On Broken Souls and Olive Branches

On Broken Souls and Olive Branches

I’ve been told I don’t try hard enough

I’ve been told it’s my fault things go wrong

They said I was weird and unfixable, with a sad little laugh

They said I don’t know what it takes at all

I’ve been told the problem lies in me

I’ve been told I’m no good

And I whole heartedly agree, because honestly

A year went by and I achieved nothing

It’s hard to find someone who gets it

Someone who feels what you feel

They might try on your shoes but they won’t fit

As comfortably as they seem to fit you

No matter how many olive branches you extend

Someone needs to be receptive there too

Broken people and broken relationships don’t mend

Not one their own, they need a lot of help too

I’m an introvert when it comes to feelings

That won’t ever change

I wish I could stay in my bubble and find some meaning

Meanwhile I’d let my ramblings comfort me in my head

It’s a new year but nothing feels different to me

I feel detached like I’ve always been

Broken people don’t heal themselves, you see

What’s worse, I feel like I’d never find my clarity

50 Word Story: The Comment

50 Word Story: The Comment

She uploaded a story. The caption said, “Working out,eating right, do we see results or nah?”

He responded, “Um, zero difference, still the same fat glob you used to be.”

Something broke inside her, she scooped out a huge chunk off her thigh with a meat knife.

A Look At An Extraordinary Pandit Ji

A Look At An Extraordinary Pandit Ji

Bengal has a very rich, diverse culture. It’s a shame that politics, religion and bigotry has now ruined the whole state, but there’s always some good that does live on. No matter what you think or say, there are always stories to tell when you’re interacting with people.

We had this pooja and it lasted almost ten whole hours. I always assumed that Hinduism had a lot of weird creepy stuff, and I’ve always been someone that’s never been religious – but when your astrologer tells you to get a pooja done, you get a pooja done, no questions asked. Don’t ask, it’s something most Hindu families believe in. Mine aren’t different. Sometimes, questionable choices are made but we roll with it. And we roll our eyes behind our parents’ backs too.

We had three pandit jis come over. Two full-blown ones, and an intern kinda.

Hinduism has a lot of deities and a lot of poojas and the whole process requires a ton of patience and dedication. It’s super hard for someone like me, who’s got ADHD, to actually stay put in one spot and not MOVE. But, the oldest pandit ji that came over for the pooja didn’t move from his spot the whole day. I’ve never seen anyone display so much devotion and concentration before. He cried while offering prayers, and he seemed to be in a trance, almost.

When the prayers were done, he talked to us for a bit.

He’d been a pandit ji since 1964. His father was a Ayurvedic practitioner and he’d grown up watching his father prescribe herbal stuff to people. He’d also never popped a pill in seventy seven years of his life. And his energy was remarkable.

I’ve seen people rip off their customers in this profession, but this guy? Far from it. While leaving, he told me in secret that he’d been vegan for the last thirty years, and that he didn’t do it for the money. That being with God, immersed in prayer gave him a lot more peace than any family or relationships ever could. He’d never had a fight with the fellow pandits either. And they all said that he was the kindest person they’d ever met.

That’s amazing, right?

As long as you stay in your own lane, and do your thing and don’t get in someone’s way, life’s going to stay peachy. Maybe I’m going to start doing that right away.

A Millennial’s Guide to Saving Money

A Millennial’s Guide to Saving Money

My Dad used to (actually, he still does) say that the millennial is awful with money. So, every month-end that would see me staring woefully at all the missing zeroes in my bank account, I would make a promise to myself that I would be a lot more planned with my moolah. That one month when I was down to my last few hundred rupees, made me realize that I needed to change my ways. When you’re in college, being broke is the worst thing ever, and I forced myself to get my ish together.

Enter Sooch 2.0, the smart, savvy (an exaggeration), wise as ever – with money – version of me.

• I didn’t really do a LOT, just made a few minor changes. For example, I am a teetolater and I realized that when I did go to clubs, I ended up being the grandma and trust me, when you are the ONLY sober person, you don’t need to be going to clubs in the first place. Getting rid of these friends of mine helped drastically. No money was wasted on Uber, or on other people’s liquor, and I got to spend my Sunday nights sleeping in. Unless of course, I had a night shift.

• The second thing I did was cut back completely on ordering in. And I would cook myself healthy meals that momma would approve. Which is something I do till date.

Not only does this save you money, home-cooked meals are almost always so much easier on your heart and your waistline.

• Investments are your best friend. Read up on mutual funds, and property investments and make smart choices. You’ll get returns and you will feel like a sorted person. Get someone to help you out, if you’re getting stuck somewhere. There’s zero shame in asking for guidance.

• I did a lot of debating, and finally made a giant change in my shopping habits. I don’t buy stuff I won’t ever wear. Which means I don’t have clothes that are lying around collecting dust, and I have a closet that gives me breathing space. I’ve also cut back on my makeup shopping addiction by putting myself on ‘low-buys’ and ‘no-buys’, throughout the year, which means sometimes I go without buying makeup for MONTHS at a stretch. I’ve also unfollowed accounts like Trendmood1 on Instagram, because she is an enabler who makes you feel like you are compelled to buy every new launch that every other brand under the sun comes out with.

