Why I Don't Believe In Love

When I was 8 years old and mesmerised by the world of cinema,

I sat starry eyed in front of the idiot box, transfixed by Ingrid Bergman's beauty and how Humphrey Bogart lovingly said,

"Here's looking at you kid."

And how Raj Kapoor serenaded Nargis in the pouring rain.

Love, I have been told, was supposed to be the most beautiful feeling in the world

It made the world turn around,

Made Sinatra want to fly to the moon and Whitney want to dance

When I was 13,

With raging hormones and an acne ridden face,

My dad told me,
"Boys only want one thing from you, so stay away."
While my mom told me,

"There is a right time for everything. After you grow up, everyone falls in love, and there is a Mr. Right for everyone. Yours will be tall, dark and handsome, and a Hindu Malayalee with a stable job and a good family."

And there, my Mr. Right had been defined forever.

Then came high school, when girls cried days and nights over boys,

Thinking about that one popular guy on the basketball team who was supposed to be the modern Prince on a horse,

And not having him whisper sweet nothings to you,

Meant that you had to slash your wrists and carve initials on them,

While guys relied on the sole assurance that

'Nice guys finish last.'

I live in an age where one text is all that it takes to break a year long relationship,

And one "Hey lukin hot" comment on a picture is called flirting.

Pickup lines have been far more simplified,

From "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"

To a more comprehensive "ASL?" or a more direct "Dick pic" on the modern swayamvar called Tinder.

From love at first sight to lust at first sight,

From couples in arranged marriages finding love to people on love marriages not being able to stand each other,

From platonic love to friends with benefits,

From summer flings to "Till death do us part."

Love, to me, is like the complex quadratic equation I couldn't solve in school,

The Churchgate local I couldn't get into during peak hours,

Like Paulo Coelho's books that I couldn't understand the first time I read them,

Like the Starbucks coffee I can't understand the hype around,

Like the Game of Thrones characters whose names I cannot remember,

And the taste of caviar that I can never truly appreciate.

Love, is like the deepest ocean whose bottom I cannot find,

And the Pandora's box that I do not want to open,

I would rather support Donald Trump than try to understand what love is,

With its labyrinthine ideas and conundrums,

Love is a puzzle I cannot understand,

And yet, you ask me,

"Do you believe in love?"

We deserve to call ourselves a civilised and intellectually superior race only when we accept and see good in every religion, following an ideal lifestyle rather than have blind faith in doctrines and principles, put humanity above dogmatic practices, and base morality on reason rather than fear of supernatural punishment.

Matter

Science tells us that if the universe is a football field,

Then our galaxy is smaller than the fly,

Which sits atop your hotdog,

And our solar system is probably the gut bacteria inside of the fly and… 

Where does that leave our dear planet Earth?

Where does that leave us humans?

Our planet has existed without us for a long time,

So how important is one single speck of dust,

In a polluted old mining town? 

We probably only fill one page in a 100-volume encyclopaedia of the history of the universe.

Then why are you, sitting in your chair contemplating your empty life,

Or you, crying your eyes out over losing that special someone,

Or you, having a complete breakdown and screaming into your pillow,

Important?

Why do any of you matter?

In a world with over 7 billion people and a hundred billion problems,

Why do your problems count?

Other people have it worse, you will hear them say.

There are issues bigger than your existence,

So you don’t matter.

Or maybe you do.

You probably meet ten people in a day,

And more than a thousand in your lifetime,

Who would’nt be the same if they never met you.

We are all in a web connected to each other through beautiful emotional bonds,

And one less drop in the ocean still makes a difference,

One brick less can still make us topple.

The 7 billion people won’t be same without you,

And our planet won’t be the same without the people,

And our solar system won’t be the same without the Earth,

And the Milky Way galaxy won’t be the same,

And the universe won’t be the same.

So here’s to all those who,

Sit alone on a bench meant for three,

For those who eat lunch alone in a crowded cafeteria,

For those who cry themselves to sleep,

For those who think their life is heading nowhere,

For those who want to pull their hair out in frustration,

For those who try to put on a fake smile,

For those who die a little inside every single day,

For those who believe their existence doesn’t matter and that their absence would make no difference to this world.

You do matter,

Because science also says that the possibility of you being born,

Is one in 400 trillion.

A million events had to happen in a certain way for you to walk this earth in a hundred different permutations and combinations,

And though the universe had to work a little too hard,

It did conspire the creation of someone as rare and irreplaceable as you.

Because without you,

Someone else’s day wouldn’t be the best,

Someone’s diary wouldn’t be so interesting,

And someone’s entire life wouldn’t have changed for the better.

And though the fancy science trivia in this poem might be a little bit faulty, you’re not.

So don’t ever feel like you don’t matter,

Because nothing would ever be the same without you.

#MentalHealthAwareness

Dear Vogue

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for teaching me about the correlation between biology and geometry,

Thank you for teaching me that women come in all sizes, and shapes too apparently,

From triangle to inverted triangle to square to circle to oval,

You told me that women’s bodies can be compared to stationery and fruits,

From pear to apple to ruler to lollipop to hourglass.

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for teaching me that being sexy means your lingerie must be no less than a lacy push-up bra from Victoria’s Secret and your thongs must be from Agent Provocateur,

What if I want to wear my unappealing cotton Jockey?

Will I grow up to be crazy cat lady and die a virgin?

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for telling me that I have failed at life if I haven’t mastered the winged eyeliner yet,

Or that a “natural” make up look includes beginning with a Lancome primer followed by a Shiseido foundation and a M.A.C concealer and a Revlon highlighter and a Loreal compact and finally a Chambor nude lipstick.

