Bridges

Be careful boy. You're being just a little bit too cavalier. One wrong move and the flames will engulf your last chance of ever getting to me. So tread very, very carefully.

It's your last bridge to burn, and it's the most fragile one. We both know how you annihilated the ones that came before. Do you remember the first one? It seemed indestructible. It emanated simple, steely beauty. Its strength was quiet, and inconspicuous. But you wore it down slowly... excruciatingly... you were almost resilient in wanting to bring it down. And you did.

But because of who you are to me, I tried again. And there were moments when it was worth it. And so we built another bridge - wooden, and slightly ricketier than the first. I tried to ignore the sounds it made. Tried to ignore the creaks of warning... stubbornly trying to ignore the tearing out of my heart once again. But the weight of what you did... it brought it crashing down.

So realize this, boy. I have nothing left to give but this bridge of rope and twine. It's as shaky as they come, and its survival is in your hands. Tread with care, boy. The smallest flicker of hurt or anger can ignite into a flame... and whoosh! Down comes the last bridge.

It's all about me

Today I don't give a damn about anyone but myself. You can keep your platitudes and your pleasantries; your attention and your concern; your words of comfort and advice and empathy. They will do no good here. My emotions are amok. At one moment I want to wail and burst into tears, and at the next I want to attack and scream about how unfair everything is.

And no, I don't want to be positive, and think about a brighter tomorrow. All I can see - all I can concentrate on - is how RIGHT NOW SUCKS. I want to revel in the muck that my life seems to be, and I want to feel sorry for myself. And I don't want to listen to the logic that tries to tell me that none of this will help.

My mind is closed - a tunnel vision of dark thoughts. Rainbows and fresh flowers and merry melodies seem like fantasy fiction - impossible, and hard to believe. And anyone else's good news is unwelcome. I feel evil and dark and loathsome. A wicked witch in a stinking bog.


So be warned. Today it's all about me. And none of it is good.

Old dog, new tricks

It's my birthday tomorrow (or today, depending on what time zone you're in). For the past few years, in the weeks preceding this day, I go through major introspection, and go on this crusade to improve myself and reinvent myself, and basically try and make myself better. Suffice to say that these are like the New Year's resolutions that everyone else cease to follow even before the end of January.

So this year I didn't waste the time picking myself apart, and deciding what to change. I'm an old dog, and I won't be learning any new tricks this year. Okay, I'm not that old, but it's a cool line, and I wanted to use it. It's my birthday, and therefore I'm allowed!

Anyway the plan this year is not to forget that there are aspects of myself that need a little bit of polishing. No, sir. I know where I need to improve, and I shall - in my own time. It's like me NOT deciding to go to the gym. Once I decided NOT to go, I went more times than when I had decided to go regularly. It's just what makes me special. And that's what today is going to be about. Accepting the wackiness that is me. Reveling in it. After all this day should be more than me binging on some good cake that I won't be going to the gym to burn, right?

(P.S. I'm a bit worried about how people are going to pronounce binging - it had me confused too!)

Be warned

(Sorry it was just too tempting to use every cliche possible!)


Be warned young man, you're about to be played. Be warned because that glint in those seemingly guileless eyes only means that she has found her next target. And honey, from that artful fluttering and the casual way she holds on to your arm, you're it.

I've seen the drill, and believe me, I know what I'm talking about. But you've already fallen. I can tell from the glimmer of excitement in your face as she approaches.

She comes to you like a breath of fresh air, and disarms with a devil-may-care attitude and blinking doe-eyed innocence that brings out a need to protect. That's right, she's every cliche brought to life. Be careful young man. She seems too good to be true because she is.

Ah, those charming rainbow-hued dresses that just flit above the knee. That puzzling, delightful combination of coquette and naivete - Sex Kitten and Girl Next Door combined. Laughter that sounds of bells. A voice that pours over you, like caramel. It's almost amusing to see how quickly and completely you fall.

She's reeling you in, and you marvel at your luck. She's beauty and wit combined, a walking fantasy. Oh dear, I've seen her without her make up, and have seen more cunning than intelligence in her persona, but you are already too far gone. She's got you in her clutches, well and good.

I give it three weeks before you feel suffocated, and her hand reaches into your pocket more than you do. Three weeks before you'll be on the verge of warning the next infatuated fop...

Ugly

We're the same, you and I. Flawed in the same way. Strong in the same way. Disappointed in each other. Wary. Hurt. The similarities are striking, and yet the chasm between us only grows wider, and deeper and more impossible to cross. I need a map to reach you. And a method that hasn't been invented yet.

I cannot think of you without pain and bitterness. I cannot think of you without feeling disappointed in myself. I have failed in so many ways when it comes to you, and my good intentions never materialise into anything constructive. It's so easy to take you for granted, and to take my duty and obligation lightly - in fact, to ignore it altogether. I cannot think of you without pain, because when I think of you, all I am reminded of is the person that I am. Someone who I could never be proud of.

