Bookmarks

We’d tell them how all of us woke up every day and got out of bed intending to save the world. We’d tell them how by nine-fifteen in the morning, we’d give up on our quests, and hope we at least saved ourselves. We’d tell them how much of art we loved, and how much of it we made, and how much of it got unnoticed every day. We’d tell them we still enjoyed all the art, and we listened to everything, and we watched everything, and we read everything. We didn’t care, and we had no taste. The idea of taste was dead.

Everything came crashing down. Everything we knew was breaking down, and everything broken was being put away. It felt like nothing we knew about ourselves, and about the world was right. I stopped tracking things. My calendar, my to-do lists, my routine, my life ceased to exist. “I exist because the system exists,” the kid screamed inside as one by one the system came undone. “I exist because the system exists. If the system didn’t exist, we wouldn’t exist,” he kept repeating, almost chanting, as he had always done. Life became calmer but never slower. It was all okay now; it was all fine. The kid was still scared though, and he didn’t stop repeating those words, so I held him from his shoulders, and I shook him violently — something I had promised I would never let happen to him again. “I exist because-,” I interrupted him. “Look around, kid. The system is gone. The system is gone, and you still exist, and everything is okay now. Everything will be fine; we’ll be fine. The system is gone. It’s all gone, and we still exist.” I gave him a tight hug. I wondered if that was the only thing he needed all along. I held on to him one last time, as tightly as I could, and then slowly, I let him go.

I’ve thought a lot about a lot of things lately. I’ve thought about how I feel about how I’m feeling lately. Maybe, this aloofness, for the lack of a better word is a mistake, but I’ve realised that any mistake I make is my own personal privilege. I just want to sit and have some coffee and not be troubled by the world burning anymore. I’m tired of putting out fires all around me anyway.

Someone once told me I needed balance. “If only you had balance,” they said, “you’d do so well.” We’ll never know whether it was their brevity and trust in my understanding of things or if it was my naivety but I never really understood what they had meant. I know now that they had meant a balance of thoughts; a calm in the spiral which is perpetually visible on my face. They wanted me to slow down for once, and balance the inside. It is only recently that I’ve realised that they never meant for me to be stretched in all possible directions but to take a deep breath every now and then, and let it all be, then let it all go. They wanted me to slow down for once, and all this time, I kept thinking I wasn’t quick enough.

There may be love, but is there understanding? There may be communication, but is there comprehension? It may feel exciting, but am I always on edge? They may show me different sides of things, but am I always on the wrong one? They may have their beliefs, but are mine irrelevant? I love laughing with them, but do I sob alone? There may be affirmations of love, but are there more apologies? There may be happiness now, but was I happier on my own?

Winter arrives early every year for some so as to say a little hello before it’s truly here to stay. The frost creeps slowly as to say a quiet hello; the cold covers every thought as to make it’s lonely presence felt. With an early winter inside, the words freeze too and need some thawing and some warmth to break out of their inanimate state. Winter arrived early this year, like every year before, and I’ve been busy thawing. Until a morning, some mornings ago, when the words glistened as they appeared from beneath the ice and made their presence felt. They came like a warm hug from a loved one I hadn’t seen in ages; they came like a cup of coffee in a warm cottage while everything outside remained frozen-cold; they came like the strong rays of sunlight heating the haze away, almost instantly, as if it was never there.

It was late, and the day had been long, and I had a cup of coffee in my hands. I rushed towards the gate; I took a sip. Before I knew, the coffee spilled onto my shirt and my jeans and my shoes. It seeped into my shirt instantly. My skin burned like it had never burned before. You see, I had one of those special cups; the ones you need to secure firmly and with absolute attention. A little looseness, and it spills right out; it did. I started thinking of the person who handed me that cup. I was furious, it hurt, and I blamed them. I considered going back to ask for more but I realised I had walked too far, and it was too late. I looked at my shirt. I looked at the stain. I zipped my hoodie on, quickly, before someone could see, and then I looked around once more to make sure no one noticed. No one did. You see, the stain on my jeans wasn’t big enough. It was dark and the end of the day, and it was all grey anyway so I continued walking, pretending it was all okay. With an empty cup of coffee in my hands serving as some kind of reminder, I walked slower than I would. I was tired, and the day had been long, and as I was about to unlock my door, I looked at my coffee-stained jeans. “I could’ve checked the lid”, I sighed. I unlocked the door, and I stepped into the quiet apartment. Then, I kept the empty cup on the shelf, carefully.

