U - Utopia

For her Utopia was where she owned a wall full of books, a roomful, a houseful even. It was where she was capable of making strawberry preserve and scones just like Enid Blyton described it. In Utopia, she would sit down with her five friends who loved her unconditionally, and she loved them back too, and have the scones with clotted cream and her own preserve while they racked their brains to solve the latest, most baffling of mysteries. 

For her Utopia was where she could write at will and the words that came out would be so perfect that people would be transformed, their lives would be bettered. But in Utopia, she would be euphoric, not for the appreciation of the work, but the perfection of the words that came out of her pen. In Utopia, she would put a fine-nibbed pen to crisp, white paper and she would write her heart out without the distractions of the world pulling her away from the stream of words that bubbled from within her. 

For her Utopia was the perfect pain of tattoos, artwork that was as beautiful and complicated as a fine filigree work of lace or a monument dedicated to a loved wife. In Utopia, the pain made her a better person and the memory lasted a lifetime, etched on her skin. 

For her Utopia was where her family was complete, where the family was safe and sane and well-fed and well taken care of. In Utopia, there would be no blank spaces in family portraits which were complete only in the wonderful memories of the years gone by.

For her Utopia was love so strong that it went all the way from secret giggles to wrinkled hands by the fire and she knew that 'death do us apart' was that one part of the vows she took that would not come true, for their bond would last beyond just a lifetime. In Utopia, the crests of the waves always came crashing down but never failed to rise into another crest – only because of the presence of the rock, her rock.

For her Utopia was where the world was peaceful and green and had the best of men overlooking things, like God’s angels, only not so fictitious. In Utopia, everyone co-existed and minded their own businesses because they had realized that that is the only way to be a truly enlightened race if they were to survive the next great change that the Universe might bring to them.

For her Utopia was where she learnt from mistakes and never made them again, where she was truly happy in the sun and the sand as much as she was in the blankets that protected her from the sleet. In Utopia, there was nothing, really, that could get her so down that she couldn’t...wouldn't bounce back up after a few dark moments.

 
And guess what, she does live in her Utopia for no one can take away the strength of her dreams and her will to make those dreams, reality. 

P.S: Just being whimsical, bear with me.

Unsent Texts

You can either choose to take perfection as a state of mind and revel in the perfect present and the awesomesauceness of everything that is happening in the now. 

Or you can take perfection to be a confluence of factors at a place in time and keep waiting for it. 

Either way, it is your choice to make.

[puhl-kri-tyood]

How did I get so lucky?

That was the constant whisper that kept clanging around in the vast expanse of my mind as I watched her nimble fingers work the Colossal Kajal stick. She then turned around to ask if the line was right, as she always does. And, as always, my breath caught at how much I saw in her expressive eyes.... I managed to choke out a coherent enough ‘yes’. And, as always, the perfectionist took my word for it, with implicit trust in my opinion, and put her makeup away.

I wonder what I’d done to deserve such trust from this one, a woman who had trained herself not to trust the world.

She whipped around the room in the flurry that she’s always in when she is getting ready as I sat back, I’m used to this routine. Her hair, blown around by the fan’s cool air, framed that face that has been making me stop in my tracks for a while now as she puckered up her lips and dabbed on something chocolatey. Yet again she turned around and tilted her head at me, questioningly. My gaze lingered on her lips for a second too long; maybe my eyes darkened a shade, giving away my less-than-decent thoughts for a faint red stained her pale cheeks and she said ‘mch’, turning away with that slight smile.  

She pulled on her top, straightened the straps and turned a critical eye towards the mirror. Sighs of dissatisfaction emanated from pouty lips as nostrils flared and she pulled it off before rummaging in the wardrobe for another one. The next one stayed on for a nanosecond longer than the last one and it wasn’t long before a third one joined a growing pile on the carpet.

I stood up, picked up one of the delicate pieces and handed it back to her - you are perfect. She ‘hmph’-ed again in dissatisfaction - you’re only saying that coz you want to leave soon.

It was my turn to let out a sigh... we’d fallen into this routine and she never believed one of the most truthful statements that have ever come out of my mouth.

And as always, I wished she could see herself the way I do.

