I Love You, But I Love Myself More

My friends think I’m mad. Not for leaving — that, they’ve been encouraging me to do for a long time — but for having stayed with you for so long. They could see that you were smart, intelligent and charming enough in conversation. Everyone could see the superficial qualities you possessed. But for me to have given so much of myself to you over such an important chunk of my youth, that was insane. When I told them that I was finally going to cut it off, my friends jumped with joy.

You’ll ask me if I love you, and I do. You’ll give me all of these big, overdone speeches about how much I mean to you and that I am so important to you that if we happen to stop talking to each other you’d die- and that’s probably true, actually. People won’t love me the same. They will love me more wholly, more healthily, more meaningfully. Our love will become an unfortunate phase on a timeline, something that I look back on and shake my head. You will be a cautionary tale, and you know it. Even as you throw a dish and tell me that I am the one to blame, that I am the crazy one here.

The truth is that I do love you. I am consumed by you, and partially by how badly you treated me. I have grown accustomed to always being told how other girls were far better than I am, that what I do is wrong, that I should be doing this instead. It’s almost comforting to have someone there to dictate your life, like your mother laying out your school clothes the night before so you don’t have to think about it. But there is only so far I can get with that kind of love, so much I can allow it to take over my life before I realize that I am only doing myself a disservice. My parents would have never embraced you. My girlfriends would have never forgiven you. And I am not interested in torturing myself with questions relating to you and your girlfriend, whether you love her or not? I’m sure you will. And maybe you’ll manage to fool her for even longer than you did me.

Because I know that my love for you is something fundamentally unhealthy, something that chips away at my ego and saps at my self-confidence in order to grow something which we all know isn’t going to last. It is an addiction like any other, something that I am paying for with my personality and autonomy and future. The relation with you came at a high cost. I picture myself staying in this relationship for another year, another three years, the rest of my life — I hate what I see. I hate how many parts of me I allow you to take with you when you walk out of the room, how many opportunities I give up on so that you will believe I really love you.

I love me more. I love the idea of growing into someone who has her own apartment, her own career, her own future that only she dictates. I want to meet the woman I become when I free myself of shitty men like you, when I allow myself to make mistakes and do all of the things that I would never be able to do with you. You compared me with every single girl on earth because I think you are afraid of what I’ll be without you. Maybe you think I’ll realize that I could do better, or that I simply deserve better. Maybe you think I’ll look in the mirror and notice that I’m beautiful.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that is already the case. Goodbye. 

Dating A Journalist?

So, you’ve been eyeing that smart, attractive journalist you’re lucky enough to know personally. You’re intrigued. Your journalist is smart, funny, confident. 

I cant can blame you. Journalism is a sexy occupation.

A word of caution- journalists aren’t like bimbos men usually pick up at the bar. Nor are they the assholes the ladies continually fall for. No, journalists are different beings, and you should realize — before jumping in — that this isn’t going to be the same old boring, mushy, hopelessly romantic, lame relationship you’re used to.

Here’s what you should know:

 1) We can figure things out. Understand,it is our job to dig deep, find the secrets and see through bullshit. We can pick up on subtleties, so what you think you are hiding from us won’t be hidden for long. So if you are lying you are insulting us and wasting our time. Sure, we’ll act surprised when you eventually tell us — but we already knew.

 We don’t take shit from anyone. We spend all day separating fact from fiction, listening to PR cronies, angry cops, interviewing fake celebrities and dealing with slimy politicians. If you make us do the same with you, you’re just going to piss us off. And don’t think we’ll be quiet about it. We’ll respond with the vengeance of an Op-Ed page railing against society’s injustices — and we’ll enjoy doing it.

 Just tell us the truth. We can handle it.

 2) At some point, you will be a topic. Either through a feature story or an opinion column, something you do or say will be a subject. Consider it a compliment, even if we’re arguing against you in print.

 Think about it: we live our lives writing about life. If you’re a part of our life, we’re going to write about you, your thoughts or a subject springing from one of the two.

 Don’t be upset when an argument against your adoration of Rahul Gandhi turns up on page A4. We’re not directing the writing at you, personally — your ignorance was just our inspiration (there, doesn’t that make you feel better?).

 3) Yes, we know we’re smarter than you. Does that sound arrogant? Absolutely — but that confidence is what attracted you to us.

 We have a strong, working knowledge of how the world works. That makes us great in conversation. We can talk about anything and everything under the sun, delve into the intricacies of laws, local and national politics, where to find the good restaurants, what’s happening with pop culture, where the good bands are playing and more.

But there are pitfalls.

Guaranteed, when you say “towards,” we will automatically say “toward” — “towards” is not a word. We’re not trying to call you dumb, it’s habit. The same will happen when you say “anxious” when you mean “eager” and when you answer “good” when someone asks how you are doing.