On an ordinary evening I realised the simple truth of my life; I realised I cannot suffocate the writer. I cannot suffocate the writer no matter how hard I squeeze the life out of him. I realised he’d always have some left. Irrespective of how I treated him, he didn’t stop. He kept writing; he kept creating; he kept thinking. He carried on, even when I didn’t ask him how he was for weeks. When I told everyone he wasn’t there anymore, he made sure to make his presence felt. He’d hide a metaphor or giddy idealism in my words, slyly. Oblivious but obvious enough for everyone to see that he was still writing inside me. Yet, I ignored him, and I ignored the words. Until an ordinary evening, when I found myself in the city traffic and the busy streets unable to hear anything. I found myself in my own head as the words got deafeningly silent, and then, loud enough so I couldn’t ignore them anymore. I heard them all, louder than the streets and the cacophony of the city. On that day, I realised the words had kept coming even when I stopped listening to them. I learned they will continue to come, especially if I stopped listening to them.

The other day I was walking down the mall with a bag of groceries in my hand. Just then, I happened to come across my reflection in one of the many glass doors. I paused and looked at myself. I looked at my tired eyes, and I looked at my shirt and jeans, both coffee-stained. Then, I looked at my face, and I realised how much older I had grown. I walked away, carrying a weight heavier than that bag of groceries in my hand. Then, not knowing why, I walked back to the reflection and I looked at it. I looked at it as hard as I could, and I realised how this was the first time I had been in my early twenties, and how this is the only time I can be this specific iteration of me, and how, just as I missed my younger self a second ago, I’ll miss this self running through the mall with deadlines, external and internal, running behind me. It has been a lot easier since then—looking at my own reflection. I don’t feel so old anymore; I feel young; the youngest I can be today, possibly.

If you asked me about my ideal cup of coffee, I’d tell you that I like it lukewarm—too hot and it burns the tongue; too cold and it feels underwhelming. My ideal cup of coffee, I’d tell you, is heavy-bodied that feels nothing else but rich. Rich, not only in its consistency but in the flavour, with hints of different ones trying to take the stage. Flavours which get added with the journey the beans go through from plant to the cup. I’d tell you, I like a cup of coffee that has a hint of unexpected flavour or fruitiness; added perhaps, due to their exotic origins and stories. Lastly, I’d say, that I prefer a medium to dark roasted blend just because how open they are to their true nature and taste. Then, I’d sit and look at you, smiling. I’d take a minute and a few sips and I’d tell you, that is exactly how I like my friendships too.

On my recent weekend trip to home and back, there was a lot of turbulence due to bad weather. The turbulence was, however, not limited to the time I was in the air. It was ever-present in conversations and relationships during the couple of days I had in Dehradun. If you’ve ever been in violent turbulence, you’d know how easy it is to think of the worst case scenario. It’s easy because neither you nor the people around you are piloting the flight, and it is very easy to lose faith when you’re not in control. When we’re not in control, even a little shake feels like the end of the world, but it’s usually not. It’s just our survival instinct kicking in and trying to save us from sudden death. On a very turbulent weekend, I learned that because it is easiest to think of the worst case scenario is why we should cross it off first. There’s always space for a little hope and a little tailwind to help us reach wherever we’re trying to go. We just have to let the turbulence pass as we move into calmer skies.

When I think of love, I don’t think of much. I think of you, me and our table for two. I think of the walk to the restaurant, your hand in mine. I think of the eyes on us and us giggling at them. I think of the love that was lost somewhere between when I first felt it and when I lost myself in what only felt a maze of wrong people. I think of finding that love back whenever I find you looking at me. I think of the certainty that comes with your smile; a smile so effortless, it makes me smile back almost instantly. You know, I think of love a lot these days, but I don’t think of much when I do. When I think of love, I think of you, me and our table for two.

Lately, I haven’t stopped for a second to think, and not stopping for a second to think means the writer inside gets starved of inspiration like fire gets starved of fuel because you see, when you stop, you let things be and when you think, you reflect, and no good words ever came out of motion only progress so I don’t claim these are good words but these build toward something; these words are a message from me to myself to remember to stop for a second, to stop and ask myself one question and one question only, “What’s the hurry?” And so, I take a breath as that question mark ends the sentence that had carried on for way too long. And so, the writer finally gets a moment of his own, ironically so, at the end of a sentence.

Have you ever watched a kid fall down on the ground? I’m talking about the really young kids who still haven’t gotten a sense of what the world is like and how a fall could hurt them. These kids, they just fall down, you know? They don’t stop. They don’t put their arms forward, haphazardly trying to grab onto something. Kids, they just fall. Then, they take a moment to process what just happened to them, and then they choose whether to cry or laugh. It’s never too sure which of the two they’ll do because you see, kids, they’re not afraid, and they’re not busy trying to save themselves before things happen to them, and they don’t plan ahead. They do whatever is happening at the moment, and they do it effortlessly. You see, it’s us adults who are afraid of diving headfirst and getting hurt. I wish I could fall like a kid every once in a while.

