Weird Compulsions

Weird Compulsions

The other day one of my favorite beauty bloggers tweeted something and it got me thinking about how right she was. We’ve all become so… accessible.

It is such a weird compulsion.

This whole thing – how when someone texts or calls, you gotta respond immediately or they end up thinking, “Oh she is such a bitch!” – is kind of sad. How we always seek validation, and we don’t even know we’re doing it. It’s nuts. When did it get like this? I like my alone time and it doesn’t mean I’m doing stupid shit. I don’t like being in situations where I’ve to give people an update on everything I’m doing. I mean, come on, even FACEBOOK isn’t as inquisitive as some people are! Like what’s with people texting constantly when you’re out with family? If you don’t respond immediately, you get texts that say – “Whoa who am I now? Nothing. Just time pass. I know you’re getting married and shopping for your lehenga!”


I actually know one such person. Super cute and super insecure. How do you deal with that? If you know someone that gets severe separation anxiety from not getting texts back? You ignore them and then you calm yourself down and then you text them back. Right? Wrong. You’ll find yourself the victim of this weird compulsion and composing a reply and sending it anyway. Gah. This makes me so mad. Why must we stay and please every freaking person??! Does it really matter if people think you’re rude as fuck and that you use them and that you aren’t a good person? If you don’t get back to them immediately? NO. It doesn’t.

What’s worse is we know this. And we still let it bother us and we let ourselves stay accessible. UGH. This makes me so mad.

I made a new resolution: I’m gonna stop thinking about what people say about me if I don’t reply. If I don’t take calls. And I’m going to give myself more time and work on being a better person. It’s not necessary to talk everyday. It’s not. If you have a mature relationship with your people, they’ll get you. And that’s how it should be.

Are you a victim of weird compulsion too? Let me know.

70 Years 

70 Years 

…and counting. And we still aren’t given our freedom. 

It’s been a tradition on my blog, doing a post every Independence Day, hoping for a change in momentum, only to be disappointed by the turn of events. Not much can be expected of a country where racism is pretty much as common as rape and marital rape is basically legal. Even if the wife is a minor. Pedophiles rejoice because now you won’t be slammed behind bars for marrying a fifteen year old AND having your way with her. A country with a loudmouth of a constitution that says all Indians are my brothers and sisters pretty much has a weird way of showing how you treat family. Maybe they should now change the constitution to say something like all Indians are my family, we keep it in the family and we treat each other like crap. That sounds about right. 

What bothers me is that the bad guys aren’t essentially born bad. They just want to experiment; they go astray. I wish this would stop and people would just behave. We have to stop endorsing shit: right from Fair and Lovely to treating women like meat because her skirt was a tad bit too tiny. Also, let’s talk about love. Love and all the shit that comes with it. They say love makes the world go round, right? WRONG. We have the parents that are trying to fix you up with some random guy and then there’s some other random guy you’re trying to take home to meet the parents. It’s a vicious cycle because no matter which direction you decide to step in, you’re fucked. Between having to have sex with a total stranger after you’ve been pushed into an “arranged marriage” to having already done the deed with a someone who you used to be a side chick for, you’re already lost. But only if you are a woman. If you’re a man, oh thank your stars, for your ego has been boosted. 

Things have only gotten worse over the past seventy years. Good thing I won’t be around when we celebrate a hundred years of this fuckery. 

Yeah yeah blah.

The Other Woman 

The Other Woman 

I hope no one else ever feels this way

This uncertainty that never seems to go away 

The hurt that’s driving me insane 

This isn’t just some random pain 

It’s beyond that, beyond everything that crushes you 

It’s the worst case of the blues 

There’s no saving me because I’m in too deep 

Even though I know he’s not mine to keep 

Not that he ever was anyway 

Having said that, I’m done for the day 

Having him creep into my room at night 

Doing everything so right 

The world feels like a better place with him around 

All emotions heightened, all colors, every sound 

I’ve never been more aware 

I’ve never been more ashamed of having been pulled by the hair 

Sharing him with her 

She doesn’t know, because for the most part I vanish into thin air 

Just when morning comes

Just when dawn breaks 

Just when she calls 

When he goes home, to her

He isn’t mine to keep, 

All I can do is smile and then weep

Because it’s so much better, hating life with shared property

Than to be lonely.

I Maybe Actually Dying

I Maybe Actually Dying

Today’s been the cherry on top of a fantastic month. Wow. I believe I had a near-death experience. As per my usual blunt style, I’m gonna just tell y’all what did happen. 