 We carry ourselves with a certain arrogant air. Embrace it (that’s what attracted you to us in the first place, after all). Don’t be surprised if we’re not impressed when you say, “I’m a writer, too.” No, you are not. The fact that you sit in a coffee shop wearing black while scribbling in your journal does not make you a writer. Nor does the fact that you “wrote some poems in high school” or that one day you want to pen “the great American novel.” We’re paid to write. What’s more, our writing matters. It changes opinions, affects decisions and connects people with the world around them. We’re trying to fabricate an aura of creativity. We write about the real world — with real consequences.

 Our words go through three or four cranky and stubborn editors who make us rewrite before it’s printed and distributed all over town. You don’t do that unless you’re confident, even egotistical.

 You may have some great journal entries, poems and rudimentary short stories — good for you. Just don’t assume we’ll accept that as on par with what we do (unless you’re really hot, then hell, you’re a better writer than I).

 4) You’re not less important than the job — the job is just more important than anything else. One doesn’t become a journalist to sit in an office from 9 to 5 Monday through Friday.

 We do take our work home. If news is happening, we’ll drop whatever we’re doing — even if it’s with you — to cover it. We’re always looking for stories, so yes, we’ll stop on the street to write something down, interview a passer-by or gather information for a lead.

 On that same note, don’t get upset if you call us on deadline suggesting some romantic date and we say, “I’ve got to put the paper to bed first.” That could mean hours from now, but we’ll have plenty of time to put you in bed later.

 5) You won’t be disappointed. Journalists are intense, driven, passionate folk. We carry those same attributes into our relationships, making it an extremely fun. Our lives are never boring and each day is different.

If the pitfalls are scaring you away, consider this:

The fact that we’re inquisitive means we’ll listen to you. Even if it does seem like an interview, we’re paying attention to what you have to say (see rule No. 1).

We’ll write about you or your thoughts because you’re an important part of our life and we care about you (see rule No. 2).

Our brains are a great resource. Ever go on a date with an attractive person and wind up wishing you hadn’t because everything they say is just, well, stupid? That’s not going to happen here (see rule No. 3).

 Yes, it may seem that we put the job ahead of you, but we’re passionate and hard working. You’re not with that loser whose life is going nowhere and who’s completely content being mediocre (see rule No. 4).

There you go, five things you should know before dating a journalist. Feel free to add to the list, point out where I’ve missed something or leave a comment. And yes, gentlemen, I’m single (see rule No. 5).

This Is Why You're My Best Friend

We’re best friends because you get it. I’m not sure what that means  but whatever it is, you have it. I don’t need to explain anything to you or worry if you’ll get the joke. You already got it and are on your way to making the next one.

We’re best friends because you love me even when I’m terrible, sad and my most psychotic self (you are the only one who has seen that side of me). It’s easy to love someone when they’re doing well, it’s easy when there’s nothing but happiness. The real challenge comes when everything is crap. You’re not a fun person to be around, when you are a mess, shouting your lungs out and vowing to kill people. But you don’t care. Even when I want to just shut myself up, you’re still down to get a sandwich and french fries with me and talk about boys.

We’re best friends because you don't judge me. I can share anything with you and you will understand my reasoning. You understand my craziness when I fly off the handle. You pick me up after I fall (after you have had a good laugh). You are my anchor and I know I can rely on you even if the world has turned it's back on me. 

We’re best friends because you never make me uncomfortable. I have never felt unsure about you. That is a big thing, at least for me. You know I am not very sure about many things in my life. Many people have come in my life and gone, but not you. You stayed and I know you will always stay. You are the only constant and colorful part of my ever changing dark and moody world. I always know that you make sense and that this makes sense.

We’re best friends because we can go for long stretches of time without talking and it won’t damage the relationship. We always pick up where we left off. Surfaces changes mean nothing to us. 

We’re best friends because you don’t get resentful or jealous 

You’re my best friend because you’re not afraid disagree with me. I can’t get away with anything when I’m with you. You’ll tell me things that I need to hear but everyone else is too afraid to tell me. Your honesty is so refreshing albeit a bitter pill to swallow sometimes.

We’re best friends because you make feel less alone in this psycho, fake world. It’s amazing how often you can feel disconnected from people. It’s amazing how many people can betray you, or fail to understand the words that are coming out of your mouth. When I see you, it’s a burst of reassurance that I’m not the only who looks at the world this way. There’s someone else. And that someone is you.

The Masculine India

Asaram Bapu’s statement that the 23-year old woman who died after being gang-raped in Delhi last month was as much at fault as her offenders is shameful and has made way for competitive male chauvinism. Interestingly most of this chauvinism is coming from the political outfit which forever assures the safety and justice for women. These ludicrous, bordering on imbecilic, remarks by various political and social leaders across the country began after the death of Nirbhaya.

