The Comprehensive Manual to Being a Good Girl

Be a good girl, they said.

Be quiet.
Be silent.
Raise your hand when you want to say something.
Better yet, say nothing at all.

Don't use swear words.
Your brothers will, of course.
But then, boys will be boys.
You watch your tongue. Hold your tongue. Curb your tongue.

Be a good girl.

Wear your dupatta.
Don't you know only loose girls wear jeans and shorts?
Don't you know only character-less girls wear short skirts?
Don't you know only sluts let their bra straps show, provocatively, while wearing spaghetti tops?

Cross your legs.
Don't spread them - literally and figuratively.
Hold your arms tightly by your sides or cross them across your bosom.
Don't swing them loose and free.
Squeeze yourself into a small box, and stay there.

Be a good girl.

Don't drink.
Don't smoke.
Don't walk alone.
Don't drive alone.
Don't speak to strange men.
Don't smile too openly. You may be misunderstood.
But don't be an ice queen either. Then they will think you frigid. Proud. Arrogant.

Be polite. Be well brought up. Be lady-like. Be nice. 

Be a good girl.

Don't argue.
Don't talk back.
If you have opinions, learn to keep them to yourself.
Nobody likes an abrasive girl, you know?
Go along with things.
Compromise.
Adjust.
That's what women do, you know?
They shift, mould, bend.
They chip pieces of themselves away so they can fit with the men in their lives, like jigsaw puzzles.

Don't you know about the rising divorce rates?
It's these girls with their new-fangled notions of independence and careers.
Family comes first.
Go start one now. It's time.
Your ovaries are drying up and it'll soon be too late for you.
Barren-ness awaits.

Be a good girl.

Wear soft make-up. 
(Only prostitutes wear red lipstick. And overly smoky eyes mean you're promiscuous.)
But don't look too pretty.
You don't want to give them the wrong idea.

Be willing to smile at movies and shows and videos that demean women.
It's all in good fun, after all.
Just a movie.
Just a show.
Just a video.
No need to get het up.
Enjoy it.
Just don't laugh too loud. (You may giggle coyly though.)

Be a good girl.

Be appropriate.
Be acceptable.
Don't make people uncomfortable.
Don't test the norm, stretch the limits, break new ground.
That's reserved for the men. The adventurers and conquerors.

You be the guardian of tradition, of the solid and the stable, of our collective morals.
When women stray, things fall apart.
We are Atlas, carrying the world on our shoulders.
Don't shrug.
Be the status quo.

Be a good girl.

You were always meant to be the other half.
Someone's daughter, sister, wife, mother.

You are the space inside a rectangle.
Defined by the lines.
These borders give you existence. Without them, who are you?
Don't you go thinking you are one of the lines that make up the shape.
You are the white emptiness inside.
Meant to be shaped.

Be a good girl.

Be Sita.
(But don't be Draupadi, okay? She had the gall to speak out.)
Be Lakshmi.
(But don't be Kali, okay? We worship her but let's face it, strength like that is reserved for fictitious goddesses.)
Be one of those lovely girls in those wonderful soaps with Indian values.
("I don't want to do this. But I will. For my family. For the greater good. To keep the peace. I will sacrifice.")

Adhere to the Lakshman rekhas made by the many Lakshmans in your life.
That will keep you safe. Keep you moral. Keep you where you're supposed to be kept.
You know?

Save us all some trouble.
Just be a good girl.

Heartbroken and Guilty: The Road to Freedom is Paved with Introspection

“Under the spreading chestnut tree

I sold you and you sold me.” 

– 1984, George Orwell

My country has always been my first love. I love its essential spirit: the inclusiveness, the ability to assimilate differences, the tradition of dialogue and argument, the vibrancy of daily life that we so take for granted. I’m the sucker that cries at any ad that pulls at my nationalistic heart-strings, the one who cheers like a maniac at cricket matches where India’s playing, the emotional patriot who knows every word to songs like “Bhaarat humko jaan se pyaara hai.”


But today, India, you are breaking my heart. I am left hanging my head in great sorrow and personal shame. Yes, personal. Because how can I distinguish myself from this country, separate “India” from “Pallavi”?

We strut arrogantly through life, through the world…setting up outposts everywhere, believing we are the very best, secure in our “cultural heritage”, aiming for a UN Security Council seat, cutting billion-dollar defense deals, laughing proudly when we see Aishwarya Rai on Oprah.

And yet, when you think about it for a second, the massive problems in this country are only too obvious: widespread poverty, malnourishment, disease, systemic political corruption, a patriarchal system that is a daily nightmare for most women, high crime rates, an inefficient police force, vulnerability to terror attacks…need I go on?


We seem to have lost either the will or the ability to introspect.

Bring up a flaw, highlight an issue, take up a cause – and hundreds of naysayers will strike you down. “So negative”, “so unpatriotic”, “so extreme”, “so boring”, “who cares?” – responses are varied, but pretty much translate to the same basic message: “shut the hell up and let us get on with our lives”.

So most of us do. I know I have – I am as guilty as the next person of shutting up about things because it was EASIER.

It’s easier to keep your friends when you stay quiet about their characterization of certain women as “loose” or “slutty”.

It’s easier to keep the peace in a social gathering when you laugh along as someone mocks a “feminist”.

It’s easier to not rock the family boat when you don’t challenge relatives’ medieval notions of a woman’s place, a woman’s responsibility.

It’s easier to take home a regular salary when you pretend the “sexual harassment committee” at your workplace is not a complete farce.

It’s easier to not care. It’s just more…convenient.


We are all guilty here, let’s make no mistake about it.

Oh, I’m not saying the political class is not at fault. It’s their JOB to run this bloody country and we ALL know they have failed magnificently on that account.

But they say you get the politicians you deserve, and maybe that’s true.

We continue to let them play us, divide us, rule us on the basis of frivolous concepts: caste, religion, region. And then we act surprised when the country is falling apart. We are only too happy to go cast a vote on some preconceived notions (how many of us do ANY research on the candidates we’re voting for?) or not vote at all (“what are the options, yaar?”), and stop there.


It is OUR fault that our netas are not accountable. 

If a candidate with a rape charge against him is in power, how do you think he got there? We VOTED for him.

If a corrupt politician stays in power for over a decade, how do you think she got there? We KEPT her there.

If the police force is corrupt, how do you think it keeps going? We BRIBE our cops – for skipping a red light, extending party deadlines, a drunk driving charge.

