How a Man should Love a Woman

Oscar Wilde said, and I quote:

“How can a woman be expected to be happy with a man who insists on treating her as if she were a perfectly normal human being?”

So I say to the 45% of the world population which has the tag 'Heterosexual, male' learn a thing or two from Mr Wilde. What's so grand about loving someone who is normal, who has no personality flaws you would talk about and people wouldn't be shocked or atleast be mildly amused? What's so grand about that love which probably found a window of convenience and jumped right into it? You think you are something when you marry that girl-next-door, who has never seen hot-insane passion in life, who has never believed in something so strongly that she would get it tatooed on her forehead, who has never gotten drunk and passed out, who has never been precarious in life? What's the fun in marrying a satti sawatri?

I get a lot of comments, sarcasm implying that my husband either must be high when he married me or regretting it now. I normally just crack a joke about it and move on, but you know what I am thinking inside? How end of the day, I am that lucky girl who got a man who gave her unconditional acceptance, knowing that he wasn't marrying someone who was easy? He married me knowing that I am not going to stay in the marriage if everyday wasn't made worth every sacrifice that I was going to be making? He tied that knot knowing that I have loved like mad before and a part of me will never stop? He married me knowing that the Love, i love is Insane and mad and passionate and extreme and obsessive.

He married me knowing I was me. nothing less. nothing more.

and that my friends, is how a man should love a woman.

Why?

So blessed I feel, whenever I look back at life, generally.

The faces that I see. SunnySara, Baji and Bhai. Deedi Peeno Simi. Hashim.

Bay Ji.

Komal, Arshia, Alina

Marya, Madiha, Atif, Johnny, Shahab, Rana, Jazib, Asfa, Zahra & Zara, Mahaau & Irfan.

Saady.

The love that I have seen, I wonder, is it common? Has everyone seen so much and felt so much of it?

You would think a girl with 11 best friends, six siblings, three moms and a great husband would be at peace with the love she has had all her life.

Then why is it Baba, that I want more. More of the love you gave me. Baba, why so greedy?

Why does my heart not find peace. Why does it keep wanting you back. So much love, and still wanting that very brand of love that only you could dish out. I have so much, baba. So much that words can never explain. Why being your daughter, I still have such a greedy heart?..

Why my heart has no peace. Why does it just want your hands wrapped around my head & the hug that only a stick-thin baba can give?

Just you baba. I dont want to be ungrateful but only want you. Nothing else. I want you for me, baba. Just me.

nothing else. just you.

Baba, Annie Misses you

I go on facebook everyday and I end up doing the same thing. Reading all the condolences that were written to me, on baba's death. One month after, they are still trickling in. Some wrote to show they cared, even if they didnt understand. Some wrote cause they had gone through the same. Some wrote cause calling was harder.

I know what to say when someone is in a similar situation. Yes, it doesnt come easily but I can still somehow drag my feet through it. But I dont know what to say back, when I am at the receiving end. "Thanks" would be awkward. "God's will, what can I say or do" would be truely reflective of the situation but not of how I feel. I'm not quite there yet. I'm still trying to understand how it happened.

I was in the 4th grade, when I had a dream that he had died. Its amazing how clearly I remember it. I remember that his face at that time didnt carry a beard and his hair were darker. So I'm glad that this time I saw an older face. A face which had seen and experienced so much more than what it had at that time. But why do I feel like there was more for it. I used to celebrate the fact that my kids would have an awesome grand father, having not liked mine all my life. How will they learn that grace and that dignity. Who will teach them to hold their head up high no matter what. I can't. I have walked some roads with my head hanging low. Grace is not me more than it is me. Dignity I have tried to hold on to tight but my grip has been loose on it on a few occasions. but Baba. Never.

That time that I had that dream, I woke up and I was relieved that it was just a dream and up I was to school. I had the same dream another time and when I woke up I didn't really remember anything about it other than the fact that I had seen him dying. Even though I was in Thailand on my honeymoon, there was no relief to follow. By the time it was evening I was sitting in my hotel room, crying out loud, freaking my newly acquired husband to no end.