RSS leader Mohan Bhagwat started it all by blaming the western cultures for crime against women because according to him crime against women happen only in urban India and not Bharat ( read villages and forests). By voicing out these chauvinistic opinions he bought back the memory of Iran's Ayatollah Khomeini's attribution to "American crotch culture". But the cheery on the cake was when Bhagwat advised women, at another event, to follow the "social theory" of confining themselves to doing household chores and leaving the earning of money to their husbands.

Then we have Kailash Vijayverghia, minister in BJP ruled Madhya Pradesh. He has told women that if they crossed their limits they would be punished because Sita, one of the worst sufferers of the Hindu mythology, was abducted because she crossed the lakshman rekha. Even Sita wasn't spared.

 VHP leader Ashok Singhal and the Jamaat-e-Islami, both important organisations feeding communalism and fundamentalism, glorified on the virtues of virginity (that of women, who else?), the evil western culture, dignified clothing (for girls, of course) and the undesirability of co-education.

The "hallowed opinions" of Bhagwat, Singhal and Vijayvargiya have caused a lot of uproar, but are unsurprising. Brought up in a feudal and patriarchal society, they have deep-rooted prejudices and no desire to acknowledge the change society has undergone. Their mindset, authoritarian, masculine and mysogynistic, is so sunk in dogma. These people, as also the Jamaat, can’t be expected to think or talk better.

But what has left me stunned is a statement by Asaram Bapu, a popular religious figure operating out of Gujarat. This is his take on the rape of Nirbhaya:

“Only 5-6 people are not the culprits. The victim is as guilty as her rapists. She should have called the culprits brothers and begged them to stop. This could have saved her dignity and life. Can one hand clap? I don't think so.”

He said he disfavours harsh punishment for the rapists because he feels the law could be misused, as it is in the case of dowry harassment cases.

In one stroke, Asaram Bapu has become the symbol of all that is wrong with hollow Indian masculinity.He is not a male chauvinist. Perhaps a modern-day Ravan would be a more apt description. But then Ravan had some virtues too, didn't he?

In the smiling bearded visage of Asaram Bapu one sees the six faces that stared down on Nirbhaya on the night of December 16, 2012.

Nirbhaya

I don’t know her name. I know her as Damini or Nirbhaya, the name media has given her. She was 23, as old as me and maybe similar to me in many ways. And now her battered and tormented body is a testimony to all the faceless and nameless women who were raped and left to die, who are nothing more than mere footnotes in the left-hand column of the newspaper.

Often when we talk about the women in India, we speak in shorthand. The Park Street rape case in Kolkata, The Gurgaon gang rape, The Bhanwari Devi case, Pallavi Purkayasth murder case. Each of these women and places, map a geography of pain, of unspeakable and unimaginable damage inflicted on women’s bodies, on the map of India, where you can, create a constantly updating map of violence against women.

For many of these tormented women, amnesia becomes a way of self-defence: there is only so much darkness you can swallow. And then the tipping point comes, and there’s that girl. For some reason,  she got through to us. My heart shrivelled in the face of what she had to go through. The mental agony, the trauma she had been subjected to by the six men travelling on that bus, who spent an hour torturing and raping her, savagely beating up her male friend. Horrific, brutal, savage—these tired words point towards a loss of words, and none of them express how deeply we identified with her.

She had not asked to become a symbol or a martyr, or a cause; she wanted to lead a normal life, practicing medicine, watching movies, going out with friends. She had not asked to be brave, to be the girl who was so courageous, the woman whose injuries symbolised the violence so many women across the country know so intimately. She had asked for one thing, after she was admitted to Safdarjung Hospital: “I want to live,” she had said to her mother.

 Some cases stop being cases. Sometimes, an atrocity bites so deep that we have no armour against it, and that was what happened with the 23-year-old medical student, the one who left a cinema hall and boarded the wrong bus, whose intestines were so badly damaged that the injuries listed on the FIR report made hardened doctors, and then the capital city, cry for her pain.

She died early this morning, in a Singapore hospital where she and her family had been despatched by the government for what the papers called political, not compassionate, reasons.

The grief hit harder than I’d expected. And I had two thoughts. The first was: enough. Let there be an end to this epidemic of violence, this culture where if we can’t kill off our girls before they are born, we ensure that they live these lives in constant fear. Like many women in India, I rely on a layer of privilege, a network of friends, paranoid security measures and a huge dose of amnesia just to get around the city, just to travel in this country. So many more women have neither the privilege, nor the luxury of amnesia, and this week, perhaps we all stood up to say, “Enough”, no matter how incoherently or angrily we said it.