If society mistreats its women, well whose fault is that? We COLLUDE with society – we snigger at women who have multiple sexual partners, we call dowry “gifts”, we nod along when someone says “women just don’t know how to compromise anymore” when talking about a divorce, we “understand” that big business families want a male heir, we don’t want to be called “feminists” because – let’s face it – “feminist” is a four-letter word in these patriarchal days and ways.


In sum, we dodge our responsibilities – and I include myself in this completely.

Well, democracy is a two-sided coin. And since we haven’t held up our end of the bargain, the system is NOT working. What a shocker, right?


It’s the end of the year, and it’s time for me to introspect. Time for all of us to introspect.

What can I do differently? Where will I fight my battles once these protests cease?

Will I walk the talk?

Will I take my maid to self-defence classes with me?

Will I support a friend/relative who wants to marry a rape victim?

Will I speak up when someone says “slut” next time?

Will I acknowledge that feminism, in all its militant glory, is the reason I have a Masters degree, the reason I had the right to marry the man of my choice, the reason I can vote, drink, work, party, drive, and even stand for elections if I so choose?

Will I show up in court and pay the fine next time I commit a traffic violation, instead of paying the cop 200 bucks?

Will I get involved, like I’ve been saying all these days, and start volunteering with a counseling/women’s rights organisation?

Will I stop and intervene next time I see a person in trouble on the streets?

Will I research the candidate in my locality next time and do what I can to spread the word, to try and make the election agenda-driven rather than party- or community-driven?

Will I, as a patriot, stop being in denial and actually DO something about these things?


India, it’s time for us to think deeply, to become self-aware.

Then, it’s time for us to act – thoughtfully, consistently, collectively.

India, it’s time for us to heal you.

The Housekeeper in Paradise

An Edenic Maldivian Island

It’s amazing what people do to provide for their families. Today, at the idyllic island resort in the Maldives where I’m staying, I discovered that the gentleman who does our housekeeping speaks Hindi – so of course we were soon chatting away like old acquaintances.

The housekeeper is originally from Bangladesh and has been working on this picturesque island for many years now. His wife and children live back in his village in Bangladesh. He makes a good salary and sends back most of it to his family each month, so that his children can go to school and have a shot at white-collar jobs, at a brighter tomorrow – a chance he and his wife never had.

“Do you like it here?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s beautiful and they treat us very well, but –” there is a flash of pain across the housekeeper’s face and suddenly, I am terribly sorry to have asked him such a question, a question that doesn’t bear thinking about for solitary migrant workers all over the world. “It’s hard,” he continues, “living away from my family. Sometimes, a year and a half, even two years, go by before I can visit them. It’s difficult, not being able to see the children for so long.”

What can I do except listen and nod, my heart silently breaking for this man, with his weather-beaten face, his slightly-different Hindi, and his impeccable bed-making and towel-folding skills? It’s such a familiar story: men and women, unable to eke out a decent living in their own countries, migrate to other lands where the money is good, the living quarters are small, and home and family are reduced to memories that keep you going.

(Surely, sometimes, in the middle of the night, those who are parents must be gripped by some sort of panic: Are my children all right? What if something has happened to them? Do they miss me? Do they even remember me? What if they’ve forgotten? Oh god, I’m too far away to look after them, please keep them safe.)

I remember that my housekeeper does not have easy access to the wondrous gadgets and devices that make long-distance relationships bearable for people like us: smartphones, international calling cards, WhatsApp, BBM, notebooks, iPads, Skype, FaceTime, GoogleTalk, Facebook, Picasa, and so on and so forth. And I feel so horribly guilty, with my wasteful plethora of gadgets scattered all around the hotel room….

I wish I could have said something wise and comforting. In all probability, though, I would have just sounded patronising – trying to provide commentary on a situation I have no key to. Just as well then that I nod and say, “I see. Okay… Well, thank you for doing the room. It looks great. Shukriya. ”

The housekeeper looks relieved, smiles and walks away into the palm-fronded paradise that is this tiny island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

On days like this, I fervently hope there’s a method to all this melancholy madness.

Getting Off the Goddamn Fence

I do not consider myself religious.

I was born a Hindu, and have a degree of affection for the religion of my birth. During moments of crisis, I find it calming to recite the Gayatri Mantra. I think the Mahabharata is one of the best stories ever told. I like the concept of doing one’s duty, regardless of personal benefit or harm. And I have a weakness for indigo-skinned, flute-playing men.

However, I couldn’t care less for the larger, ritualized Hinduism that is routinely touted as “authentic” or give a flying you-know-what about Ram Rajya and other associated nonsense.

I also know I’m not alone. So many of us – born Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Buddhists, Sikhs – have a residual fondness for the religions we were born into but don’t buy into the organized, systemic aspect of them. Some of us don’t even believe in God.

We are the religious moderates. The ones who may not believe in something, but don’t have a problem if someone else does. We don’t fast or go to places of worship or believe in auspicious dates…but it’s okay by us if someone else does – as long as they don’t try and stuff it down our throats.

We don’t have faith (or, perhaps, some of us have trace amounts of faith), but we acknowledge there are others out there who do – and we respect that. Frankly, as long as it doesn’t affect us, we just don’t care enough what other people believe.

As long as it doesn’t affect us.

That’s the key phrase.

The problem, I think, is that it has started affecting us – or at least, things we like or people like us. Maybe it always did. But it seems, in the past few years, that the world around us has degenerated into a state of continual religious fervor. Whether it’s increasing religion-based violence, a dangerous clamping down on freedom of speech and the written word, or violence towards authors, film-makers, cartoonists, journalists and whatnot…the indicators of a religious crisis are everywhere.

In the melee, we moderates seem to have been drowned out. Everyone else is shouting: religious fundamentalists of all kinds, atheist zealots, pressure groups that want to appease certain religious communities, politicians with vested interests, hysterical journalists and news anchors, military personnel, priests, monks, mullahs, clerics, terrorists…

Everyone is shouting, and nobody is listening.

And where are we, in this unholy fracas? I don’t know about you, but I think I’ve been sitting on the fence. Oh sure, I speak out in a general way about current events – the Gujarat riots, the Mumbai bomb blasts, Mitt Romney, the Oslo bombings, the arrested cartoonists, the fatwa against Salman Rushdie, the – well, the list is endless.

