Gratitude 

It’s the time to look back on the year that was. There is nostalgia in the air as people talk about what they loved/ hated about the year, or simply what made an impact on them. Yesterday I went to an event where a group of people got together to share the things they were grateful for in this year. And I sat there and thought about what I was most grateful for. I have a few select friends who I know will be there for me no matter what. And I am grateful for that. I have a decent job, and the financial security that comes from a regular salary and a habit of saving. And I am grateful for that. Loving parents about whom the biggest complaint I can make is that they worry about me too much. And I am grateful for that. 

When I started writing this post, I was sure I knew what I was most grateful for. I was sure of my answer as I sat in the park yesterday surrounded by people and their stories of strength and learning and love and fortune –  the things they were grateful for. But I am not sure of my answer now. What seemed so significant yesterday, that I was, in essence, willing to define my year around it, seems trivial tonight. What is an entire year compared to a day? Actually, the memory of a day that brought joy only because of its absence? 

15th December 2017. What should have been the 3rd anniversary of my wedding, had things gone as planned. The first 15th December since “the incident” that I didn’t even remember the day or what it was supposed to have meant. And that, I thought, was the biggest gift the year had brought. Now, I don’t feel I can give that importance. And my wish for next year is that I don’t care whether I remember it or not. That there is not even a moment of confusion about what I am most grateful for in 2018.

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Evolution

Skimming through my blog, remembering who I was. Am I still the same person I was 4 months ago? 6 months ago? 3 years ago?

How much does one have to change, how quickly does one have to change, to be considered a different person?

Someone told me I had evolved. Grown.

Is evolution always a good thing?

 

 

Untitled

Watching the red blossom. Trickle down skin. Slow.

Blood is thicker than water you see.

Is it warm? Feels cold to me.

Hide? Or run away? Always the question. But where?

Naked. Exposed. Broken. Just the blanket of red to keep you warm.

Dear Reader

Dear Reader,

I do not know who you are. I do not know where you are from. I do not know why you are here, reading my words. Do you even exist outside my imagination?

It matters not.

Thank you for letting me spend time with you, talking of whatever comes into my mind. Thank you for not interjecting in the middle of my musings. Thank you for listening, and not judging. Thank you for letting me be a part of your life. Thank you for helping me find my voice.

Thank you for letting me be, hidden in my dark corner. Alone, but not lonely anymore.

Waiting for…

Am I being mean if I’m waiting for the day I get to be alone again? Selfish, I admit. To be responsible for and answerable to myself and no one else.

Tired of playing grown-up. Because being a grown-up means so many things I don’t want to be.

Responsible. Stable. Rational.

Waiting for the day I get to cry again. To not have to care about how my emotional state affects another.

Anger, sorrow, frustration, despair.

Mine.

Waiting for the day the reflection turns true again. When the water is still enough to flow unchecked.

Consent

Unsolicited, unsanctioned hugs. Handshakes that last too long, sometimes even attempts to interlace fingers. A friendly pat on the shoulder, and the hand accidentally brushes your thigh.

Male colleagues whisper in your ears, sit too close, bump their legs against yours. Because if you are single, and are at a party and laughing and having a drink, then you must also be easy. If you do it when you are 30, it must be because you want variety in life and refuse to limit yourself to one sexual partner.

‘Friends’ reach out and run their hand down your hair, because why would you have a problem with them doing it when you let someone else do it.

Bosses ask if it is tough with your husband being out of town, bump chairs suggestively. Reach for your face to caress, in a public lift, just because you are pregnant and glowing and “Oh! Pregnancy suits you” and they are old enough to be your father.

Male colleagues whisper in your ears, sit too close, bump their legs against yours. Because if you are single, and are at a party and laughing and having a drink, then you must also be easy. If you do it when you are 30, it must be because you want variety in life and refuse to limit yourself to one sexual partner.

The drink in my hand is not an invitation. My laughter is not permission.  My marital status, my choices about my body, are MY choices. My reasons, whatever they may be, do not change the fact that you need my permission to touch me.

Friends who reach out and run their hand down your hair, because why would you have a problem with that when you let someone else do it.

The rights I give someone are the rights I give THEM. They are not rights I give the whole world. They are not rights I give you.

Bosses ask if it is tough with your husband being out of town, bump chairs suggestively. Reach for your face to caress, in a public lift, just because you are pregnant and glowing and “Oh! Pregnancy suits you” and they are old enough to be your father.

You might be old enough to be my father, you might even have the most fatherly feelings towards me, but that doesn’t give you the right to touch me, not even my fingertips. Not without my consent. And unless I expressly say so, you do not have my consent. Pregnancy does not change the rules.

 

 Drunk, at a party, some guy leans in for a peck on the cheek, because he is happy and you have been talking and laughing together.

NO.

Your boss.

NO.

Your friend.

NO.

Just some guy. Who doesn’t think your consent matters.

Can you make it matter?

Magic

Magic fades. Comfort deepens. Already-hazy memories lose shape in the river. Dreams get terrifyingly close to reality.

You don’t hold on to a dream because it is perfect. You hold on because you are a part of it.

But what do you do when dream and memory get so intertwined that you can’t tell them apart anymore?

When you lose the line between real and imaginary?

You live in amazement.

The amazement doesn’t take away the fear of the loss of magic.

The magic outlives the mortals. They just lose the ability to see it.

Old magic never fades. It sparks every time you reach out and touch it. It gets infused into our day to day life. You can taste it, smell it, feel it, but can’t separate it out.

The magic never dies. It stays, waiting for a heart to see it and a soul to feel it.

Anniversary (Part 1)

One year. Sometimes it feels like I still haven’t woken up from that dream. The mysterious dream haze of that day and that week and that month…
It’s just you and me. The world and everyone in it – intruders all. To be kept out. Away. Just us.
Sometimes I still tremble when you kiss me. The way you can turn me on with just a glance. The way your touch can make me feel better anytime, anywhere. How it means so many things. Comfort, ownership, love, companionship, desire.
I love how you are willing to fight with me to protect me. Even though you hate fighting. I love the ring in your voice when you tell me, oh-so-matter-of-factly, that you would do anything to protect me. Even though I wouldn’t want you to.
I love the whispered words that never reach my ears, the kisses in the night while I sleep, the way I can melt into you with no awkwardness of elbows and knees.
A perfect fit.