I am..

a jabberwocky in progress.

a slayer of thought-monsters.

a storm in a coffee mug.

love all the things that are injurious to health.

live in books and learn from the movies.

From a Mountain Girl

I hope one day soon I can live in the hills for ever. I was a mountain girl in my last birth, I'm convinced of that. There is something about the stillness here, the greenery here, the tall trees and the fresh breeze that I feel so clean and happy here. The mountains stand for something, they have character to withstand a lot.... hail, snow, rain, ice, glaciers, man made encroachments but they never give up easily. They always tell a story... and always stand tall.

I love gazing at them, feeling so small in front of their imposing presence. Its good to look upto to something...

I'm glad I have the mountains...

30

I waited all my life to be 30. I don’t know how or why but I’m convinced that I always had a hyperactive 30 ‘osome’ (is osome a word? Don’t think so. But since I want to play with the word chromosome so we’ll have to go with osome). So back to 30, yes, it’s been an obsession. One of my most favourite lines during my salad days was, “I can’t wait to be 30. I believe a woman’s life begins at 30.” Gosh, how I would go on and on about turning 30. I would scoff at all those chick lit books that treated 30 as the big Cancer or something. Heck, I was so enamoured by the magic of 30 that I even wrote a script film on it. Yeah, an 88 pager on a girl’s journey in the 30 th year. It was titled ‘Turning 30.’ I thought the script like my life will take off at 30. I thought it was destined.

Well, it wasn’t.

For when I turned 30—NOTHING happened. I did not wake up 100 pounds lighter. I did not bring in my birthday in Paris, walking on the Champs Elysee, sipping a latte as I see La Tour Eiffel turn gold in the setting Parisian sun. No, my soulmate (who I christened, Rigolo, in my 2^nd year French class, because I loved the combination of its two meanings— ‘funny’ & ‘revolver’) was nowhere in sight. We did not read out Neruda to each other. We did not fight over the Sunday section of The Indian Express. We did not plan weekend getaways to Provence. He did not make breakfast in bed for me. I did not paint a wall for him.

He didn’t show. Period.

As for my film, let’s just say, Happy Ending just remained in Courier Final Draft, point 12 in my laptop. I wrote it. And that’s that.

Not much going for 30, right! Like I said, NOTHING happened. The magic passed me by. I felt cheated, a lot hurt, very disappointed. I wanted 30 to be special. It was anything but that. In reality, 30 was turning out to be an year of full on bloody despair. It was the year when some friends started avoiding me ‘coz they could not take my “moping.” It was the year when a superstar actually interrupted an interview mid-way to tell me that “Something is wrong with you. You were shiny, happy. Now you’re dark, sad.”

Yes, my nothingness was written all over my face.

30 was the year when I acquired some new habits. How I wish treadmilling, walking & organic were these new habits. No, rather it was the habit of sleeping on the floor. Please note, I do not take the word ‘sleeping’ lightly. It’s quite a luxurious word. I’m a chronic insomniac—try as I might I can’t sleep for more than 3 hours and that too on a good day. What I was doing on the floor was not sleeping. It was more like, curling. I would just curl up on the floor and just cry. And oh man, could I cry! Honestly, that’s another ‘osome’ I’ve in abundance. I realized the strength of that ‘osome’ when I was 30.

You see, I thought I would have it all figured out by the time I hit 30. But here I was unraveling minute by minute. I was falling into such low depths, discovering such new pores where it could hurt that I felt like a different person. I did not know what I was before 30. So when people close to me told me that I’m changing, I heaved a sigh of relief. My logic: If others can sense your problem then they can help you solve it too, right? But that is not how it happens apparently.

This nothingness was wallowing me. Or I was wallowing in it. As the year progressed and nothingness became my new skin, I learnt to make peace with it. Sort of. I learnt to let a lot of stuff go--- a lot of unconquerable dreams, a lot of relationships, a lot of party invitations and other such clutter. I also let go of the idea of me, the idea of me at 30.

And when I let it go, I discovered the new me at 30. The ‘N 30’ as I called myself was not that bad.

She was quieter but still a fighter. She was wiser but still mad in a controlled way. She learnt a few lessons about people and relationships. She learnt to value the ones who did not give up on her even when she gave up on herself. She learnt about forgiveness. She learnt that you can rise even if you fall down in your eyes … it takes time but eventually it happens. She learnt that life is not a film—but that it’s a screenplay that you can write as you go along discovering it. She realized that while all her life she was waiting for the magic of 30… 30 was waiting for her. As for magic, isn’t it an illusion? So then isn’t it nothing?

If you think about it, in a way, my life did begin at 30. My year of nothingness was maybe a rest button. My only regret? I wish I had seen La Tour Eiffel. Heck, it would have just made the journey into nothingness a little bit pretty.

…. To be continued