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.

Vanity

If you really look at it, the way we tease and colour and cover ourselves (or leave certain bits UNCOVERED) before we portray ourselves to others is amusing. It occurred to me the other night as I was getting ready for a night out. I mean, seriously - I own a million little bits and bobs whose sole purpose is to enhance my physical appearance. And those little babies have their work cut out for them, they really do. And WORK, unfortunately, is what it often is. A LOT of work.

First there is the whole hair removal deal. Seriously, who was it that decided that I shouldn't have a hairy upper lip, and underarms? And arms, and legs, and heaven knows what else...? Of course, I AM the conforming nincompoop who follows the path of looking 'feminine' that many others seem to have paved before me. But seriously, it would be interesting to know how this came about. I know, I know, 'Google is my friend'.

And as for my mane, my locks (which have a mind of their own) have been coloured, and been subdued under several heat treatments. I have a crazy mane of hair, and as I don't want to look like a witch doctor who couldn't quite carry off her rastas, I regularly have to straighten my hair using those hair straighteners that I am sure will eventually be the cause of a very bald, strangely shaped head. But here and now, for acceptance into so-called polite society I need this baby to make me blend in with the more normal folk. Of course, water is THE ENEMY NUMBER ONE for straightened hair, and there was one particular outdoor event where the heavens poured forth their tears of comic love, and I could not escape (plus I am a fan of rain, unlike my has-a-mind-of-its-own hair). I'm sure the children I saw from the corner of my eye running and screaming in absolute horror did not do so when my hair sprang forth and helped give shelter to several small animals and birds in the vicinity... I mean, I don't look THAT terrible au naturale, do I???

Then there is the absolute wonder, and potential for disaster, that is make up. I DO regard it with sincere adoration and joy. I would honestly look nowhere close to normal without the stuff. I'm no expert however - I don't know how to make my nose look slimmer, and to hide my three extra chins. But that day my friends, is looming on the horizon. I DO however know how to look awake: hurray for eyeliner, and eyeshadow and mascara! One of my good friends always asks me whether I have slept on the days when I don't bother with it. It cannot be emphasized enough, that looking awake for me is very important. Looking awake used to be at odds some time back however. This was when I was still prone to tears with remarkable, horrifying ease (or had more to cry about?), and before I discovered the waterproof stuff. In those times the choice was either looking asleep, or facially morphing into a raccoon at some point during the day. I have only just noticed that without all these enhancements I seem resemble other animals. All the ones that AREN'T human...

Other adjectives I like in association with my face (especially now that there are days when the word AGEING is scarily easy to relate to), are 'fresh' and 'healthy' - like fresh fruit. That's easily done with the miracle workers known as foundation, concealer and blusher. While they do come in handy on days when one looks starved and sleep-deprived, they need to be handled with care and caution. Abuse may result in one looking like, respectively, a drag-queen with higher than normal levels of testosterone, a ghost playing dress up, or an eighty year old puffing up his/her seventh flight of stairs, on the run from being caught at tweaking a nubile young man's bottom (forgive me, I just watched one of the new Kate Winslet movies). You see what I mean about the potential for disaster (except for those of us aiming for the raccoon/ drag queen/ ghostly/ puffy, lascivious and geriatric look - each of us IS unique, after all).

The final element in this area of enhancement is clothes. I have two gorgeous, and impeccably dressed flatmates, who until recently were quietly appalled by my sense of dressing. It's almost a science, I have learned, and lately, on occasion, I have been given the stamp of approval by one, or both of them. I'm still boggled by all the little rules there are to make this look bigger, that look smaller, and that on the whole make one look BETTER. But the other night I realised, as I was putting on what can only be deemed a 'contraption', that there is a little engineer waiting to be born in every woman. In order to wear the damn garment(which I have no logical explanation for having bought in the first place), and make sure it looked presentable and wouldn't get me arrested at some point in the evening (due to accidental indecent exposure) I used many, many tools. Some were predictable, but others, I think, were pure genius. One of the items was a REALLY complicated item designed by the good people at VS. To give one an idea of just how complicated it is, suffice to say that it comes with its own little manual. The other items included head pins, tape, staplers, string and a scrap of black material. I was THIS close to using permanent glue. The result of using all this paraphernalia, was a little engineering miracle that night, and I am happy to say I did not look homeless and I was not arrested.

It's scary how I make ALL this effort to look more like a... normal person. Especially when I don't believe there is such a thing as a normal person, and I am conversely SO proud of how different I am. In any case, I am more prone to disaster than success in all these ways I try to look better. So if you see a little old lady being chased by an outraged young man, or a drag queen tottering about in impossibly high heels, do spare me a wave...

Dating

I'm going to admit something here. I am on the wrong side of 20 - ok, ok the wrong side of 25 - and I do not know what dating is really about. I can't wrap my head around the concept of it. Is it like taking a car you've secretly been yearning for, on a test drive? Or is it like trying a brand new cellphone of a brand that you had never before heard of? Or is it like looking at something already quite familiar, under a totally different light? I wish there was a manual. In fact, in this crazy world I am sure someone, somewhere has already written some guidelines for the totally inept and clueless: 'Dating 101 for Absolute Morons'. Someone please pass it on to me, because I exaggerate not when I say: I have NO clue.

