The One With The Heart.

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.

Getting Over People. 

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. 

It happens.

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.

I wouldn't recognize him in the dark.

So we just keep the lights on now. 

It's more fun that way.

The Scarlet Letter.

One shouldn't give out too many chances of being called Freud's wet dream. One should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.

But that's the trouble with one!

One can hardly do with just keeping to the corner.

Midst some dancing nights, pouring alcohol, puffs of cheap drugs and some more magic, one might lose oneself. It's pretty darn easy too. One doesn't have to be excessively bright, talented, lucky, unfortunate, pretty, ugly or anything else to feel happiness or pain. One just needs to be human. 

But what does one have to be to experience guilt? One would think integrity; but that's not it alone. It can't be.

Then again, one laughs when one is called superhuman; for apparent levels of endurance. The laughter primarily roots from the simple fact that one knows that one is hardly sub-human, if anything. One is just generally calm in life. About life.

Ah. But I digress.

The being in the corner doesn't work with one. I don't see anything wrong with that. It isn't about the spotlight each time, one says; But is it ever about the dark? There's enough darkness in the world. One sees the dark and makes no guns about rubbishing the entire facade of light at the end of the tunnel. Instead of sticking to the cigarette post the LI iced tea, one shifts to other spirits. One would think that the memory of the night would bind together all the people who were a part of it. Only, the memory is vague; fading even.

But just like that, one sees the need of the Scarlet Letter to be etched on one. Forever.

Just like that, one sees everything change.

Now one lives with unnecessary flirtations, frivoulous smiles and some other unmentionables. 

But more importantly,

one lives with the realization that one should just smoke one's n-th consecutive cigarette post one's third glass of the rather strong Long Island Iced Tea and be in the corner.

And while one is at it, one should keep one's heart and mind closed;

along with one's legs.

I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

I know we may have had issues in the past, but I am over them now. Now you're a part of me; now, you're almost me.

I may have sworn on one beloved too many to cut you off from my life. Most parts of you at least, if not completely. But it's too damn hard. I don't know or understand why I must blog about you at all. Aren't you just another little inconsequential blob in my life? Aren't you that which ties me down, apparently? It might just be true, you know? That's what they tell me. 

And they're hardly ever completely wrong.

Ha. Of course you'd deny it.

I mean, why wouldn't you?
All you've ever wanted is for me to get entrapped in your shackles and deliberately offend my pride, among other things. You know what's stranger? That I let you. Each time, I do.
Most times, I do.

You might wonder why I let you, though. Let you get me into the state of absolute passion wherein my eyes roll into the back of  my head more often than not and I can only see myself addicted to all the things you do. It's a different high. To think you weren't an active part of my life only ten months ago, sends a chill down my spine; and then again, you do too... send chills down my spine. And other places. Isolated evenings, happy nights, peaceful mornings- you've been there. We've been through a lot together. Last year-end was  especially hard, don't you think? But then, there's something about you and I.

I am so lucky to have found you. Found or discovered? I don't know if one's more apt than the other. My dear, Old Monk with coke, you're special. Every sip makes me wonder what your lips might look like, had you been a real person. On my higher points, I think I try and feel the shape of your mouth on my lips. I don't think they're trouty, though. It's got to be Old Monk and not Bacardi, for me. Bacardi's got this vanilla-like after taste. Nothing brings more warmth to my heart than when my company orders my 'usual' for me. Just, don't ask me, order me my drink and let it repeat over and over. And then some more. You'd have me smiling at you for hours while I probably picture you naked.
Nah. I don't picture all my women naked. Only, the one.

I am not too appreciative of my heightened capacity for drinking suddenly. That's heavier on the pocket, of course. But ah! the bliss. I have had my most intelligent conversations under influence; with men, women and dogs. Not to mention, the nirvana achievement in the dancing. *insert orgasmic noises here*
All that, with one cigarette too many, It's fireworks!

Just you and I and everyone aside,
especially beer;
I call this part of my life, 'Happiness'.

Some people sing, some people fly.
I  apparently have conversations with their dog when I'm high.
"You've got a great life, you dog! Be my purple money now?"

One of My 45984598789 Drafted Posts.

I am so happy!

I want to jump up and down, grind against strange men, sing crass Hindi songs very loudly, shake my booty, eat lots, hug a white Labrador.. Not necessarily in that order, though. But, you get the drift, right?

Anyway, do you ever think about death?

The Girl With The Latin Tattoo.

She goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

It's lonely at the top, apparently. She's not alone, though. She has her shiny glittery black shoes in place that click loud enough when she walks; but only if she wants them to. She walks in beauty with her smooth gait in and then of course they notice her. One can't miss her being, wrapped in layers of elegance which is, rather sexually, intertwined with some fear. The fear may surprise a few. Not me. It's but the fear of self. 