But I knew it. That it was gonna happen. I'm not superstitious or psychic but that feeling I just couldnt shake off. So in a way there is some consolation that I got to cuddle up with him more than I would have otherwise. I told him how much I loved him, a million times after I got back and before he expired. I got to see him smile and nod at me and do all the little baba-things he used to do, in that special way that made me feel so loved and taken care of for 26 years of my life. So I guess, I should find my peace sometime soon. Also if nothing else works I can find solace in knowing that I was a special one, cause I shared my birthday with him.

But whatever happens, needless to say there are still tears which are gonna be shed, sad laughs, laughed like the way us siblings do when we are reminiscing about him and loads of birthday candles blown wishing he was there.

My Man

I love your face. The clean skin, the light brown eyes, the pouty thing that you do...and that pony tail that you have on my insistence.

I find it amusing, how you can not function on an empty stomach... and how you buy me food all the time.

I think its funny how you have everyone convinced that you are a quiet person, when you can ramble on about one topic for half an hour, non-stop and not even blink once.

I love how your hands feel strong and manly on my back, when you pull me in for a hug. For a man who never says 'I love you', your fiance sure does feel very secure. I love how you manage to do that ...

Ten days left Irfan J Khan... :)

After hours ...

Its universal, this longing for lovers, after hours.

You might hate their gutts during the day, but let that needle work its way after mid night and their will be shortness of breath and this weird pull in your gutt. You will go through their old messages, stare at the phone, half wondering, half hoping that they would call ...

Or maybe you spent the entire day hanging out with them and they dropped you back home ... and you wondered if they had gotten back. If they were thinking about you, missing you...

and here are a few of my favorite songs which talk about pretty much the same thing ...

ah, any you would wanna add to the list?..

Mommy Love

Me and Didi (my mom) have that kinda mother-daughter relationship where most of our conversations are high-pitched, and consist of screaming and shouting. We are very different in the way we perceive life and everything which comes with it. We are a lot like each oher in our conflict resolution methodology; we scream and loose our tempers easily. I've seen my friends and my cousins being completly horrified by such scenes, which pretty much everyone around us have witnessed. The mother-daughter bitch-fest happens to be quite scandalous for most of them. I don't remember losing a nights sleep over our issues. They had permanent residence in my everyday life and if I started feeling bad about my behaviour or how she was not agreeing with me, I would have had a nervous breakdown by now. For sure!

but yesterday she called me to discuss my mayoun details and we ended up having a fight. I was with a friend who was obviously disturbed by it. I forgot about it after five minutes.

...and then I went back home and my sister told me how she had taken Amma to the hospital. Recently she had started getting these boils which looked like a folliculitis infection, all the time. So the doctor told her how it wasn't that but how she wasn't well and that it was all related to tension. The tension she had from my upcoming wedding. The tension she had from making sure I had every single thing one could think of putting in a kitchen. The tension from thinking of new colors for the rest of the dowry clothes she was making. The tension she had of worrying about the budget and making sure I had everything. My sister gave her a lecture on how she was being insane and that considering I wasnt very into the whole dowry and shadi thing anyway, she needn't do everything that she was doing while driving herself completly insane with all the worrying, the dowry-accumulating process required. and you know what she said?..

She said that when she got married due to the circumstances under which she got married (long story, for another time...maybe) she didn't have a lot of furniture and things. The house she went to after she got married had a bed, a table and a few chairs and a lot of emptiness. She told my sister how hard it was considering she was coming from a house which had every single thing... and so she didnt want me to have that tainted early-marriage days. She didnt want that I be living in an empty house or asking my in-laws ( who will be living upstairs from me) for kitchen ware and stuff all the time. She wanted me to be happy. And so it didnt matter that I wasn't supportive or appreciative of it all and that I was still giving her a tough time and that I was still throwing tantrums and all that. It was okay as long as I was happy.

So now I have a heavy heart... and guilt...and a ton of sadness. For all the times I came late. For all the times I wore inappropriate clothes (according to her, mind you) . For all the times I screamed at her and said mean stuff. For every single time I was a disappointment ( which comes out to an approximate  3,4 times a day..) ..and For myself cause I will not get to take love forgranted the way I have had the leisure to do so all my life.

Unconditional and Selfless Love is gonna be a once-a-week thing instead of being there all the time.

