What a girl wants

Was one heck of a week. I thought this blog was going to turn into a sort of Mumbai Chronicles, with me recording the progress I make each day, adapting to a new city. But turns out it’s going to be a Trivandrum Journal for a little while longer. See that song above, that about sums it up. Well, not the context, but the feeling. It’s funny how the things you went away for are suddenly the exact same reasons you want to come back for. Namely, the newness. Really, of all the sayings in the world, the grass is always greener on the other side, has got to be the best, no matter how clichéd it is. I went for newness, I got it, and I couldn’t stand it. I yearned for the familiar old life. I threw all away, came back and now can’t help but miss the newness every passing minute. Returning to an old life that you had mentally resigned from is a painful exercise. Really. This is one of those solution-free problems. Simply cause I have no idea what I want anymore. Hmm, maybe this is enlightenment.

Between here and there

On the rare days that I do Yoga (or the tummy-reducing parts of it), I look at a pink shawl hanging from my pink stand every time I rub my double chin in the hope of tucking it in. There are six teddy bears on the right side of my bed. Suddenly I go to hug them all like a man greeting his children when he comes back home after a long break. I look at my bed and call it my bed. I don’t want to leave the pink shawl, or the bears or my bed or even the speck of dust on the roof I see every night as I go to sleep. And I really had to hear a certain clink of bangles from the next room, that would reach my room unannounced and call me mole. This was home.

I come to office and suddenly it is all Bombay talk. I see messages asking about my accomodation there. I picture living alone, coming to the room, doing everything on my own terms. I like this picture a lot. There is a side of me that tells me it would be nothing like I imagine, you are likely to hate it all and hate yourself for bringing this on yourself. But now is not six days later, now is still a time for picturing everything I like my life to be. Six days later, it changes. To reality. And reality happens only in real time. So that’s alright.

There is a me torn somewhere in between. A wannabe explorer in the day, a homesick retard in the night. I am in between day and night. I can’t give up my dream to go out into the world, and I can’t leave everything that means everything to me. There are many logical mes inside the head, telling me this is nothing to rake my brains over. There is always the option to come back if things turn bad. Or not go at all if it’s that sickening. My life really is in my hands so why do I act like a remote-controlled person, forced to act on someone else’s orders? I can decide when to walk, when to talk and when to go from one place to another. But logical me is always brushed off by emotional me. There’s only the tears of knowing not what to do, the pain of moving and not moving, the torture of indecisiveness.

So I write. From me to me. And does it work?
Apart from the satisfaction of being able to express, not really. But it kept my mind off things for a few minutes. The time you take to write about something that worries you is probably the only time you don’t worry about it.