• I eighty-sixed my credit card. That saved me a lot of headache and hassle and I don’t have humongous bills to pay at the end of every month. If you’re a compulsive and an IMPULSIVE shopper too, don’t get a credit card in the first place.

What are some of the ways you save money?

Ten Relationship Home Truths

Ten Relationship Home Truths

• The biggest mistake people in relationships make would be comparing their relationship to someone else’s.

• A relationship actually should be between two people. Don’t involve a third person. No aunt or mommy or best friend, no one, would ever be able to fix it for you. The only people that can would be you and your partner.

• EVERY COUPLE HAS PROBLEMS. Mature people handle it like pros and that’s why it seems like their relationship is killing it.

• You’re not ready for a new relationship with a new person if you’re constantly saying crap about your ex. You made the choice to date this person, your ex, and you shouldn’t let your present question your brains.

• Rebounds never really last. If someone says they’re happy with their rebound, they’re lying.

• Most millennials are hella scared of marriage. It’s not just you. It’s most of the millennial population. We’re a screwed up generation.

• Also, millennials are really bad with money. Don’t expect your man to always get you stuff because dude is paying EMIs and home loans and you need to chill about not getting a Valentine’s Day gift.

• If you need to play Nancy Drew and if you’re someone that wants his passwords, boo, you ain’t ready. Same goes for the men. If you can’t trust your partner, you need to take a step back and reconsider.

• If you can expect time and attention and other stuff from your partner without overdoing it, you’re going to make a great partner.

• It’s true: if you can be best friends with your partner, you’re super sorted and you’re hella lucky.

Love and Other Flukes.

Love and Other Flukes.

I finish smiling at the phone and hang up. My cheeks hurt from having to fake it. I’ve been faking it since forever now. I turn off the phone and put it away.

I hate being weak. I hate it that every time this routine phone call happens, I feel dumb and I feel like a compromise. Why would he pick me anyway? He’s perfect. I’m far from it. And we’re also in this long-distance thing where we talk everyday on appointment-basis. Which means, he calls and talks to me for twenty minutes on the daily. And that I’m supposed to be thankful for it. And he says I’m supposed to be happy he doesn’t cheat on me, even though all the women at work throw themselves at him.

My hands itch to find a fresh new razor.

I kind of started cutting myself when I was with another man, before him. Stopped when I met this guy, but he turned out to be the exact same piece of trash in a different meat-suit, and the whole process started again. I don’t cut myself in obvious places. Only my thighs. We’ve never had sex with the lights on, and he’s never paid attention to my scars. And when we meet, once in a while, they’re almost healed anyway. Sometimes I feel like I’m an abomination that can’t be loved. That everything about me is wrong and dirty and unworthy of someone’s time. That men only ever want to be with me because I’m something that must be pitied upon. Hot tears blind my eyes and revulsion rises inside of me like bilious vomit for even daring to think of myself with so much self-pity – and at the same time, I ask myself why am I even here. If I had a gun, I would have blown my own brains out years ago. Nobody would have known. Not till the apartment started to reek and someone ended up calling the authorities to investigate.

I fantasize about death, a lot. An unhealthy awful lot.

I find a shiny new blade and start tracing the word LOSER on to my right thigh. I’m calm when I have open wounds. I’ve always been this calm when placing calculated obvious incisions at the morgue too. Cutting myself is a whole different rush. And it heals me and it calms me down. I look at the clock. Two hours have passed and I’ve been exactly a year older for two whole hours and I never noticed.

I pat LOSER dry but she continues to bleed.

The “Omnivore” Debate

The “Omnivore” Debate

Humans were primarily vegetarian, did you know that? This whole omnivore thing came into being because that’s what we concluded, as per our convenience.

A few pointers that actually stress on the point that Homo sapiens sapiens were actually meant to be vegetarian:

• Lack of pointy AF canines. We only have tiny little baby canines.

• The presence of the vermiform appendix which now exists for the sole purpose of causing you pain, but actually played a key role in ancient history when man most certainly ate the bark of trees and different forms of cellulose.

• The fact that you don’t see a dead chicken carcass and automatically go OMG I want to eat it.

I think the meat thing happened by accident. Man discovered fire, and some animal fell into it and it must have smelled good or whatever and steak was discovered. I’m kidding.

Before this thing gives me angina, I’m going to retire for the night. This was also probably the most half-a**ed post I’ve done in a long time. Between headaches and work and having to deal with grown up children that don’t belong to my body, I’ve really had a rough day. Anyway. Is it just me, or are chicken wings hella tempting and maybe I should go back to eating them?

Also, what do you think of the whole man was designed to be someone that ate a plant-based diet debate?

PMS.

PMS.

I’m supposed to be correcting my students’ papers. I can’t focus. There’s a horrible dull ache right under my tits and it’s driving me nuts. Why’s cyclical mastalgia a real thing? Why do I have to deal with it every month?