'Something' to write about ...

There's something about a Man who tells a girl she's beautful when she hasn't taken a shower in ten days. Knowing she has been crapping water for days and has a body covered with she-fuzz, he still tells her...

...and gives her a foot massage even when her feet are dirty..and let's her win in wrestling every time...

...and picks her up like she's a bag of potatoes but then puts her down gently...and laughs along with her when she's laughing at him... and forgives her everytime she fucks up...and understands that she's damaged goods but still loves her like she's brand new.

There's something about such a Man...

Its the same Man, who holds back the hair from her woman's face when she's puking her gutts out. The very same man, who makes that woman forget all the wrongs she did in her life, cause she got this one thing right.

..and that something is what makes me so crazy in love with you, my darling

...and makes me want to not go home without you.

...and puts a smile on my face a gazillion times a day.

One, Two...Fifteen...Hundred?

Do we say yes to one, out of need?...

I have been in love, more than once. I have been in like quite a few times. I have had many crazy crushes...and by that I mean, bat-shit crazy crushes.

I have had bat-shit-crazy crushes turn in to "like'' and then into ''friendship'' and then into ''love''...

...and from all that I have experienced, I have come to the conclusion that monogamy is more of a need than it is human nature. Human nature is to reproduce and for that purpose it is not biased. I do not think monogamy comes naturally.

Its just a need.

Its a need because human beings are also very jealous. So we tend to stay monogamous as to avoid complications in our romantic relationships.

Also I think we would all be rather fucked up if our parents gave in to their polygamous , promiscuous sides. Although, to be honest me and my siblings turned out perfectly normal with two Momma-dears instead of the normal 'one', but that is beside the point.

So end of the day, the concept of "the one" is just their to sell Hallmark cards, Movie tickets and Popcorn.

There are plenty. Not just one.

And in a perfect world, where people did not get jealous and kids could grow up to be normal, balanced and productive human beings irrespective of how many partners were there parents juggling, I think we would all be leading much interesting lives. Full of late night booty calls and fiery "firsts"...

Bubbly: A story of identity exploitation

In a small town, in another age, there lived a girl, with a fiery outlook and crazy curls.

She jumped and hopped and screamed and shouted and laughed a crazy laugh. Such was her life.

Everyone had to say a lot about her, but most of the time, the one word they chose for her was 'Bubbly'.

They all thought she would live like that! a big happy life. In their defense, there was no reason to think otherwise.

Growing up she learnt a lot of lessons.

Lessons of forgiving.

Lessons of loving.

Lessons of being the bigger person.



Until she met a boy.

Who she couldn't forgive, who she couldn't stop loving and who took away the bigger-ness from her.

But somehow the jumps got higher, the hopping became bouncier, the screaming got screech-ier, the shouting became more frequent, and the laughs became louder.

...and people continued believing that she was 'bubbly'.

Tum Itna Jo Muskura Rahe Ho

Kya Gham Hai Jisko Chhupa Rahe Ho

Aankhon Mein Nami, Hansi Labon Par

Kya Haal Hai Kya Dikha Rahe Ho

Ban Jayenge Zehar Peete Peete

Yeh Ashq Jo Piye Ja Rahe Ho

Jin Zakhmon Ko Waqt Bhar Chala Hai

Tum Kyon Unhe Chhedhe Ja Rahe Ho

Rekhaon Ka Khel Hai Muqaddar

Rekhaon Se Maat Kha Rahe Ho

Tum Itna Jo...

How "Sweet Dreams" caused me Nightmares!

I read this Sweet Dreams book when I was 14,15.

...and I remember I cried and I cried. Read it many times.

There's something very sub-continentish about our ideals about love. The concept of pleasure in pain; The pain we experience from love lost. We romanticize about it. We find baykhudi in hijer. Our self-actualization doesn't start until someone comes and literally kicks us in our metaphorical balls. We love drama and tragedy. Happy endings are just not for us.

May ishq-e-kainat may zanjeer ho sakoun

Mujh ko Hasar-e-zaat kay sher say rehaiee day

So we read Meer-Dard, Mir, Ghalib, Faiz,
and we wait to be torn apart.
The Joy we find, in the misery we experience. All in the name of love.