For a long time now, I’ve looked at my life like it was a pie with four pieces—health, relationships, finances, community—and it has been a constant inner battle to balance all four to create the perfectly balanced pie. If any one piece gets larger, you fail to savour the others. It is a pipe dream, of course. Often, when I finally cracked one piece of the pie, everything else became smaller, naturally. However, during the last month, I looked at the pie and realised, it was balanced enough. A little skewness here and there, but balanced, more or less. As I walked around the city that day, I realised that the pie will obviously go to shit soon enough, and it did, but I moved forward with the knowledge that the pie was balanced for once, and it will be again. That is what I want to do now for the rest of my life—perfect my pie now that I’ve managed to bake it once.

I was talking to some friends the other day, and it does not matter which friends or what it was that we were talking about but what does matter is that all of us seemed to agree on this one thing that I said almost spontaneously and without intent. “I don’t care about anything anymore”, I said. “All I want is calm and civility”. That’s exactly where I am these days. I hate being pestered unnecessarily. My opinions, albeit strong, are usually kept to myself now. I find myself quieter and calmer in situations I would’ve completely lost myself earlier. Perhaps, I’m just tired. I may never know for how long this may last but I’ve been enjoying the calm. Often, if I can find a moment between the chores, errands, and other everyday shenanigans, I look up and I stay that way for some time, staring at whatever is directly above me, the same words rolling in my head, “I don’t care about anything anymore. All I want is calm and civility.”

If I ever had a chance to talk to my younger self, I’d tell him a lot of things I learned later in life but first and foremost, I’ll tell him this. You don’t have to defeat a monster in an epic battle; making someone smile is heroic too. You don’t need to be the ripped archetype in a spandex; hoodies look like capes too. You don’t have to swing off skyscrapers with style; heroes take the stairs too. You don’t have to do everything on your own; asking for help is courageous too. You don’t have to be flawless at everything; heroes make mistakes too. You don’t have to save the world; you just have to save someone’s day. On some days, that someone will be you. The ground rule still stands, kid, with great power comes great responsibility, but power can be understated too.

As someone who calls himself a writer, I find stories all around me. When there aren’t any around, go out and create some. Very rarely though, and trust me when I say this, stories happen to me on their own. There’s a story that happened to me a month ago. It’s this tale of comfort and warmth and mutual clumsiness. It’s a story of not grand gestures but simple things said and done. Sometimes, it’s a story of things that don’t require saying anything at all. This story made me realise how the clichés were wrong all along and how love isn’t a conquest but a simple feeling of home. It made me realise how easy it is to look at someone and just smile, knowing that they will be there for you, always, and that you’ll be there for them. Amongst stories of wild rewrites, drunken parties, epic travelogues, absolute brotherhood, and instant time-skips, I found something I never expected to find. I found a simple story of cupcakes and coffee. It’s my favourite one of them alI.

The last time I was here, I wasn’t. I say that because I didn’t feel like myself. I felt heavy, and heavy is the lightest word I can use to describe how I felt when I sat in a flight as the city disappeared behind the clouds. It was morning then, and the town greeted me with a sunset when I came back. In a way, it was a really long day. It felt like that, at least. A very long and fulfilling day between when I left the city and when I came back. Since then, I’ve gotten a hold of myself, and what I want to do. Since then, I’ve also learned to love again. As I said, it was a long day and yet, nothing changed. As I sit at the airport ready to leave, I have in my head the understanding that Dehradun still isn’t home although I don’t hate the city now. It is a good city, obviously imperfect like all of us. Home, however, is not in one place. It’s scattered all around the globe. It’s in the people we meet and the people we grow with. It’s in the cafés we miss sitting in, and it’s in the cafés that aren’t there anymore. It’s in the memories. Home is in pieces, spread all over in this very connected world. I leave the city with the important understanding that while my roots are important, the fixation on them is unfounded. After all, what good are strong roots if the tree fails to grow higher?

All my life I’ve heard platitudes about doors. Push them open, knock them down, and even make your own, if you’re so unfortunate to never come across one. True happiness, they said, lies beyond the figurative door. Yet, on a random day when I wasn’t feeling particularly peachy, I found my hand on the knob of a not-so-special door. For some reason, I stopped. Just then, I had an epiphany. I realised it was never about which side of the door I felt awry on rather, it was about the fact that something was amiss in the first place. I’ve never opened a door to escape how I felt ever since that day.