In former days we’d both agree

That you were me, and I was you.

What has now happened to us two,

That you are you, and I am me?

 – Bhartṛhari, a 7th-century Sanskrit poet (Translated by John Brough)

<insert character pre-sketch+allegations of not having ever loved>

January, 2013

Miami

Undisciplined lines of tourists walked past our outdoor table eyeing our plate of calamari. My friends, a rambunctious lot, sang along to the music playing in the beachfront bar. I took a sip of my Mai Tai and looked out emptily at the ocean. Waves, large and small, crashed on unsuspecting tourists causing a ruckus and then abruptly, and without any fanfare, retreated back into the ocean leaving the tourists dumbstruck, not knowing what to do with their soaked selves.

My friend tugged at my arm and gave me a look which universally translated to “check out that cute guy!”. I turned to catch the back of his white t-shirt as he walked by, and then he turned too, smiling an all-knowing smile. Our eyes locked.

A jillion bollywood movies paint this moment elaborately. Often with a gust of wind blowing, guitars playing, the protagonists levitating and the extras in the backdrop freezing as if stuck in time. But now there were no guitars nor any wind-tousled hair. But the music lulled into the background, the tourists froze, my friends froze, the waves froze, we froze. 

Then I peeled my eyes off him and turned back to the waves.

***

April, 2013

Washington D.C.

Armed with time-tested defenses often disguised as witty repartees, I strutted into the bar with my highest heels on for date #2. “Of all the cities in the US, isn’t it too much of a coincidence that I was put on a project which happened to be in the same city as you”?, he purred. 

I had been warned of boys like him: charming, flamboyant and unrelenting. But I knew how to maneuver my way around boys like him: smooth-talking, cocky and full of hot air. 

By date #4, we had moved past our sinuous mating dance and coasted into an unfamiliar territory of familiarity. We didn’t speak a common language that we were both comfortable with, but we didn’t seem to need one. Our stories and thoughts seemed to just flow through a stream in the vacuum between us. An intoxicating stupor of shared tales of our childhood, family, crushes, broken relationships, being a foreigner in a foreign land, ambitions and fears suffused the many bars, restaurants, alleys and streets of DC. 

Blurry as it were, I recognized that we were made of the same cloth. But his sewn and embellished parts often didn’t neatly lap over my sewn and embellished parts. I was struck with awe by his joie de vivre, righteousness and compassion and had no patience for his lack of courage, sense of entitlement and greed. 

Annie Dillard once wrote, “Nothing moves a woman so deeply as the boyhood of the man she loves.” By date #7, my defenses were on the verge of quitting. I stared at the gap between his front teeth, “If it interferes with your vanity, I have a dentist friend who could fix that for you.” “No way, that’s my signature. A five-rupee coin would fit between my front teeth.”, he grinned boyishly. Maybe it was at that moment when I should have known, I didn’t stand a chance against the enormity I felt coming.

***

<outline turning point section on power struggle and sex>

May, 2013

Washington D.C.

This set alarm bells ringing. So I unleashed the last of my shields, I unceremoniously disconnected from him and retreated back to the invulnerability of my apartment. Ceremoniously, I deleted his number, texts and social media but wondered how to delete him from my thoughts. 

I could count on the fingers of my hands the number of times I’d met him. How could I have fallen for something so fleeting? He didn’t even speak my language! What kind of hypnosis was this? Preoccupied with untangling the fluid conversations and outlandish events of the past month, I had trouble sleeping. More disconcerting was the discovery of my newfound ability to hear my own heart thump in a rhythmic, comforting slow hum. WebMD – the universal go-to of worriers –  narrowed it down to arrhythmia but in denial, I focused on cutting caffeine, exercising twice as much and sticking with a regimen, leaving no leeway for the whims of the heart.

***

June, 2013

Washington D.C.

One Saturday morning, sleep-deprived and drained, I settled in at the nail salon and observed the petite lady paint my nails one stroke at a time. With each sweeping motion of the paintbrush a century passed.  With each stray streak my heart paced to keep up with her fuss.  

How long does it take for paint to dry? Who even cared? 

I left her a big tip, waltzed to my MINI Cooper, checked for gas, my purse and iPhone charger. 

Google Maps – Set Destination.

New York. 

No. 

Upper West Side, NYC. 

No wait, even better. 

Saravana Bhavan, NYC. 

I recalled he lived on the street perpendicular to Saravana Bhavan. 4 hrs 17 mins with light traffic. A rookie driver, I worried about driving long distances, worried about highways, worried about big city honking but I worried the most about parallel-parking. I neatly packed my worries, stepped on the gas, inhaled and didn’t exhale till I reached Saravana Bhavan. 

***

June, 2013

New York 

I found an empty corner parking spot next to Saravana Bhavan and said my thank you prayers to the parking lords.  The lords weren’t impressed. As soon as I stepped out of my car, I realized it was the wrong Saravana Bhavan, which was different from the right Saravana Bhavan, which was 4 miles further away, which was 20 minutes more than the allotted 4 hours and 17 minutes of trauma I had allowed to inflict upon myself.

