― Stephen Fry
Wednesday 20 November 2013
You Had Me At "Hlo"
― Stephen Fry
Tuesday 23 July 2013
The Spoils of War
Break-ups are hard. At least, that’s what they say. You have
to deal with not having that blanket of security- that person who reminded you
why you were (sorry, are) so amazing, the feeling of your sentences being
completed, that sensation that, no matter what you do, you’ll have someone by
your side.
You know who break-ups are harder for? Your friends.
Yes, break-upper/upee: I speak to you.
You chased us around for weeks. You emotionally blackmailed
and threatened your way into getting us to meet your new beau. When we finally,
finally relented, you looked so
relieved, we thought you were going to wet yourself. We had that one
conversation. That one cup of coffee. We assured you that we loved him/her, and that we’re happy for
you.
And you sighed with joy, satisfied, and took her by the hand
and pranced off. We sat there, bought a packet of high-calorie chips, drank
another cup of coffee, and read by ourselves. We were happy you were happy.
But let me tell you something about that meeting. We lied. We
don’t think anyone’s good enough for you- and even if someone is, there’s no way we’d know that with one meeting.
But, caring about you is a flip-sided coin. We understood that it’d make you
happy- that lie. And it wouldn’t really affect us, right?
Wrong. We gave him/her another shot. And another. And bam! As
it turns out, we liked them. The
spouse (What? Marriage is just semantics.) was worth it! We met more often, and
through you, we made a new friend. We started hanging out together, laughed at
the same jokes, laughed at you. It was all going well. We were so proud of
being SUCH a good friend to you, that we found a way to reap the benefits of
our self-sacrificing affections.
And, as always, the iceberg peaked out from beneath the still
waters. Your perfectly blissful, perfectly happy piece of heaven split in two. The
Break-Up. You decided you were done with each other, didn’t even care enough to
be friends. Or share friends. And we were stuck with one leg on each piece of
heaven, and our privates uncomfortably exposed to the pollution from Earth
below. (Took the metaphor too far, perhaps, but you understand.)
And suddenly, there was a choice. We had to schedule
ice-cream with you one day, beers with him/her the next. Watch one movie with
you, another with the Ex. Suddenly, we felt like we were cheating on both of
you. And we had no plays left. All the lies had been told, all the discomfort
had been shared, you had both cried on our shoulder, and we had comforted you
both. What did we have left, but the truth? So we told you.
It was traumatic. You both widened your eyes, took deep
breaths and said you understood. What’s worse, we knew you really did. And we
knew you were both hurt. We just didn’t know how to make it better. We knew we couldn’t
ask you to get back together just so we wouldn’t have to watch the same movie
two separate times on alternate Sundays.
So we carried on the charade, continued playing the game, and
somehow, we survived until you both moved on.
The alternate situation, of course, is that we'll magically end up being the reason you broke up. But that, perhaps another time.
But here’s what we hope you understand, you bloody idiots.
Leave us out of your love lives. We’ll lie about our approval just as- if not
more effectively if we have no idea who you’re dating. And we’re happier that
way. Trust us. Everyone’s happier that day. Maybe we’ll meet him or her the day
you guys get married. At least a divorce will take a while to come around. And
you always need a character witness in court.
Now go on. Go live your life, you giant idiot. We’ll be fine as long as you’re happy. And sometimes, even if you're just alive.
Labels:
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girls,
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Friday 21 June 2013
The Eternal Masochist
Love is a funny thing. They say we never choose it- who, or
when or even if. And I suppose they’re right. Choosing who to fall in love
with, is probably like choosing your favourite flavour of muffin. You don’t
decide on it. One day, you take a bite and you just...know.
Then again, the choices we make are nothing if not
reflections of the people we are. The old ‘Opposites attract’ adage has been
disproven both by science and society over time, and the new ‘Love is your
recognition of the values you hold highest in yourself’ has taken its place.
While not too many people know who Ayn Rand is, everybody has an opinion about
her idea of love.
Until a very short while ago, I agreed with her
wholeheartedly. I still do, really. I’ve just gained some perspective on what
she said, recently. Not all values are those we hold dearest in ourselves. Were
we exalting all our virtues and burying all our vices, we’d all be
prouder-than-ever obnoxious offspring of the legendary Narcissus. While Rand’s
characters may be unapologetically proud, the real world functions a little
differently. Even the proudest of us, have something we look back on with a
cringe, something about ourselves we’re still finding the answer to, something
that sets us apart- that we wish, didn’t.