So my 14 year old heart was touched. When Paul Strobe (the hero of P.S I Love Yoy, Book No 1, in the SweetDreams series) died, I could almost not bear the suffering of Mariah...and at the same time I dreamt of loving like that. Uncontrollably.

Hakh!


Uncontrolable love.

Hijer


Mehboob ki aankhain, Mehboob ki zulfain

Somebody should have intervened. Told me how that stuff drives a person bat-shit crazy.
To the point where making a coherent argument seems equivalent to climbing Everst on an empty stomach...and how you loose your self respect. Your ego. Your dignity.

How you become bitter. Or the way pop culture sees it, you develop "commitment issues"...

How you talk about the power of positive energies and optimism, yet you know that you see everything more critically. Deep down inside you become a cynic and you remain one.

That stuff, "that thing called Love"... its not what dreams are made of. Its what makes up a Nightmare!

Lines, Lines...and some more lines.

So many lines I have crossed in the past few years.

Some with cart wheels, loud yippies and hurrays, weirdly stalked with post yippy-hurray sadness, yet there was a strong sense of accomplishment.

Some with heart break and tears.

Lines which divided love from indifference, life from death, post-teenage from adulthood.

The lines I couldn't wait to cross and lines I didn't even know existed until they did.

I have noticed there's this gravitational pull in those line-jumping moments. Your mind keeps going back to them. You keep reliving those memories. Nostalgia, as they call it. Shackles and chains is what comes to my mind.

The way I see it if its memories of loss, of pain or of sadness, then you keep getting hurt, again and again; the same disappointment, or at least some fraction of it haunts your days and your nights, leaving scars which grow deeper and deeper...

If its the memories of good times then you keep comparing the present with the past. Lust for that same thrill, that same high might drive you crazy but it never gets you anywhere good... Again you find yourself, knocking on that big-bad door of disappointment.

These lines.

I know if I have to cross even a few more, it wouldn't be long before I cross that one.

The one which divides sanity from insanity.

Hey you! Here's a Love song, just for you....

(Gringo, this one is dedicated to you)

It was after one of the long pauses. You were quiet, trying to find the right words .. or maybe cause you were hesitant.. and then you said

"Please don't hold it against me. but I can't live without you".

... and I was quiet. I understood the dichotomy of emotions. The hesitance and the love. The ugly beauty of it. You wanted to declare your love for me without paying the price for it. Putting up with the crap-side of romance, is not every one's cup of tea.

Long after you broke my heart and we were having one of our pretend-to-be-just-friends talk, I randomly asked you to make a blind promise... and I told you it wasn't going to be anything hard.

You said "I don't make promises".

"oh yeah, you don't".. I said with dripping sarcasm.

You laughed an unexplainable laugh and said "Shuker nahi kerti?'' (aren't you thankful for that)


My love, you just didn't get it.

...that love in itself is a promise. a promise wrapped in forever, sprinkled with unconditionality and total acceptance. Its a promise of complete, no-questions-asked forgiveness. If you feel it, you scream about it from the top of the hills and you whisper it to yourself, late at night. Love is the smile, you smile, when you're sleeping.

..but you just didn't get it

So I sit here, eons later... and I pray that may you live with that innocence, which smells of ignorance forever. May you never wake up in the middle of the night and rethink your life and your actions. May life always be a straight road for you; no curves, no bends. May you never feel sorrow. May you never ever experience the hurt of losing someone you loved ( my definition)...

May you never have to stop in your tracks and look back.

Today.

its that time of the year again.

when I give myself the luxury of wallowing in the past. Lust for the times which can never be brought back.

I think about that one time. When i prayed for something crazily, the way only a 20 year old, in love for the first time, can... and about how he granted it....in that grand lavish way, only a God can; Making it all the more transcendent.

...and then taking it away like that too. Making an anecdote out of my entire life. My very first love.

I savour the flashbacks, which i play in slow motion. I have favorites.

Like this one time when we sat in the swing, behind your apartments and sang 'Can't take my eyes off you'.

...and the time we drove up to peersuhawa... there was nothing but just plain white snow all around. I was wearing chapals and it still didnt matter.

...or that one time when you talked me to sleep. You understood that i had to sleep and i had to ''not-hang-up'.

