Unrestricted Love

The reason people don't understand homosexuality is because people don't understand love. I've heard people tell me that homosexuality is against the laws of nature.

Who decides what is against the laws of nature? Sex is in the laws of nature, because we must procreate. No one said that procreation was our only option. In this day and age, the less we procreate the better off all of us are.

If people understood love they wouldn't be against homosexuality. Is love only about sex? Do we equate heterosexual relationships with sex alone? If I were to say I was in love with a man would you assume I meant I was in love with his body alone?

Anyone who has felt love knows, that love is a meeting of minds. A meeting of souls. Isn't that why we love our other halves even when they're old, wrinkled and ill? If lust was all it was, why would we love them when their bodies have lost their original youthful charm?

Who decides that a man must love a woman, and a woman must only love a man? Why do we find it so hard to accept that we simply fall in love with people? Not their bodies. I fell in love with someone years ago. Till today people tell me he isn't a good-looking man. In my eyes, however, there never was or will be a more beautiful human being. I fell in love with his mind, his intelligence.

Who gave us the right to decide what is and isn't an acceptable way to love? What makes us think we are so important and or so great that we can make these choices for people? We spend all our days talking about allowing people to practice their religion freely in this country of ours. Secular nation.

Why aren't we allowed to practice our love freely? Isn't religion love?

There will be those that will tell me that not all homosexuals who are having sex are in love. This is one of the most foolish arguments I've heard. Are all heterosexuals having sex in love?

We preach equality and tolerance. Why are we so intolerant of people that seem different to us? How are homosexuals different? They love, they feel just the same as you and I. They're as human as the person sitting next to you. How do we so blatantly disregard their feelings and emotions by saying it against the law of nature?

I wish I hadn't watched this movie today. You see I run in circles, or at least I choose circles in which everyone I know is tolerant of people's choices. Which basically means you could choose to love the Man on the Moon and we would support you. And I shameless agree that I have an unrealistic view of the world. I intentionally close my eyes to everything that's wrong with the world I live in. I know there are people violently against homosexuality. I know those that make fun of it too. There are those that confuse different gender spectrums with sexual preferences. I know these things but I am not associated with these people. So, I have never cared. In my mind, in my bubble I am accepting of and respectful of another human's choices.

But today, after I watched a respected Professor, insulted, belittled, tormented, simply because he chose to ease his loneliness with another man, I am in pain.

There are disgusting predators out there that prey on children! And we don't publicly belittle them! Why!? Child abusers are one of the very real problems with our stupid society. Yet we choose to insult and pick on respected members of society for choosing different things.

Though I have had a lot of complaints about my darling country, but I have always been a Proud Indian.

Today though, I am ashamed. I am ashamed that I am Indian. I am ashamed that I live in country where my Honorable Supreme Court is without honor. I openly, freely and forever support homosexuality. In fact, I'm getting quite fed up with the word all together. From now on I refuse to say I am attracted to men. I am attracted to people. In all their forms, shapes, colors and genders. I am attracted to people. And if I can change one mindset at a time, even if it's not enough for my lifetime, it will still be a battle won.

Time Will Tell

"Laughing our heads off, the two of us there. Spending our time like we were Millionaires!"- Millionaires, The Script

Today I read an article (on ScoopWhoop) about the various ways in which a woman’s body changes in her 20’s. After I was done, all I could think of was, more important than these is the many different ways in which our minds and personalities change. True to my nature, I began thinking about how my view of relationships and men had changed. Don’t get me wrong I know there have been other significant changes too, but I guess I’d expected that I’d become more focused, more career oriented, and more self-reliant with age. What I hadn’t even realized had changed was how I saw my relationships.

When I was 15, I was attracted to the kind of boys who had some kind of darkness in them. This does not mean that I was perpetually attracted to the bad-boy type, even though I was for a short while. What I mean is, boys who seemed a little sad, a little broken were always the ones I gravitated towards. It was these kind of boys that I fell in “like” with, and eventually dated. The more broken the boy, the more I fancied myself in love with him. Somehow the moody artist type was always a lot more interesting, than the good boy who was always laughing. Also, I think at that time I was spoilt for choice, because as teenagers, everyone was moody all the time. If he prowled, instead of walked like a normal person, I was even more fascinated. I feel crazy admitting this now, but the lesser the guy spoke, the more curious I was about him. It never occurred to me that maybe these boys had nothing interesting to say. I would romanticize it in my head, making him a darkly silent, Mills and Boon hero, believing I would be the girl to draw him out.  The unhappy boy I was sure I could fix. Fix! I’m not sure what I presumed my roles in their lives would be, but I was convinced that my life was a movie, that I would heal him and all his problems and we would live happily ever after. However, the reality was, that I was too young to deal with another’s problems correctly, and I’d move on with a few scars to show for, from each relationship.

