Unrequitted Love is Over-Rated

This probably belongs in my other, slightly hormonal blog - but I don't really care at the moment. It's a little self indulgent, but isn't the very concept of blogging that? Anyway, I can delete it later :)

Maudlin. Mawkish. That would be me. That would explain the sudden bursts of effusive love that I smother you with every once in a while. In my head. And the resultant is a phone call. A phone call that says nothing really, but I know why it was made.
In my head, I’d remember a simple evening. A solitary cigarette. A warm conversation. But when we had that conversation, it didn’t strike me as particularly remarkable. But then I recall it. I sniff around for a little magic. Like maybe, the colour of the sky at the time, and it becomes special, warm. I pretend that it meant something, and then, you hear your phone buzz.
Of course, over time, I have realised the superficiality of this strange love. It isn’t anything at all. It’s contrived and petty. But it’s my security blanket. And you never mention anything about taking it away. You almost, always answer the phone. And sometimes you promise to call back, but you never do. You play the part of the heartbreaking jerk to a tee. You become a type, even though we both know that, it’s a charade. It’s a little play we’ve rehearsed to perfection. And I get the blues, but they’re really not the blues, but a little play-act blues.
You know, when sometimes you lie awake at night, and happily pretend that, this is another life, and suddenly it snaps, and you get a horrid, uneasy feeling? Well, it happens to me a lot. And it becomes so horrible that, I tell myself, so what, pretending is easier, dreaming is easier, and it usually is.
Every once in a while, you speak in a language that is so clear and honest. And I hate that language. You behave like just about anybody. A vendor, a bus conductor, a businessman. I don’t like talking to you then. You’re too real. You’re not even being a jerk. You’re just being whoever you are – and that is just so, so alienating. It’s like a fascination just died softly and soundlessly in the recesses of my mind.
I don’t long for you really. I don’t long for anything, because there is nothing to long for. You and I will see that, stripped off all our mawkishness. All our desultory conversations will come to naught. Haven’t they already? Don’t we see that when a call means nothing, and all our talk loses its way to banality? When we repeat our dreams like parrots and synchronize our sighs and our futile attempts at ironic humour? We have nothing. We might as well be strangers with an inclination towards the fatal and the sentimental. Our warmth is artificial, our familiarity is a farce.
What does it feel like not to be special anymore? Not to be the only one who perches on all my thoughts and actions? To not have any effect, any influence, any say? All of a sudden, you’re nothing but a travesty - a little running joke. Your words, when analysed brutally, never meant anything. Either way, you wouldn’t have remembered what you had said. And that, is where it is easy to walk away from this dream gone wrong. It’s just my dream. It’s just my thoughts. It’s just my foolish little world, not yours.
I don’t hate you. I don’t love you either. You’re just somebody I’ve known who keeps doing these rabbit hat tricks, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing just as soon.
If ever you wanted the truth, this is it. This is the real story of the two of us.

I love album covers. Absolutely adore them. I collect them all the time. And then, I stumbled upon this goldmine. These are the absolute WORST album covers ever to be created. They are FASCINATING to the say the least. Pig out.

Sure, because of the added protection in crowded places, right?

For all the Butches and Spikes who secretly want to be Fidos and Frou Frous. And I do not even want to THINK what the creepy man is doing with the poor dog behind the armchair. Blrgh.

Yes. I am shitting on this grand blue armchair commode.

A lot of requests, I'm sure.

Really. Leave the animals out!

And again!

It's such a pretty bathroom though.

Queen, they are NOT.

We-hell purty mama, I'm here to make your Christmas a little older, sadder and paunchier. You up for it?

But this, wins, bones, I mean, hands down. Wow.

Collectors

I have an eclectic group of friends. They come in all shapes, sizes and personality types. There’s this one type, I’ve always had ambiguous feelings for. The collectors. They collect things. Like books, films, music, images, ads, fonts, comics, gadgets ,lingos– and not just any shit - rare things, classic stuff – things that scream out individuality and intellectual snobbery. And sometimes, I hate to admit it, I’ve been friends with them just so that I could get a taste of all this culture they hoard. Of course, there’s more to them (although not always), but I find meeting them exciting, enlightening mostly because they’re collectors. You know, so that I can collect their stuff and be a cool kid for someone else or something.
There’s always this competition thing that’s going on between the collectors. Who’s got more. And for how less. Or with how much effort. These are things that make you stand apart. They elevate you from being a mere trivia whore to Star Wars Geekitude. And that’s something to be respected.
So anyway, since I have a lot of time to bum about at work, I decided to spend my time constructively. I decided to collect ads and images , the coolest (although not the rarest as a collector friend recently pointed out) and the funniest. So, I’ve decided to share some (only the ads for now)– and in case you know what I’m talking about – you’ll definitely copy these into your sacred little image folder. Go on, indulge.

