Soul Curry

Ok then. We have already established that my life is surreal. Pretty much so. And by now, if you have been paying attention (you have been, right? At times at least..?) you’d know that by default, people in my life – past or present – also have this uncanny knack of attracting strange situations/people/events towards them.

How else would you explain the weirdness of two ex boyfriends, who hate each other, uniting in their common bafflement over me?? Bonding over hatred for me I can understand. Guzzling beers while discussing why I must do the dishes while there’s a party raging outside I can ‘get’. My obsession with laundry and cleanliness OCD is fair grist for the rumour mills. But downing whiskeys while pondering why I stuck around the two of them, consecutively, really makes me reach for the bottle.

Now, of course I loved the two of them deeply. Separately of course, but deeply nonetheless. However, what they needn’t know – and certainly not the fact that I am sharing this with the world – is that often I wondered why I really was with them. One would get smashed and then reach for the chinaware for target practice. The other would make plans to conquer the world while inebriated beyond belief. Both would suffer from memory lapses the next day. And your’s truly would stand around with coffee and croissants to make the hangover a li’l less unnerving.

Don’t get me wrong. They were both fun while it lasted. One showed me how to be a home-maker. The other taught me how to live life kingsize. One impressed upon me the need to know exactly what was in the kitchen so the rest could be replenished and the other made me acknowledge that putting worry to the wind is the best way to live. Both, in their own way, gave me a lot of love, comfort, passion… Both took years off my life. Both held my hand through horrible times. Both made a beeline for sexier versions.

And then, both wondered why I hopped, skipped and jumped from one complicated scenario to another. Not realising that initially, both, separately of course, offered the stability/fun/recklessness/madness/love that a  mind as twisted as mine craved. That I bored them later was not their problem, really. SDB gave me security, but conditional. DM gave me the zest for life, but when he walked away, all the fun went out of living…

Both stayed on in my life as friends, people I could count on. Till a third one waltzed in! And mayhem ensued. With his own baggage, HM was never the perfect one. However, that’s neither here nor there. But SDB and DM took an intense dislike towards him. Neither recognised the pattern. Neither saw himself in HM. Neither realised that HM was a part of both of them.

They just saw their favourite go-to-woman going away to someone else. Hence the bafflement. They experienced unattended calls, unanswered messages, unapologetic behaviour and unknown confidence. Their own – confidence – was shaken. Thus their question to each other: If that’s what she wanted, why was she with us?

Darlings… A mirror, or a self portrait…take your pick.

HM, welcome to the show.

Note to self: Why the hell do I never pay attention to my own notes????

Just like all the DMs make a beeline for me — or maybe I make one for them— there are people I know who have similar magnetic abilities to attract the most bizarre things/people/events to themselves and their lives.

My friend SDB, for instance. A gem, someone I want to stash away in my wardrobe and look at constantly. For reassurance. To feel good about myself. To know that it isn’t just my life that could make for a good comic caper (with undertones of dark humour)… And that I am in good company.  SDB, you are a fabulous person and I will always love you, but you gotta admit that between your life and mine, the entire canvas of surrealism seems to be painted over!

SDB hops from one relationship to another. Hops may be a wrong word. He actually runs from one to the other. When commented upon, he smirks, “I so do NOT run from one relationship to another… I never am in a relationship.” Sure SDB. And I am J Lo, with her butt and Lady Gaga with the impact.

But from SDB’s point of view, he is right. The ‘R’ word never features in his convos. Even his nightmares are not allowed to feature that word. His MI: See woman. Then really look at woman. Smile. Chat her up. Impress her with the oh-my-god-gravelly voice till she’s melted chocolate at his feet. Buy her a Chocolate Martini (ewww). And then she’s all his. For a month. Or two. Tops. A period of intense courtship. The thrill of the chase. Incessant phone calls. Midnight chats. Drives to nowhere. Noisy bed springs.