But when religious extremism stares me in the face, up close and personal, I tend to walk away. “It’s not my problem,” I tell myself. “It doesn’t affect me. What good will it do to argue with this friend/relative/colleague? Let them believe what they do and say what they will. It’s not like I can change their minds. And anyway, it doesn’t affect me.”

But now, I think, it does. In immediate ways, as well as more subtle ones. I want to be able to buy The Satanic Verses in my country of birth. I want to go to a museum and see MF Hussain’s paintings of Hindu gods. I want to laugh at funny religious cartoons. I want to be able to walk into any freaking temple that might catch my fancy – even if I’m having my period. I don’t want to have to tiptoe around religious topics that I have opinions on. I don’t want to sound apologetic about eating beef or pork in anyone’s presence. I don’t want to speak in whispers about drinking, contraception, abortion, and other perfectly normal topics just because other people may take offense. I want to be able to say, freely, that certain parts of all religions are just stupid and meaningless.

Because nothing should be off-limits for discussion. If ideas are strong, if beliefs are true, they should be able to survive questioning and criticism. I love how religious zealots are allowed to preach to moderates or non-believers about the state of their souls till kingdom come, but if we respond and disagree, the “faith” card is played – and all of a sudden, we’re the “intolerant” ones.

We’re not intolerant. We may not believe what you do, but we respect your thoughts – whether you choose to believe in holy trinities, billions of gods, unclean meats or alien ancestors, WE DON’T CARE. Unless you start using those beliefs to oppress freedom of thought and speech – or begin telling us that other religions or what we believe (or don’t) is horseshit. The moment you do that, your faith is fair game. If you can’t take criticism, don’t be so eager to dish it out.

I refuse to sit by quietly anymore. I don’t want to shout, or run people down, or mock them, or be violent in thought or speech. I still want to listen, I want to understand, I want to know what other people think and where they’re coming from.

But there is a point where faith becomes fanaticism – too often, we give the latter a free pass because the former is such a volatile factor. Too long, I – WE – have sat on the fence and just refused to get involved in “somebody else’s problem”.

No more.

I will do my best to understand your views – but I will also speak, and expect you to listen in turn. If you are opinionated, I will also make my views clear. If you tell me how my soul should be governed, I will question the state of yours. If you tell me how to live, I will tell you what you might also do to be a better person. If you criticize someone else’s religious community, I will help shine the spotlight on the skeletons in your cupboard. If you promote censorship of speech, I will talk all the more.

I will be polite. I will rely on facts. I will try and be fair. I will not mock genuine faith. I will be willing to learn.

But I will not be quiet.

Between religious fundamentalism and atheist zealotry, there lies a balance. We, the religious moderates, occupy that space. We are the voice of reason – and tolerance.

Let us engage in meaningful dialogue with people around us. Let us speak our views. Let us not sit by silently, and watch our families, our workplaces, our social groups, our communities, our cities, our countries, and our world be taken hostage by those who are shouting loudest.

Who’s to say we can’t change minds? Who’s to say that if we listen and speak reasonably and sensibly, other people won’t do the same? Who’s to say we cannot turn the tide, and bring a balance, a moderation into this minefield, so fraught with tension? Who’s to say we might not change something, somewhere with our words?

Let us talk, you and I, before the cacophony defeats us and all that we value.

Let us get off the goddamn fence before it’s too late.

Nothing Comes Easily

Source

Nothing comes easily, fill this empty space

Sometimes, it seems like we don’t want to be happy.

There is, after all, so much beauty in the world and in most of our lives (and I’m talking about you and me here – lucky enough to be traipsing through blogsphere, sitting with our laptops and tablets and smartphones in our comfortable homes) that it should be enough. Enough for us to not complain. Enough for us to appreciate life. Enough to be happy.

But nothing, it seems, is ever enough for us.

Why is that?

Are we just a dissatisfied race? Incapable of being content? Programmed to find flaws, create issues, foster division, cause grief?

I’m not talking about those of us who have suffered soul-wrenching loss, wrested with actual problems, emerged from truly agonizing periods in their lives. They know what we often fail to remember – that life is unpredictable. That real disasters strike suddenly on a Tuesday at 4:00 am, without warning signs and well-laid escape plans. They know that what we sulk and fume and stress about is mostly frivolous nonsense. That these are precious moments we squander in our sullen refusal to open ourselves to joy. Because when life gives us something to really worry about, we’ll wonder why on earth we didn’t seize every previous, worry-free day with both hands and hold on tight.

Raise your hand if you can tick off most of the following: well fed, well clothed, well housed, well educated, well read, well liked, well loved.

Seriously, raise your hand. Good. Now, think about how few people in the world are as privileged as us.

Yet, we fret and talk endlessly about something someone said, or didn’t say; about something we can’t afford, even though it may not be something we really want; about how we look, or someone else looks; worst of all, about what someone believes, or doesn’t.

Really, now. Are we doomed to this pettiness forever? Or is there light at the end of this tunnel?

Nothing is like it seems, turn my grief to grace

Inward

Image: overcoming-silence

Be self-aware. 

See your own flaws as clearly as you see your enemies. 

Love your strengths like you love your heroes. 

Come home to yourself. 

The Symphony: Elements of Life

Be like the breeze.

Have the ability to tread lightly, laugh airily, and flit from place to place.

Be like the flame.

Have it in you to burn steady, singe the unwary, and light up a murky corner.

Be like the dewdrop.

See clearly that your beauty is momentary, transient…and all the more amazing for it.

Be like the stone.

Allow the passage of time to make you more nuanced, more adaptive, more wondrous.

Be like the snowflake.

Know that there is no-one else quite like you but that we’ll all end up melted together eventually.

Be like the sun.

Flaunt your light occasionally but know when to fall back and rest quietly in the darkness.

Be like the moonshine.

Make sure you shimmer and glimmer with no real objective whatsoever sometimes.

Be like the ocean.

Combine the deep and the shallow within yourself.

Be like the cave.

Have mysteries and dark corners and shadows within yourself that others cannot reach easily.

Be like the bud.

Celebrate your potential and the roots that make it possible for you to bloom.

Be like the grass.

Let superfluous and unwanted bits of yourself be trimmed and fall away, unmourned.

Be like the snowpeak.

Exist for yourself first, for the sheer heady bliss of being…be your own zenith.

Be like the sand.

Learn to shape yourself for someone else, grain by grain, to achieve harmony.

Be like the cliff.

Embrace change and the ravages of the world…they make you impressive, they make you real.

Be like the symphony.

Weave together all your elements to create pure magic.