... or the million times you bought me Mentos and Big apple without me asking you.


...especially the time you surprised me on Valentine's. The corniness of it all. How you indulged me and graciously understood the romantic quirks and notions I held, you being my first love and me-being-me.

..but most of all, I keep replaying that last conversation we had. How mundane it was. How we had a mock argument about Scarlett Johansson. How you kept asking me to let you sleep and how i kept insisting on 'Friday night being an all-night-talking night'. How you told me that it was not Friday but Saturday. You had work on Saturday, na? I wonder if I had not talked to you for that long, maybe you would have left for work on time. Maybe you wouldn't have been inside. You weren't supposed to be at home.


...And the smile you smiled when I would do the "Saady, tum mujh say Saadi kero gay?''

So many of them ..

So today is the day when i go through my day, Half sniffling, half giggling. Today I let myself be the girl who worshipped you. Today I let myself be miserable and I let myself have another portion of my heart fizzle out. Today I let myself feel all that I had stopped feeling, some intentionally and some unintentionally, after you were gone.


Just for today.

Saad Iqbal

Died: October 8th, 2005

...living happily ever after

Are you one of the about-to-get-married ones?..

Are you sick and tired of talking about crockery, cutlery, 'electronics', 'whether you are living with your in-laws?', 'your bridal', 'your choice of photographer/ caterer/ mehndi walli/ parlour/ decorator'...

Are you getting cold feet, thanks to all the aunties/ uncles who have been telling you nut-busting stories of how bad being married can be?

Is it the first time in your life that you are spending money by the tons on yourself and you are just not getting that retail buzz you get from shopping?..

Here's what you should do:

Elope. Go on honeymoon. Make a crazy ass sex-tape. Leak on internet . earn big dough. Live happily ever after.

Call me.

tell me how it goes.

A Lover's Lullaby

Has anyone sung you to sleep?

If not, consider yourself lucky. Cause in the delphic dark of the night, when all you can hear is him singing and your heart beating, ever-so-slowly, there hides a magic, oh-so-enchanting. The juju of his voice will never leave you. It will follow you around day-in, day-out. It will echo in every hushed murmur crossing your path. Its in the random breeze of the day, which leaves nothing but still air behind.. and you wanting more. Like a bad jingle on the radio, it's always there, playing so innocently in the background of your life, yet driving you to insanity. Slowly. Gradually.

So never let him sing to you.

Never.

Ever...

today is a funny day.

My first major crush was a boy, oh-so-cute in the navy blue school jersey.

He had the centre parting, which was all the rage backintheday. The dark, silky bangs used to do this flapping thing when he would walk (think Salman Khan from Maine pyar kia days). To torture me a little more than what was needed, he would run his fingers through those hair, everytime I would cross him... Ever so lightly, like he knew I would if I could..

He had dimples.

and back then just the hair and the dimples were enough. Enough to drive me to raving mad, obsessiveness.

The first time I saw him, it was 31st of August... an odd 11 years ago.

Its funny in so many mundane ways...

... how nothing ever came out of it. (Also rather fortunate, if I say so myself).
...and how my life has changed so much.
...not to forget, how much I cried about absolutly nothing (which is how I would refer to this love affair of mine) . The year you turn 15 should be dealt with more care. Every day, every moment counts.
...also, how so much time has gone by.

Unsave me

I came across this one a long time back.It is Deadlaahyyyy

Steal away the softness from my eyes.
I want your fingerprints on my thighs,
The rainbows you leave there
When I taste your blood on my lips.
Cruel savior-
Make me beg.

Starve me-
Feed me the emptiness I crave,
Please- kiss me with your teeth.
Fill my head with your throat-sounds,
Primal
To chase away the void.

I cannot stand your gentle hands.
Unstained,
They stroke so tenderly,
And though I ache for you
To score with pointed fingertips
The smooth skin of my hips,
You do not.

Bruise away my bitter deeds
Like I long of you.
Tarnish me
Sweet prince,
Rid me of damned innocence,
Flay me with my longing
So hollow-
My raspy yes is barbed within my throat.