Premenstrual syndrome is a nightmare. I know Aunt Flow has almost reached V-town – I’m bloated, craving chocolate at three in the morning and my husband is still out. On a Friday night. That lousy, cheating scum.

I know he’s cheating on me.

I can’t even correct these papers anymore. I want to rip out my hair, all my hair, from the roots. I want to scream bloody banshee screams, and I want to throw boiling hot water over whoever cow he’s shagging at three am on a weekend night. I’m gonna cry.

I definitely know he’s cheating on me.

So he has a piercing in one ear, right? And I got him this little stud to wear and he’s switched it up. I remember him replacing it with one of those guy hoops that f*ckboys wear. Oh, he’s cheating on me. I’m sure some girl gave him this hoop thing. I hate it. I hate the little stones on it. I want to beat her into a unrecognizable pulpy mess. The nerve.

I hate this. I hate being home alone and working. I’m craving chocolate mousse.

I’m just gonna walk to the fridge before my ovaries and my brains split. And awesome, there’s only health crap in there. Who wants a freaking salad at this time of night? UGHHHHHHH.

Oh look, he’s FaceTiming.

Okay, so he’s at work and he’s going to be home in fifteen. Definitely not cheating. Just working. I looked carefully. He’s in office and there’s nobody around. I made him show me around. Poor thing. Must be so hard on him, you know? All of this. This marriage. To this crazy witch.

Rashida.

Rashida.

She was only twenty-two. She was twenty when she’d gotten married. They marry us off early, she’d told me once. Her husband was a decade older, and she said she didn’t protest, even he forcefully claimed her body, the very same night they were married.

I’m a simple village girl, she said, we don’t have the right to protest. If you do, they taunt you. And I’m too weak.

It shocked me. As I mopped up the bloody right side of her face gently, she continued to talk, wincing. He’d hit her in the face, with all the force he could muster, she said. When I asked why, she said it was because she hadn’t put sugar in his tea. He’s diabetic, she said, I was only looking out for him. She winced again.

Her left eye had been damaged beyond repair. I asked if the men accompanying her knew about the domestic violence she was going though. They said they’d only just found out. I said I wanted to call the cops. She said no. I love him, she said, he’s beautiful. And she pulled down her sleeves lower to hide those burn marks, the tiny circular cigarette ones. I winced.

A few days and a globe repair surgery later, she came back for an evaluation. We shone a torch into her eye. She couldn’t tell if there was any light present or not. I guess that’s the price some women pay, for love.

When she came back a few months later, she was already knocked up, and even more bruised than ever. I helped her adjust her glasses and tried very hard not to cry.

Rashida broke my heart. As did many others, that I still see at work.

Ostentatious

Ostentatious

I’ve always been the shy kind. Never really had many friends, or ambitions. I was a fly on the black walls of gloom, happy to blend in, and stay invisible. I was good at that, you know? Like being invisible was something I was born to do.

I went to college because my family wanted a lawyer in the family. If there’s one thing I’ve always openly detested, it was the thorough discussion of torts, and laws and commandments and what not. You’d think you’d be the Elle Woods of your college, but you end up being Epic Fail, and that was pretty much me.

When this guy from my class asked me out, it was kind of shocking.

You see, I’m no beauty. Actually, I’m pretty far from it. I was here for the sole purpose of the degree, never wanted to practice. My aspirations in life were – a, to find a loving husband and have kids, or b, to adopt a puppy with said loving husband. I wanted to be the invisible homemaker. I guess that’s what I’m comfortable doing – disappearing. And that’s exactly why, perhaps, he asked me out. He had it all going for him – the cars, the looks of old Hollywood movie stars, he had bling and he had everything.

He invited me over to a housewarming party one weekend.

The panic that followed was insane. My roommate helped me find a dress. By find, I mean, we hit up Rebecca and asked to borrow one of her many, many PR-package dresses. The perks of having a fashion blogger friend, my darlings, are limitless. I got ready, did my makeup real nice and prayed to the Lord that the boob tape would hold up. I don’t know HOW Kimberly Kardashian West does it. I don’t.

He sent a limo to the dorm. A LIMO.

When I arrived, shock hit me with the force of a speeding train. It was a sprawling mansion, with a pool, way too big for even a hundred people to live in. My legs trembled as I walked in. I remember feeling super out of place. Trophies and paintings. I saw a couple Monets. A good number people were invited and they all looked so expensive, it made me feel like it was almost indecent to see so much diamond on a woman. I looked distinctly shabby, in my Zaful dress, when these women were talking to each other about the new jet their husbands had recently acquired, or the fifty billion carat diamond rings that their fiancés gifted them.

I felt a sharp poke in my back. It was him and he dragged me into a walk in closet in his mother’s room. And demanded I change into at least a Giambattista Valli. That my pretty face needed a pretty dress, or people would think his new squeeze wasn’t being pampered enough.

That’s when I realized: I was a puppet in his ostentatious world and nothing would bring him more joy than to fix me. Rich people, I cannot stress enough, have weird whimsies.

To be continued.