The second was even simpler. I did not know the name of the girl in the bus. I don’t need to know her name now, especially if her family doesn’t want to share their lives and their grief with us. I think of all the other anonymous women whose stories don’t make it to the front pages, when I think of this woman; I think of the courage that is forced on them, the way their lives are warped in a different direction from the one they had meant to take. Don’t tell me her name; I don’t need to know it, to cry for her.

The Battle Within...

"Put the gloves on otherwise you will cut and scratch your hands", says my mother. I do as I am told. Its a fine day. The sky has little wisps of clouds and there is a distinct chill in the air. I am standing in my garden helping my mother to remove the weeds. Besides me lies my weapon- its like a curved spear, almost the same size as the butcher knife. Its called a sickle. The object of my attack is right there in front of me- my garden.
I immediately bend down and start my battle with the weeds. I start remove them among the plants and the grass. I do this for quite sometime knowing that each plant I remove will die in a day or two. Suddenly a question pops into my head- Am I doing the right thing? What we call a "weed" is, in fact, a species which is trying to survive, a species which has taken Nature millions of years to create and develop. The flower was fertilized by several insects. Then it was transformed into a seed and scattered by the wind everywhere and because it was not planted in one particular place- but in many- its chances of survival are many. But all the effort put in the survival is cut short by my sickle which is mercilessly cutting the plant, uprooting it from the soil.
Why am I doing this?
My mother created this garden. It is in perfect harmony with the nearby tress, birds and the insects. My mother had thought long and hard and she knew what she wanted when she planned this garden. She tended this place for so many years. But she thinks the weeds spoil the beauty of her garden and destroy all her plants.  Should I respect my mother's choice or should I just accept the survival instinct of the weed?
I continue my war with the weeds. I pull out quite a few and toss them into a pile. You might think I am thinking to much, unnecessarily. But, then, every gesture of man is sacred, and that makes me think even more.
On the contrary, these plants have the right to live anywhere they want. But if I don't destroy them now they will destroy the other plants. In the New Testament, Jesus talks about separating the wheat from the tares.
But the Bible doesn't solve my dilemma. I am faced by a concrete question always faced by man - How far should we interfere with nature? Is our interference always negative or does it yield positive results as well.
I set aside the sickle and to give more thought to this question of life and death.
In the end the Bhagavad- Gita comes to my help. I remember the answer Krishna gives to Arjuna, when the latter loses heart before the great battle, throws down his Gandiva and says it is not right to take part in this battle because it will only result in the death of loved ones. Krishna says," Do you really think you can kill anyone? Your hand is My hand and it was already written that everything you are doing would be done. No one kills no one and no one dies."
Encouraged by this particular passage, I pick up my sickle and attack the weeds again. This experience taught me one lesson- when some evil or undesirable grows in my soul I ask God to give me the courage and strength to mercilessly pluck it out.

What Love taught me..

5 years in Pune has bought a tremendous change in me. This city has changed my thinking, my perceptions, my views and to some extent it has touched my life in many significant ways. Pune has given me the best and the worst to cope. It is in this city that I fell in love for the first time and this thing called LOVE taught me a few things about life and myself. It has not been a very pleasant experience but love helped me to know myself better and I am grateful.

It is possible to love someone who doesn’t love you back. It is painful and makes you sick. It makes you feel incomplete. But its very much there. Unrequited love is one of the most strongest yet the most painful forms of love I have known.

I have always been told that I have to love myself before letting anybody love. But I don’t agree with this notion. There are times when I hated myself beyond anything and there was still someone who loved me in spite of that. But it’s not healthy. Its not the best kind of love I feel.

Love is like a drug. Its a fixation. A fixation burrows into your heart and mind. Its stubborn and won’t give you peace and Love is the worst kind of fixation.

Its painful to have loved someone once and never again. Sometimes you regret it and wish that it never happened.

One of the most important things love taught me was that you can never love someone quite the same way you did the first time. For me that is a painful thought and something that I have to live with for the rest of my life.

Its a beautiful feeling when you realize that you are worth loving.

Sex and love should never be confused. Sometimes sex just brings out the weaknesses in the relationship.

Someone you love may betray you. Its the law of life and everyone has to go through it.

You cannot force yourself to love someone. If it’s not there it’s not going to happen.

Love is not always exciting. It can be felt subtly on a lazy Sunday afternoon when you are sitting with someone silently. You look around for  a second and realize that you can never feel safer or happier anywhere else.

Everyone wants to be loved. Everyone wants to feel wanted and relied upon. For most people its like Achilles heel. I am no exception.

Finding love is the most conscious motivator for a lot of things we all do. Love is the reason why we work out. Love is the reason why we want to look good, no matter what. Its why we talk to strangers in the first place.

If you love someone today there is a chance that you might hate that person someday. Yes it happens.

There will always be that one person who will stick in your mind. They will feel like a perpetual ache in your heart.

Love will bring out the best and the worst version of yourself.

Love is the reason why we are all here.