Now this I love. It says ‘Pluto we will miss you’ and ‘We’re for underdogs too’ (in case you couldn’t make out the copy). It kind of warms you with its maudlin wit, doesn’t it? What a perfect ad for Pedigree.

Cheeky, eh?

Every image has a sound. This one won some award or something. Woohoo! Bubblewrap rocks. So do typewriters.

Ah the wonder of wonderbra. There were just so many – but I guess this is one of the more popular ones along with the “I never read the Economist” one.

Indeed.

Now I really don’t give a shit whether you think Jim Morrison is over-rated or not. But this is yum and you better think so, alright?

Haha. It’s a Fender ad. Long live Keith Richards. How does he do it though?!

It’s a little dated, but cute.

Acceptance

There was little to do that day. There could have been a lot to do, if I were given the due respect of a professional. But I was just an indecisive kid. I was just whiling away my time, and they knew it.
I was in a new city. I had few options. I had friends who were at work, getting their due respect. I couldn’t possibly impose on them to keep me company. I could explore the city on my own, but I was too lazy to. And I hate that getting lost feeling. I need to know exactly where I’m going, how I’m going and all of that. I used to think I was adventurous, but I wasn’t really. I was often forced into adventure, but really, I prefer being in control.
I sat in a coffee shop. That’s what I did that morning, when I went to work and realised there’s no work. It’s happened before, these things. I’ve turned up at school, when there was no school, or at a party when there was no party and things like that. There was a slight possibility that we may not have had work that day, so I even asked my Boss if we did or not. But he didn’t reply to my text message, and neither did he pick up his phone. If only I was good looking.
Anyway, this coffee shop was not one of those quaint coffee shops where you meet the love of your life or anything. You know - he’d be sitting at the next table reading W.B. Yeats or something. No such luck. It was one of those purply chains, with uniform furniture, robotic service, pop music and lovey dovey couples. Who are these people, who hang out in coffee shops and malls at this hour? Don’t they have jobs/school/college whatever? Were they all in for a surprise this morning and realised they don’t have work? Could that really be? Who are these people?
Anyway, I called up my other Boss who did pick up her phone and told her I’d be going home and not be sticking around till two or whenever they decided to reopen work. A part of me wanted her to refund the 67 bucks I spent in getting here. I wish she would suggest it. But no. She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t sticking around in a place where there’s nothing to do, other than sitting around aimlessly in the sole purple coffee shop in that area, digging my nose and spending more money. No Ma’am, I wasn’t coming to work today. I’d mail her my work later on. And after a few moments of contemplation I strolled right into the coffee shop. I wished there’d be wi-fi, so that I could check my mail and all of that. Of course, I do mean Facebook. Anyway, so they did not have wi-fi, and I could just leave, go home, do my work from home, as promised and be constructive in general. But who was I kidding? I sat there, with my computer and typed random things, not to be outdone by this sour looking IT dude who sat in a table near mine and did the same thing. Only he wore a shirt and a tie and his laptop was not plum in colour. He looked professional. He looked as people who work should look. He didn’t look indecisive and stupid. He didn’t think the most important decision that he made in the day was choosing his underwear. He was probably making some pretty important decisions right now. Buy! Sell! Hold that share! Or things like that, which just seem like words to me. I saw him eat a muffin while I was pretending to type. His face softened a bit when he ate. He chomped unprofessionally. I liked that.
After a while I stopped staring, slyly or otherwise, because sooner or later, he’d notice. I looked out to see whether my bus passed this route or not at this time of the day. If it didn’t, I’d have to take another auto, which meant eighty bucks or so down the drain again. For a day of no work. And I’d probably have to go to a cyber cafe or something to mail in my work – which would also take some time to do. I was developing a story for a comic book – and I had no inclination to do it all of a sudden. It sounds interesting, but it’s really crap. It’s one of those comics they give out free or something with pizza. A marketing gimmick to get kids to buy more pizza, get fat and die young. A part of me really wanted to fuck up the assignment, so that we’d lose the account and I wouldn’t have blood on my hands. I think I can be a tad fatalistic at times.
I could see this shaggy dog outside the coffee shop that I could identify from the bus stop nearby. It sleeps a lot, and runs after noisy cars. I remember it particularly because it reminds me of a dog I once used to know, and because he walked over my feet (this one, not the old one). I mean, even dogs trample upon me, so forget my bosses. Life sucks sometimes.
It should have been a lousy day. I should have been feeling stupid and suckered. I should have been craving for an ego boost or something, but funnily, none of that. I was okay, really. My entire mediocre and wasted existence was not pressing against my super sensitive conscience for the time being. I think it was a step of sorts. Acceptance. I accept that life sucks, and I don’t have my dream job, I’m underworked, underpaid, I look like shit, no guy hits on me – not even the roadside romeos, and here I was, bored and alone at a coffee shop that was trying too hard, a sour looking IT man and a pair of bovine lovers being its only inhabitants. The milk in my first cappuccino was curdled, and I had to have it changed, so I’m pretty sure the guy who served me thought I was high maintenance (which I insist I’m not...I’d probably drink it anyway, but I was having a shitty day already, so I decided to speak up). I was polite about it, and I even smiled at him later when he said he didn’t have this morning’s newspaper. I just hoped he didn’t charge me for the curdled coffee. I don’t think I was in the mood to fight. I’d probably pay up to avoid a scene.
I suddenly wish I was vacationing somewhere. One of those long vacations – like those Europeans do it. A decadent, languorous holiday, with loads of time and loads of money. Where I don’t feel like I’m holding back people when I want to take photographs, and its okay to just sit somewhere and breathe for a while. I hate rushed holidays. I tend to forget about them too fast. Every once in a while, I gift myself something to feel that vacationy feeling. I’ll buy me a book, or flowers, or take an auto instead of a bus... I’ll buy me a chocolate chip muffin, a nice sweater. It’s okay dear, I say to myself, go on, enjoy yourself. And I do. I really do.
A friend called me up while I was still sitting at the coffee shop (by now, I had finished my coffee, and I really couldn’t afford anything more and was freeloading off the ambience – or whatever there was of it). So yes, she was thinking of applying for this cool new job, which paid more and was more exciting and was located in a city of dreams. She couldn’t make up her mind. But of course. It is difficult isn’t it?
But a part of me understands. Mediocrity is comfortable. It allows you to dream and desire more. If you are living a dream, it’s too much work really, and me, I’d rather see my life fritter away than go after what I really want. Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? It’s a part of that acceptance thing. You know when you wake up, look at the mirror, and think, shit, I’ll never be a child prodigy or marry Brad Pitt - things you truly believed in a few years ago.
I’d like to make a film some day. That’s my dream. Or a part of it. I’ve wanted to make a film since I was thirteen only my reasons for making it have changed. Okay, maybe not for an Oscar, but a Grand Prix at Cannes perhaps? Golden Globe? Damn it, a National Award at least! Sigh. I suppose not. Not entirely anyway. I just want that rush I got when I made my first corny little feature film in college. That love I felt for it during every step of the way – from writing to editing. All of it. The mad schedules, the silly mistakes, the truant actors, the aching shoulders – I want it all again. And no matter how many times I tell myself to obey, accept and be practical about the life ahead of me, I feel like its just lip service. I fool my practical self into really believing that I’ve fallen in line. But sometimes I’d like to sit me down and tell me – look, this is not it. This is not stability, this is not respect. This is being lazy. This is giving up. Accept that.
Maybe, I will someday. And I hope it’s not too late.