She fears going on a journey. She fears she might not make it.

Don't we all? Sigh

She thinks Heaven's gonna burn her eyes, even though, in reality, it's probably her eyes that would burn Heaven. Her teary eye gleam tender shades of denial. Denial doesn't do her any good. She knows that just as much as I do. Anyway, the journey she fears going on would've been easier had it been in terms of location, you'd think. Or even time, for that matter. But hers is a deeper quest. I think it's trust. 

In her naivety, she trusts.

If only she knew she is stardust. As precious.

Also, ad astra per aspera — that's her fate. She just doesn't know it yet.

She's probably caught up and busy.

Busy because she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass palace. It's a palace, indeed; complete with snooty men and condescending women sipping spirits and the likes in their intimidating china . 

Yet, she goes up the magical stairs to toil in a glass place.

Food For Thought.

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?

Well, I don't mean all the time. I, for one, have phases with my food cravings. I would like to believe that I have a generous appetite, to say the least. But most of the friends I eat with may beg to differ. Nevertheless, hungry or not, food is spectacular. Magical, even. And healing, of course.

The smell of garlic and chilly as it makes that crackling sound in heated butter is bliss. Add to that a little flour, milk, oregano and chilly flakes and you have the perfect white sauce for a yum pasta. And mushrooms. And cheese. Oh! Cheese. It's milk's leap towards immortality. Is it just me or does it make the world around really happy and musical? Just like in the movies. It's nostalgic too; reminds me of chaotic Sunday mornings of about year 8 of my life when my mum had the time and will to make pizzas for me and my friends with little cubes of Amul cheese. Amul cheese and tomatoes and garlic and chicken chunks and different coloured peppers with some seasoning. I remember feeling fancy because we were the only people I knew who got the fancy peppers in red and yellow, apart from the regular green. Peppers, if eaten right, can be a delight in its own. Crunchy peppers of all colours, crunchier lettuce leaves, onions, smoked chicken and dollops of olive oil along with some white gram and creamy dressing; toss it together, add some white feta cheese with it and some lemon zest and feel good about life. And then they say, salads are boring. I loathe salad of any kind for the simple reason that they're too..errm..healthy. But I humbly make an exception here and there. The sight of bacon and it's glistening body wrapped around cheese is mouth watering. Then there are the charmingly wafer thin ham slices which make the otherwise mundane bread rather colourful for snacks of all kinds. I am a huge fan of sandwiches. Anything between bread somehow rises up in my edibility radar. I think the simple cucumber sandwiches for tea, though are prodigies of the British rule, are highly underrated. The buttered slices of uncooked bread slices with thin-sliced cucumbers between them..ah! Slightly toasted and slightly buttered are my favourite form of bread with hard boiled eggs.

The use of chicken stock is always a delightful addition. Stock brought to a boil with coriander, ginger and garlic topped with appropriated dashes of vinegar and soya sauce makes me want to spend all my cold winter nights consuming it. I have never particularly liked the ever-so-popular momos, though. They're flour balls with a little chicken in them. But the fiesty red dip with it.. now that's the stuff! Talking about 'the stuff', Indian herbs. spices and food habits in general take the heart away. Minus the burps and its cousins, of course. The cube of butter melting over a hot parantha makes me want to cry with joy. That, with pickled carrot and sourish yogurt; that's the breakfast of the hills here. Sigh. The chicken curry with its overdoses of garlic and garam masala is extra terrestrial in it's being as it is spicy and full of heat yet humbling and gentle. The Butter Chicken is elevated taste, to say the least. And the kababs and tikkas; each melt-in-the-mouth bite can make one ponder upon its hours' marination in asafoetida (heeng), curd, cream etc. The delicacies of the tandoor are a personal favourite, especially when they are served with 'salad' (pronounced 'sa-laaaad') that comprises round sliced onions and fresh tomatoes. Tomatoes with basil is a treat, isn't it? Tomatoes and basil steeped in extra virgin oil and lemon zest - a go-to curry. Another go-to for me is definitely mac and cheese. Of course, alfredo fettuccine/penne is the adult's mac and cheese. However, nothing beats pizza. Nothing!
Nothing but potato wedges dipped in mayonnaise. 

Sigh.

I think I'm going to have a food orgasm. And I've only just written all this down.

Rachel- "What would you give up, sex or food?"
Joey- "Food..No, Sex..Food..Sex..Food..Sex..OH GOD, I DONT KNOW, I WANT BOTH, I-I WANT GIRLS ON BREAD!"

- F.R.I.E.N.D.S

^Can totally empathize!

Don't you just love food? Like, love it more than anything else?