Dancing in the Dark: The Secret Life of An Emo Adult

There comes a moment in every woman's life when she must put her foot down and firmly state what it is she wants. A new haircut. A social life that doesn't require her to spend an upwards of two thousand rupees every weekend. Some alone time. Some non-alone time. Which really means that during the former she is trying on new eye-liner and wiping it off in her room by herself, and during the latter, her best friend is watching her do it. This in no way means that six out of ten women are not spending their alone time pondering the evolution of womankind during the ages and where, anthropologically speaking, they stand now. It just means that eye-liner may be involved a little bit.

As someone who usually doesn't feel entitled to demand stuff, I am pleased to announce that somehow life has finally hit that note for me. Ironically, what I am demanding is to be allowed to duck behind the bush of life, and wait this storm out. What storm, you might ask, and if your name is Danyal,  probably roll your eyes and spit out a heartfelt 'women!' and 'drama!' and several combinations of these two words, and I'd be happy to tell you, only I don't really know.

I think it all started a couple of weeks ago, when Yasmin walked in at work, and I said, 'Hi, you look really ni...' and started bawling, much to the horror of the collected grown up I like masquerading as. It really wasn't because I was sad, or miserable or anything synonymous with those words, it was just that, to put it super mildly, I felt like an emo 15-year-old. For the one thing, my parents suck! For another, the guy I have a crush on is very nice and I don't know what to do about it! For yet another, nobody understands all these deep feelings that reside within my heart. Did that make you want to throw up a little in your mouth? Yes? Now try imagining being the 30-year-old actually living with this unnecessary baggage of crap.

Before you judge me too much, my parents suck on a level which you will not understand till faced with questions of mortality. You never really think about these things too much, and I hope you don't, because I hope we're all too busy living to worry about kicking the bucket (there you go, my '90s child has spoken). So you spend decades thinking you have all the time in the world, to, say, ask your mom how she makes her scrambled eggs, because no one else's taste quite the same. Then one day there's just no time to ask anymore. You're all too busy just dealing with all these heavy life things, and eggs seems like a stupid thing to talk about. To reiterate an earlier emotion, I have absolutely no idea what I'm saying.

To further really mess with whatever moments of clarity I have these days, I have a massive crush on this dude. If you've read anything on this blog earlier, you know I have a freak radar. Pretty soon this intelligent, kind, talented man will turn around and ask me whether I work out, or make some interesting sartorial choices, like wearing Crocs, or completely disappear. Or, he will put on some Crocs, and as he's telling me my calves are weird, will turn around mid-conversation and disapparate. Because he's also a wizard and that's just how wizards roll.

My answer to all of this? Hide. Pretend there are no heavy things in life, and no crush dude, and all of this will pass. At the end of it all I'll be sitting by myself at a wedding and Rupert Everett will apparate out of nowhere singing something or the other. Because not only do I now live in My Best Friend's Wedding, there's been a Harry Potter crossover there too.

What I'm trying to say is, that day I went all girl on Yasmin, she told me to not worry about other people too much, as everyone's 'the hero of their own tragic story.' Here's the thing though - in my story, I don't want to exist anymore. At least for a while. Stop rolling your eyes! I know how it sounds, but I think I'm allowed this break. And maybe when I come back - maybe - all of the stuff I mentioned will have blown over. Or maybe it will be resolved, I don't know anymore. But I do know this, friends: Someday, I, yes I, will be Saturday night.

P.s. Will take a Friday too. Thursdays aren't so bad either.

Run Over By A Tea Trolley

I thought marriages were made in heaven and for sometime it seemed to be the case.

People whom I had never seen before would come to our house and were showered with copious amounts of attention and trays of tea time treats. I hadn’t seen this much adulation over someone we cared nothing for since our rich great aunt from India died (finally!). Khair, the point is I had seen all this hullabullo when cousins had people come to ‘see’ them. My cousins would never bring out a tea trolley themselves, it was always a servant.

“No use basing these relations under false pretenses.” These are not the words of a UN Secretary General but that of my very pretentious Phuppi. She has five daughters and one very devoted, doting rich husband; thus Phuppi can afford to be pretentious. For all her airs and graces, to put it politely, her daughters were married off one by one: summer weddings (to make sure all visiting relatives could take in the extravagances) and every two years, like clock work, in a fashion that Henry Ford would be proud of.

Those were the days but these days are very different. Marriages aren’t made in heaven but at schools, universities, workplaces, cafes. Who wants complete strangers to show up at their house? Imagine that! Or worse an ex! (Yeah, that happened. It was made worse when the intermediary was too clueless to understand the awkward silences and eyes glaring at her to cram the last piece of Bombay Bakery cake into her gob and leave.)

So what am I left with? No choice but my mom telling me in a subtle way that it would have been easier for me had I been slutty in college. This is the same mom that gave all my western clothes to the maid (what was she going to do with them?) when I was 16 for sneaking out at night and coming back with a hickey. Now that I’m 30 she’s all like, “You don’t like anyone, you might as well have picked out someone yourself.” Sorry, Mom, I spent all my life hiding guys from you, when you really just wanted to meet them. Make up your mind, woman!”

“Koi course kyun nahi karlaythi?” she suggests.

I finally shout at her, rather unforgivably, “I have a double masters! What ‘course’ could I possibly enroll in? Do you want me to go to Rangoonwala Hall to learn stitching and flower arrangement?!?!”

“Nahi wahan pay larkay nahi hothay.”