At the absolute end of my teenage years, however, came the darkest of all my relationships. To be frank it didn’t start out like that, there was nothing remotely dark or brooding about this guy. In 4 months however, things changed drastically, and I was pulled headlong into the scariest journey of my life. After a year of abuse and countless fights, I was back on my own. This time though, I’d been stripped unceremoniously and brutally of my innocent and naïve view of the world. I won’t say I didn’t escape without some very deep emotional scars, but the one thing I left with more than anything else, was pride. I’d survived something so huge! People succumbed, broke down, utterly unable to function. Not me though, I simply dusted myself off, cried myself out of tears, and started over. I was amazed at my tenacity, and proud of myself for being a strong woman. This experience however had changed one thing for good; I was no longer attracted to darkness of any kind.

I didn’t decide this consciously though. From here on, I’m not even speaking exclusively of men, but my friendships with both sexes. All I know is, today it struck me, that I’m attracted to happy people. And I mean the genuinely happy kind. I love bright, sunny personalities. I love the person I get to be with them. I love that my days aren’t spent constantly trying to heal someone else, or even worse heal myself. All the new friends I made after that relationship ended are the kind of people you laugh with even through the problems. There have been troubles, there always will be, but we don’t brood, or let it get to us. There’s something so heartwarming about knowing that irrespective of what I’m going through, they will make me laugh. Yeah, they’ll give me advice and listen to me rant. But then they’ll cheer me up, and everything seems so much easier to handle.

More than two years after I ended that relationship, I began dating a man I’d known for quite some time, but had never really spoken to all that much. You know what was the first thing about him that I was hooked on to? The sound of his laughter; and trust me it’s not the kind of sound that’s rare and precious because of it. Oh no, you’ll hear it often and loud! He’s got this huge smile that I swear to you shines even in the dark. He’s the kind of person that finds humor in the absurd and revels in it. He’s the kind of person that will smile at any and everybody. Around him it’s impossible to sulk. He’s friends with so many people, I’ve lost count. He just attracts people to him. Everyone wants their moment in his Sun. Including me. He started out as the high point of my already bright day. Some months later, we were together.

Maybe I’m crazy, but being exposed to such a dark and damaged psyche really altered my view. It gave me a permanent abhorrence for it. I adore my boyfriend’s happy personality. He’s a focused, strong man, but he refuses to take himself seriously, and armed with his ability to laugh at everything, including himself, will take on the world. That’s what I find extremely attractive now. I’m in love with his open nature; I’m glad he needs me, but it never fails to please me that I don’t have to heal some part of him, before we can have a healthy and stable relationship. He exorcised my demons and added a special sparkle to my already happy life.Whether permanent, or fleeting, time will tell. There are no regrets though. There never should be. 

Of Saviors, Warriors and Their Best Kept Secrets

"Somehow you answered my call, reaching out I feel I'm rising up, you give me Grace."- Grace, Simon Webbe

She sat on the sturdy wood table, using her feet to rock the chair in front of her. Her smile was pained, the love she felt etched on her skin. She listened intently as he spoke, filing his words away, to be played in her head over and over again. Between the two of them, they managed to talk about everything under the sun. Unimportant, irrelevant things. She laughed, low and husky, at something he said, her dark eyes lighting up. She could hear the hiss of his breath, every time he took a drag of his cigarette. That sound would haunt her dreams over the next few weeks. She knew she said some very odd things, her brain was wired differently. But knowing he would always respond to the most inane comments, with something equally ridiculous, tightened the vise he had, around her foolish heart.

She had so much she needed to say, all of it painful, none of it avoidable. And yet.. It had been months since she'd felt peace, however fragile. She'd felt stifled and claustrophobic for a long while, and his voice was like a breath of fresh air. It could wait. All those pesky details, issues could wait.

She stared at her blood red nails sightleslessly, marveling at how easy and familiar talking to him felt. Like they'd been doing it all their lives. Like there weren't thousands of miles, and too many lonely years between them.