***

The men in our life, the ones who are here to stay, think we are perfect.
It is high time we do too.

P.S: I'm just preaching here. Gotta long way to go before I get there myself.

Iris

I lay crying for a long time. A long, long time. For the first time in years, I felt like a failure. His shirt was drenched through and yet my tears didn’t cease. 

And he spoke not a word.

Amidst my gut-wrenching sobs, I wished he wouldn’t give me any space now, I wished he would do something to cheer me up, to say that I am wrong to think such things, that I ain’t no failure. 

But he spoke not a word.

His comforting presence and the aroma of his woody soap reminded me of all that I had, all that I am. I finally found solace in the fact that even if I had nothing else, I had him. I might be a failure but for now I had him.

And that made up for a lot of things. 

He still spoke not a word. 

My sniffles died down and I cracked a reluctant smile... I’d always been this mercurial in my moods swings. One good cry and I could always put it behind and try to get back on the figurative horse. The darkness ebbed as I found courage in the flimsiness of the proof that showed I was a failure. 

He finally pulled my face to his and forced me to look at him. 

Fresh tears threatened to brim out at the weight of his unrelenting, almost harsh, gaze when he firmly said…

“That is enough. You’re perfect. And you’re mine.”

The problems weren’t solved, the darkness still remained, I was still afraid of the ghosts that haunted me but I knew I was not alone. That someone had faith in me. 

“When everything is made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am”

Lucky are those who have someone that has such unshakeable faith in you, especially in those moments when you doubt yourself.  

P.S: Fiction after a long, long time. Not perfect, not even close. But I’m glad I tried. 
What can I say, the Goo Goo Dolls are inspirational.

Pick! Perfection Or Messed Up

Sachin FINALLY got to celebrate. About time, I should think. 

But, with all due respect, if I read ONE more update with 'Sachin' or 'God' in it, I'm going on a blocking spree.  

And we lost. To Bangladesh. 

Moving on (before I launch into a rant)...

There is this author, yeah. Pretty famous I should say, from what I hear. I was initially very taken in with the whole idea of her, but, bit by bit the charm faded. Then the charm went 'pop' when that Nanda guy got me her latest book as a Valentines' present and I spent all of six hours with my nose buried in it. 

I was disappointed. For a 'best-selling author' thrice over, the book and the story was only average. 

I don't have a problem with that.

Well, mostly because most recent Indian authors have disappointed me.

She posts regularly on her blog and I read every post religiously (I stalk all writers I can find on Blogger, bit of an OCD). And I have yet to find a post in which she doesn't mention her best-sellers or perfect writing skills or her perfect behavior in all manners of situations or her perfect life or the perfect people around her who are just perfectly perfect. She's always together, always has a condescending tone and a perfect answer to every question you can ever think of asking her. She never fails to mention that she has an amazing figure even after kids (I don't even understand why that's relevant to her work) along with what an awesomely well-rounded mother she is. She even gets her husband to write guest posts about what an amazing experience it is to have her as his wife.

She seems to have mastered the art of perfection.

I don't have a problem with that either. You have enough discipline to write a whole book, the grit to get it published and the guts to put yourself out there for the whole world to criticize and tear apart, you deserve to brag. Not that it's an excuse to be anything less that an exemplary writer but I'd understand. 

My question is: 

Can anyone's life be perfect? Can anyone's life go exactly the way they plan it, have all their wishes come true and never have any major problems to deal with? Can anyone take every single teeny bit of negativity that ever came their way and turn it into the 'most amazing thing' that every happened to them?

Even if you answer yes to all the above, is that how life is supposed to be?

Doesn't it take two weeks of bad food to attain nirvana with one piece of cheese-burst pizza? Doesn't it take tears to find out how beautiful happiness is? Doesn't it take hurt to find out how deep love can be? Doesn't it take mistakes to feel how satisfactory it is to be right? 

Shouldn't we mess up sometimes just to know what the other side is like.... to appreciate good things when they come to us?

If everything is perfect all the time, wouldn't everything become mechanical? Boring?

Or am I psychologically damaged? :P

P.S: No offense to the writer or her fans who might recognize who I'm talking about. She just got me thinking, that's all.