So I woke up at my usual time, maybe earlier. Put on my glasses and turned on the lights. Couldn’t see anything. At first, I thought it was a power cut or something. But I could hear my fan going. So I thought maybe my lights weren’t working. Reached for my phone and still couldn’t see a thing. Now, I’ve had blackouts before but nothing quite as bad. This was full-tilt utter blindness. At this point I think I felt really nauseous and passed out. 

When I came to, thankfully my eyes were working again. I was lying in a pool of sweat. When I tried to get out of bed, nausea hit me again, pretty much like a speeding train. I live on my own, and the first thought that crossed my mind was, “Who’s gonna make my funeral arrangements, because I don’t want to die forgotten?” So I calmed myself down, and tried reaching out to my parents. And couldn’t get through. Ah, lovely. 

I believe I’m dying. I’m not kidding, because my health has been failing for quite some time now. I don’t talk to anyone about it. But this bottling up of things is making me rantier than my usual ranty self. I’ve been snapping at people unnecessarily. Been spending too much, going into debts because YOLO. And giving people reasons to believe I’m a pathological liar. And I’ve been trying to hide what I’m actually going through under my huge sarcastic personality. When all I really am is just really, really sick. Maybe dying. 

I’ve got tachycardia (not important) and depression (oh fuck it, she’s lying and depression isn’t gonna do Jack squat) and hyperthyroidism (blah, she won’t die of that shit). All diagnosed. My retinas are super weak and I’m at a huge risk of tearing holes in them. Prozac isn’t helping me, either. So please forgive me if all I want to do is live a little. 

I don’t expect you to understand, and I definitely don’t need your pity. This post was meant to be for those readers of mine who seemed genuinely concerned about my MIA status. And a huge shout out to my friends who are psych majors for being so… extra. If only you’d used your degree and applied it to me and helped me get through my issues rather than doing whatever I made you do. All my fault. 

Anyway. So this is what’s been happening with me, and I just needed y’all to know. 

Some Nights 

Some Nights 

I know he’s emotionally not into me. 

And I know he tries. Oh, how he tries. And I know he’s slipping. 

It’s been five months of this, this charade. Holy matrimony, they called it, waving us goodbye. Holy crap, I told myself. I was right. 

You know how people say a marriage changes everything? It does. It changed me. I’m calm. Calmer. Sweeter. Kinder. Nicer. A lot more patient. A lot more vulnerable. I quit my job to come live with him. Lisbon is beautiful. And so is he. 

The problem is, the rest of the women think so too. 

His longish hair. Proud cheekbones. That nose. Those eyes. Everything. When it comes to the Indian custom of the famous arranged marriage, boy, did I hit the jackpot. My husband Raghav is perfection. Husband. Did I just say that out loud? Six months and I still feel…new. 

He’s asleep as I stay awake, thoughts chasing each other like crazy inside my head. This is the fourth time this week he’s talked in his sleep. I hear him say the same name. Like a prayer. Over and over. Pooja

Some nights he makes love to me and he’s so gentle I almost manage to ignore him saying her name – almost. 

Some nights I want to kill whoever she is. 

Some nights I want to kill him. 

Some nights, I want to set myself on fire.

And some nights, like this one, I look down at my belly and feel the life growing in there. And I can’t bring myself to do it. 

Do I lose my man to her? 

Do  I  lose to her

Some nights I know what to do. Like tonight. I let him go. I leave the signed divorce papers in the hall where he can see them first thing. They’re a tad bit wet with my tears, but that’s okay. I wish I could watch him watch the baby grow, but I’m barely showing anyway. He doesn’t have to know. 

Some nights you know it’s okay to lose, in the name of love. 

Pink Blues

Pink Blues

Dear You,

I know I write to you every Valentine’s Day and crib about the same thing, over and over. Begging you to come find me. And then begging you to stay. This Valentine’s Day? Not so much – I guess I’m probably on the fence and that I might change my mind come February 14th but right now? I don’t want you here. 

I just want you gone. Whoever you are, whatever you pretend to be, whatever you led me on to believe. I can’t do this. Going to extremes to convince myself that you’d show up one day and sweep me off my tired feet when we both know you won’t. Valentine’s Day pretty much sucks and I’m tired of waiting. It’s a struggle, trying to hold back your tears and not cry when you feel like there’s an elephant sitting on your heart and it might explode anytime. 

I see you. I know you’re in love with other things. I will never make it to your priority list. You’d never buy me flowers, let alone take me out to dinner. I don’t deserve that is what you think and I don’t even want to know you anymore. You led me on to believe that I was maybe worth a shot and then you just left me hanging in there barely. Just by a thread maybe. Well, guess what? That thread is now fraying, and will give away before you know it. 

