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Thursday, May 9, 2013

A Postmodernist Scribble

Be it the über cool Punjabi guy I met on a bus or the Brahmin aunty, with skin as smooth as an ukdicha modak I bumped into at Gokhale’s… people are pretty excited when you tell them that you’re a student of literature. Little do they know how it twists your sensibilities, rendering you incapable of being comprehended by the rest of the world.
  1. It begins with reading between the lines. It might start off with something as simple as a newspaper headline, moving on to the larger issues which blur the lines. Later, all you’re left with are fragments of your own imagination.
  2. It screws your relationships with your close ones. From Shakespeare’s Orlando to Nicolas Sparks’ Noah, I grew up knowing a certain breed of men, only to discover it doesn’t exist!
  3. I just can’t seem to accept the digitalised version of love. While half the young people I know are happy expressing their feelings through Whatsapp, Facebook and Skype, I still wonder if he’d like my handwriting in my home-made scrapbook.
  4. Your protagonists are revolutionaries. Che Guevara. Robinson Crusoe. Virginia Woolf. Ismat Chugtai. Literature, especially romantic, makes you victimise yourself. It might not be a bad relationship after all. But it is only when we make it out to be one that these guys will come to our rescue!
  5. The most dangerous waters I have dared to venture into, is feminist literature. Once you've stepped over the boundary, there is no return.

Since the time I finished my Masters, every day has brought in something new. From running a fashion magazine, driving a gypsy, throwing myself in the middle of the ocean to throwing up out of a running train ,posting controversial stuff on my blog and dating the wrong or not-so-wrong men, I've done everything. But one I haven’t found the perfect answer to one question — marriage.

Mother who refers to me as a freak/nomad. Good-for-nothing distant relatives who want me toruffle the lives of ‘matured and responsible’ software engineers. Committed friends. Gym aunties. Grandmothers smelling of Pond’s talcum powder. Train aunties whose indirect judgement I'm subjected to, every morning. They all want to know who he is. Though I wish I could tell them that I'm as curious as they are…

Occasionally, there comes a point in life where wearing satiny LBDs, coral lip glosses, late night chats and candlelight dinners don’t matter as much. And that’s when you realise that even though love and marriage are ingrained in one another, they are poles apart. I've been in love — truly,madly and deeply, only to realise that it doesn't always translate into a marriage. And then, like a quintessential Bollywood movie you think you’re different from the rest of the lot and that someday, you’ll pass the agnipariksha to be in his arms. “Bitch, please,” would be Seeta’s answer.

I'm not saying that you won’t love the person you marry; I’m just saying that it’s difficult to fall in love all over again, especially when you go from mid-twenties to late-twenties in no time. Although the perfect Armani wearing kind-hearted man with gelled up hair and a neat stubble is a dream,there are going to be men around. You just need to pick the one you’re comfortable with, the one who’ll stand up for you when you know you’re in trouble, the one who’ll be sensitive to your needs and most importantly, the one who would proudly flaunt you before the world.

Love is complicated, and the single-girl-in-the-city tale is even more. But then who can tell when a miracle will happen?