Jinxing your own happiness

For once I'd like to be happy openly.

Free from the fear of fate turning tables on me.

Or being woken up from a splendid dream only to realise it was all a mirage.

To be able to admit it to myself, not only in the deep recesses of my heart, but in spoken word.

For once.

Fate waits to pull one on me every now and then.

I think she envies me.

Envies the spots of sunshine that light me up,

Finding their way through broken cracks in an overcast firmament.

When I laugh, she winces.

When I dance starry-eyed, she sets her foot out to trip me.

She does not like me, and my moment of glee.

I hold no grudges.

All I feel is sad acceptance.

And so, I must learn to hide.

Hide from the world my delight,

The throbbing of an excited heart,

The racing pulse,

The promise of rain after a century of drought.

Keep it safe, tucked away.

Invisible, even to my eye.

I wish I could flee from fate's little game.

And claim my share of laughter and promise, fearlessly.

But the game goes on.

Whether I play or not.

The “Unsettled” Life

“You have so much space in this house, why don’t you get a flatmate?”

“Wow! What will you do with so much space?”

Note the keyword here – “space.”

 

In my years of experience of living life as a single woman in a big bad city, this word beats the crap out of all other words. You like your space, I like mine. However, much to the misfortune of people like me, “space” is a luxury you are entitled to only when you are married to a man. This single act of tying two shoelaces together, trips you into a new form of existence. An existence that suddenly validates everything like sleeping in the same bed (frowningly looked down upon before marriage), sexual intercourse (but of course, how else will married couples bear children?), wild dancing and drinking alcohol in public (as long as hubby’s the bouncer for the night), wearing short dresses (on hubby’s signature of approval).

I’ll tell you what. You keep your institution of marriage, and I’ll keep my space. Deal?

It is annoying bordering on comical when people walk into my house and marvel at the number of rooms that I have ALL to myself. To tell you the truth, I don’t live in a mansion and it is not as sprawling as they make it sound. But it seems to be the size of a country to them because I am the only homo sapiens to live here. Obviously, they tend to disregard the two and a half dogs that also call this “space” home.

After repeated consternation and analysis, I may have wound up with the driving force behind this unmasked bafflement and unasked for advice. It’s simple actually.

As a single woman, how can I live a “settled life” outside marriage?

Now what do I need a drawing and dining room for? And what on earth will I do with a separate room for office work? Such a waste! I should give it all up, get a flatmate and wait for a man to marry me so I can secure all these comforts with him. The audacity that I should be living like this! Comfortable and content!

I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I already lived my ‘makeshift’, ‘college student’ life years ago. One room, single mattress on the floor, shared kitchen and bathroom, eating out, canvas shoe rack, one electric rice cooker for a kitchen. I did all of that. And as I worked my ass off and grew older – I wanted more. And I didn’t wait for a sign of approval to go get it. Or a man.

My drawing and dining room is for entertaining guests. You know, the same place where YOUR guests plonk their asses when visiting? My little study/office is my workplace and just as sacred and serious as the place where you earn YOUR living. My bedroom, well, I don’t see you entertaining guests in YOUR own so you should really know better.  

Every space, every room has its own character and vibe. I have different feelings attached to each and I cherish them all.

No, I am not rich. But it is also true that I like to live comfortable within my limited means. This space is my own and while friends are welcomed warmly with open arms and a chilled beer, I like to watch them leave and reclaim my space again. This is the place where nobody tells me what to do or how to live. It accepts me and lends me the opportunity to be the crazy madcap that I am. Or the earnest homemaker and mother – an avatar which still surprises people.

While I’m at it, let me dispel another misconception and make you open that mouth in astonishment. There are no orgies to be found here. No daily parties and intoxicated merriment. No boyfriends frequenting on shuffle play. I’m sorry to crack your illusion into useless pieces. It is a regular home with maid problems, feeding and walk times for the children, cooking, groceries, client deadlines, house repairs, gardening and the sheer delight of getting to go to bed at 10 o’ clock on a lucky night. So sorry.

On another level, I’ve always believed that your home is a visual character sketch of you. It puts on display who you are. Colours, lighting, furniture, décor, crockery, garden – they all speak something about you. So, having your own place, your own space helps celebrate that, in a million little ways.

So, I ask you, why would I not celebrate this now, in the present, and instead wait for a man to make this happen? Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against being married. But my point still holds fast - How can he give me something that is already there? My identity. And the financial capacity to buy whatever I need.  

Why would I not live a settled life when all it takes is one person to build it? Me. And it’s a wonderful start.

Photo credits: Google

Home

These forests
They call me
They know my name
The dancing leaves whisper it
The gurgling streams mumble it
It lies in rhythmic birdsong
And in the vast hidden skies
Even the smallest organism in the forest knows it
The fragrances that rise and fall, strangely feel like home
It's as if I used to live here
It's as if I never left

The broken men

Just my luck,
To run into men after men,
Broken and scarred.

She caused the damage - irreparable, perhaps indefinite,
And here I deal with the charred remains.

Thank you.

When it comes to coping, men are little oysters.

No, not for the pearls of wisdom.
They clamp down and the only one who can open them up again, is Wonder Woman.

Just my luck that I am not Wonder Woman.

However, I do what I do.
I sit with them and watch them shiver,
I sit with them and hear the sobs they never let out,
I sit with them and wonder how they were before pain reshaped them.
All this while, I stand with them.

But they don't see me.
Emotion and attachment replaced by trepidation.
They are afraid of feeling,
Of moments of love coupled with pain,
Of feeling human again,
Of caring.

What a pity.

They are not bad people, these men,
Joined back together by Quick Fix,
In a hurry to not fall apart.
However, the pieces don't match anymore,
Leaving cracks and awkward crannies in between.

They don't function anymore.
After all, their warranty expired when the light in their hearts went out.