And then, it’s back to woman-spotting again. Just like that. No explanations rendered. None sought, from either party. The party starts again. Life’s a breeze. Till, a period when three/four of these women start calling SDB. And then start calling him names. Not of the good kind. Some threats are issued. Some memories are recalled. You get the drift… Sadly, the women, and SDB never do!

To return to the bizarreness of it all, once one of these women decided that she is not going to be thrown over. No way. She, in her head, was perfect for SDB. (Come to think of it, I thought so too, but SDB didn’t really make a beeline to my opinion.) As SDB was forsaking chivalry for sanity (his), woman decided to turn stalker.

Wherever SDB went, woman popped up. Or out, as the case may be. Outside office, home, friends’ homes, pubs, parking lots everywhere. The man was confronted by this silent (largely) presence 24/7. “At least if she said something, I could retaliate. But this mobile sphinx like behaviour is tough to handle,” griped SDB. To say that I snickered would be an understatement as I was instantly reminded of an earlier woman in SDB’s life who had taken to stalking the women he started dating after he parted ways with her. Her MI: Call the women and share info about the man. Intimate ones. And constantly call. A couple of times apparently, the women became friends. And waves of hostility reached out to SDB.

Not that he drowned. However, tough to enjoy a drink when three women sitting opposite are staring fixedly. And one doesn’t know when they might just point and yell, “Small!”

But that’s SDB’s bane… That’s his cross to bear. As his collection of women grows, the bizarreness quotient of his life also goes up. Much as I love him, it’s just more grist for me… Chronicling his life at times makes mine seem like a picnic.

At least I can enjoy a drink in peace. My friends aren’t stalked. Neither am I. And no one can look at me and ‘small’. Really.

Shut up, SDB. No one asked you.

Note to self: At times, should desist from letting it all hang out.

DM and I managed to prove that you don’t need to swear undying love to each other to feel it. Or at least a modicum. Or ok fine, a semblance of the real thing… Oh never mind, who am I kidding?! Love or the conventional thing called love probably never made an appearance. Though the guest appearance credit was impressive: Friendship, companionship, loads of fun, mindnumbing madness, shared memories and adventures galore. Really doesn’t get any better.

Oh ok, you want me to let it all hang out? Ok, as a consolation prize, it sucked. There. Happy now? But I still wouldn’t change it for the world. Or given another chance, would I…? Would I go through the pangs all over again? The dreams? The what ifs? Hmmm… Am not telling that right now!

Anyway, while DM and I walked the path of convenience, and still do at times, some relationships/associations around me went off track. People who had shared a lifetime together, suddenly decided that they could do without each other, thank you very much. And while you are getting out of my space, kindly take the dog’s poop bag with you. Regards.

Decades of shared beds, tolerated friends and suffered relatives made way for solo pads, studio apartments… and in some sad cases, studied silences in the same space. The last, in my opinion, is the bloody worst. I mean apart from the fact that verbal spats that lead to cutlery attacks can be injurious to both parties concerned, there’s something abysmal about two people who after saying ‘I Do’ years ago, now have nothing to say to each other. Except maybe ‘I don’t know how I tolerated you’.

Given that, the fact that I don’t have anyone permanent to smash the plates on seems to be a blessing. Squeamish to say the least, seeing one-time-love-of-life cowering in a corner is not exactly what dreams are made of! Unless you see too many slasher movies. In which case, you probably wouldn’t need permanence of the romantic kind… I mean, what with the blood and gore, who has time for whispered sweet nothings??

As for me, I have plenty of time. For mush. Of all kinds. Sweet nothings, or everythings, whispered or shouted across streets… Am not too demanding, you see. Too bad I didn’t let on any of this with DM… hey, heard of a thing called pride? Ego? Self respect?

Ok, who am I kidding again… The first whiff of these and DM would have fallen off. And run off to where I could never follow him. Not that I could have followed him, never having been a good tracker!

Note to self: Why am I magnet to the DMs of the world?!

PS: DM, you aren’t that bad. Really. Am just letting it all hang out!

So I called the man. Wait, can’t keep calling him ‘man’. Let’s call him DM. Ok, so there it is. Or rather, here it is. I called DM, much to his pleasant surprise. Promise, he said so. And I had no reason to disbelieve him.