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for teaching me that my personality is measured by the number of pimples on my face and the stretch marks on my thighs.

Thank you for teaching me the importance of a thigh gap and a flat stomach,

And for suggesting a million diets right from lemonade diet to Goop to Atkins,

You taught me that colourful macarons are only supposed to be ogled at, not eaten.

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for telling me that Taylor Swift is fabulous just because she has a cat named Meredith Grey and that Sonam Kapoor is absolutely iconic just because she can afford Dolce and Gabbana,

Because who needs anything else right?

Thank you for teaching me that I’m supposed to change my sartorial choices every month and throw my month-old clothes away because trends change, and my clothes are “so 2014.”

Dear Vogue,

Thank you for teaching me that women’s empowerment means flying hair, removing your bra on Youtube in slow motion and having sex outside of marriage.

I really wonder about the enlightening things you tell me,

And I’m really concerned, because,

Dear Vogue,

You really do have issues.

A Pack Of Biscuits

On a lazy Saturday morning, I was travelling by the local trains on my way to tuitions, fervently studying last minute for an Economics test ( thank you procrastination). As the train halted at a station, I just lifted my head off my textbook for a moment. A beggar girl got in, carrying an infant in her lap. Dressed in rags and barefoot, she was trying to pacify the crying baby. Her face, though specked with grime and dirt, held a peculiar smile. She stretched her hand out to feel the raindrops on her palms, occasionally spraying the water on the baby's face. He stopped crying and giggled along with her. She then went on with her usual business, begging for rupee or two from the passengers who flatly refused. But she was different from other beggars I've seen, and trust me, living in Mumbai, I've seen many. As she clinked the few coins in her shapeless bowl, she didn't cry or plead. Her smile didn't fade. I didn't give her money, but gave her a half empty packet of biscuits instead. Her face lit up like the sky on Diwali. She thanked me twice, and got down at the next station, dancing and giggling as she walked.

I closed my textbook. I couldn't study anymore.

Valar Morghulis - All Men Must Die

Once we were discussing the play Arms and the Man in English class. Before I get into this post, let me give you an overview of Arms and the Man. It’s a play written by George Bernard Shaw (my idol, after Groucho Marx of course) set during the Serbo-Bulgarian War in the 1800s. Now, Shaw was a satirist, so contrary to the glorified and romanticised image of war, he held that it was a farce, that it was futile. He ridiculed war and unveiled the fissure between romanticism and rationalism. So being a satire aficionado, I naturally got transfixed by Shaw’s candour.

Now coming to the discussion, we were scrutinising the practicality of war, which has always been a serious bone of contention. “What is the true purpose of war? Is it an exhibition of one’s patriotism?” My head was ruminating on these questions. After a bit of brooding about, I raised my hand and said, “When it comes to war, patriotism is just a euphemistic expression of fanaticism.” The silence it ushered from the class confused me as to what they inferred from my opinion. One boy clapped, but I surmise it carried a heavy tone of sarcasm, or maybe not. Whatever the case may be, my teacher found it too close to the bone and disagreed. She said “What about the Indian freedom struggle? Can you call trying to liberate one’s country as fanaticism?” I wasn't prepared to answer this since I didn't even think once before making my contentious statement.

I made my fleeting affirmation in the context of the likes of the World Wars. I have always opined that they were not wars between countries, but between power-hungry leaders who could go to any lengths to fulfill their imperialistic ambitions. Does love for one’s country demand hatred for the other? I have always been fascinated by Adolf Hitler’s ideas. A charismatic leader, a terrorising dictator, so driven by his demonic hunger for power that failure to achieve supremacy led him to believe that it held more importance than his own life. We are always so insecure, the fear of insurgency corrupting our minds. No matter what noble intentions a war is fought with, is the outcome as gratifying as expected? When blood is shed on both sides, the world is reduced to ashes and families torn apart, is there a winner after all? And if there is, is the victory satisfying? A war never ends. Ask the soldiers who wake up every night haunted by memories of the battlefield, trembling and sweating. When cannonballs explode, swords clash and you’re heaving through lungs filled with gunpowder, is it worth the pain? 

Mon Plaisir - A House Shrouded In Obscurity

I recently visited this hill station called Panchgani (which I have already mentioned in the last two posts). While I was out on a walk with my revered camera, I came across this old, dilapidated but awe-inspiring house.

 I was told by locals that I wasn't permitted to go anywhere near it. There was a Kali Mandir outside with a board which said "vetala", which in Sanskrit means an evil spirit taking demonic possession of a corpse, according to folklore. Being the avid photographer that I am, I wanted to get closer to capture the mystique of the house. However, I had to abide by the locals. A certain community had built the temple and had performed several rituals to keep the spirit out. When I asked them about the story behind the house, they told me this : years ago, a family of four who lived in the house set themselves on fire under uncanny circumstances and died. Since then the house had been out of bounds and subject to several protective enchantments and rituals. There was another house named Mon Plaisir nearby, which was abandoned as well because it probably belonged to the same family or was considered just as ominous. It was the quintessential "Bhoot Bangla". I just dismissed it as an old wives tale. It was undeniably just a source of entertainment for the people in a small, uneventful town.

The Actual Haunted House

I don't believe in paranormal, unearthly and supernatural elements and occults. So instead of being haunted by the extramundane story I had just heard, I tried to find a rational reason for their death. The most probable and pragmatic answer that struck me was that the family may have been facing unresolvable financial problems, and so resorted to death. Isn't that possible? Why can't we think logically? Just because we can't find an answer, why blame it on supernatural elements?

 

Mon Plaisir

P.S. - Sorry for the overload. This is the last post on Panchgani promise :p