Image source.

Pandora's Box

Picture: J W Waterhouse

A secret prophecy.

Hidden. Locked. Safe.

In the deepest, darkest recesses of mind and heart.

A prophecy as unchangeable as – what? What, after all, is permanent, unshakeable, always itself…? Once, she would have said as unchangeable as love; now, it’s a word that doesn’t come to mind immediately.

Things change. Things alter. Things don’t stay the same.

They tell us and tell us – and tell us some more. The collected wisdom of the ages, the old stories, the authentic myths and fairytales, the epics themselves. They don't whisper it, or speak in riddles. They give it to us straight and unvarnished: things change.

But in our youth, our arrogance, our naiveté, we choose not to listen, to laugh in the face of impermanence, to challenge change itself. Because love knows itself to be immortal, and lovers acknowledge no weakness.

“THIS is forever." "THIS is different." "WE are different." "We KNOW.”

We stand steadfast in our convictions and we enjoy the sheer, heady, grand joy of what we know. (Or think we know.)

And then, time shifts.

One day, the secret prophecy is there. It doesn’t appear suddenly, abruptly. There is no jolt, no shocking assault on the senses. It’s just…there. As if it’s always been there.

It pulsates, insistent in its steady, constant rhythm, keeping pace with the beating of her heart.

She notices it as the days slip by languorously, lazily. It's insidious, omnipresent, niggling.

She contemplates it, this foreign entity within herself. She considers it from a distance, impartially. This secret prophecy seems to be an unknown quantity. Which is impossible. There can be no unknowns – after all, she is secure in her knowledge, which is complete. She *knows*. The prophecy is nothing, it is simply illusory. It’s superstition, lingering debris from years gone by, the wreckage of old notions that has buried itself into her being. Ignore it, she commands herself. It is nothing.

It is no use, though.

The prophecy will not, *cannot* be denied. It is as undeniable as – well, as love.

It beats, day and night. Like a dripping tap, it echoes in her mind until it is as if there are only two things in the world: the secret prophecy, and herself.

She concedes defeat – that too, was foretold. It was destined.

For you see, change is an impetus, an unstoppable force that cannot be staved off, cannot be stopped, cannot be reversed.

When it meets an immovable object, like love, the object realizes that it isn’t really immovable after all. Change is too strong, too hell-bent on having its way. And it always does.

She relents, she weakens, and the defenses come crashing down. The secret prophecy cracks open, and the glow of the unknown turns into the darkness of knowledge.

Where did love go? How did she miss it walking out of the door, bag and baggage? How did forever turn into a phase?

She is left, bereft. Her heart is not broken; in fact, she can't feel her heart at all. She grasps at all she used to know, trying desperately to recapture what she once felt – but memory is already working its deceptive enchantment. She remembers, certainly, that she was in love, a tugging, bone-deep, soul-wrenching, passionate sort of love – but she knows it only theoretically. She understands the surface meaning of the words, but she cannot reach the deeper meaning that lies within. Love has left the building, and she is all alone.

She stands in the ruins of yesterday's knowledge; all is broken, all is lost. Today is bleak; tomorrow, impossible.

Change has been here, too.

Where will it go next?

Becoming Your Own Sequel

Image: lubow

If it can be broke, then it can be fixed
If it can be fused, then it can be split
It's all under control
It's all under control

Do we lose fragments of ourselves along the way?
Does the compromising, the conversation, the cynicism take its inevitable toll?
Are the losses worth the end result? From the days and ways we choose not to remember, to the people we don't like to be reminded of?

All you need is time.
All you need is time.
All you need is time.

Castles in the air.
"Happily ever after."
Magical myth making enmeshed in our dreams and aspirations, thanks to Disney, romantic comedies, Bollywood blockbusters, and trashy novels devoured on airplanes.

The dust has only just begun to form.

New and shiny and pretty.
I can almost taste the glimmering joy.
This is how it's supposed to be.
Is it too late? For me, for you, for us?
Have we seen too much, done too much, said too much?
Have we made it impossible to create a fairytale conclusion for ourselves?

Mmm, what you say?
That you only meant well?
Well, of course you did.
Mmm, what you say?
That it's all for the best?
Because it is.
Mmm, what you say?
That it's just what we need?
You decided this.

Can I recapture myself?
Can you recapture yourself?
Are we irreversibly altered?
Is innocence forever lost?

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?

What about the promised wisdom? The promised lessons learned from experience?
The honing of spirit that pain is supposed to bring with itself?
It is hard to feel anything except like a patient etherised upon a table.
Was the story supposed to turn out like this?
Really?

i carry your heart with me
i carry it in my heart

There is no escaping it.
There is no going back to the start.
There is only change - now and for ever after.

There's still time for you,
Time to buy and time to lose
There's never a wish better than this
When you've only got a hundred years to live.

This is it then, I suppose.

I have become my own sequel.

A Monsoon of Quiet Loss

A ramshackle heart. 

A balcony. 

And monsoon.

Rain that brings with it memories of joy and love, now long gone. A breeze that carries the notes of freewheeling days, splashy puddles, raindrop-fresh giggles, and crystal clear convictions. 

A day that reminds me of Before. 

Before the anticlimax, Before the petering out, Before the endless vacuum.

Most things in life don't come to an end with a flash and bang, with drama and effective stage exits. They just...fade. Not with a bang, but a whimper - isn't that how the world ends?

Fleeting, fleeting love. 

Oh-so-deceptive as it first makes its way into your heart and your life. 

Whispering of ever-afters and rock-solid permanence. 

Singing of beloved tales and classic films that seem to bear testimony to the sheer dependability of love. Lulling you into believing in the magic. 

Love.

It makes the world go round, it's all you need, you can't buy it, it'll see you through the time of cholera, it is a story in itself, it's hard on the knees, it bites and bleeds and lives and dies and begs and pleads.

So when it finally happens, when it's-there-one-minute-and-gone-the-next, you feel like you've been punched in the gut and had the wind knocked out of you. It's not like it went kicking and screaming, on the heels of terrible betrayal or irreconcilable differences or one of those equally loaded phrases. 

It left quietly, one morning, while you were making toast for breakfast. 

So, you try desperately to retrieve it, rescue it, bring it back - at any cost.

But it's gone. For good. 

The devastation is heart-stopping, because it's the aftermath of a storm so silent and insidious that you never even realized it was there. It's left rubble in its wake, a debris of pointlessness and dreams no longer dreamed, of songs that just sound like empty words, of broken promises, of dangling conversations that are punctuated with sentences that mean nothing. 