Still don’t, for that matter. We went on to have some awesome times together in the next few months. It was almost as if all my dreams came true. You know how it is, right, when all that you have crossed your fingers for till that point in your life suddenly happens, as if by magic? That’s exactly what happened. Magic. Pure magic. I was in fantasy land.

I was living my dream… The focal point of my existence was DM. Of course, he also moved heaven and earth to make me happy. Oh so happy that it hurt at times! I was cocooned in my own happy space and neglected every other aspect of my life… Not that it mattered. All of a sudden, after eons, it seemed that complications had found another home, far away from mine. I was exulting in that freedom and lack of fear.

But at the back of my mind was this fear. Hah, yes, Fearless Phoebs was shitting bricks. After each happy date that was never called a date. After every romantic evening that was never labelled a romantic evening. After every moment of intimacy that was never called an intimate moment.

The fear was of things going downhill. It was this paralysing feeling that things are too good to be true. That DM is just the kind of person to whom I could get easily attached (who was I kidding, I already was!) and then swallow the bitter pill of his lack of reciprocity.

Well, succinctly, the fear paid off. The summer romance came to an end. Only to be reignited in a sporadic manner, when both of us felt like it. No hard feelings. And the fact that my earlier relationship fell by the wayside and died a quiet death was a sad byproduct…

Note to self: If things seem too good to be true, they bloody hell probably are. Damn.

Hey, am still letting it all hang out!

So there I was, dreaming about new man precisely a few hours after I had met him. And 45 minutes after I had finished hitting self on the head with spiked boots for consuming alcohol like the glass was going to sprout legs and run away with the vital liquid sloshing inside it.

To get back to the dream. Or what felt like a dream. Which was the entire evening. I mean, how often do you meet someone and feel in the first 30 minutes that the powers that be have been highly unjust in not connecting the two of you earlier? In my case, though, pretty often. But in my defense, the ‘feeling’ has some basis in reality most of the times…

Anyway, to get back to it. There I was, lying on my ughy floral printed sheet over a lumpy mattress, replaying the entire evening over and over again in my head. Doing what I had done in my much younger days, i.e. try and interpret each look/statement/gesture etc… Effectively, dissecting the man within an inch of his life.

And if that wasn’t enough, I attributed my meeting him as a sign from above. Maybe not above, but definitely from some power that wanted me to put a stop to one relationship. A relationship that in all honesty was perhaps the best in my life, but one that was as mired in complications as the average politician’s public life.

So I just lay there and told myself that this was the beginning of my new life. An adventure, for which I had found a new friend to have fun with. I mentally listed down all the ‘commonalities’ between us and cheekily sidelined the differences. Not that I had found too many at that point anyway… You see, I was too busy trying to chart out my new life.

And then came the first roadblock. In the form of a conversation with the brain. A silent chat, but a chat nonetheless:

Brain: Please consider your age and stop behaving like a lovestruck teen.

Self: I am just being natural. True to form. Honest.

Brain: You don’t know the man. You just met him, for crying out aloud!

Self: So???

Brain: You aren’t even out of the relationship of your life, what on earth are you doing?

Self: This is a sign. I have met this man because he’s the one for me. I hope. I think… Oh let me dream on, dammit.

Brain: It is your funeral.

Self: Isn’t it always…

Brain: Do you see a pattern here? A self destructive one? Like how you never think things through? And jump headlong into potentially hurtful situations?

Self: Which part of ‘let me dream’ was in Swahili???

This is when a cold war ensued. Between brain and self. My self assertive move? I called the man the next day…

Note to self: I hate the brain.

You know how the funniest things happen when you really don’t want them to? And of course, they happen to you… Or honestly, to me. Always. Barring very few instances. Make that no instances.

There I was, a few years ago, with a stranger. Someone I had just met. And the amount of current we generated within the first 30 minutes was enough to electrocute a mid-sized township. All this without touching, unless you count shaking hands as being overly tactile. The eyes danced, the drinks went down smoothly (maybe a bit too fast, but smooth nonetheless) and the mind threw caution to the wind.

