Another year older

The mountains have never been conquered, the dance classes have started and ended with me being the same—adamant, do-my-own-steps person, the guitar learning ambitions have died their natural death though they resurface every time I get home, the singing still continues, and the pottery class will remain on the to-do list.

Reflections are inevitable before a birthday. You wonder at the pace at which time flies; you once had all the time in the world and just like that you’ve reached an age that once seemed to be eons away. I don’t seem to be ‘feeling’ my age as people tend to say you do; for me it just feels like a digit change. Except on the few occasions when you have to fill the age in forms, I never quite realized that I’m in my mid-30’s. I love the look of surprise when people get to know my age. After a decade of being told that I look older than my age, it feels nice to be on the other side of the fence (shallow, I know, but we all have our guilty pleasures).

In the years that have sometimes passed like a blur, I’ve accumulated things, people, habits, mementos and trophies. Looking back, I’ve realized that I haven’t done great things, certainly not by any measurable standards but my life is dotted by plenty of small good things and blessings. I have my family who I can certainly fall back on no matter what. All the grumbling I’ve done over the years for the coddling and intrusions are the very things that have kept me alive and whole, the friends I have may not be too many, but I know that each of them love me. Some of them have been with me for almost two decades of my life. Their continued presence in my life is like a reassurance that I have something good within. My phone may not ring continuously or I may not be texting even but when they call me out of the blue just to let me know that they think of me, I feel blessed.

My life hasn’t turned out exactly as I thought and hoped it would. At times I grumble, but mostly I find myself just riding through whatever comes my way. It has not been easy to accept that some things haven’t come my way or a few have disappeared from my life. What have I earned in my life? What do I have to show for my 34 years of existence? Nothing much and yet, so much. 

The story continued ...

J shared her assignment from DD's Travel Writing Bus last month. I make her writing assignments my writing assignments, so DD is my mentor once removed (is that even applicable?).

The assignment: "Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible -- slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye."

(from "Killing Rommell" by Steven Pressfield).

Write a story, up to 500 words, that starts with those two sentences.

My attempt:

Everything they say about wartime romance is true. When I saw my bride, she was in the most unravishing pose possible — slouched against the wall in a windowless alcove, with both shoes off and her hair, which had become dishevelled when he had taken off her hat to adjust it, falling across one eye. She stood there gasping for breath before breaking out into peals of laughter. He continued relentlessly, poking her sides and tugging her hair a bit more; the more she tried to evade, the more he persevered.

Her laughter rang through the quiet walls, echoing and mixing with his chuckles to produce a melody I longed to hear all these years. I stood there, observing her (and him), glad to be back. It took me back to when I first saw her at village festival—all dressed up in a pale yellow dress, a straw hat that covered her auburn hair and a pouch (which I would then see dangling on her wrist every time we met). She was selling pies —warm, gooey, strawberry, blueberry and cherry pies. I can’t remember what I purchased; all I remember was biting into a sweetness like never before. It must have shown on my face, for her gaze held on to mine in that knowing way. Her voice was even toned, not too shrill or too soft, and it sounded angelic to me, and when she asked me if I wanted more, there was no way I could say no.

It was her voice that lulled me to sleep in the cold trenches, her eyes that drove away the demons that haunted my sleep. Just the thought of getting back home, to her, kept me from doing anything stupidly heroic. She was my lodestar; my saviour who helped me endure all the horrible sounds that groaned and moaned and whistled their way all day and night.

Hearing her call out to him snapped me back to reality. They were running around, mindful of the sparse furniture, stalling, standing, teasing and laughing. There was so much fun and lightness to that moment that I hesitated to intrude. I stood there for longer, observing the changes in her. She looked taller and her hair was definitely longer. She was more womanly now; gone was that girlish charm that I remembered. Would her eyes still light up with warmth for me? Would her arms embrace and enfold me with love? Would she still remember those kisses?

I couldn’t hold back any longer. I pushed open the garden gateway and smiled as I spotted the rose garden in bloom. I smiled, remembering how much she loved her roses. As I made my way through the open door, I called out to her. They stopped immediately, froze and then she was in my arm and I knew I was home. I clung to her, happy and delirious, grateful and teary, kissing her with all the love I felt—our sweet and salty kisses that belied any anguish I may have felt. 