I have been on maybe three dates my entire life. Possibly even less. But let's just say three for now, as I am not too sure how to determine the datey-ness of a date. I mean unless it has not been specified that the 'meeting' in question is indeed a date (Gulp. The word makes me nervous.). Is it because it is just the two of you there? Is it the location, or is it the meal? I mean, is a breakfast meeting as likely to be a date as one in the evening, or is Italian food more romantic than a hot dog? Is it because clearly noone else has been invited (because I might possibly have changed several dates into non-dates by mistake that way)? Is it because one person asked the other, instead of it being some miraculous agreement to hang out? Someone please tell me!!! Or, last of all, is it a date because only one of you pays? I am not sure how I feel about the one person paying thing. As much as I like a good treat, I am more comfortable going Dutch. It's a hallmark of my independence, or whatever.

Ok assuming I have somehow established that it IS a date. What is one supposed to do? I was tempted on my very first FIRST date to go with a list of topics of discussion in case conversation waned to a point where it needed some sort of rescusitation. I needn't have worried. I was too tongue tied to say anything, and instead spent the afternoon following, with rapt fascination, the escapades of a really pretty insect. (I wish I knew what type it was, it was a REALLY pretty insect!) I'm guessing there should have been a little more conversation than was actually conducted. Are we supposed to discuss the weather (check), and then go into those first day at school type of introductions? My name is Goodmood. I have a brother and two sisters...? (check). There is just too much pressure! And I crumble, and I act, and I fake under pressure. I'm either a brighter, sparklier version of my true self, or as dull as doornails from lack of trying to engage the other person. So basically I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't!

The first date is nerve-wracking, it's true, but so is the concept of dealing with a second... I know I am not committing to a lifetime with this person, just by agreeing to another meal. But why does it FEEL like I am? No, I cannot meet you for dinner again because life as we know it will change forever?! I should try saying that in real life - it will send any prospective to the hills in a blink! And what if I am not interested after (and perhaps even BEFORE) the first date. Sure on paper, he (I like guys, just to clarify) is quite suitable using the general criteria. But what if there is no zing! after the first meeting. Is it like when you have to try a particular type of top again with jeans instead of the skirt you were wearing the time before to see the effect? Does one still go in for a trial run? Because this lack of zing! threatens (according to the rest of the world) to leave me single forever. Not that I mind, but since being single is unheard of at my age, I guess I am doomed. I have yet to find the very economical sounding coincidence of wants (i.e. mutual attraction) between myself and a 'suitable' individual. And as for trying them out for the zing! factor... I have mentally tried and tested them in my head before the first bite at dinner/lunch/breakfast/brunch/high tea/what have you, and failed them!

Like I said, I can't wrap my head around dating. I am a romantic of the purest (and clearly most delusional) kind. I know this. I do. I just don't believe in doing the work (as dating kind of appears to be). In my most optimistic of times (even now, when I am nearing expiry, and allegedly resigned to sitting on my pre-assigned dusty old shelf for the rest of eternity), I want that zing! to suddenly happen to me - be it with a stranger in the supermarket, with a cab driver through the rear view mirror (this might actually happen given my strange experiences with cabbies) or with someone I have known forever and not quite seen in that light before. I know. Delusional. But the only alternative to sitting around hoping (which is SO much fun to do), is... (my throat is getting dry, and my palms are already sweaty at the thought)... is... to date! Where IS that manual???

The Invasion

The first one came slowly and quietly. It made its way unobtrusively, when the moon was high. The mood was slumberous; peaceful. No irritation or discomfort was felt, and it settled in, beckoning the others who were all ready to follow.

She stirred in her sleep, smiling at a fleeting dream she would scarcely be able to remember in the morning.

The next few came with great caution, and in small clusters. Their stealth paid off, and soon there was a little army of them sparsely dotting the terrain. They had marked their new territory, and were at a strategic advantage for the next invasion. They settled in quietly, and waited in confident impudence for the rest.

The heat became oppressive. No longer fast asleep, she became restless. Suddenly thirsty, she awoke with a start. Switching on her nightlight, she poured herself a glass of water from the lifesaving pitcher on her bedside table. She took a long sip, and felt the cool water soothe her throat. She felt slightly refreshed but not entirely. Something didn't feel right. She frowned as she scratched at her forehead and cheeks. The humidity, or whatever it was, was irritating her skin. Too tired to really care, she turned off the light and tried to sleep.

By sunrise an entire army of them was there. Conspicuous, proud, and not at all easy to ignore. Their presence was obvious, and an eyesore. And worst of all, they were beginning to cause pain.

She woke up well before the alarm rang. Hot, sweaty and itchy, she went straight to the sink to wash her face. She glanced in the mirror, and shouted in horror - her face! HER face!

They celebrated their latest conquest. Each pimple beamed to the next in arrogant victory. Her face would never be the same again...

Going to Battle

My heart sinks. My palms become sweaty. I want to run. I want to hide. I am usually so confident, but at this moment I need reassurance. Hell, I need a hug. In trepidation, I murmur a prayer. But even divine intervention has no room in a situation like this. I take deep breaths, urgently requiring myself to be calm. To STAY calm. I need my wits about me.

I begin to strategise in my mind, hoping that once I am done, there will be no casualties. Hoping that things will not be as bad as I predict. I try and shake off the doubts and fears that are clouding my mind, catalysing my instinctive panic. I grasp at any light that shines through the fog of worry. I am a warrior, I decide. Yes! I WILL survive. I WILL get through this. There will be no pain, no death, no destruction. I try and believe all this as I prepare for battle. I try and believe this even though the cold hand of fear squeezes my heart and instinct begs me not to. I straighten my poise, and begin walking slowly, resolutely, without looking back toward the field of battle.

I throw up one last silent prayer to the heavens, and enter... the kitchen.