Red welts on ivory skin,
Black oceans of bliss
Your name, carved deep enough to scar.
These things I want-
For you to make me nothing,
Free me from myself,
Blind me so that I may see you,
Choke me so that I may breathe.

A Blogging Affair

So I didn’t see this one coming… but here it is , staring me dead-pan, into my eyes, with a quite disapproval, conveyed through the slight pendulum-ish leftrightleft shaking of the head…

I have a blogging crush.

Let me start from the beginning.

I landed on his blog through some randomofficehoursbloghopping. The guy is self-obsessed, sexist, obnoxious, and has all the qualities of a modern day Narcissus, not to forget he is a budding musician and has made a few videos, which have supposedly been played on all the supposedly cool music channels. In other words, he is the metaphorical boy-your-mom-warned-you-against… and is a disconcerting cross between the boy-my-best-friend-made-me-swear-off and the ones Dr. Phill-&-Oprah-shake-their-heads-at

My first reaction to his blog was of obvious shock and mild outrage. “Whatay prick”, I must have thought to myself. I think I even wrote a mean ass comment and didn’t send it. The next day I went back to it, and also forwarded the link to some of my friends. By that time I had surfed through all the archives, but horror of horrors, I felt a something-something-fluttering in my something-something, which I vehemently ignored.

The next thing I know, I was hooked.

I was perturbed, to say the least by what ensued....

I searched for his profile on facebook! .. Then Orkut

Then Google..

Went through previous blog entries in a more systematic manner, to ensure I don’t miss any

Read everyone’s blog, who sounds like he knows him

Called common friends and questioned them about him

Waited for his posts

Was sad when there were none… like majorly-miffed-OUT-sorta-sad

Listened to love songs… First alt rock, then classic rock, then blues, then jazz..

Filed newspaper clippings: article in magazine has a whole paragraph about him.

Day dreamt

After being sick of checking the blog to see if there were update, found out about RSS Feeds. Called ten people to figure it out. Got RSS.. *yesss!!*

And Now I have started randomly commenting too … always giggly..always good stuff ..*puke.puke.puke*
…

I can carry on, but if I do, I will have no other option left but to put a dagger to my heart… and No I do not wanna be a modern day Ameinias

Someone. Anyone. HELP!

A tale of two eyes and some lost moments...

They say our eyes are the windows to our souls….

I remember that look…

Semi-sitting, semi-lying down. After some random conversation, there was a silence and that look. It said so much. I tried to resist. I know it didn’t look like it, but in the few milliseconds before I gave in, there was much inner conflict….

And that first time …

It was everything a first kiss should be, and so much more. I left some of me, in that instant, in that room, somewhere in the corner of that beautiful mouth.

There were tears in your eyes, when I left that day. The glistening, the sparkle of those two beauties; How did you expect me to move past that, ever? How do you hold what happened after, against me? How am I supposed to make peace with never having you look at me like that again?

The soul that I saw that day, was it nothing but just a lie, or a figment of my imagination? If it was so, then why did it feel so real?

Guess you were an exception...

Annie Mama

I was ready to be a mother at 18, yet at 25 marriage still seems like something I don’t want to rush into. I am the Paladin of selfishness, the great defender of that thing called ‘personal space’, so obviously, the rather innocuous word ‘shadi’ scares the bejesus out of me.

But children...

The pitter patter of teeny tiny feet, and their big (taken after me) hazel-brown eyes (taken after dad), with that twinkle (taken after Big S & Little S) which would light my days, my nights. My life painted in baby blues, powder pinks and sunny yellows. The first steps. The first words. Me as someone’s mama. Soul elevation.

They would gurgle, like the little S used to when she was a kid. They would be all nakhras like the Big S used to be at that age. If she’s a girl I’ll keep her hair long, and I hope she has Little S’s silky golden ringlets. I’ll enroll her in ballet school. A mini-me me in a tutu. Dancing. Singing. They would be artsy, undoubtedly, what with me, Little S and Big S making up their momma-brigade.

If it’s a boy I’ll get him a fancy Mohawk. I don’t know what little boys say and do, but I know he’ll be great. Like father, like son.

For once I’ll be able to love endlessly and not give a damn. No heart break. No rejection. No worries of tomorrow, at least not the sort which eat away at your soul.

And now I have another reason