Now as I look at her, the eyes still sparkled with love for me, and I know her arms would hold me close forever. She didn’t flinch at my appearance, at the scars that marred my face, or even the loss of my arm. She held onto my hand, and kissed it; it was all the assurance I needed that I was still her man. Years ago, it broke my heart to leave her alone, a young bride, a stranger in a new place, yet I knew that our love would endure everything. And it had, she made this place blossom with love, my brother laugh with abandon. She filled my life with a hope that I knew would last us for now into forever.

Small wonders

It’s in the small steps.

Like tentatively reaching out to hold his hand and then being confident enough to let it stay there, as if it was meant to be there all along.

It’s in the littlest gestures.

Like surprising him by remembering the innocuous things he tells you.

It’s in the little things.

Like taking over from him when he is too tired or upset to function without saying a word.

Oxymoron

I’ve always maintained that I’m a fraud when it comes to understanding English grammar. I just happen to be blessed in a way that lets me be proficient in the language without really grasping the basics that make up the language. Time and again, I get exposed whenever someone asks me a grammar-related question.

So imagine my surprise when I found myself teaching my landlady’s daughter how to identify tenses. Needless to say, I was as lost as her but I think I did a better job of pretending I understood. As she looked at me for confirmation for answers that she was guessing (you know the ones where we add that question in our voice while answering — Simple Present Tense?), I peeked into the book to make sure I knew the answers. We both bluffed our way through a one-hour session of Future Perfect, Past Perfect and more. Put it down to small mercies that she did not have Future Perfect Continuous tense or Past Perfect Continuous tense.

Flipping through the pages, I noticed that her next lesson is Gerunds and Infinitives. My mind frantically searched for places to which I could disappear for the next couple of weeks.  As I went through the book, my heart sank as I read words like past participle, modifiers and more. I know if I sit to answer a grammar test where I would have to identify the main clause, adverbial clause, parts of speech or even simpler stuff, I would definitely fail.

Now, I just have my fingers crossed that the girl does well in her test.

Sent packing

It was a disaster. I sat there trying to calm my nerves, trying to stop my hands from pulling my hair off my head and from reaching the phone to say, “I can’t do this,” desperately trying to not have a full blown panic attack. Everything was a mess around me—clothes strewn in a heap, bottles scattered on the floor vying for space with packages and bags; and there I sat amidst that constricting circle of four open suitcases waiting to be packed.

It goes without saying—I am a horrible packer; it’s not like I can’t pack but more like I prefer not to pack, especially for a long journey. Things had to be labeled, everything had to be sorted so the weight is distributed equally, and also the contents so as not to arouse suspicion of overzealous customs officials, and the list, that never ending list of what cannot be left behind at all, was getting on my nerves. I took a deep breath and said, “Take it easy. One bag at a time.” Famous words, especially when I was struggling to fit things in the last suitcase. I can honestly say, I wanted to cry. Out of frustration. Out of helplessness. Out of frustration at being so helpless. Four hours later (or was it six, it felt like a lifetime though), at 11:30 in the night, as I forced zipped the last bag, I swore to never open the bags, till I got back home. That’s when I saw two small polyethylene bags, one with food tins and the other with Christmas decorations that needed to go in. I shut my eyes in silent rage and decided to just add another bag and stuff it there.

Today, I go back to reopening the bags. My sister, the expert packer, is coming in to help. It’s absolutely embarrassing but at least I know that everything will be in properly and not a thing will be left out.

All I can think of at the moment to best describe my situation is ‘Three Men in a Boat’ by Jerome K Jerome (somehow the author’s name is unforgettable) and with all pardon to Jerome, “Packing is (definitely not)one of those many things that I feel I know more about than any other person living.”

Emptied out

Her heart is hurting from an indescribable pain. There is a sadness, a sense of loss, like a foreboding of horrible things to come. It feels empty, like there is nothing more left there. The body feels like it’s been hollowed out and all that is there is an empty shell —useless, listless and lifeless. It’s like a pallor of gloom has descended and made its home in her heart, never ever going to leave; it’s found its perfect host. There is a bleakness that seems to proliferate with every passing day, infiltrating every action, every breath. Life seems to be the same, yet there is no more joy. A few moments of laughter seep in but there is no lilt to that tinkle, and the warmth of joviality doesn’t make it to the eyes. The eyes look haunted, like there is no more hope. They look guilty.

