ennui

would someone object if I left a suicide note that read

"died due to ennui and boredom"

or should I make it sound that I killed myself, not over a matter of not being able to keep busy, but because I underwent some great emotional and personal trauma? Should I invent the burden of an invalid sibling, an addiction riddled parent, a blind in law to be taken care of, and the event of a dead spouse too?

Would that validate suicide .. compared to my contention of ennui?
~~~~~~

There was once a girl whom everyone wanted to be with. she was funny. she was smart. she was not beautiful, but she had the wit that everyone longed to possess, she was groomed, she gleaned with polished funny-ness.

she went home everyday, and removed the cloak of being funny. underneath, there was a very bored cynical old crone that hid.

Who would you rather be with?

Dont bother answering.

Dear Diary

Excerpts from notes and To-Dos of a worldly wise Jackie.

- get a life

- exercise

- find someone who loves you.

loves you the way all the sappy emotional movie stars love their heroines to the ends of the world and to the ends of their lives.

Find a man who can be your sameer, kundan, vanraj all rolled into one.

*sigh*

- stop dreaming.

- get a life.

helpless

Only when you go through it, you realise why they use adjectives like "shocking" and "gory" and "mindnumbing"; and only when you go through it, you realise why all those adjectives are useless in describing what you have just gone through.

and no, im talking about Cancer.

What  i AM talking about, is domestic violence. Physical domestic violence.

People have a cure for cancer, they help you through it, you are given medicines to kill it. you are allowed to kill the cancerous cells and remove parts of your body that might potentially cause cancer in the future.

What about domestic abuse? You act as if it doesnt exist, you pretend everything to be okay; a ruptured ear drum? a dislocated jaw? internal bleeding?

nothing happened. nothing really.fell down a flight of stairs; wasnt watching where to step; had a minor accident on the two wheeler. really?

really?

how could a flight of stairs rupture a eardrum? How could a jaw get dislocated if one hit the head on the kitchen cabinet? how do you manage to get massive internal bleeding if you dont drive a two wheeler?

no questions asked. questions will never be asked. we all want to pretend it did not happen. how do educated people allow it to happen? what about social standing?

finally, "who doesnt have problems in their marital life" and "all a part and parcel of marriage"

domestic abuse. part and parcel of life. nothing really happened. and I wont listen to what you tell me.

simply because, with a ruptured ear drum, i really cant hear you. 

the realization that the place that you are standing today, isnt where you wanted to be... All that you worked for, your whole life, all that you were, and were not, so that you could be someone at a later date - all that has come to naught, as you are not where you want to be.

That is what she felt as she took stock of her life. She was nearing the big 3-0 figure in a couple of years, and it struck her, that nothing was done. nothing that she had wanted to achieve, was achieved yet. she looked at her life, and it probably was just another life. a below average life, in a below average city with below average expectations.

The stranger (2)

it grew like the weeds and it blossomed like the deadly hyacinth.

it was both illicit and pure at the same time. it stank of betrayal, but had a musky frangrance of love.

They knew not, as to how this had happened. their lives went on endlessly. nothing was out of place. nothing was amiss.

Work, home, travel, friends, everything went on as usual. insurance monies were paid, interests recieved. groceries bought, and old newspapers sold.

A normal middle class life. filled with discussions about prices of gold and fuel, talk about new releases in the the theatres nearby. Of traffic snarls and of bitchy coworkers. of retirement plans and prices of real estate.

They dreamt middle class dreams, of a penthouse, of good education for their offspring, of multiple cars, and frequent flyer miles.

Yet, it grew. weedlike. the addiction. somewhere in that little corner of the being where the mind meets the heart, those few moments of drowsy wakefulness when sleep doesnt know if it has complete control, just as long as a heartbeat - he thought of her, and she, of him.

In the chaos of life, it found root and it grew. unsure of acknowledgement, fearing retribution, in the shelter of the forbidden and inhaling a memory of a kiss, it grew.

It wasnt love said he. it isnt love said she.

He had married his childhood sweetheart, and she had convinced herself that the lack of sorrow is happiness.

It wasnt love and they couldnt name it. they called it - it.

and it grew. the illicit offspring of undeserving parents, the shunned and the unnamed, the banned and the forgotten "it" grew. like the deadly hyacinth.

The stranger

It was unlike anything else. He was married, he had courted his wife before he had gotten married. she was the first love of his life.

The walking home with her, the dropping her books off home, the borrowing things, just so that they could talk again at college, the getting to know her friends, so he could spend time with her, the bribes offered to friends to fake their birthdays and invite her ... he had done all of this. His wife, was his sweetheart. The girl he had fallen in love with, when he was 19. The girl he dreamed to be with, until he was 90. He went home daily to her. He knew her. She knew him. that is what they were.

What was this then? It wasnt the love he had felt when he was 19. She wasnt his wife. What was it then? He thought long and hard about it. There was some chemistry. There was sexual tension. There was the anticipation of doing something out of the ordinary. This wasnt enough to be love though.

They shared the same interests. High pitched Edith Piaf rendering in the car; endless discussions of pre-independent India, political, apolitical discussions. Kannada songs and Hindi dialogues. Mimcry of "namma rajkumaaar ravru"

Deep down, sorrow. Grief unbearable. smiles through unshed tears. what happened that he could say things to this person, things that he wouldnt tell his wife, because she had to be protected? Why could he talk about office politics and bitch about the industry in general, and when he reached home - he had nothing to speak anymore to his wife, except listen to how well her baking classes were going?

Why did he feel guilty when his wife invited this other person into her home? Almost like the collision of two separate worlds would bring about the end of his world?

As he lay at night, thinking about her, he dialed her number without meaning to. She picked up his call. silence.
silence.
silence.
silence.
and then the beep of the phone disconnecting.

She waited for him at the blind turn.(irony). he walked down the steps and another furlong to reach the blind turn.

AC on full blast, it was a cool welcome, against the hot afternoon bangalore sun. they sat in silence. no piaf. no rafi. no vidyabhushan. this time. just silence.
Silence that sang. louder than any song. Silence.


that kiss. brief. unsure. awkward.

another kiss. probing. stronger. a little bit of teeth on her lower lip. breathing in her smell. car freshener and a woody-musky deo. rough facial hair touching the mole on her lower cheek.
Her hand on his cheek, cool fingers touching his warm earlobes. the clink of her watch with his diamond stud.

awkward drawing back of faces. longing mixed with guilt and sorrow. he walked back. the sun felt stronger now. was it the afternoon sun, or the rush of endorphin that heated up his face?

It had now begun.