I don’t believe in you anymore. I don’t believe in love and most importantly, I don’t believe in myself. 

No longer yours, 




I’m here. I’m watching you. You may not know it, but I always am. Lurking. Mostly invisible, but definitely lurking. You would be scared if you knew. 

I’ve seen everything. Right from the spare pizza keychain in your glove compartment to the mole on your Adam’s apple. I can tell which shoes are your favorite. I’d know the scent of your skin anywhere. It’s hardwired into my system. I know the way your eyes sparkle when you talk about her, I know when your eyebrows would shoot up in the middle of a conversation. I know when you’d clear your throat and when you’d change topics. You’re like clockwork. 

I can see you now, even when you’re not around, playing that stupid game you play online and yell profanities at the other dudes. I can tell when you’d pick up the phone to call me and maybe ask me to hang out. Telepathy. We have a connection, I’m not even playing tricks here. 

I can tell because no matter what I do, you’d always come back to me. It’s like, you’re drawn to me. Maybe it’s your Stockholm Syndrome kicking in. Or maybe it’s all in my wildest dreams. 



Don’t say anything, if you’ve got nothing to say. 

Just make sure you don’t give her false hope.

Don’t call her everyday, pretending everything is okay, don’t light a fire that’s not even real. 

Just don’t start a flame, if you’ve never wanted to stay. 

Don’t be sweet, don’t be whatever it is you are, don’t encourage her, if all you want is someone to entertain you. 

Just don’t act like a paramour. 

Don’t ask her stuff you’re gonna forget about the next instant, if you aren’t in it for the long run. 

Just don’t feed her lies. 

Don’t act like you know better, if all you’re gonna do is try to change her as a person. 

Just don’t hang around. 

Don’t lead her on. 

Just don’t. 



Working in a remote area with loads of patients, and very few doctors can be a pain in the neck. Coupled with the constant worry of not having enough medical supplies, the whole doctor thing gets messy. 

We basically take turns, and often miss meals because well, bulaava aaya. We all know I loathe group texts, and people in general – but when you get added to a workplace based whatsapp group, there’s no getting out. You’re supposed to cover for the other doctors when they are on leave because if you don’t, nobody will give you a break when you need one. What a crapload of a mess to be in. 

All of this is making me kind of apathetic. I don’t feel a thing. Except exhaustion. I’ve failed at relationships, been called out for being an opportunist, a pathogen and a slew of other names, and I don’t want to have a failed career too. I just want to be my own person, my own everything just so I can afford my life, and if that makes me look bad – so be it. I’m doing okay, I guess. 

Patients are cute. I get to see a lot of babies, a constant reminder that I’ll be a toxic mother so I should just refrain from the whole attachment thing. Seriously, don’t date MY kind. My kind don’t feel, we’re machines meant to serve the sick. And we won’t complain when you keep misunderstanding us. 

Such is life. 

In My Shoes

In My Shoes

Okay, I’m gonna talk about this again. I know I’ve talked about ‘it’ before. And lately, all my posts have been pretty much about the same thing.

So, anyway.

I was thirteen when it started. Depression. Not that I had anything to be depressed about, at least that’s what people said. I mean, I honestly didn’t. I had great parents, a great home, yada yada yada. I’m not blaming anyone, but the strictest parents do make the best liars, and as I grew up, I learned to effortlessly lie about the one thing I should have been honest about, and I kept saying, “I’m all right.”

I shouldn’t have.

I should have talked to someone. Anyone. But then, my parents never asked me, “Are you okay? Can we talk? Is there anything wrong? How can I help?”

We don’t do that in my family. What we do is dismiss problems and call them pretend first world problems. That’s what we do. We also laugh at insecurities, air dirty linen in public, and end things in punches. Because there’s nothing a good beating won’t cure. Yes, even today.

So basically, this killed most of my mojo.

I can’t love without wondering why the person I’m dating would ever want someone like me. Because I’ve been made to feel less than even remotely amazing, all my life, and this – I’m sorry to add – has stuck. I can’t shake it off. Usually when I’m just ignoring what I’m going though, I sail through the day, and nothing bothers me. Usually, I fight it. But a few of the times when it does win, it wins by a wide margin.

And I come undone.

I’ve been to countless therapists. I’ve tried meditation. I’ve begged my Mum to hold me, when I cried, she never did. I’m an old bat, and I should handle myself. That’s what she said. It’s kind of unfair that everyone blames me and says I’m heartless, when they should be blaming my family instead. We do things the twisted way. There’s nothing uncomplicated about me, or us, and there never will be.

And I will keep pretending everything is just peachy, and go back to ranting about crap, trying to make other people laugh.

I’m golden. I’m golden.