I was born and brought up in Bombay. I have been away from Mumbai for almost 10 years now. I have come back for holidays and extended breaks, 7 months being the maximum that I have stayed here.

I didn’t spend my youth here. I don’t know this city like an 18 year old would or a 22 year old or a 28 year old does. I haven’t had movie getaways, or late nights with college friends, work parties, shopping with girl friends, long lunches. I don’t know the lanes, I don’t know the latest hang outs, I don’t know what the pulse of the city is. At least what it is perceived to be. I can’t speak the local language either.

Slowly and steadily I have been making an effort. I am getting good at it too. I have been regularly adding phone numbers on my phone. Some I am confident will remain there.

All this effort knowing too well in a few months time I will make a move again. I will lose some friends. I will lose all familiarity. I will have to start afresh. I have done that so many times the last few years I seem to be getting good at it. A part of me enjoys that. A part of me wants to settle down.

Being a stranger in your own city isn’t fun. Yet I feel at home in Mumbai. This is home. A place that has an ever changing energy, vibe, facade even. Yet the soul remains the same. I know no matter how far I go or Mumbai does when we meet, it feel like coming back home again.

The period that followed the 07 July bomb blasts in London, I went through a contradiction of belief system. I was constantly being told that all terrorism was being conducted by a certain sect of people. My bringing up insisted that because of a handful of people, the entire sect gets generalised. I should be informed enough to decide better.

I was torn between fear because of propaganda and the person that I wanted to be. Wise, opinionated but tolerant. Some times no matter how hard you try, cynicism does take over. A good friend then told me cynicism too was a choice.

I made a choice then. I chose to believe in my faith in good over evil. I constantly reminded myself of the childhood friends, good neighbours, the taxi driver who brought me home, the love I will feel but will never have.

I live in a city that takes pride in it’s cosmopolitan make up. Some people want to tar that. That makes content for another post probably for another blog. So in this huge city when every rickshaw walla refused to take me home one rainy evening I am a little perplexed when a young bearded man agrees. I take a look at his eyes. I am not sure what I am looking for, but I hop into his rickshaw, happy to be saved from the rain.

I wont deny fear, nor doubts. I sit still, confused at my own cynicism creeping in again. I try to fight the feeling. I have no reason to feel the way I do. But I do. I tell myself I am human. I am saddened at the constant excuse I give myself for being weak in my mind.

This young man brings me home, safe and sound. In 31 Rupees. Way below the amount I pay each day. I look at his eyes again. Disappointed in the reflection that I see in them. I tip him a fiver for being honest with the meter. He thanks me and drives away.

I did not have a proud moment, but my faith is restored. I might just turn out to be the person I was brought up to be.

I have been an ardent fan of this blog and blogger’s work for a very long time.

It is the blogger’s ability to paint distinct pictures with her words that captivates me. Be it writing about a book she read, a poetry reading she attended or a daal recipe she tried. She takes me along with her.

Her post, South by North East left me speechless filled with emotions, warmth and brought back memories of my own life in the mountains.

The blogger is back after a rather long hiatus and has changed locations. It has been a while since I have read some one so inspiring. I am really glad she is back.

With my throat hurting, head pounding I was slipping into a state of drowsiness. A state which never promises pleasantness especially on an air plane. The feeling gets worse when the said trip is being made for what started off as a project some six weeks ago. It is moments like these that some soul searching becomes inevitable.

So why is it that I want to get married. Marriage isn’t about new clothes and independence from the clutches of one’s parents. Some thing women from two to three generations ago revealed to me was their understanding of marriage, then. At best it is about having a room mate I have signed a as-long-as-I-live-lease. Some one I can’t change based on disagreement over taste in music, preferred TV channels, friends we keep. A room-mate I would have to share my bed with who is probably a bigger hairier and snores, burps, farts believing it is just fine to do so.

This is what my hypothalamus in over-drive brain came up with. I want to get married to learn how to be happy. Happy sharing my breathing space with another human being. I want to learn to give more take less. I want to understand monosyllables and know which one means I am hungry or I need to sleep or just leave me alone. Just like my mum does. She has this knack of knowing which “hmm” coming from my dad means what. I want to make relationships. I want to be a wife and daughter-in-law, sister-in-law along with the thousand other relationships that come with it.