I have long maintained that intelligence is humanity’s- and
my- greatest gift. It is all I’ve cared about, and perhaps all I will. When I
was very young, someone I held in very high stead told me that the only way to
truly judge, and be judged, is to use the human mind as the first and only
parameter. I listened. Today, it is my only rule. And somewhere along the line,
in my quest for knowledge and answers to quench my curiosity, I forgot about
the more primal, the softer aspects of humanity. People became dispensable, the
few people I loved took a backseat, and they didn’t matter if they didn’t have
‘the brains’ to be in my life. All more or less harmless changes in the grander
scheme of things, particularly because I wasn’t very concerned about these
changes.
What the realisations did lead me to, however, was a larger
question. What is most important to you and, therefore, what you will look for
in love, may be your favourite value- but not necessarily your greatest. And in
looking for that one person who secures that value and nourishes it- are you
also nourishing the part of you that requires to be killed?
We all know that love is supposed to make everything better,
and sunnier and lighter. But not all love is like that. Sometimes, the best
kind of love, the one you can’t live without- is also the kind that pushes you
to the edge of sanity, makes your head swim and you wonder why you haven’t left
yet. But you know the answer- and it is, you can’t. You can’t get rid of the
low- that’s so low, it’s the best high you’ve ever had. Of the maddening
uncertainty, that makes you confused, annoyed, frustrated and so, so aroused.
Of the times you want to bury yourself in the ground, to hide away: but don’t,
so you can feel the kick of the happier times.
We're all masochists, at the end of the day. Someone may inspire the sadist in us from time to time, but when all's said and done, we never really feel alive until we feel pain. It is that pain, that feeling, that se sentir vivant, that we're drawn to.
The strangest thing is- we all do it. It’s not just victims
of abuse. It’s not just married couples. It’s everybody, and everything. Love
for a friend, for a spouse, a child, a book, music, the stage, a painting- even
the muffin that tastes like heaven until it oozes chocolate sauce all over your
white shirt.
Who decides, then, what love is healthy and what isn’t? You
do. If you look closely enough, you’ll
see the fine line that runs between roller-coaster and just plain unhealthy.
What you have to decide, though, is if you want to draw it. And when you do, where
do you draw the line, beyond which anything is too much? And then, there is
always the kind of question that’s simplest to ask, and nearly impossible to
answer- the kind that contains both the question and the answer, but has enough
dimensions to serve as neither. And the special question of the day, is-
What if someone who brings out the best in your mind, also
brings out the worst in your soul?
"All this time I've blamed you. For pulling me into the dark. But I was wrong. It was
me who brought out your dark side."
-Blair Waldorf.
Gossip Girl.
Monday 17 June 2013
Letting Go
Some of the best and worst of us go through life looking for
something we never seem to find. The validation of those around us. We seek the
reassurance that the person we are turning out to be at every point in our life
is the one that those around us approve of.
We all have those friends, segregated into groups and kept
there for when we need them. The school friends- who your parents know and
love, who will always see in you the five year-old girl who blossomed into the
confused, awkward teen and then barely saw you again. The puberty friends- who
you met in junior college and tuition classes, who saw you when you were in
your famous pseudo-confident, I-have-a-personality phase. The college friends,
with whom you do all the illegal things you’d never, ever tell your school friends about.
And that’s where they stay. In their own little shells, ready to be called on when you need advice in their specific areas of expertise on your life.
Through life’s thicks and thins, through the ups and downs
and the pretty much regulars, they’re there. To witness your circumstance wind,
ebb and flow, changing you into the person you eventually become.
Then there’s that moment, that only very few of us have the privilege
to step back and realise we’re living. The one where we realise, that all the
people we concern ourselves with on an everyday basis, who we think about so
often, who we pretend hold a place in our lives- don’t matter. What’s more, we
always knew that. They never did matter. That all the chattering, the gossip,
the mindless meeting was just that. There was never anything more to it. Because
we realise, that in the struggle to be ourselves, we forgot how little we cared
for the opinions of others.
There’s them, and then there’s us.
Us. The ones who once tried to fit in, gave up, realised they were better outside of the social arena, fought stereotypes and then grew up one day- suddenly- into the kind of people who never cared enough for stereotypes to fight them. Our victory was in finding the truest version of ourselves that we could possibly find, distilling it to its simplest form, and spending the rest of our lives staying true to it.
Us. The ones who once tried to fit in, gave up, realised they were better outside of the social arena, fought stereotypes and then grew up one day- suddenly- into the kind of people who never cared enough for stereotypes to fight them. Our victory was in finding the truest version of ourselves that we could possibly find, distilling it to its simplest form, and spending the rest of our lives staying true to it.
