"I’m so glad I live in a world where there are Octobers."
October is my favourite month of the year. The fact that it is also my birthday month has very little to with my undying love for this time of the year.But I am pretty glad that I was born and all; but that's another story. Octobers are special.
All my life I've been a part of 'Team Winter' and with October is when starts the anticipation of the beautiful foggy winter mornings and the chilly dark nights. Is it just me or is this time of the year particularly about a lot of 'firsts' of all kinds? Maybe it's just me. But it's the first time I was born, so I would like to believe my argument holds some serious ground. October is also when people come back to you. Only to leave again, of course. But then, how would one know happiness if one didn't have pain to compare it to?
Also, October Always Brings Love. One needs fair amounts of alcohol, sex, experiences, friends and escapades, not necessarily in that order, to realize that it's not love everyone is so crazy about; but the sheer idea of it. As harsh as it may sound, love makes you miserable. The idea, however... <MustStopSmiling>
Anyway, Guess Who's Birthday It Is Todayyyy??????????????? :) :) :) :)
Yes, he's loud and fun and social and has all the other attributes that might make people associate the 'buddy' like quality in him wherever he goes; but I can tell it's not true. Underneath his layers of humour, painfully pathertic jokes and drastically different hair/beard styles, he's a greater person. I met him three years back, I think. We had to transgress through the heirarchies of relationships:
From being my best friend's friend's boyfriend, he became my friend's boyfriend and eventually my friend. And what a wonderful feeling that is! To be his friend. Sure, you think it's all 'buddy' like.
I am not to sure of what time of the year or our lives it was and I have never ever spoken to him about it. Hell, I don't even remember the exact incident. And hence, I am almost certain that he would have no memory of it whatsoever. But it had something to do with my father; when things were especially painful with him. It was a time when I hadn't reached my current state of blissful indifference with him. But I digress..
My friend and I. We were at the usual shady smoking spot of ours where Army kids socialize and always let civilians like me feel all 'group-y'. I said something about the father to him out of pent up frustration and I have no memory whatsoever of what he had said back to me. But I do remember no one else having made me feel as much better as he did that one evening.
And that's when everything changed.
He wasn't the little kid everyone cracked him up to me. He was a man.
A man who completely wronged his supremely ironic nickname, 'Nanha'. He is over 6', to say the least.
You know how stories precede people and you end up forming an opinion of a person based on those stories? He is one such with the bag of stories. Not that I judged him earlier 'cause I know what carrying past baggage is like.
But over the years, with and without all his fuckups, he epitomizes courage for me. He has seen enough, felt enough, done enough; good and bad. He's minus manipulations, I feel. He seems to consider them way too trivial for his taste.
He's the friend. He'll be there.
He'll crib and make your life hell when you may not be that regular with your calling/texting/keeping in touch routine, though. But, he'll be there.
He has, just like all of his counterparts, a girlfriend, loving parents, money, car, bike, permissions, sense of humour... the works!
But there's that one little thing that sets him apart;
He's the one with the heart.
What can I possibly tell anyone about it that hasn't already been told? So I'm not even going to try. Only, I thought for a long long time that you never get over people. But now that I am some years smarter, or so I would like to believe, I know that the 'getting over' bit is hardly the pain;
it's the 'getting rid' bit. Isn't it true?
You just can't get rid of people; long after you're over them, they'd still somehow always find a way back into your life from time to time and cause turmoils: happy and/or sad.
And no. I just don't mean the conventional hetero/homosexual relationships. Even with friends. And foes.
Also, is it just me or is the whole 'Friends With Benefits' rubbish almost always 'Not Friends Only Benefits'? Like, after years of believing that what you have is special and cooler than what most might have because you're so comfortable with one another in more ways than one, you find out that when you meet with your clothes on, you don't have jackshit to say to each other. You're Not Friends. You just liked to believe you were. I'm not to say if that's a good thing or bad. I'm just saying it might happen.
But that's hardly the point. The point, if at all there is one, is that of smell. The fragrance.
I don't do it a lot but I associate most people from my childhood with their distinctive smells. Even my father, for that matter. When I was as high as his knees, I would go to his clinic room with my dirty bare feet just to annoy him; ever so lovingly back then, of course. And then he'd lift me in his strong 'daddy arms' and wash my dirty feet in the sink while making lame jokes in Bengali. I remember how the room smelled. And he.
Childhood is an awkward period, if you ask me. You end up remembering strange things.
The smell stays.
Growing up, I ran around happily with my red-painted nails, going off to places I wasn't supposed to be in, flaunting my cargo pants in front of people I wasn't supposed to meet and secretly smoking substances I wasn't supposed to know about. And that's when I met him. And then began the most-fucked-up-relationship in the history of the most-fucked-up-relationships. All is almost gone now even in memory; all but the memory of his smell. His own smell- of his skin- that I remember distinctively from back in the day when he'd cuddle me, to say the least. It's not gone; the smell. It's changed.