As she hung up the phone, she realized she'd laughed more genuinely in the past hour than she had in the past year. Her thoughts had flown effortlessly and fearlessly, because she knew in her bones, that he found her mind fascinating. She may not acknowledge it too often, life had made sure she constantly second guessed herself, but today she knew.

He was responsible for the strength in her spine, for her confident smile, for everything that was good in her.
She'd been sheltered before, but a rude awakening had shattered some of her faith. Yet he never changed. He was the same person he'd been six years ago.

She would speak to him again, tomorrow, maybe the day after that. After more than a year, she found herself looking forward to her tomorrows. He had done that for her. Without trying to, simply by being him, and by taking her as she was, he had done this.

She stared out the window, at the old swing that creaked in the middle of the night, and the blue glow from someone's night lamp. Her smile was faint, hopeful and her eyes gleamed with a secret she'd never share. 

The Endless Calm Of A Stormy Night

“I adore him," she said. "I feel compassion for him because he's totally fucked up.”

The most vital, the most important part of me. The part that lives, breathes and exists. The part that keeps me alive.
That essential element, that makes me whole. All of me, none of me. You.
The swirls of color, the last shaky breath. The stabs of panic, the thrills of excitement. Imperfect, young, foolish. Us.
The years that go on by, the moments that never end. That feeling of being alive, so alive. The feeling of knowing, in every sense of the word, that I'm alright. And then not so much.
Come together, only to fall apart once more, to dream, only to wake up once more.
My dream, my nightmare, my thunderstorm.
I love stories, I love the characters in them, I love the way it all plays out, for better for worse.
I love the way you're a story in yourself. I hate the way, I never know how it ends.
Endless tomorrows, unhappy yesterdays.
The way you speak, your words, your thoughts, I'm fascinated. I listen, because I know there is no other way, I know that I will always need to know more, to know all of you, to see the best of you.
The half of us, the least of you, the best of me. The restlessness, the feeling of never being comfortable in my skin.
Your voice, floating on a cold winter night, miles away from me. Of knowing that you'll always be a part of me. No, that can't be right, because I have none of you, how could I?
A part of me, that rests in you, the most vital part of me. I exist, without you, because I know no other way. But it's never enough. How could it ever be? How could I ever get enough of you?
The even, peaceful calm of life, disturbed by you. Simply because you are. Somewhere, someplace you are.
A love that lasted years, that refused to go away, that clings stubbornly like burs, and lives and breathes in me.
A vision of perfection, too removed from convention. Like bright city lights, hiding the darkness within. Yet so hard to resist, like home. Pulling, always pulling my heartstrings.

Include me in your visions of Paradise, include me in your favorite dreams. Include me in your visions of homes filled with dogs, and laughter. Of a life that doesn't demand too much of you. Sketch me into your drawings of forever, and imperfection, and crooked teeth. Live and breathe me, even if only for a moment. Forget the words that destroyed us, even if only for that moment. Run with me, let the winds that whip my hair into a frenzy, push you back. Find a cave, facing the sea, stay there, and wonder what if? When life happens to you, picture me in some part of the world, and wonder if I'm thinking of you. Allow memories of me, to haunt you.

Lean on me. Know that I can take it, that even if I can't, you'll be okay. Tell me. All that I need to hear, and all that I never need to know. Because that's who I am to you.
I don't know how or when this ends, because who the hell can see forever?
But I know that for me, you will never go away.
And in some strange parallel universe, I am your world.
And that will have to be enough.

Of Sea Secrets, And Not Knowing.

"Ending of an era, and the turning of a page."-Tim McGraw, My Next Thirty Years.

You don't know me. You don't know how I look when I've just woken up, how I look when I throw a tantrum. You don't know how I have equal parts of OCD and slob in me. You don't know my shampoo or how I smell. You don't know my brand of cigarettes. You don't know the way I look when I light up, the slight frown when I take a drag. You don't know how I look when I eat, how I like my tea, how I thrive on orange juice.You don't know the way I sit, or how I look when I'm relaxed. You don't see me at my worst, or witness any of my blonde moments.

You don't know how I look when I sleep, or if I snore sometimes. You don't know that I sleep on my tummy, in a number four pose. You don't know that I get restless if I don't have an extra pillow to roll onto.You don't know my dreams. You don't know my ambitions. You don't know how I look when I write, or how it possesses me.