How did I get here? Who am I? The face I show you is so different from the face I show the rest of the world. There is more truth and more ugliness in what you see. Could it be that my true colours are only revealed to you? That scares me most of all. If those are my true colours, they are ugly indeed.

I can only appreciate you when you are far away. In your presence my claws come out, and my defensive and offensive sides polish their swords ready to do battle. Ready to strike before you do. Because only you know where it hurts most, and your aim is unerring and unforgiving.

When we're apart I yearn to be better. I believe I can be better. But then when we are together I am weighed by the truth that I never will be.

A million little pieces...

... of me. Scattered all over, and through time.

... on the school field long ago nurturing hopes and dreams and outrageous fantasies in friendships I thought would never change.

... in a tempestuous home full of love and bitterness and irreconcilable differences.

... sharing in the uncharted waters of her very first pregnancy.

... in the little pit-stops that led her to the love of her life.

... healing, and bringing light to the dark places he just can't seem to find his way out of.

... sharing in the confusion of a youth passing oh-so-quickly.

... throwing flower petals on their big day.

... reassuring that today will not bring another rejection.

... persevering in the pursuit of a better me.

... dancing without inhibition with the boy I just met who could be so much more.

... confused and uncertain about all the roads wide open before me, and where they could lead.

... fiercely refusing to regret possibly terrible decisions.

... playing with the most beautiful young child ever born.

... becoming a better sister, daughter, friend, worker, student, niece, granddaughter, writer, career woman.

... sharing in joys, in sorrows, and all the mundane details that make up a life.

... wanting to shake the boy who simply won't see the gem right there in front of him.

... trying to be responsible - to everyone else, and to myself.

... pleasing others while trying to hold on to the essence of myself.

... yearning, hurting, wishing, wanting.

... becoming stronger, and an island; becoming more vulnerable, and dependent.

... broken-hearted and ecstatic, in turns.

... wanting revenge for the hearts that were broken.

... meeting all the people important, to the people important.

... everywhere, nowhere, and all here - in me.

Starry Skies

The Little Girl looked up at the sky. Enamoured. Enthralled. Excited. Standing at the edge of the tiny hill that seemed like the highest mountain to her, with her hand tucked tightly into her father's hand, it seemed to her each star was hers for the taking; each one sparkling as hard as it could for her own personal enjoyment. She could see so many different things once she played connect-the-dots with them. There was her kitten Fluffy, and Papa's favourite armchair, and ooh, a unicorn right next to the castle she herself would some day live in!

The gentle breeze ruffled her hair, playing with it in a friendly, mischievous manner. She paid no heed, busy scheming on how she would some day reach those twinkling stars. They did not seem that far away. And the ways to get there seemed simple, and infinite, much like the sky itself. Someday, she knew for sure, she would hold one of those diamonds-in-the-sky in her hand. She could hardly wait.

The Little Girl grew up, and became a Young Woman. She came back to the same hill many years later, alone, and the breeze carried to her many bittersweet memories. At moments it taunted at her, explaining to her in excruciating detail how the life she led was so far off from the life she had dreamed of. She gazed at the stunning, starry expanse of sky, and could only think of how far away it all seemed - the sky... her goals... happiness...

She never seemed able to see the possibilities anymore; just the impossibilities. If she tried playing connect-the-dots with the glittering balls of gas above, her mind strained instead to find the constellations as named by others before her. Still, looking at a starlit sky always brought her a measure of hope, and revived a tiny bit of the dreamer within. So for the tiniest of a moment, she could forget that she was stuck at the edge of greatness, with no idea how to get there...

Taxi

The girl looked at the damp palm that offered her back her change. 'Keep it!' she told Amir, with barely hidden disgust, and slammed the car door.

As he drove away, Amir wiped his brow with his already sweat sodden handkerchief. It was not yet lunchtime. The sun glared down at him, finding its way through all the dust. It arrowed in sharp, unrelenting rays into his taxi, shooting at him through spaces between the towering buildings, over the billboards, and slyly reflecting at him off the multitude of shiny surfaces all around. Everything seemed to have a shiny surface in this city, even the people.

He sighed, and thought of home. Never did he miss home as much as in the summers, and it surprised him that despite surviving sixteen summers in this still-foreign land, the pangs were as sharp and painful as his first.

And always, the same question: Was this really worth it?

His son was far away in another foreign land pursuing a higher education. The brash young man was a far cry from the two-year-old Amir had left behind. He was someone Amir barely knew. A stranger. A stranger he could barely relate to. Things would have been different, he was sure, had he not left so early and been away so long. They would have been different.

