Mini Onam

My landlady served me a mini Onam dinner today. Mini because they plan to celebrate it on Friday... 20+ items in all! I wonder if I should skip my Thursday dinner and Friday breakfast.

This was my meal and of course dessert was a lovely jaggery and dal payasam (forgot to take a pic). I should say 5 Onam celebrations and I've mastered the art of eating on a banana leaf.

The way you see me

We talk about so much and so little at the same time, we skirt around issues I consider revealing, you consider honest. Yet you know so much about me, more than I wanted you to and certainly more that I’d like you to. You see me the way I never wanted anyone to see me. You see my vulnerability and my passion, my reasons and my defiance. You know what makes me tick, what gets me riled. When I am up or down, you know it all; you can sense it, better than before. I let the defenses down; it was a momentary loss of fidelity and you walked right through. You impressed me by avoiding and overtaking all the obstacles and stop signs I put up. You disarmed all the alarms and evaded the booby traps. Now you know me.

And I don’t like it one bit; it’s the reason why I can’t look you in the eye anymore. Why I can’t continue this. It’s too close for comfort; you’re too close for comfort. I need that distance, that place within me, where I can be me, without worrying that someone else knows me, knows where and how to find me. But now that’s gone. There are no more pretences that you won’t recognise, no more walls that you won’t get around. It’s disconcerting, you seeing me for what I am. I can see it in your eyes. The eyes that give me the benefit of the doubt, where you once would doubt, accuse and suspect. The eyes that push me to do things you know I want to but will never unless it’s you telling me. It’s there in the hands that hold me the same way as before, but differently still. They linger a second longer than usual and I know why; I can sense it. You want to reassure me, I know, but that’s what’s causing my anxiety. It’s there in the smile, when you see me for the first time in the day. It’s telling, even when you don’t want it to. It’s full of anticipation, hinting at what you’d push me to do today, what you’ll get me to reveal even when I don’t want to. Along with the eyes, they speak untold things that you want from me; they encourage—and I try hard to ignore. It’s there in the kisses, the one thing I thought would remain untainted, but it’s corrupted as well, infected by the hope they now communicate, and I don’t want that.

There’s always been tenderness but this empathy is killing me, slowly.

Like the awkwardness of a morning after, this felling of walls, is hard to get around. I know you know me and that you know that I am aware of this knowledge that you now hold, and I’m trying my hardest to ignore. I’m trying to pretend like it doesn’t exist, it never happened, it doesn’t matter. I’m trying hard to blank it, to play it cool, but now I can no longer do it, there are no more pretences left, no more safe place to go. Remember? You’ve invaded them all. You know me. You see me. You get me.

So you see why I have to stop, why I can’t let this go on. You see me for what I am. I can see the way you see me now, and I don’t like it.

“I can see the way you see me now, and I don’t like it.” I read this line in an article on Elle and thought to weave a perspective around this idea.

Falling over myself

This weekend has been all about protecting myself—from my clumsy self. Bad enough I’m prone to cutting my fingers, as is evidenced by the number of band-aids adorning my fingers every now and then. In fact, a colleague once pointed out that he had never seen anyone be so careless about their fingers.  It’s true—I slice off skin from my forefinger whenever I’m in the kitchen, burn and scald, and cut the other digits (sometimes even lop off the tops of my pretty nails), and get paper, tin and plastic cuts regularly. Matter of fact, I am typing this off with a band-aid across my right hand forefinger (plastic cut)!

Getting back to my weekend with my clumsy self, I started it off by hitting my head against the wardrobe, injuring my arm trying to lift something heavy, dropped my phone into the frying pan, oil and all but mercifully off the fire, dropped the chicken stock over the counter and splashed some on myself as well, tripped over the wire of and pulled the hair dryer out of the power socket, hit my shin against the bed, dropped the vacuum on my feet, tripped over the footstool and not to forget the aforementioned plastic cut. Quite an impressive haul for this weekend alone, right?

I thought it was over but then my sunglasses fall out of my hands and onto the floor. Sigh!

Our dangerous selves

We all court danger, it’s inherent in us. All dangerous things seem desirable to us—irrespective of age. Which probably explains why as babies we were drawn to buckets of water, power sockets and barrels or as children to finding out what happens when we stuck peas and assorted things up our nose, took a dive from the flight of stairs, raided our parents and siblings’ stuff when they weren’t around.  As we grew older the curiosity didn’t ebb; we needed and wanted all things that were forbidden, were taboo. The denial was the bait that lured us in. We had to find out for ourselves. Our adolescent years saw us playing truant, chasing after the objects of our obsession, experimenting with drugs, drinks and sex, rebelling because it gave us a high and made us stand out and feel powerful.  Then as adults, we get cynical, slower, jaded with the experiments. We crave for more, to push the danger envelope a bit more, just to feel the original high. So we cheat in relationships, lie some more and about bigger things, embezzle, cut corners and play dirty.

Each time we flirt with danger, we feel empowered. Like a siren calling, it’s hard to ignore. We ask ourselves, “What is the worst that can happen?” So, we take our reckless selves and do stupid things. Things we wouldn’t do, if we didn’t like to tempt fate, to play with fire. If we get away with it, it’s a license to do it some more and more often. If we fail, it’s a lesson well learned and we exercise caution till we feel the itch again.

This attraction to danger is addictive. It makes us irresponsible, it makes us egoistic, it makes us dangerous people to be around. Yet we pursue it. Why? Simply because by chasing after danger we are fanning the desire for importance, we are acknowledging the arrogance within us, we are feeding our ego with our conquests. With every successful venture, we find ourselves getting bolder, undefeatable, indestructible and insatiable. Nothing else can substitute.