Two months and a week

2oth April - 27th June

The laptop speakers feebly warble out an Elliot Smith song. He whispers, drug addicted and suicidal, and the fan cuts across the wet, heavy air in a slow, hypnotic motion. The chat window flashes desperately. “Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii” “R U der??????” Am I? No. Certainly not.
The shirt clings heavily to my body, slothful and fattened by a diet of refined flour, sugar, tandoori chicken and twelve hours of sleep. I lie under the fan, on my bed, on my back and contemplate a life elsewhere, on a bustling train, in cooler climes, in better health, with better luck. I wish for a life contrary to this. But the moment of angst passes quickly.
The phone lies next to me. No space for new messages. Because I refuse to delete the old ones. Even ones like – “I’ll be there in fifteen mins”. Eventually I must.

I pick up a book. I read a page. It’s good stuff. I read another. And then someone asks me if I need something. And then someone sweeps the floor. And then someone needs to use the bathroom in my room. And then there’s a doorbell that no-one will answer. I give up.

Under the blazing afternoon sun, I visit my favourite old tea shop. It’s ridiculously hot, but I drink tea and smoke a cigarette. The old chap still remembers me. “Purane dost bhi nahin aten” he says. “Kaam kar rahe hain sab” I say. Sab, but me. I am not working. I don’t exactly know why, because I did get a job. I had an interview and the man said, you’re with us. But I’m not so sure what it was really. One never knows with these things anymore. “Market kharaab hain”, is all they say. Mere liye toh hamesha hi tha, I think. I think in Hindi these days sometimes. It’s a new thing. I always thought in Bengali or English, rarely Hindi. But I do. I was initiated once I stepped out of this red state. “Tumi Bengali na non-Bengali?” Amar shaala identity crisis.