She tries to break free from this suffocating hold. She’s making an effort to be normal, and everything should feel normal, then why does it seem like there’s this constant pin-pricking somewhere in her heart. She should be feeling liberated, free of a burden she never wanted to carry, so why does she feel this restlessness. She never felt the joy when it existed, so why then does she feeling this pain, this anguish? She chose vanity over courage, an unsullied reputation over truthfulness. So why is she wracked with the feeling that something terrible has happened, that she’s torn and shredded something innocent within her.  She alone knows the truth, this is her cross to bear, her secret to keep.  She has to get over it, soon for her sanity. She has to live like it never happened even if she knows that her hands are soiled with the blood of an unborn child. 

Drunken behaviour

I’m slumped across the bar, trying to forget, maybe by pretending to shut my eyes, I can probably avoid the scene playing in front of me. But no they have to come here too and disturb me and make me see what I’ve been trying to avoid all evening.

They call themselves my friends. If they are my friends, why aren’t they doing anything to stop her? Why are they letting her get her filthy hands all over him. “He is mine, all mine,” I scream out. “Who is she? Some pretentious, snooty little nobody from some god forsaken city with her farmhouses and talks of dramatics and politics and photography and philosophy. Wasn’t being from the same city not enough to reminiscence over that she had to show that they shared similar interests as well?”

I am rambling all this as they take me staggering across the dance floor. I’m pushed down onto some chairs. Did I just climb those stairs?, I wonder. I laugh at the thought of how awkward it must have been for Miss Manners here. What a beating her public image must have taken hobnobbing with a drunken woman. I then see another familiar face. I call out to him and tell him to get me some more drinks. If Mohammed is not allowed to go to the mountain, the mountain will have to be brought to him. Miss Manners is frantically trying to signal no and our Lover Boy here won’t miss a chance to impress, which means I’m left thirsty. Such a sad little love story theirs is—Mr Popular, extravagant, fun loving, almost ladies man falls for our uptight Ms Right. But who am I to laugh at them. Look at me and my pitiable state!

I get up and join the few who are dancing here. Then I spot them. She’s throwing herself all over him in that barely there dress. Who dresses like that—that cheap little slut. And he’s got his hands on her. Such a two-timing hypocrite.If I didn’t have to recommend her, she never would have met him and we wouldn’t be caught in this unholy mess. She knows what I feel about him, she knows that we are lovers or were till yesterday, yet she’s gone ahead and twisted that proverbial knife in the back. Incredible! Does she think I’m going to stand here and watch. No Ms Boyfriend Snatcher! Not in this lifetime.

I look around wondering what to do—I spot that ashtray. I pick it up and announce my intentions and before I know it I am held back by too many arms. There, now I’ve done it. They all know. Nevertheless they let me be, watching over me in turns. I sit like a statue for what seems like hours. Miss Manners and Lover Boy are on the dance floor and that’s my second surprise of the evening—Miss Manners actually dancing! Though dancing is all not what is doing going by some of the coquettish looks directed at her partner.   

I see my man standing all alone. Where has Ms Snooty gone? I wonder. I spot her dancing with some guys. This is my chance. I go up to him and try to put my arms around and say, “I’ve been waiting to do this all evening” but he pushes me away as discreetly possible and hisses, “You’re drunk.” What a surprise! Two thwarted attempts later, I’m disgusted with his highhandedness. Petulant, I leave him and join the eager arms of another group of boys. Nobody is judging me here, nobody wants to know my past, my present, how many drinks I’ve had, how short my dress is. They are here just like me, looking for a good time.

The evening ends before I know it, the boys want to take me home. Miss Manners stoutly refuses and I want to yell out, “Yay! My defender.” but I’m too far gone for that. She pulls a coat over me and orders Lover Boy to drive me home (he looks like he could strangle me). My last thought before I pass out, remind me to thank her later, and apologise to Lover Boy.