But the choice had been family, or money. Family, or money for family. Amir had not been discontented with his own life, but he knew his son would need more. His son would want more. At least he had been right about something. At least Amir had made money. He himself did not need much, so saving had been easy. And he was proud of his son, who everyone told him was exceedingly intelligent. He could be anything he wanted. Why he wanted to study to be a musician Amir did not understand. Had he sweat and pined all this time for a son who made a living - a bare living - playing an instrument. He had struggled, so that his son would not have to, and here his son was intent on choosing a life of struggle. He had insisted that Aman at least major in something useful. Another thorn in their fragile relationship.

It was Sunday, and Aman would be calling him soon. He partly looked forward to, and partly dreaded these brief conversations. Already he was clenching his teeth, and biting back the words he knew would antagonize his son. But really? A musician...?

* * * *

Aman glanced at his watch and gulped down the last of his Dutch courage. It was almost time for THE CALL. He hailed a taxi to quicken his journey to campus, where he called his father, and then mother, once a week. His mother, at least, would be eagerly waiting. Ready and willing to soothe his frazzled nerves. There was a reason he called his father, and not her, first.

He could make the call from any phone booth, but the boisterous students all around at the campus gave him an odd air of comfort. And he was less likely to make a scene, to shout and yell himself breathless, as he was always tempted to do when speaking to his father. So far he had always managed to contain himself. Just barely. But it was getting harder to control, and easier to just explode. Especially now that his dreams were within reach.

He jumped into the taxi, and barked out the address. His fists were clenched, a reflex foretelling of the verbal battle he was about to engage in. How could he make his father understand? He was not selfless enough to give up his dreams and live the life his father wanted. He was not strong enough to live with that dissatisfaction. He knew his father had made harsh choices, but had he not made them so that he, Aman, would have his own choices? They would never see eye to eye. He knew that.

The taxi slowed to a stop in front of an unfamiliar building. 'It's the wrong block!' he told the driver with obvious annoyance. Not wanting to sit there a moment longer, he jumped out of the car, and threw some money into the open palm that waited.

Stupid illiterate fool.

A smile and a nod

I see you from across the store, paying for your purchases. You haven't seen me yet. I wait to fight that urge that usually surges up when I see you. The one that usually pushes me to go up to you, to ask you how you are, to simply connect with you somehow.

It doesn't come. Surprise, surprise. That's something I will have to analyse in my quiet time.

Just as I am about to go back to deciding which shampoo to try next, you turn and spot me. You also seem to wait for something, and your face changes with surprise when you realise that you are no longer pulled to me either. I am of course irrationally annoyed and relieved in equal parts.

So this is how it now is. We could be any two people off the street. Strangers. Any surplus feelings we have have been usurped into the daily details of the lives we now have - lives that don't include each other. I'm so used to the dull ache that washes over me when I get a glimpse of you; the ache that is always swiftly welcomed by a rush of bittersweet memories. And now...? Nothing. I feel nothing.

I still remember everything, but with the feeling that it all happened to someone else. She was not me. He was not you. They were not us.

The tapestry of us - remarkable, complicated, vibrant, colourful, so entwined is a now a distant, dreamy watercolour. I feel disconnected from the entire gamut of emotions that comprised us.

And how evident it is, that you do too.

And so it is that we acknowledge each other politely with a smile and a nod. You leave with your bag of groceries and your arm around another girl's waist, and I go back to the internal debate of mousturising versus detangling.

Who knew, when we decided to try to be friends, a day would come when all we would exchange would be a smile and a nod?

Oh, what have you done to me?

Oh, what have you done to me? Ever since that day I saw you, so long ago, you have been on my mind every day. There was love instantly; an immediate connection, and I was changed forever.

Oh, what have you done to me? There are moments when my hunger for you is so strong I would do anything - anything! - to get to you. There is no substitute. It has to be you. I am addicted, and when I am unable to get my fix, I am moody, bad-tempered, and hopelessly dissatisfied. It's not easy not having control. I wonder, if I had known back then, when my affair with you first began, how ruthlessly you would wreak havoc with my mind and body, would I still have made that first move to reach out and touch you? Every fibre of me screams Yes! A thousand times yes! I would survive without you in my life, but there would be no flavour, no joyful decadence, no sumptuous temptation...

Oh, what have you done to me? One dose of you requires hours of recovery. You are detrimental to my health, and yet I could not bear to give you up. Sometimes I feel like I should enrol in a twelve-step programme to give me the strength to get away, and stay away, from you. How can something so wrong for me, still feel so right? Maybe it's time to say goodbye, and focus on something that is GOOD for me. I don't have that energy to bounce back in good shape like before. I will miss you, but surely there are enough distractions out there!

Oh, what have you done to me? I am afraid it's time to go our separate ways. It's no longer as easy to get rid of your effect on me, and something tells me it's an unhealthy, unbalanced relationship. Oh, I will miss you, and think of you often and fondly remember all the moments we shared. But I have made up my mind.

Oh, chocolate cake, what have you done to me? No salad is as tempting and delicious as you. No session in the gym as satisfying. But it's time for a change.