I left my immaculately parked car, hailed a taxi, stared out the window, stepped out onto the curb, spotted the right Saravana Bhavan, found the street perpendicular to it, turned a corner and then, I saw him and I was seen.

I debated evaporating versus self-immolating. Shuffling my steps, I resolved on walking towards the two men, his friend and him, sitting on the stoop of (their?) apartment smoking.  Skirting his aghast eyes, I joined them on the stoop and stared at my freshly painted toenails. Speechless.

Meanwhile the friend, presumably an audience member to his post-date rundowns, had a case of verbal diarrhea and spewed all the questions swirling in the air: 

“Is that you?”

“What are you doing here?” 

“How did you come?” 

“When did you come?” 

“Did you come for him?”

“Why are you trembling?” 

“Are you okay?” 

“What happened?”

Like I had the answers.

A much-needed meal and a bottle of wine later, I told him in great detail about the bizarreness of heart palpitations and nail painting. Not knowing what to make of it, he turned distant. “You’ve seen too many Bollywood movies.” Not knowing if that was a stance to a latent expectation, I took it as rejection.

***

July 2013,

Washington D.C.

Anticipating gut-wrenching heartache and eager to move on, I went back into my regimen. Few uneventful sunsets later I gradually discovered that my heart was, in fact, not broken. On the contrary, a thick fog had cleared to make way for a crisp, overwhelming sense of lightness. Like wispy tendrils from an incense stick, slithering into curls, it languidly infused my world. 

I woke up to a reality where the lush green leaves of the tree outside my window quivered with the wind, my thoughts wrinkled from soaking in music, the moon spoke a language I now understood, the numbers on clocks, license plates and bills had cryptic meaning to them. Curiously I had also developed an aversion to social settings, alcohol and meat and could consume half as much food but run twice as much. What was going on?

An analyst by profession, critical thinking and problem solving were my bread and butter, but this was a whole different ball game. Was I, like Mirabai who dedicated her life in devotion of her beloved Lord Krishna, to spend my days with little regard for social conventions? No, I was too much of an individualist to do that.  Or maybe I was to become a sanyasini renouncing material desires and prejudices to lead a simple life. Perhaps. But what about my Chanel and Zanotti dreams?

Why was I not heartbroken? Why was I not mad at him? What about him did I fall for? What could explain the improbable chances of us meeting in Miami, then DC and then in NYC? And what on earth were those palpitations about and now all this lightness?

Then a thought crept slyly up to me. What if I was losing my mind? 

I imagined breaking the news to my Papa and consoling him. Despite his reservations, I had insisted on leaving home and moving to the other side of the world. I had promised to be strong. I had promised to be alert. How could I let him down like this? 

What did it mean to lose your mind anyway? Is it when perception doesn’t meet reality? What is reality anyway? When does something become real? Is it real only if shared and validated? Did it matter that my reality be validated? What is even wrong with losing your mind? What is mind anyway? 

I gave up. This was beyond my intellect or imagination.

I gave in. I found reassurance in knowing I wasn’t causing anybody(myself included) any harm. Grudgingly,  I made space and allowed myself to lose my mind. I gave into the abyss of the wispy tendrils and let it take me wherever it wanted to go. What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the best that could happen?

***

August 2013,

Washington D.C.

Untethered and unfettered, I soaked in the erratic waves that bashed my shores. Everyday was a new beginning. Curious, I couldn’t wait to see what new adventure was in store. Some waves brought forth deep seated rubble and some waves brought forth long forgotten pasts. Most waves brought forth boundless bliss.

I wasn’t the captain of my ship nor did I want to be. Was there even a ship? Wasn’t I just a mere spectator to this storm? I had the best seat and I didn’t want to trade it for anything else. 

But what was I to do with the body and life I was given? Could I not just park them somewhere and never return?

***

<insert long ass section on what i did to become captain >

February 2017

San Francisco

“Hey, long time no see. Want to catch up?” 

Different year, different city, different project, different me, familiar him. It had taken me years to painstakingly carve myself out and become the captain of my ship. I was reluctant to see him again after all these years. 

Like a ballerina inside a snow globe watching the world, through the glass, pass by, I saw him walk into the dimly lit bar, flashing his gap toothed smile. He recapped his last few years for me like I was the note-taker for his life. I scrutinized his torn, unsewn, unembellished parts. He seemed battered and was flailing. I watched him stuck within the cage of his reality. I watched him from my glass cage. Was this when I set him free just as he had many moons ago? 

<meh..What’s the worst that could happen? What’s the best that could happen?>

<2018 outlines>

***

2022/2023

The opposite of love is not hate, its destruction

Clear up all the energy

Detach

Cut cords

Finding meaning in all of this

I went on a journey

• Experienced ego-less
• Love
• boundaryless
• Started from other end of the extreme and back tracked to who I am, crafted my self