Somehow, we realise that the validation we spent some of, or
all our lives looking for, is never what we wanted. We wanted that validation
for ourselves. And we lose grip on all the people we surrounded ourselves with,
who we kept close by like safety blankets for when we were confused and
disoriented. We don’t need them anymore. They’re not who we’re living for.
And that’s when we find our real friends. The ones who tell
things to us like they are. Who are disappointed in us, not when we let them
down but when we let ourselves down. Who, when we lose clarity, determination
or objectivity, become those virtues to us. Who speak to us in our own voice
and somewhere along the way, help us realise that they were somewhere inside us
all along.
Who remind us that, once in a while, you really will find someone who can look at you through your own eyes. That you chose a life of living for yourself, by yourself, and that you must always remember why you made that decision.
Because a true friend to a person who knows he’s better off
by himself, is a friend who knows that adding value to one another is the
essentiality of a good friendship. Who doesn't need to be told when to be
there, or what to say, or how to say it- but somehow ends up doing everything
right.
At the end of the road, when we find our real selves, in all
our clarity, they are the only ones that stay with us. They are the only ones
that matter. They are the only ones we want.
As for the rest- we just have to let go.
Labels:
Approval,
Friends,
Friendship,
Love,
Quotes,
Rants,
Raves,
Society,
Stereotypes,
Understanding
Monday 3 June 2013
Women and Lingerie
Had Superman been a woman, boy, would he have had problems. Every morning would have been an endless supply of doubts and frustration. What underwear should I wear? Is it flattering? Is the colour okay? I can't wear red underwear ALL THE TIME! Everybody will think I'm a giant bore! My god, this cut makes my thighs look like Hercules'! (Although, I suppose, saying that to Superman would mean paying him a huge compliment. But you get the picture.)
Even though women seldom- if ever- wear their lingerie on the outside of their clothes, their problems make Superman's hypothetical ones look like molehills before mountains. (Even though being stuck with molehills could very well be something some of us may have to deal with.). Every morning is a Pandora's box of revelations, unanswered questions and self-annihilating "discoveries", as we like to call them, but know, in saner and more secure moments, that they are just baseless and pointless fears. (I think.)
Either way, lingerie is the single most important component of any woman's closet. Irrespective of whether or not somebody is going to see it. Everything matters. I mean everything. Name it, and it's relevant to the grander scheme of lingerie-buying, and morning-to-morning What-Lingerie-Do-I-Wear-Today decisions.
Any woman who is reading this, shaking her head and saying "Psh. Not me."- Liar. You know you care. I don't need to tell you that. Go out and buy yourself a nice new bra in your favourite colour, and tell me that it doesn't make you happy.
All the men who are reading this- well, I don't know why you are, really. Although it's always nice to know you're working on understanding what women care about.
I'm all for the 'each woman is unique' thing, but this is the one, I repeat ONE common thread that binds us. Like the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants. Except when I say pants, I don't quite mean pants.
Good lingerie can make or break your day, really. We all know that. Men- you too. I know you're thinking about it. If you sit down and make a mental checklist of everything you think about when you buy a piece of lingerie- any piece of lingerie- underwear, stockings, corsets- whatever- you'll know how the things you consider are nothing like what you consider when you buy a shirt, or a pair of pants. Not even a pair of shoes. (I'm not a fan of...well, shoes in general, but I do understand how important they seem to be to a vast majority of our kind. And by kind, I mean gender.)
You look at a shirt in a store, and go: "Huh. It looks great. Where will I wear it? If it's only going to make me feel nice once in a while and I won't get use out of it, what's the point? I don't want to buy one shirt that'll make me feel special thrice in my life, instead of three shirts that I can wear every three days."
When you look at lingerie, you go, "Why should I buy this? It may be relatively inexpensive, and it may go with everything, but does it make me feel special? I don't want to skimp out on the expenses, and buy three irrelevant *insert whatever you're buying here*, instead of one great *insert previous term again* that makes me feel like the queen of the world."
