Late night reassurance

So there are these two articles of clothing I now own that have become the adult equivalent of a Blanky to me. One happens to be my Dada’s old collared shirt that has become soft and beautifully shabby with age. It is blue and has white vertical stripes and a breast pocket. The collar is still a little stiff, a remnant of the times when Dada used to wear it to office, I suppose. It’s absolutely huge for me- it comes down to a little above my knees, and my hands get swallowed up in the sleeves.
The second is this paati ganji I filched from my boyfriend on an impulse. It is literally innerwear, and I wear it at home on anxious nights, when I’m dreading looming deadlines and scary tasks ahead. Weirdly enough, it’s a snug fit, despite the fact that the aforementioned boyfriend happens to be about a foot taller than me.

Anyway, so I have this exam tomorrow, and a general tense feeling in my shoulders. I did laundry a little while ago, and the ganji came out smelling of fabric softener, and warm from the dryer. Obviously I’m now wearing the ganji underneath the shirt (yes, it’s cold enough to wear layers).
There’s just something about knowing that the cloth that touches your skin now has touched theirs as well, at some point. It’s a strange makeshift sort of intimacy that conjures up the safety you feel with someone you love.
In other news, I’m a sentimental fool. Possibly aged thirteen. Or sixty three.

*Dada is my paternal grampa who passed away when I was in the 9th grade.
**ganji means vest. I’m just not a fan of the word ‘vest’.

It’s really hard to study or get any work done when the weather’s as gloomy as this. Woke up at 9 o clock with the outside looking like it was 6:30 in the evening. It is now 1:25 in the afternoon and nothing’s changed. Sigh.

My friend came out to me today. We were talking about her picket fence fantasy from long ago. I confessed to her that these days increasingly, I was beginning to seek comfort in that fantasy for a few minutes. When all the stress of school, and advanced genetics courses and job interviews gets too much, I’ll think about chopping carrots in the kitchen one evening, all grown up. I imagine a faceless husband who will come home and put his arms around my waist and kiss my neck. “Hello, babe”, he says. I smile back and we have a happy, quiet, relaxed dinner together. I think about this while I’m washing the dishes as a break from studying. Then I wipe my hands on my pants, go back to my desk and study Human Molecular Genetics for the rest of the evening.

So I told her this, and she said , “Oh, I don’t want a husband anymore.” “You don’t?”, I said. “Why not?”

“Oh, haven’t I told you about this summer?” She waited till we were outside, and told me she was gay. “Oh”, I said. We kept walking and talking and it was all very unmomentous and ordinary. It was like she’d just told me she wanted a coffee. Ohwell.

This is not a love letter 2.0

Here is how I think of you.

I think of you looking like a dog, with your head suddenly cocked up, alert and listening for the sounds outside that drove you into panic in a matter of seconds.

I think of you with only some of one eye and tan skin that suddenly looks light, visible, squished into the crook of my arm, looking at me.

I think of you sitting across me from the table at a restaurant and holding my hand as 20’s music plays and we wait for our food to arrive.

I think of you long-limbed, and brown and ridiculously comfortable and unselfconscious, flinging your clothes across the room for the first time.

I think of you with your face half hidden behind my hair, breathing into my ear and making my skin tingle while our friends drink beer and get stoned in yellow light.

I think of you with your face buried in my neck, breathing in; I have wet eyelashes.

I think of you pulling retarded faces on skype all the way across the world, as far as you can possibly get.

I think of you and I am not angry anymore.

Work in progress

I am cooking to cope with stress, and dishing up completely new and edible (quite delicious actually) things that I’ve never tried before. I made chicken noodle soup from Smitten Kitchen yesterday- from scratch, except for the Pasta. I’m cleaning regularly, and doing dishes as and when I use them. Today morning I woke up and saw a huge leggy yellow spider scuttling across my door. I slowly opened the door, got a shoe and squashed that motherfucker till it stopped moving. Without emitting a single high pitched squeal. I even folded all the clothes post laundry over the weekend.

What is happening to me? I think I might be *shudder* growing up!

Apparently 6 an…

Apparently 6 and a half hours of sleep is the new ideal. Sounds like good news for me.

I slept from 5pm to 5am last night. It may have been the exhaustion from the past week, or it may just be that SAD is getting to me. Today is supposed to be productive. On the agenda:

1. Laundry (from the past 2-3 weeks)

2. Grocery shopping- tomatoes, eggs, chicken, mushrooms, cereal, sandwich cold cuts

3. Cooking- rajma, fried rice  (did this Monday night/ Tuesday morning till 2 am, goodtimes)

4. Studying for the Ecology midterm

5. Lab prep

Things with the boyfriend are weirdly weird. Maybe it’s all in my head, maybe I need to talk to him soon. I hate my head. I wish I were more normal, sometimes.

So what do you …

So what do you do when you’ve grown up watching two people who came together after ten years of companionship, and camaraderie and romance, who came together finally- in the face of much opposition- in marriage? When you watched these people slowly fall apart over the years, first like slipping off a cliff, so surreal that you can’t believe that it’s happening, and then in slow motion, and then quick, all of a sudden, freefalling, and then a plateau of dullness. Two people suddenly realizing with dismay, how horribly irreconcilably different they really are. Realizing that you don’t really know someone till you live with them, and have to live with them and their quirks, and fancies, and their adorable absentmindedness day in and day out. You have to take the short temper, and the conventionality, and sink its roots down somewhere tangled up with the frivolousness and nature-loving.

What you do is this: In your own relationships with men, in relationships that appear to be terrifyingly real, you throw your worst self at them. Here, you retort, take my crazy, and my ugly, and my batshit insane and deal with it! When they do, you’re surprised, but not convinced. So you let go even more and let yourself unravel on them. You deliberately air out your morbidity, and your anxiety and the panic attacks, and cling on to them for air, drawing in deep lungfuls. You expect them to recoil, to want space, to slay you with a shrug of indifference. When they don’t, you’re a little bemused. Still you wait. Sooner or later, you’ll push it too far, and they’ll leave you. It’ll suck, and you’ll hurt and bleed, because this is the real-est it’s ever gotten, but deep down, you’ll be vindicated. You were expecting it, of course. You knew. 

So you don’t make the common mistake that most people do in new relationships. You aren’t on your best behaviour, and you don’t pretend to like sports. You don’t faff around like you usually do when you’re trying to impress people and seem cool. You confess to not remembering much of ‘Pulp Fiction’, and express the desire to rewatch it, soon. You confess your feelings of inadequacy and struggle against the fact that you’re hopelessly besotted. You use the word “besotted” in front of them, about them, and feel them smile from halfway across the world. The good things about you slip out unconsciously, like you can’t control them, or restrain yourself. The texts in the middle of an evening (yours) saying “I love you, I love you, I love you. I’m so lucky we met”- that he will wake up to in the morning. The spontaneous squishing of someone that you cannot believe you want to squish, and are allowed to squish. The semi-sexy emails in the middle of the day. The actually worrying about a person, and buying them fruit and making a detour to their place to make sure they’re still breathing. These are the things that pour out of you- words that you cannot stuff back into your mouth, thoughts that translate into sentences before you have time to think, that terribly foolish thing where you include them in your plans for a year later. The good things are unplanned, but your ugly you will fling at them continuously.

“When will you show me?”, he asks one day when you’re talking about a piece you wrote about him. “When I’m convinced you’re not running away”, you say. “I’m not running away, babe.”

You don’t believe him entirely. Yet.