You don't how I look when I'm working or studying. You don't know where I want to be in 10 years and the things I want from life.

I could say we don't want the same things, but unfortunately I don't know anything about you either.

I could argue that we'd learn, but I know somewhere in my head that we can't. These things we don't know about each other after almost half a dozen years, is the cliched twist, in what could have been a perfect story.

It's not about the warm fuzzy feelings in my tummy. It's about these little things that we don't know. That we'll never know. The little things that count.

You'll always be exotic to me, not some silly White Knight, but an eccentric poet wandering the country. A slightly odd artist, who sketches odd things, and complains about bad light.

With messy, slightly long hair. And the smirk. And those unsettling, sees-too-much eyes.

But you'll remain an intense, perfect character in a story. One, that'll make me sigh and ask my best friend why they don't make men like that in the real world.

You'll stop being real, and I'll stop having a real yearning for you. You'll become normal, even mundane to me. You'll start balding, and grow a pot-belly. And wear uncle clothes. And have a normal, nice wife, with normal nice children.

And you'll become a regular man.

But you'll always remain a perfect character in my perfect story. In my very imperfect head.

Hand-prints For My Heart

I remember a day when I stood talking of carnivals and masks, amd smiling till my face felt like it would crack. Attempting to draw ships, and four-poster beds and failing miserably. Endless hours devoted to smoking, and all the wisdom shared over cups of chai. The heat of the kitchen, and that terrible undercooked mutton ragout.

The sunlight filtering into a room, the smell of baking bread and sugar, and dreams, and unrequited love.
Learning to drape a sari, and to appreciate the subtlety of a barely exposed waist.

Walking barefoot in a library that was always sunny. So sunny in fact, that you never felt like studying. And flipping through bad magazines.

I remember resting my head on her cubicle. The strongest woman I know. And the eagerness to be perfect. Someone's definition of perfect.

The sharing of umbrellas to save our cigarettes from getting wet in the rain.
Those evenings spent trying to get work done. And the hazy peace of being with people you love.

A building that never felt like our own. Hating when the elevator stopped on the 6th floor. The ghost we were convinced lived on the 9th floor. Those bad jokes, and laughing till our sides ached. Slurping soup through straws to get back on time for class. The South Indian beggar women who cursed us and danced for us. Someday, somewhere that curse will bite us in the bum.

The monkey show, and how I almost cried because it was so cruel. The songs sung for Radha.
That night, on the streets, talking as if it was our last night together. The cold winter air, the happy voices of four incredible teenagers. The stories of our personal monsters, those workplace ogres, the too-much-to-bear work, terrible cafeteria paneer and the luxury that wasn't ours.

Christmas Day, and carol singing.
The perfect meshing of the soprano, the bass and the alto. The merry memories of Rudolph's red nose. The boy who made every rehearsal bearable. And then the illness that kept him away. That night, and all that wine. The thrill of success. We were getting older, and as far as we knew, wiser.

 I took a journey, that got cut short, with people I will never forget. Every time I think back to those two years, I think of sunbeams that refused to be caught, the black and white and all the gray that defined us, the Africa shaped rotis, and all the laughter. The good, the bad, even the ugly sometimes, all packed together, somehow getting by, never looking back.

In a world of professionalism and perfection, I learnt the beauty of crooked smiles, lopsided ties, broken noses and puzzle pieces that don't fit in anywhere.
No matter where I go, no matter what I do, these two years are never going to wash away.
Like the painting of Santa and his reindeers.
In all our tomorrows.
Always.

With Or Without You

The one thing I keep coming back to is, no matter how great you are, no matter how right for me you are, you're not there for me.

The moon still looks pretty without you though. It still stays half-hidden behind clouds, looking like a drowning rasgulla. I still see rainbows in the country, and the stars are still never around in the city. Red is still a bright beautiful color, and blue still makes my skin look warm. Despite you not being there, puddles make me want to splash in them. And the sun makes me squint. Even when you're not here, I still love golas. And the way it numbs my lips and tongue. And the smell of old books, and warm squishy chairs, are still a source of contentment. The smell of my dog in the middle of the night, and the sound of her snoring, still puts me at peace with the world.

I still laugh till my tummy hurts. I still say stupid things, with no filter in my brain, I still love a good love story. And I still love life. I'll always be that happy person. But the reason I must go, I really really must, is because despite all of this.

When I cry, I cry alone.