Of course, we obsess about IDIOT things while we're at it. I don't say idiot because we shouldn't be obsessing about them- I'm fairly sure I'm obsessing about at least one of them right now. I say idiot because there really is no end to the obsession. Things like, "My bra and my underwear don't colour coordinate exactly. What if someone notices?! What if the next person who sees my underwear, thinks I look like a clown, because my top half and bottom half are differently coloured?" Of course, not everybody has this particular problem- some of us enjoy a little colour under our clothes. To hell with matching, we want the clash. Fair enough. But not to worry, there are lingerie-related problems for all kinds of people, irrespective of colour, caste, nationality, lalala. How about "I have that date today, but I'm not sure if he is going to see my lingerie today, so maybe I should bring out the lace, just in case. But the lace underwear is UNCOMFORTABLE. Maybe I should put them in my bag, and excuse myself and go to the washroom, and change them, and...". And while these worries are universal, both in their occurrence and pointlessness, there are far more pertinent things to do, whilst shopping for, or choosing what lingerie to wear every morning. Bikini waxes, panty lines, love handles (I always wondered why they had anything to do with love. Isn't that supposed to make you fitter? Anyway.), ill-fitting bras, those damn clasps that insist on popping open when you're sitting in class and minding your own business.
Damn this lingerie business, and bless it, too.
I don't think men have such pressing problems. Boxers or briefs, sounds like the most intensive problem they're likely to have. And, from what I've been told, they're more thankful for lingerie than you are.
In fact, as a friend told me a while ago, "We don't care if you don't match. We don't care if you're wearing neon (Ooh!) underwear. It doesn't matter. We're just happy we got to see your lingerie, at all."
Sounds fair. Of course, perhaps there are boundaries. Like I'm fairly sure this:
Is not the same as this:
But thank you, anyway, gentlemen. You make our lingerie...uh...fit.
All in all, lingerie is like chocolate. It feels good. Always. On a bad day, it lifts you up. On a good day, it perks your euphoria. A Victoria's Secret catalogue may make you feel like shit, but going out, buying a good pair of stockings and rolling them on can make you feel like Mrs. Robinson in five seconds flat. And we all want to be Mrs. Robinson. Don't deny it, now.
That's her, in case you were confused. If you don't know who she is, go find out. It's worth it, I swear.
I remember stumbling across a couple of articles, that said "The colour of a woman's underwear speaks volumes about the kind of lover she is." To that, I say, balls. A woman who owns pink, black, red and nude underwear, is not schizophrenic. She is just smart enough to know, that when she is out shopping, her choices are not based on whether she wants to be loved tenderly or primally, but which side of the bed she woke up on. And besides, no lingerie is boring unless you want it to be.
What's of greater import, however, is that the magic of lingerie lies in it's ability to seamlessly settle into your personality, and make you fall in love with yourself. Not to mention, make some-lucky-body else fall in love with you. It could be mysterious, bold, flirtatious. Anything you want it to be.
Of course, I could blabber about this forever. It's one of those profound, yet fond subjects of discussion.
It's all about drawing the line, really. Panty or otherwise.
Labels:
boys,
colour,
fashion,
lingerie,
personal,
Rants,
Raves,
relationships,
Sex,
Stereotypes
Tuesday 12 February 2013
Shrugging Atlas
If you
saw Atlas, the giant who holds the world on his shoulders, if you saw that he
stood, blood running down his chest, his knees buckling, his arms trembling but
still trying to hold the world aloft with the last of his strength, and the
greater the effort the heavier the world bore down upon his shoulders -- what
would you tell him to do?
I don't
know. What could he do? What would you tell him?
To
shrug.
I'm
smart.
We know, they say, with a tinge of understanding in their
voice, and a great deal of disapproval for my arrogance in their eye.
I'm strong.
We know that, they assure me, with a sideways glance at my slight frame and an ill-masked look that conveys their supposed attempt to humour the child they know I am being.
I know.
We know, they sigh, shaking their heads at the book between my fingers and my black-framed glasses that, like my face, are buried in the pages it houses.
I think.
We have always known, they venture. They look nowhere but in the depths of my eyes, as though searching for a break, a flaw in the thought whose lack of sentiment discomforts them.
I believe.
They smile, knowing my rationality will keep me from any real belief- their eyes betraying that they do not believe a belief in rationality to be true.
I love.
They look befuddled- their foreheads creasing into a maze of wrinkles, the corners of their mouths turning down in disbelief. They look for that hint of a sentiment they may identify with, search my face painstakingly, helplessly for that 'love'. They do not find it.
They do not find it, for my love is for the rare few that foster it, nurture it, bring it forth. For those wrinkled pages. For the comforting woodenness of a stage. For the lilting notes of a violin. For the faces- the ones I see every time I blink, and I will never tire of.
For them, for those who don't see how that love is born, I bear none. So they continue to search. Endlessly.
I live for me.
They protest instinctively, pointlessly, helplessly. They try to convince me that I'll grow out of it as I will grow out of everything else that I am now. Selfishness, they explain with gracious patience, will get me nowhere.
