Meet The Man Of My Dreams And His Beautiful Wife

I was 14 when I discovered the song 'Ironic' by Alanis Morissette. I was in my school library mostly looking up quote-books for smart-ass words for the next preachy assembly. Like always once I was done I went up to the magazine stack before I left. I love going through magazines, especially the trashy, superflous ones. Maybe it is the early contempt my parents bestowed on all things commercial, flashy and easy, but I find cliches interesting. So from the India Today, Outlook and other such suited-up reads I picked up TeenWorld or something similarly named, that probably promised a zit-free path to boy-planet. Pretty much zit-free and clueless otherwise, I read for sheer surprise. I am prejudiced to a fault. Everything about me I deliberate and form opinions on. I am sure I am psychoanalyst's willing delight, but being ready for consequences all the time can be tiring now and then. Hence, I guess my love for formulaic art. My dad wonders how I intently watch shows like Big Boss or Rahul Mahajan's Swayamwar and thouroughly enjoy myself. But there is much to observe in the average or sub if you go beyond their pious efforts at maintaining farces. It is a good exercise in leisure for moments of thin-slicing when one must altogether dispose of the common.
But, I was remembering 'Ironic'. So, 14, and pop-culturally ignorant (it is such respite to look back at early years of teenage and not have me heaving over some slick Backstreet Boy, though Hrithik Roshan came dangerously close.), I guess I was in my early fascination for words, rhyme and uncommon issues. I was drawn to the lyrics. I had never heard of the song, much less the singer with a difficult surname. But there was something in the moment I read those verses that was clairvoyant. I had felt it before. Like the lessons I was learning then I was to put into practice some time in my life. And more.
Today, I guess my life stopped and perused that bit in my life-map for directions.
It being final year and all, I am trying hard to get myself to stick to a routine I will benefit ably from in the next years. But, it is like my mind tasted blood with all the free runs down the many thought-hills it has enjoyed in the last years. It refuses to stick to boring routine. But, when I sit to study medicine I want to read so much more.
It feels like a tight-rope walk, and though the balancing is exhilarating, the tendency to fall due to lack of practice is mighty frustrating.
So, being home in the last few days and not really reading all about the failures and attempts of the heart the way I had planned, I was irritable and losing my temper at every slight. I knew I should have known better, but, really, how?
But life has a funny way of sneaking up on youhoo-oo..annndd..life has a funny way of helping you out...you really must listen to the song.
So, the TV, my soulmate, my BFF, came to my rescue, by leading me to The Jane Austen Book Club.
For a while now, I have been thinking of rereading the books I really enjoyed reading once. I haven't read much, and I certainly don't have much of a favourites list, but there are a few. And Miss Austen, most definitely finds ample room! Pride and Prejudice was the first Classic I read and the first book I loved. Elizabeth Bennet and the profession of love for her by Mr. Darcy is the second best after that of Dagny Taggart and John Galt. We didn't really have to believe any of it, did we? Oh, I did!!
Once, in some blessed practice English exam for the SSC I presume, I was thrilled to have the rare non-yawn essay topic - If You Met With Your Favourite Book's Characters. I most enjoyably wrote on running into Elizabeth and talking at length with her on marital bliss and her views on matters of pride and prejudice.
So, the movie awakened the universal desire for the Austen word on things. And my joy was doubled on knowing it was a book adaptation. Googling, registering and extracting files later, I was proud of hunting down a downloadable version of it. All you people who do the great service of putting everything at a click's distance, Bless You! May your tribe prosper! Thank You for then, now and forever! You are my virtual heroes!
So I settled in cosily, with thoughts of a smiling Abhishek Bachchan-faced-tree. It is a good read. Difficult to keep pace with in just the first read because it dissects stories within stories. I am no good at absorbing a story and simultaneously thinking between the lines, or about psychological profiles of characters.And it is about older women. Seeing the movie and having faces for all of them, especially Grigg helped.
Another very strong reason for my getting sucked into an Austenian Day was the central character Jocelyn. Sketched like Emma, she is a happily unattached, controlling woman. She has her issues-which woman doesn't?-but I find myself always being partial to these independant women characters. I guess I try to find a clue to my future mindframe in theirs. I know 10, 20 years down the line I am going to be where they are. I know I am 21, and it is probably too early, if not futile to spell out my future. But, I like to be prepared, and I know how I am going to shape my life. I know for one there are going to be no compromises especially if not exclusively in relationships, and that itself shoves a lot of obstacles aside.
So, I look out for these women: what they do, who their friends are, how they are with their parents, who and how they date, how similar their reasons are to mine...it is freaky no doubt. I have thoughts of choking and dying when old and my body not being found for days. I don't like animals, so I know a cat won't eat my face off like Miranda from Sex And The City imagines. But then, if I am dead how does it matter to me?
Those I have shared this with have always come up with the staid,'No ya, you'll find some one, don't worry.' Worry I don't. I wonder more: I grew up on a healthy dose of hindi films, fairy tales, classic romances, real marriages, abandonement, abandoning and solitude. I know for sure the intimidation I inspire in most I meet with. I know for sure it is one of the things I hate about people. But I always look out for exceptions to generalizations. And I know there are. Only I don't know if I am one of the chosen. I guess that is what is most putting off of the entire affair. I can manufacture a life-detailed, perfect-for myself. I wish I could do that for the people I wish to be around as well. Just so, I leave that detailing for falling in love, finding a suitable man. It will have to be the way I want. It will have to be filmy and dreamy in equal measure. All that I have come to love and acknowledge, living, breathing. It is a tall order. And because thinking entirely of it is impossible and fascinating, I know I won't cheat myself on it.
Though, it may so happen that I may get all I want and still have good reason to pass over my happy ending...
I love that there are so many ifs and maybes. I wouldn't have it any other way.
Jane Austen has today made additions on the rough map on life I carry around with me. Some day I may stop and ask for directions.
For now, I need to keep going on.