I sink into the decadent richness of an AC car. I have a chauffer driven car here. I don’t feel anything of the outside. I slip on my i-pod. I’m happy. I shoot a warning glance towards a beggar who raps my window at a signal. Go away, like really. Stop making me feel guilty while you cast me a practiced stare of devastation. Your life, really, really must be horrible. Whether that kid in your arms is yours or not. Whether you are making a complete ass of me or not. Your life has got to suck. I know. But please go away. I can’t make a difference, because I’m lazy, resigned and kind of cold.
The phone beeps. It’s another message. I deleted some earlier. Message memory almost full. “Hey aren’t you town? Let’s meet up!” Let’s not. Let’s not. But I can’t tell you that. Then you’ll think I’m too goddamn snobbish to meet an old friend. It’s not that. It really isn’t. I’m just not ready to face the world just yet. That’s all.


I watch an hour of mindless television at three in the morning. It’s a Bhojpuri film dubbed in Bengali. It’s the same story everyday, with different characters. The acting is so bad, so bad, that you wonder if it’s bad enough to achieve a cult status. The sets kill you, the costumes blind you, the wobbly bellies of the hero and heroine dancing around trees and having awkward sex, makes you want to reconsider eating all that food before you retired for the night. Yet, I keep watching, emotionlessly, credulously. These are members of our fraternity. Someone actually made this film. Fuck.

In the morning, I get a call from a guy I used to know since school. He became cool and popular from being geeky and hairy once upon a time. I’m generally proud of him. He’s a smug sonnofabitch though, and has too many opinions. But he’s cute. I’d never fuck him, but he’s cute. And engaging. I can talk to him. So I pick up the phone. And he does a little drama on the other end. Like he’s a pulling a rabbit out of the hat. He’s sorry that we couldn’t meet before. So, he says, this evening, would I come to a cool party with cool people who smoke cool weed and have cool jobs and are the last word of coolness in everything because you know, they’re so cool? Would I? Wouldn’t you rather come to my home, and I’ll cook you chicken and we’ll have some cold beer and talk about stuff? Er, I guess not. Sometimes I’m plain boring. But power to my friend who’s in truth quite intelligent and sensitive and affable. He’s not really trying to fit in anymore. He’s the one people are trying to fit into now. What a cool moment for a guy who used to get teased at school for having tits and long sideburns once upon a time. What a cool moment.

Later on, I feel like a smoke. But I don’t do much of that at home. I don’t really dig the thrill anymore. And anyway, I can live without a smoke. I’m not as hooked as I thought I was. I have this semi panic attack sometime later, where I feel like the world is rushing past me, and I can’t quite catch the bus. Everyone’s getting jobs, having sex, traveling places, getting famous and I’m sitting and watching Bhojpuri films dubbed in Bengali. I’m too goddamn lazy to call back my employer and I screw up another interview which would take me to Bombay (but that’s okay, because that man wasn’t really cream of the crop or anything). But the panic rises, and I take out the panic in the form of irritability on poor, unsuspecting home folk. NO, I do NOT care to put those clothes into my cupboard. Lunch is over-rated. I want a scooter. I won’t call the boss. I want to go to Himachal Pradesh. I won’t go to the bank. I won’t answer the door THIS time. I have nothing to do at home. Stop blackmailing me emotionally. Nobody loves me.

Well why the hell should they? I suck. I completely suck.

I want to dig a hole and hide in it and wait for this crumpled ball of confusion to pass.

And then I’m online taking Facebook quizzes. What sort of a kisser are you? A passionate one: You know exactly what to do and you do it oh so well…Where did you learn? Damn – you got me there. I see an endless barrage of nonsense and send random messages to random faces that pop up on my left hand side. Just. I could go to an interesting site and jumpstart my brain into some activity, but I don’t. I go through a mindless treasure trove of “Those were the best days of our lives”, “I miss you guyzzzz!” “We luk so friggin’ HOT in dis pic!” and some are even witty and fun. But like Bhojpuri-Bengali films, I leave them all be. Detachedly absorbing everything in.

Once in a while I meet a friend or two I genuinely like talking to online. We rant for a bit, and then drift off. Maybe, I watch a film. Or read a few pages. And then I’m back to sleeping. Nothing bothers me particularly, even as the world around me collapses slowly. I flick channels. I tune out voices. I skip the editorial. My heart doesn’t break, when I don’t get a call I’ve been expecting. I make up and break up and make up again with the folks at home. I read another page. I cook a little. I have a dream at night. I read through my old emails and sms-es. I feel idealistic. I feel hopeless. Then I feel neutral. I feel wise and then utterly idiotic.


Miss Misery… Do you miss me the way you say you do?