Well, almost. You see, I have this self-destructive habit of second guessing myself, and my luck all the time. While stranger and I were sitting across each other and making that curious conversation that two people make when they know there’s more to things than meets the eye, I suddenly froze. Just like that. The table seemed to acquire a life of it’s own. The glasses started a merry dance and the man in question suddenly sprouted a bulbous nose and squinty eyes, which in all honesty the good God had not given him.

So what gives? Probably for the second time in my life, the alcohol. Gave me. A bad time. Make that a very bad time. No, I didn’t upchuck. Nothing that gross. At least not in front of him.

But yes, I did run to the washroom and hide there for the longest time ever. With a nose spouting things the viscosity of which you don’t want to know, apart for just comic relief. When I finally did emerge, the evening had to be cut short for obvious reasons… The only saving grace was that the man in question didn’t register too much of the drama, so I was saved the ignominy of answering things I had no intentions of answering. Ever.

Suffice it to say that once I got home, without the expected goodnight kiss at the door for obvious reasons, I did throw the pillow to the ground and jumped on it till the feet hurt. Not to mention swore off alcohol for ever. But that’s just till the next time I met the man. Which happened the next day… Under curious circumstances…

Is there too much hanging out? Does it make you bilious? Are various body parts cringing? Are you wondering how a person can be an ingrate enough to feel good about some one else’s misery, while hanging out her own as well?

Oh well. Firstly, am not gloating over anyone else’s misfortune. Am just empathising with their inability to quit repeating mistakes. If you haven’t guessed, I suffer from the same affliction… So sympathy levels are deep on this one. Secondly, patterns are tough to break. I am just owning up to that. And thirdly, hey, it is easy to feel a bit disgruntled when bonds, rapports and associations built over the years go through even the least bit of upheaval, right?? And anyway, venting is good for health. Am just taking care of mine…

Selfish? Naah. Ok, maybe a bit. But aren’t we all? Quit banging head on wall, am not going all philosophical on you. Couldn’t crack it even if I wanted to. Not that I want to. Don’t have the slightest bit of inclination. Ever. Succinctly, at times it is ok to just look out for yourself. And allow yourself to feel what you do. And act upon it. As long as no one gets injured in the process. Try it… It is good for the soul…

Believe me.

Though yes, at times you may want to watch the words. They may come back to bite the ass. Though if you can handle it, let it all hang out!

At last count, I was off to pick my mutt’s brains on esoteric subjects. As a result of which, the clever canine has switched affections… To other family members. To be pipped at the post, that too by family. Ugh. Despicable. But unavoidable. However, much better than facing similar humiliation by well-meaning and once-you-get-to-know-them utterly nice strangers. Who have entwined their niceness and maturity all around old friends… To the extent that though the old friends are still the best and dependable ever, they do, however, have a life that I am a stranger to. Where I, at times, need permission to enter.

Not too nice. Not nice at all, damn it. Overwhelming, to say the least. And annoying. More so, as these so-called strangers are now my friends too. And their niceness is like a knife that stabs my conscience. Because the latter at times resents the new lives that have been built, the new associations that have been formed, the new worlds that have been entered and conquered.

So I pat my conscience, quieten the unrest, and bolster the ego by saying that I am just winning new pals. And then I go all out and have fun with everyone. Old friends and new. I learn, by the minute, to stifle a few old instincts, and learn, by the second to squelch howls of disbelief at altered circumstances… All fun of course. The more the madness and hysteria in my life, the more others are entertained. And so is the self. Mission accomplished.

However, the mission is more suitably accomplished when I still see old self defeating patterns of behaviour in the pillars of my life… Don’t get me wrong, I am not the one to warm my often cold hands at others’ bonfire of misery. It’s just that in all honesty, it’s good to see that I am not the only one capable of repeating my mistakes… And still live, smile, laugh, guffaw, learn (or not), fall flat, get up and hobble on again…

Don’t visualise all that. Rather dorky. And daft.