The Last Train To Somewhere

I have been away for long. I had so many reasons to come back I just couldn't choose one. Amongst my many hopes for this year, was one to chronicle my times now for the various futures to come. But the life I am familiar with is largely of grand plans that waste paper and great ideas that occur when I am too lazy to pen them down.

But there is a change creeping through the languid years. Maybe it is the normal curve of growing up...I don't know...I've never been here. And that I guess is the best part about it.

As a kid I had no epiphanies of becoming a particular professional. I am studying medicine now, but it does not wholesomely consume me. There is an effort I have to garner to sit myself down and pay attention to its language. I definitely don't mind it. I value the opportunity I have and look forward to the daunting challenges. But this I don't count in my rites of passage. I would have had some thing to do anyhow.

I hated the entire period of childhood. All I wished for was to grow up. That was all I was looking to do once I 'grew up'. I had no date and time for it. I didn't know what to read or where to go to learn 'growing up'. All I knew was that some day I would be confident, content and immaculately independant. Then, I guess I grew up.

So now I am a pile of all the pieces that make me. Like, when this year began I cleaned my hostel-room cupboard after a year and half. I got everything it held in a heap on my bed. And then I began wishing I hadn't done it at all. (I am such a good candidate for mid-life crises, I've already been through them twice!). Then, one deep breath and coffee later, I got to sorting.

I realised how I have bit by bit added dimensions to my being in 3 years of moving out of home and kidhood. Like the clothes I have bought over the period for purely experimental reasons-let's try if this suits my style or if I suit it's-I have shopped in areas that specialized in self-development. I dindn't know what I was looking for, hell, I didn't know I was looking! But I bought loads and paid costs for every thing.

The lack of amazement at not missing home.

The realization of numbed pain and the increased awareness its agony bore.

Falling in love and then not being so sure about it.

The FountainHead and 'YES!!!' exploding in my mind.

Realizing the futility of fear of judgement and freaking out at the ginormous size of the stupidity monster.

Speaking Marathi and not knowing how to react when a leprosy-ridden patient tells me that good things happen to good people.

Forgiving my parents and re-casting them as fellow human beings that are living by trying to make the best of what comes along.

Losing friends that never were.

Ideas of lone lunches and death.

Achievement and her coterie of friends and foes.

Accusations and the will to not defend.

Running to leap but wanting a last veiw many times over.

All these lie spread before me to be labeled, boxed together and placed neatly in shelves.

Deep breaths and coffee?