I want to have children and a dog and a home that I can call my own. I want to have memories of firsts, family holidays, sickness and health.

A friend rightly pointed out that I don’t need to be married to have a child. My inability to make a beautiful story out of insemination deters me from going down that route. What do I tell this child, about their coming into existence when there is no father in the picture. When I don’t know how to exist in a world where my dad doesn’t, how can I think it would be okay to have a father-less child.Would my child not deserve one.

When discussing family holidays, another friend suggested she doesn’t need a family of her own. She would be very happy tagging along the family of her friends. I questioned how long she would be welcome. To which she suggested that she would work hard enough to be rich and always welcome. She would work hard at being friends with understanding, broad-minded, non-judgemental people only. What ever rocks your boat, sweetie. For me a family of my own sounds more satisfying, not to mention less expensive.

I don’t think I have found all the answers. I don’t think I ever will. How ever I know I am ready to take the plunge. I know girls talk about their individuality, rights and division of labour. All that for another post. For now I have atleast some idea as to why I do want to get married.

ps: Comments on dot.come weddings have been responded to. Finally yeah!

Over-rated.

Time, distance, experience, culture, background and memories make different people out of us. Who I loved when I was 15 is not the same person. Today that person is not even what I want to love at 30.

I have changed just like you have. I don’t like you now. Don’t fret. Some times I don’t even like me.

I have mentioned before how I think my blog is a person. It appears to have a mind of it’s own. There have been so many emotions that I have experienced and wanted to share. I just haven’t found  the right time, means or method to do so.

The last time I felt similar anxiety was before one of my vivas. The feeling of not being able to come up with the right answer is daunting.

This time the feeling was worse. I had no answers. I was going to step into an area I know nothing of.

I am aware of my handicap of seeing beyond the box. I don’t know why 2 educated seemingly normal people can’t stand the thought of each other. Or why a mother loves her children no matter how they treat her. Why a father has a tear in his eye when he watches his child sleep in his arms. Why the sky and the wind and the water appear full of life when in love. I don’t understand  the concept of friendship, love or time for that matter.

Yet I decided to take this step. Was it for me or for a friend. I wasn’t sure. But I was ready to take the plunge. Some times knowing you will find a friend at the other end of that plunge is a comforting thought. One doesn’t know for sure. But one cannot know unless you take the fall.

Few phone calls were made in preparation , only to realise no matter what I did I was not going to be prepared for what was to come.

Conversations over coffee. And cookies this time!

I didn’t need any sugar  for the buzz I felt. The company of three extremely talented individuals can do much more  for the soul than any amount of sugar or coffee or even chocolate . I realised. We discussed colours, perceptions, life, death, daughters, mother-in-laws, art and artists and freedom of expression.

I may still not know anything about the area of expertise of the three very talented people that I met. But I have come back realising that it is I who restricts myself. I can free my thought process and think beyond the box. That isn’t a function of what is around me, it is a function of what I allow it to be.

I am not sure what one calls this feeling.

I  gave away my stupidity. I exposed my weakness with my own bare hands. I have left myself vulnerable for at least a day. I have forced myself to relive pain, and anguish which will ultimately lead to anger, more pain and anguish.

I have done this single handedly.

Embarrassment is the emotion that comes to mind. Is it an emotion. A state of being. Can I laugh it off. Tell myself, people do silly things all the time.

Especially when they are unstable. This is an act of instability. Can people see that? Is that how much I have scratched the surface.

What is worrying is that I can’t help but laugh.  I did envisage that moment I just had. One in which for once I would have an upper hand. But not to be.

You pay for being sensitive, emotional,unstable. You pay for being yourself. I think I am going to chose laughter over embarrassment. At least some one has got to have fun.

Hey I know this is really last minute but I would really like for you to be part of my big evening. 

I am sure you wont be able to make it but I decided to  let you know. This evening is my big day.

Invited or not

So what?

Eff it.

This too shall pass.

And with this ladies and gentlemen I have written a little of over 300 posts on my blog.