety. These kittens are the reason I get out of bed on some days. If I were living entirely alone, I would probably be dead by now. This general inability to perform the basic functions required for existence is what is stopping me from becoming a pearl, in all my glory.

Or perhaps the Pain That is Worth It is yet to come. I cannot brace enough for the impact, it is going to hit where it hurts. I just want to make sure it is worth it.

If this entire sentiment were to be a playlist, this is how it would go -

1. Hit Me Where It Hurts, Caroline Polachek

2. Criminal, Fiona Apple

3. The Slow Drug, PJ Harvey

4. Metal Heart, Cat Power

5. Save Me, Aimee Mann

6. Crack Baby, Mitski

7. Last Words of a Shooting Star, Mitski

Seven songs, one for each day.