But hey, am just letting it all hang out…

I am being glared at right now. By a pair of exceedingly red eyes. Bloodshot, really. And they are attached to a body that’s sleepily sniffing my feet right now. This body can make me do anything. It reduces me to a dithering mass of baby-talking, nonsense spewing, daft woman who throws sense out of the window, and resorts to bribery. Just to appease this creature.

Body in question? My dog. He has me entwined around his li’l paw and the sucker knows this. One look from those doggy eyes, and I melt like I am standing in the bloody Sahara wearing a damn snow suit. From out of turn treats to fighting with neighbours, from making the house doggy-proof to telling a man that he needs a muzzle as he’s being mean to my dog, I have done it all.

To the point that I am now beginning to wonder whether such complete surrender is a good idea at all? Don’t get me wrong. I love the li’l blighter. And the feeling is mutual. I can kill for him, and very nearly have. But the kind of unconditional love that we share reminds me at times of similar emotions shared with others. There, I was the one making doggy eyes, I think, because more often than not, I would retreat into hurt silence.

Like my dog, I would skulk around, upset, if my needs wouldn’t be met. Like him, I would sulk and turn my back or stalk out of the room at the vaguest threat of a disagreement. Like him, I would always come back, asking for more, at the merest sign of a warm gesture forthcoming or the cold war thawing… And like him, one pat would be enough to make me forget the angry words, for the time being at least.

Makes me wonder about human frailties. About how the mind can be so conditioned that despite numerous knocks from the same source, one willingly jumps into the same cesspool, hoping for that rope that’ll rescue us. My dog is smart enough to grab the right rope. Am going to pick his brains now so I get a glimpse of that wisdom as well. And soon…

I am a swinger. Oh yes, I am. Ask anyone who knows me. Bewildered parents, confused friends, rattled exes… They may have diverse opinions about my cooking (minimal) and social (limited) skills, but what they’ll all grim-facedly cheer to is my uncanny knack of swinging from one end of the mood scale to quite another. Without even batting an eyelid, many would snigger, from a safe distance of course.

A safe distance, primarily, because I am known to throw the nearest object at hand towards the nearest inanimate object to vent my frustration/anger/inability to make the other person see reason. Notice that the other person has to see reason, and not me. Hey, I did say that I have mood swings, right?

Not that I have ever targetted anyone. Really. I haven’t. It’s always been a wall that has weathered a mobile. That’s right. The most handy object has always been a trustworthy mobile. And the most silent spectator has always been a wall. Fight over the ‘phone, chuck latter at wall. Seeing old pics on mobile, and bile rises or nostalgia overwhelms me, aim at the wall. Can’t get through to person and old anger resurfaces, hello wall.

Once the wall has been splattered, and broken pieces have been picked up and tried to be re-assembled, then the laughter bubbles up. At the stupidity of it all. The futility of metaphorically denting a wall, whereas the recepient should have been some one else all together…

Or take another instance. Peacefully sharing a few drinks with an old friend. With whom there has been a history. Apart from the biology, of course. Talk about ‘old times’ invariably starts. ‘Do you remember…’ and ‘oh my God, wasn’t it fun when…’ start peppering the convo. Slowly, it veers to ‘but why did you have to…’ and ‘no, that wasn’t what I meant…’ and ‘really, u still think it was all my fault…’. From backslapping banter to want-to-slap-you-really-hard-and-bad, the transition happens faster than a feather induced sneeze. From the cheerful-I-can-handle-it girl to oh-my-God-I-want-to-throw-person-off-balcony transition happens even faster.

As I hate bloodshed, I just let off a few of the choicest ones, or say something even more inappropriate and cringe-worthy-in-the-morning, and stalk off to cool the head. While the other partner in crime just mutters, “What’s the big deal?” Probably nothing. As after 10 minutes of visualising bricks on the friend’s head, I am fine. Like really fine. A hug, two pats, and 3 cheers laters, all’s well with the world again.

Till the next mood swing strikes. Exercise caution, people.