It is a wreckage that reeks of absence, of failure - not of high-strung emotions like anger and grief and guilt. 

A quiet collapse. 

Love: a house of cards that the slightest random bit of breeze can topple with a soft swoosh.

Thus, the balcony.

And the ramshackle heart.

And a monsoon of loss.

Subtle, insiduous, and maddeningly insistent

Image: Bruce Dale 

Don't look for structure in this one. Or plot. Or beginnings and conclusions. Or articulation of already-formed thoughts and storylines and concepts.

I have none of those things to offer at this point in time. I'm too busy trying to make my way through a maze of thoughts that have gotten too numerous and inarticulate to make for a decent blog, forget a decent night-time conversation with the self. So this one is for that old cliche: resolution through words.

There's enough that comes to mind.

There is suffering and illness. There is misery and hospital beds. There is the ICU - a word that struck terror in all of our hearts at first, till we became resigned to it in the weeks that followed, and then said "ICU" in the same tired voice we had first heard the receptionist say it.

There is hope and then the loss of hope, and then hope again and then the loss of hope again, and then- then, there is death. My first conscious encounter with death, a loss that matters in a way that none before it have. The pain of it is sudden and overwhelming. But it can be dealt with. Because of the reassurances we have, said constantly by everyone to everyone till they become the mantra in the weeks afterward: "a long and fruitful life", "released from his suffering", "better to go like this than have stayed on without independence"... It is made easier by the fulfilment of his last request. A family mends itself slowly and surely, as it comes together to honour its greatest and most enterprising member; but it is too late for the architect of this process to enjoy what he has brought about.

There is an already half-disappearing image of an old man sitting in front of his dead brother's photograph and crying for forty lost years. His regret is so powerful that you recoil from him, and you shudder and hope you will never taste regret like that, so intense that it is almost acidic. And there is a renewed commitment to apologising- sometimes even when it's not your fault. Because the price of being righteous (or even right) is just too terribly high sometimes.

Then, Agra. We are here because this death needs to be accorded its proper place, its proper meaning by the framework that sheltered this giant of a man when he was alive. It is a misty, cold morning. Winding deserted streets at the crack of dawn. A hall full of men and women meditating in unison. The head of this religious sect believes in the power of collective energies. Afterwards, there is a field of crops that are ready to be harvested. And there are plenty of scythes. It is almost surreal. I am in a field in Agra at 7:00 AM on my 24th birthday. (That has to be one of the unlikeliest autobiographical sentences I've ever written.) The harvesting is a community project run by the sect- we all sit down and proceed to cut the crops with scythes- it turns into a bit of a competition, a game, and we laugh and talk while quickly mastering the art of harvesting, as more seasoned members generously pass on bits of wisdom to us ("Make the cut right at the bottom of the stalk- no point wasting the last few inches!"). We are shushed at regular intervals by senior overseers, and our group (which ranges from a 19-year-old to a 62-year-old) subsides into chastened silence at periodic intervals- just until someone cracks the next joke in a muttered overtone.

The head of the sect arrives. A number of people in the field have come because there are problems they want his advice about. Some have come to share good news. A stern senior member makes us all gather round as he explains the process to us. There are rules and guidelines - "Don't talk", "Don't shuffle", "Don't interrupt" and so on. I feel like we're in school; no-one has spoken like this to me in many years. But it seems to fit- in this place, in this context, perhaps it could only be this way. We line up, waiting for the head to reach us. Progress is slow, even though none of the devotees speak. Why does no-one speak? Because they have already given short summaries of their problems to the religious committee earlier- and anyway, the head of the sect is omniscient so there is no need for conversation.

Finally, he reaches us. Fragments that will stay with me (and certainly with everyone else who was there) all my life.
"He was a good, good man."
"He went too early."
"All of you stay together."
"He did such good work. All these years that he managed Delhi...we've never had a problem from there."
"All of you stay together."

And that...was that.

Lost and Found

Image: Henry Weddiasmara

“Everyone belongs somewhere.”
“Maybe not everyone…. Maybe some people just get lost.”

There is a certain amount of charm in being that lost person. It’s undeniable. The whirlwind of cynical freewheeling, the moments of crisis on windy terraces, the bitterness of vodka as a Friday night savior, the complete disdain for long-term consequences, the vaguely haunting gestures of trying to get your bearings, the gloss of dismissive statements, the satisfaction of cutting sarcasm, and the haggard, yet real, smiles exchanged across a room, across a lifetime, across a dimension that is typically impassable…

There is also a sense of vacuous loss when you transition from being lost to being found, being fine, being happy…. Not nostalgia exactly. That would be to romanticize a time that cannot – should not – be romanticized. But even once the rose-tinted glasses have been relegated to the heap of dusty memories … there remains a slippery sense of having lost something in the present joy.

Lost…what? Is it the general madness? Or is it the rollercoaster extremes that lost people seem to thrive on…? And even there, to clarify, it’s hard to miss the highs, because those exist even when one is happy – almost exactly the same ones. So, impossible as it may sound, maybe it is the rock-bottom despair that is missed…? Of course, it makes no sense. Except in the most roundabout of ways…where it becomes clear that what binds us all together as a race is a complex whole of pain and happiness. And all of a sudden, it feels like only half the connection is being made. Isolated from the pain, and privy only to the content pleasures…

Humanity kicks in at this point, and it becomes easier to identify with the young boy at the signal, the tired-looking receptionist, the gas-tragedy agitators, the aging patriarch, the anguished colleague, and the numb friend. It is almost as if the capacity for pain needs to be reinvented...through improvised methods…in case one becomes totally alone in that solitary bubble of joy.

So the tears well up, almost inexplicably… at advertisements that you know are manipulating all the right strings… at songs that you would have classified as sentimental nonsense in another lifetime… at distant situations – the kind where it was easier to be a harsh realist when you had your own situations to deal with… at the third drink when you know perfectly well that you’ll stay stark sober for another two at least – but the mind plays tricks on you, bewilders you, leads you down that maze of sorrow you have inhabited once upon a time… Fighting your enemy is easier when he or she exists outside of you, isn’t it?

