Everything about being here, gives me a rush. One is after all an adrenaline junky. It works well for me, focuses my mind, stops it from getting lost-this need to chase something. But in my personal life it’s always been disastrous.
I find myself thinking about MJ quite often. A part of me, wants to slap the other one out of this strange dreamlike, state I’ve gone into. ‘What’s wrong with you? ‘ I keep asking myself. ‘Survival instinct’, the other one replies. I’ve been here before, this place, many a times. This feeling of not belonging, of feeling totally lost, of grief seeping into every cell in my body and damaging it. I don’t deal well with loss. My mind reels out of control. Then I hold on to whatever fleeting thought, distractions come, for dear life. This is exactly how I met the boy, who is a stone’s throw distance from me and who I will probably never meet again. That was a year after my brother passed away. Do I regret it? Not in this lifetime, despite the backlash. Some people God sends to save you, without you or them knowing how they did it. This little boy in his green topi, reminds me of him.
‘Good morning’, the Mother hen, chirps into the phone. Till, I’m here, this boy will be fretting and worried sick, calling me multiple times a day. No one knows my propensity to get in trouble, as well as he does and especially with uniformed men. I get my daily dose of stability from him, which SC, appreciates the most. Shetty and the Mother hen or the Wall, like I sometimes call him, are probably the only stabilising factors in one’s life, especially now. The former though, is like a tourist on vacation, like me, he’s here, there and everywhere. His own emotional states, always highly questionable, like mine. This one is like my ex (has all his good qualities, not the one’s that drove me nuts) – strong, silent, watches me with amusement ( as if I am child or an animal), no games, no bullshit and emotionally stable. Sometimes, I find myself wishing, I would have listened to my mum and married him, when she was alive. She adored him but the heart wants what it wants and mine it seems never wants what is good for it.
I wrote to someone the other day, ‘ Aap ko te ek insaan yaad he, humme to pura Kafila, yaad he!’ It’s not self deprecating, trust me, it’s the truth. Abh is umar mein aake hum apne gadde hue murde to nahin sambhal sakte. Too old to care and too young to not hope, someone can deal with the ghosts of men past!