Diwali
It's that festival again, and try as I might, my mind wanders back to this day two years ago, in a three-bedroom house in a nine-storied building, with the smell of rajma and sounds of laughter coming from within. It was a nicer time, with friends separated by walls, not time zones; estranged lovers come back to meet; an evening of shopping for kurtas and talks of mulmul pajamas; and no sign or warning that soon you would be celebrating this day alone, fevered, bereft of the happiness only the presence of almost everyone you love being around you can bring.
I've searched for the meaning of this love in many places; from the deepest of drug-induced psychoses to the desperate, lingering sensuality in the crumpled folds of a bedsheet. Nothing. It just seems to be one of those fundamental flaws of being born as this species: that no matter how much you try, some memories always remain, some to fondly remind and some to haunt you out of the merest shred of sleep for days.
Maybe it was a bad idea to leave. I would have felt better had I stayed and watched the schism till the end, instead of being the first to jump ship. How long can a need for affiliation stand in the way of ambition? I can only hope there will be several times and places where we'll all meet again, but maybe that fourth flaming shot of vodka in the living room at 4 AM, dragging a suitcase across a tiled floor littered with coffee mugs half-full of cheap wine, hastily-changed clothes and people passed out on bean bags was the last time it would ever be. How weird that I still think everyone in that house that night would be there at my funeral service, whenever that might be. Maybe as long as its in a convenient location that doesn't need them to take a day off from work. Or face too much traffic. I don't even know if anyone else even cared enough to spare a second thought about what was just another drunken night. Maybe it was right that tears were brimming as I got into the taxi that night. If the past is anything to go by though, I'll never know.
Bliss is ignorance, and the bane of a man whose only solace in himself is thought. Take my wretchedness away, and I'm just a bumbling buffoon satisfied with everything thrown my way. Ha. Try explaining that to the woman you've been in love with for the last five years, and couldn't hold a conversation with the only time you met. While you're at it, remind yourself why you can never be with her, or any other woman you love, if their very presence drives away the person that drew them to you in the first place.
I've searched for the meaning of this love in many places; from the deepest of drug-induced psychoses to the desperate, lingering sensuality in the crumpled folds of a bedsheet. Nothing. It just seems to be one of those fundamental flaws of being born as this species: that no matter how much you try, some memories always remain, some to fondly remind and some to haunt you out of the merest shred of sleep for days.
Maybe it was a bad idea to leave. I would have felt better had I stayed and watched the schism till the end, instead of being the first to jump ship. How long can a need for affiliation stand in the way of ambition? I can only hope there will be several times and places where we'll all meet again, but maybe that fourth flaming shot of vodka in the living room at 4 AM, dragging a suitcase across a tiled floor littered with coffee mugs half-full of cheap wine, hastily-changed clothes and people passed out on bean bags was the last time it would ever be. How weird that I still think everyone in that house that night would be there at my funeral service, whenever that might be. Maybe as long as its in a convenient location that doesn't need them to take a day off from work. Or face too much traffic. I don't even know if anyone else even cared enough to spare a second thought about what was just another drunken night. Maybe it was right that tears were brimming as I got into the taxi that night. If the past is anything to go by though, I'll never know.
Bliss is ignorance, and the bane of a man whose only solace in himself is thought. Take my wretchedness away, and I'm just a bumbling buffoon satisfied with everything thrown my way. Ha. Try explaining that to the woman you've been in love with for the last five years, and couldn't hold a conversation with the only time you met. While you're at it, remind yourself why you can never be with her, or any other woman you love, if their very presence drives away the person that drew them to you in the first place.
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