At them, I smile. I nod. I acknowledge. I listen. I understand. I don't disagree. I don't blame them for what they say. But I don't agree. I quietly, in the secrecy of my mind, revel in the confusion they bear towards me.
They will never grow out of it, I think, and laugh at the joke I know is only for me. To them, I offer no explanation. I present no defence. I make no comparison.
I am.
They are silent.
I'm strong.
We know that, they assure me, with a sideways glance at my slight frame and an ill-masked look that conveys their supposed attempt to humour the child they know I am being.
I know.
We know, they sigh, shaking their heads at the book between my fingers and my black-framed glasses that, like my face, are buried in the pages it houses.
I think.
We have always known, they venture. They look nowhere but in the depths of my eyes, as though searching for a break, a flaw in the thought whose lack of sentiment discomforts them.
I believe.
They smile, knowing my rationality will keep me from any real belief- their eyes betraying that they do not believe a belief in rationality to be true.
I love.
They look befuddled- their foreheads creasing into a maze of wrinkles, the corners of their mouths turning down in disbelief. They look for that hint of a sentiment they may identify with, search my face painstakingly, helplessly for that 'love'. They do not find it.
They do not find it, for my love is for the rare few that foster it, nurture it, bring it forth. For those wrinkled pages. For the comforting woodenness of a stage. For the lilting notes of a violin. For the faces- the ones I see every time I blink, and I will never tire of.
For them, for those who don't see how that love is born, I bear none. So they continue to search. Endlessly.
I live for me.
They protest instinctively, pointlessly, helplessly. They try to convince me that I'll grow out of it as I will grow out of everything else that I am now. Selfishness, they explain with gracious patience, will get me nowhere.
At them, I smile. I nod. I acknowledge. I listen. I understand. I don't disagree. I don't blame them for what they say. But I don't agree. I quietly, in the secrecy of my mind, revel in the confusion they bear towards me.
They will never grow out of it, I think, and laugh at the joke I know is only for me. To them, I offer no explanation. I present no defence. I make no comparison.
I am.
They are silent.
Labels:
Atlas Shrugged,
Ayn Rand,
I,
metaphors,
opinions,
people,
personal,
selfishness,
smart,
strength
Monday 26 November 2012
Men and Women Merely Players
Learn your lines!
Why are you wearing uncomfortable clothes?! You can't rehearse in uncomfortable clothes!
We have no money!
Lights.
Lines.
Applause.
Theatre.
What a word. What a concept. What an experience. Magic.
I've always known why I love the stage. It's simple. Theatre's in my blood. Not from my rich theatrical heritage- more like a rush of hormonal imbalance that shoots through my veins when I think about the fervour that the stage brings.
Working in theatre, with all its dimensions, has always culminated in being on stage. About the sheer joy that rehearsal brings to my day. About the spark that runs from my head to my toes every time I set foot on that cold wooden floor, the warmth of the fluorescent lights hitting my eyes till they water, the exhilaration of applause that echoes in my mind for days after I hear it.
You know how Sartre once said, "Acting is happy agony."? Well, he was right. Then again, that man always knew what he was talking about.
I can't recall the number of times a script, a scene, a line has twisted my insides with the confusion, the complexity, the unfamiliarity it brings. And I know there's a lot more the come. The thing is, that intestinal convolution is part of a far bigger, far more ethereal deal. Somehow, in my head, it's a fair barter. Some frustration, in return for a thrill like none other. What's the harm?
We go through our lives pretending, as someone I know very acutely pointed out. Pretending that we fit into society as we see it. That we know what the Algebra teacher is talking about (Well, some of us). That our minds are merely subject to a higher power. That, in following a dozen rules that we did not choose for ourselves, we are living honourably. That we care more about honour than happiness.
I could go on, but I'm sure you see the point.
Well, I like to act, because it helps me shed the coat of pretence. More significantly, it allows me the opportunity to point it out to others, so that they may, may, realise how much it is obstructing their vision.
Because, at the end of the day, isn't that what art is about? The painter paints to express his inner desires and visions. The dancer dances to tell a story through his body. The musician uses his notes, his voice, the power of his instrument, to create a mood, foster a sentiment in a way that only he can. I act, because there are thousands of stories that deserve to be told, thousands of desires that are begging to be expressed, thousands of emotions that nobody is brave enough to face: and I can live them. Albeit for a while. And in living them, I can tell those stories, represent all those people, pull the mask off my face and hope that it may inspire others to do the same. It gives me the courage to be the truest version of myself, and wearing that face, I am the most I can be.
All the world's a stage, said Shakespeare.
My world may as well be one.
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