Have I got it right? Or is it just easier to complicate something and turn it into a shimmering smoky fable than to accept that, maybe, we’re just a dissatisfied race without the capacity to be truly happy…? Maybe the grass always is greener on the other side…? But, no… I cannot believe that… Reveling in joy, but having melancholy tug at you once in a while confirms the best of anyone’s humanity, does it not? In an essentially solitary existence, imagination is our only source of compassion… And how can we (and why should we) deny the best part of ourselves?

Phoenixes and Futility

Surely you remember the betrayal.
From….was it yesterday?
Last week?
A few months ago?
Or has it been years now?

Have you cried? Paced up and down? Woken up with a sudden fearful start?
And was it because of the bitter hurt of being betrayed, or was it because of the cold metallic guilt of betraying someone else?

Got a secret, can you keep it?
Swear this one you’ll save…

An inevitable temptation to re-examine and rethink earlier, black-and-white statements about “I’d rather be honest” and “I’d rather know than be deceived”…

I see her standing on high moral ground… Lonely… Alone… With wreckage and debris all around her, and no possibility of magical phoenixes.

Truth yields fleeting satisfaction.
And then…
All that’s left is regret.

Surely you remember the regret.
The incessant “why-didn’t-I-just”…
The ruthless reconstructions….the defining moment just before the-point-of-no-return.
Wondering why you did it.
And wondering why you told.

Surely….life would have been simpler, happier if some things had been concealed….secreted….locked up in a neat, shiny treasure chest and taken to the grave…

But…

…no-one keeps a secret
Why when we do our darkest deeds, do we tell?
’Cos everybody tells…

Remember the look on your friend’s face?
Or was it your lover?
Or did you look into the face of your brother?
Or perhaps, your sister?

Were you speaking?
Or were you being spoken to?

Snapshots veer into the haze.
Years of midnight snacks, and gossip sessions.
Endless phone-calls.
Being held.
Falling over with laughter on the staircase.
Car-rides with comfortable silences.
Being supported.
Cold beer and togetherness.
Road trips to the mountains.
Being cherished.
Barbecues on the terrace in winter.
Finding a special song.
Being loved.

All that is remembered in those moments is already tinged with nostalgia.

And did you wish, later, that you hadn’t been able to work up the courage to do it?
Because….it wouldn’t really have changed anything….would it?

I’ll keep you my dirty little secret
Dirty little secret…
Don’t tell anyone or you’ll be just another regret
Who has to know…?

He told me his universe altered when it happened. When the betrayal happened that is, not the telling of it. She was an old childhood friend….it was a weak moment….it meant nothing….and it was certainly a one-time-thing. There really wasn’t any point in telling the love of his life what had happened. Things were going well, and they were going to get married in a year or so.

Who has to know, when we live such fragile lives
It’s the best way we survive

Regardless of all that, his world tilted.
Sleepwalking through the next few weeks. Zoning out of conversations.
Not thinking.
Not breathing.
So very still…
River turned stone...

Are you hypnotized by secrets that you’re keeping?

“Things came back into focus only when I told her.”

She left him. He’s currently working himself to death and, when he’s not doing that, he’s drinking enough to send himself to an even earlier grave.

“The price of living an honest life,” he cracks a sardonic grin.

Ah.

“At least I have that.”

At least you have that….

And so, after all the beating around the bush, and all the insensitive allusions, and all the questions that must have made you cry….at last now, let me answer your question to the best of my abilities.

I don’t know whether you should tell, or not.

Either way, there will be repercussions that we cannot even imagine at this point in time. Either way, life will change. Whether explicitly, or in subtler, hidden ways.
Consider him. Consider your life together.
And then… Turn inward, and investigate your own heart.
What would you want? From him?
Absolute, razor-sharp honesty? Or a tenacious weighing of factors, determined by circumstance, implication, and so on?
Therein, I suspect, lies your answer, or at least a shadow of it.
What you want is a marker of what your want your equation to adhere to.
Let that help you decide.

That’s the best I can do.
And when we look back, many years later, hopefully we will discover humour even in this situation. For now, let the pain hone you.

We all do the best we can.
And, if it’s any comfort….
Everybody hurts.

Image source

Mirror, mirror on the wall.

Distance is an unknown variable.
There are many unknown variables but distance is certainly one of the most uncertain.

If I were to be a cynic tonight… what would I see? What would I choose?

There are vignettes of feeling, of sensation… like memories from a previous life.

flaming flowers that brightly blaze
swirling clouds in violet haze


I love that line by Salman Rushdie: “The past is like a foreign country; they do things differently there.”

How do they do things? How does one locate, retrieve, and archive the old ways?

I look.
I delve into the depths of the sea and grasp blindly at something hidden between seaweeds and fragments of shells.
What have I brought to the surface? What have I retrieved?

I remember K. and R.
Vivacious, steady, bright-eyed K.
Who went away to a faraway land and refused to stay the same person. She grew and changed and she became an older, different K. It would be silly to say “better” or “worse” than before. She was just different…
And tenacious, steady R. became the past- he became part of the foreign country and she no longer knew him, or loved him with an everlasting passion like they had promised one another.
Is such a promise viable? Realistic?
People change after all- how can we blame someone for evolving?

You said you were going to conquer new frontiers


Then there are D. and B.
She went. He stayed.
She tried. He tried.
They both tried- really really hard.
But they fell apart anyway, and she smiled her way into the glimmering life of money, and he stayed back and began to look for love again.

We promised the world we'd tame it, what were we hoping for?


W. and P. would have tamed the world.
They would have fulfilled the fairytale fantasy of love-across-the-seven-seas.
Except that W. didn’t make it.
If ever someone has searched in a possessed, frenzied fashion for some sort of saving grace in an unexpected, inexplicable death, it is P.
She’s still trying to find it.
She’s found other things along the way- but there are no more castles in the air.
Perhaps it’s easier to think of them making it because circumstances allow for that romantic possibility..?
But no… I think not.
I really think they would have managed…

We laid her next to him beneath the willow
While the angels sang a whiskey lullaby


But while distance is an unknown variable… and the past is painful and incoherent… it seems there may be a mantra of sorts…

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
…
i carry your heart with me (i carry it in my heart)


Nothing is known. To attempt certainty is to defy the very laws of life, isn’t it?
Yet we strive and strain and search and seek…
Surely even the most “rational” among us cannot resist the occasional glance at a horoscope prediction..? Surely there is an inevitable thrill of expectation as we crunch open a fortune-cookie after a Cantonese dinner? I know I am susceptible. The temptation to know is ridiculously powerful.

However…it is impossible to really, truly know… So where do I go from here?

It’s easier when you go with the flow, and believe what makes the most sense to your heart.
It’s easier to find a mantra, and let it cartwheel and echo through the void of distance.

So then…that is what I choose, I suppose.
I choose to enjoy the dynamic of love.
I choose to believe in it.
I choose to have faith in the concept of bridging distance, of transforming unknown variables into manageable realities.
I choose to be talk about it, to write about it, to revel in it, to learn not to hold-back-and-keep-some-part-of-yourself-as-insurance-just-in-case…
I choose to believe that I have a choice…surely the greatest illusion of all?

I choose not to be a cynic tonight.

So here we are reinventing the wheel
I'm shaking hands with a hurricane
It's a colour that I can't describe
It's a language I can't understand

Chaos meets sunshine meets destiny.

Serpentine Fiction

And all the lives we ever lived
And all the lives to be
Are full of trees and changing leaves...

Addictions are old friends. And sometimes you just don't want to let go.
Say, one is addicted to being a million different people...

In one day, say the 1st of May 2008, you can...
wander through london in the great frost
fall in love
traipse around on a jamaican beach
lose yourself
eat the best fried chicken in the world
be granted eternal life
commit heinous sins of darkness
go to turkey as an ambassador
find yourself
get jilted
win literary awards
fall in love again (the repetition here is inevitable- people seem to do this a lot)
sail into magical oceans
commit suicide
be resurrected
win a war
lose your mind

Pure.
Phantsmagoria.

And then you can go out and get a drink, and live yet another life.
Icing on cake.
Fantastic.

But (and there is a but).
If you're used to living many lives, you start to explore the possibilities in your own, right till their logical conclusions.

Say there is an ongoing something in your life.
Well. I have already lived this something out to its various possible ends in my mind.

I have seen the worst that may happen
I have said what I might say.
I have foreseen heartbreak.
I have already cried.

This is substantially different from being "prepared for the worst".
It means you have already lived through the worst.

The ideal blissful conclusion is also lived out of course.
This again, is different from "hoping for the best".
It means you have already lived the best that can be.

But the cynic in an addict persists in dwelling on the former... Illusions can only sustain you so far, right?

If you have already walked down the paths that lie before you... do you convert it from the possible to the probable? Even if it is just in your head?
Does thinking about things make them happen?
Can a private performance lead to a real change?

A superstitious cynic...?!!

No wonder the madness of literature beckons.
Some temptations are impossible to resist.

And the addiction spins out of control.
Mortality, time, and space collapse.
Lives must be lived.

Valentine Confessions

To write about love is... simplistic... reductive... implausible... incorrigible... Irresistible!

Did I really think that something this perfect existed?

Sure. In the same way that someone who has never been outside of the city of their birth believes in foreign lands. But to know it... To taste it every single day... That is a different country altogether... an imaginary homeland, located and conquered.

Am I frightened as I write this?
Hell, yeah.
Scared to death as I consider the possibility of how it will feel to return and read these words in the hypothetical, impossible scenario of 'it's-not-working-out'.

But if there's one thing I have identified about this sunburst it is this: I have never been more vulnerable, or more fearless than I am in this moment in time.
Courage to face what lies ahead... Love across oceans and trudging across the deserts of millions of inevitable dusty hassles... And fragility to the extent that I cannot look beyond this...

For the love... the faith... the dreams...
For making it real, and keeping it real...
Happy valentines darling

And before you ask, of course it had to be a day late.
Delay is our bond.

All you need is time

If it can be broke then it can be fixed
If it can be fused then it can be split
It's all under control
It’s all under control

Are you telling me you don’t revel in your moments of darkness?
Does your depression hold no saving grace?
Is that midnight drink not being stored for future nostalgia?
Can it be that you’re not capering through the hollow years?

I have no fond recollections of the first time I met her… Of the moment that sealed our friendship...

I do however, remember the psychological rollercoaster that we all got into together.

Has someone ever walked up to you, demanding your strength?
Your best friend perhaps?
A lover?
Your sister?
A stranger?

There is a certain charm in being wanted by people when they’re coasting through jaded valleys of grief. And I have seen ridiculous numbers of people lean on her.

My favourite moment is still the same.
A Delhi nightclub… Allegiances are declared, battle-lines are drawn…
And she is victorious simply because you cannot beat sheer nonchalance combined with a complete lack of tact and duplicity.
How much we laughed that night..! Collapsing onto the sofa in the comforting glow of Peach Schnapps and sisterhood.

But…it took its toll, didn’t it?
Every time it happened, they sapped a little more of her strength.
Her eyes were brighter than ever but she was tiring…

Have you ever been tired?
Tired enough to want to never get out of bed?
Tired enough not to care where you wake up the next morning?
Tired enough not to care whether you wake up at all?

Do you enjoy the exhaustion as well?
Chances are it will lead to a renaissance after all…?
Maybe… Maybe not…
Sometimes it’s just too hard to find your way out of a maze of diamonds, dust and demons.

I’ve got to take it on the other side

You will, you know. Find your way that is. Some people get lost. But you won’t.

You’re stronger than you know.
Oh I know you’re already tiring.
Your voice is your disguise.
Your deception is your armour.
Distance…your weapon?
Against…us?

It’s time to come home.
Come home to the hugs.
Come home to the love.
Come home to the music.
Come home to the dancing.
Come home to darkness, and to light…

Being a little tired is better than being nothing at all.

Come home, and we will do it differently this time round.

If it can be lost then it can be won
If it can be touched then it can be turned
All you need is time
All you need is time

Resolve to...what?

There’s always one reason
To feel not good enough
And it’s hard at the end of the day...

Resolutions…

Resolve to…what?

To quit?

To resurrect a lost friendship on the debris of nostalgia?

To save? Yourself, or someone else?

To laugh more?

To buy less expensive shoes?
To buy more expensive shoes?

To heal?
To break?

To travel to the places less-traveled?
To travel to the places well-traveled?

To take more photographs in blackandwhite?

To leave?
To stay?

To crash? Into whom?

To make decisions?
To be willing to have some decisions made for you?

To try?
To stop trying?

To remember, and to forget?

To learn how to bake sinful-chocolate-cake?

To persist?
To desist?
To resist?

To be less Penny Lane?
To be more of someone else?
To be yourself? Alwaysalwaysalways?

To see more of your grandparents?

To dance more?

To destroy that which is comfortably numb?
To preserve that which is comfortably numb?

To start?
To conclude?

To be pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie?

To leave the dark cold hotel rooms?

To stay focused?
To stay distracted?

To face the music?
To escape?
To walk the line?

To not fear the endlessness anymore?
To love the wheel of love, life, and laughter?

To chase?
To flee?

To get a tattoo? Finally?

To locate the appropriate song for death?

To whirl and freewheel?
To savour?

To speed up?
To slow down?

To search? And find?

To be the storm? And the anchor?

Let me be empty
And weightless... and maybe
I’ll find some peace tonight...

Do you remember?

Remember? Do you remember? Do you? Remember?

Insistent.
Constant.
Annoying.

Do you love me or do you not?
You told me once but I forgot.

Vases that give the impression of being made up by once-shattered-and-then-put-together-again-glass… With millions and zillions of veins running through them…

For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.

Do you remember?
Do you?
Do…?

Too many choices…

Saturday or Sunday?
Black or white?
Turquoise Cottage or TGIF?
Train or plane?
Levi’s or Pepe?
Your place or mine?

Some choices are easier to make, than others.

Do you choose to remember, or not?
Poor Orlando! When he was betrayed by the Russian princess, he went to sleep for a week. And when he awoke, the Russian princess was a hazy recollection. And he was free once again.

Must you die for a little while in order to live again?
Must you sleep for a little while in order to forget?

Do you want to forget?
Do you need to forget?

Some dance to remember
Some dance to forget

Why do you dance?
Oh. Wait.
Let me alter that.
Do you dance?
With the LIIT and the martini and the Marlboro and the madness and the melody and anyone-who-happens-to-walk-into-your-arms??

When you wake up the next morning, do you remember the night before?
Really?
And if you remember, do you want to forget?

After such knowledge, what forgiveness?

Adam and Eve fall with knowledge… Yet, somehow, “knowledge is power”… Who said that? I forget… It doesn’t really matter…

…hee spent his whole life trying to forget…
…drank away her memory…little at a time…
…never could get drunk enough…to get her off his mind…
…until the time…

Oh, that epiphanic moment!
Is it a moment, really? Or a process…
Has it ceased to matter?
Are you just a cynic tonight?
Or are you reborn, renaissance-d?
Have you found the poetry in the pain?
And are you willing to immortalize it in the landscape of your mind?

Markers of memory…
Parades and festivals and national holidays and commemorations are meant to remind us.

Do not forget.
Do not forget: your history, your people, and your family. You are made up of them.
Do not forget.
Do not.
Don’t.

Did you really believe them when they told you "The Cause?"
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?
Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame,
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie McBride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Gooseflesh in a tiny monument at 6:00 AM.

The strains of a song that take you back to a gushing river in the mountains.

A drink that tastes of argument.

Phrases that hold coffee-and-cigarettes-on-a-cold-winter-day.

A face on the street that tugs at your memory.

Lilac sheets that dream of bedtime stories.

Anthems that make you feel like you are part of a movement.

The fragrance of freshly mowed grass and a vision of garden treasure-hunts.

A date equated with a howling mob.

The shirt that that will unbutton the touch of betrayal.

Dimples that make you see dead Prime Ministers.

Staircases that lead to ancestral homes in faraway-small-towns.

A loud noise that rips your consciousness into the smithereens of a series of bomb blasts.

The past is past, and the past is present.
I am you, and you are me.
We have remembered, and we have forgotten.
Chronology collapses.

How long till the world will be completed?
How many times will history repeat it?

And what shall we do with this deceptive glimmer of memory?
Drink to it, he said.
Anyone for an LIIT? Or perhaps, a Margarita?

And when you get the choice to sit it out or dance
I hope you dance.

You're just a cynic tonight...

B.A.S.E

Don't you see the charade is over?

Do you really know her, sweetheart?
Do you really know anyone?
All the messages and the letters and the conversations in the world are not enough for you to believe you have the key to her mind. Well...maybe you do believe you know what's going on inside her head as she looks at you.
Think again.
Oh, innocence!
Haven't you figured it out yet?
This is her playground...my playground...your playground...their playground...
Don't expect life to turn into love-fest simply because the time is ripe for you to fall in love.
Integrity?
What's that??
There are the fairy tales, and the blockbusters.
But this is the real world.

This can't be happening

Too many secrets.
So perhaps you'd rather not know. At all.
All right, then. I suppose ignorance is a valid choice.
But you don't need to go looking for disaster to find you...
4:00 PM on a Tuesday afternoon, a lone piece of lingerie in an incongruous setting, a photograph someone inadvertently posted on Picasa, a glance exchanged across a table... there are a million ways in which your world can fall apart.
And it will happen, you know.
A lightning shock of tears as you realize, once and for all, that you don't really know anyone at all.

Love is not a victory march
It's a cold... and broken hallelujah

Beaded curtains.
I see something beyond them.
Smoke and glinting glasses; I can hear laughter.
Knowledge is power.
At least I will go on and have a good time tonight.
So life swirls on... and it's easy to get lost in the maze of mojitos, madness and melancholy music.
Looking for a warning sign?
Waiting for a cue?
Look at all the lonely people. Eleanor Rigbys of the world. Testament to the fact that sometimes, there are no signs and no cues.
You wait and wait and wait... Life passes by... BAM- you're sixty-five, solitary, still waiting...

When you get what you want
But not what you need

Every now and then, there is a... moment?
The unexpected message, the headline, the winning catch, the blog-post, the kiss, the friend, the statement...
Secrets dissolve.
Flashpoints of honesty.
Things left unsaid turn into equations. Years are wandered through. Tongues that are tied and twisted finally speak. Dragons are reborn. Promises are made, and kept.
The world sparkles, and it looks like your Broadway musical has finally taken off.

Lights will guide you home

The Caprioshkas glimmer and the sunlight shimmers.
Carpe diem.
It's the kind of moment that will keep you going...
And when crossroads are arrived at, you will remember the hysterical laughter at that table... that stunning music video they aired in 1998... that unforgettable dance... the biting mountain air on a certain morning... your feet sinking into the dewy grass... grapes soaked in honey... sputtering bonfires... the last chapter of that book... the girl staring out at you from the cover of a National Geographic... the way that certain fragrance will always remind you of a certain album...

And maybe...there won't be another Tuesday afternoon.
You're still a cynic, darling.
Just not tonight, it seems.

525,600 minutes- how do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee.
In inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife.
...
How about love?
Measure in love.

p-u-r-g-e