theprocast

[theprocast]

I’ve lost hope in people romantically. I’m so jaded that I will delete my dating app profile right after asking someone for their number because the thought of getting on a call with a new person and trying to get to know them while letting them get to know me makes me want to take the cigarette in my hand and put it in my eye. The last person I met through a dating app said all the right things to get me in bed. Then had a panic attack when that failed. Got me to soothe him and let him cry in my lap and then succeeded. I ended up in his bed. The point is, I want to treat people like people. But when you consecutively have experiences where people don’t treat you like a person but either as a sexual object or as an entertainment or as a matter of convenience, how do you not feel like being a little shit yourself? Being open and kind and warm and caring and honest only leads you to being crushed like a fallen flower. Even as I type all of this I know I know I know this cannot be it. But gosh. It surely feels like it. Then you see people online, the very same people, on their social media accounts saying all the right things. Acting like softbois who only want love and cuddles and you’re like yeah right. The worst is when they really are deluded themselves. Like the ones who are actively manipulative? Pathetic but less scary. But the ones who don’t even realize the gap between the image of themselves they are creating and projecting and who they actually are and how they will be when in such situations? That’s less pathetic, sure, but 100x more scary. Because a romantic, open heart will believe them. That’s all we want to believe. That people who say they want love, the real, earnest type actually want it. Because we cannot be the only fools. Are we the only fools? Am I…the only fool?

[theprocast]

crash and burn. you have the lighter, you have the cigarettes. you ride your high horse, gravity in reverse— so what’s keeping you from the final fall?

run— but you can’t. swim— but you only drown.

now is not the time to make friends with the sun. your loyalty will always be: bloody and blue. you belong to the night, to the moon, to the looneys and the monsoon truths.

no sugar, no sparkle, no play, no pretend can wash you clean of the emptiness you house within.

and you know who the god of that is? you.

every time you showed grace, every time you forgave, every time you stayed silent— you created it.

this emptiness.

the grace, the kindness, the compassion— they were never meant to be gifts left on the altar of the unworthy and each and every last one of them has been.

and so now: say it. say bhenchod. do it. pick up the match. strike, babe. then walk into the flame like it’s your first true home.

you've been crashing, now it's time to burn.

[theprocast]

Apne dil ki baat kehne se koi aur apna nahi ho jata—baat parayi ho jati hai.

(Saying what’s in your heart doesn’t make someone yours—it just makes the feeling no longer yours)

— Karan Johar

Wording is everything. Sentiment is everything. My father always tried to drill essentially the same thing in my head since I was young but it had the opposite impact on me. He wanted me to be private about my affairs, not show my cards, and be selective in what I choose to disclose and to whom. And sure I was always a rebel. The kid who wore fluorescent pink socks and grass green converse to high school that had a strict uniform dress code. And I lied about where I was after school. And I cheated on tests. And I used cuss words since the age of seven. So is it truly shocking that the one thing my father kept trying to get me to see the wisdom in—being sus of others, being discreet, never revealing your true thoughts and emotions—I decided to go completely against? In fact, I not only chose to completely ignore or go completely against but a third worse thing: I became a writer.

But yeah now I hear these words in softer words, emotionally laced, from another man and it speaks to my bruised heart and my wavering faith and my exhausted soul.

It makes me ask myself:

Did telling him about my abuse get him close to me? Or did just leave me feeling exposed and still unheld?

Did telling her about my empty fridge fix anything? Or did it just leave me alone still trying to figure out what my next meal will be?

Did telling them about my battle fields get them to understand me or love me? Or did it just give them more strategies to strike me?

My father was right.

That is not a statement you will hear me say often. But I’m nothing if I don’t give credit where credit is due. So, yes, my father was right.

I want to be done telling people my thoughts and feelings. But I write. Isn’t that such a catch 22?

I want to tell a story without having to confess anything.

And in doing your best to not reveal yourself, you inevitably will reveal everything.

So shall I then speak to the collective people instead of the singular person? Any one who knows me as me, not me the writer, let them no longer know my heart. I’m shutting it down. Out of order. Go back to where you came from. Leave me alone.

I’m exhausted of the feeling of being left more desolate, more cold, more bare, more empty than before. These conversations? They drain me. They take away from me. They make a mockery out of my suffering, a circus out of my brain, tea out of my people, a joke out of me, and a punchline out of my heart.

Oh, no, wait—that last one is all me.

[theprocast]

I am not a book

I let people go through me like they would books. I tell them things that are interesting, intriguing, fun. I share with them stories that are personal, intimate, warm, and burning. I give them all the context, the characters, the timeline. The plot twists and the cliffhangers. Oh, there’s no better living narrator than me. I tweak, I refine, I structure in real time—according to their disposition, their mood, their temperament. I match their pace. I cut the paragraphs short when their attention begins to waver. I throw in jokes when the grief gets too heavy. I make myself quotable. But the real kicker? I get them comfortable. I make them feel seen. Heard. Reflected. And then I make them feel special. I begin including them in my narrative—I describe them, I archive their anecdotes, I give them real estate in the book. I write them in.

But I am not a book. And even if I were—just how many people even read books today? They get distracted by other forms. They start finding me tedious. They think they know me. They believe they’ve learned something from me. Gained new perspectives. Had a few laughs. Gotten the space to be a bit soft, a bit human. And then? Then they want to put me away. They place me on a shelf, in the corner of their room, next to unread magazines and unopened birthday cards. They cram me in. And forget all about me. Sometimes they discard me altogether—quietly, while “organising” their life. What? Don’t you know? They need that shelf space now. For lube, condoms, and other things that offer a faster dopamine hit. They’re not readers. They’re skimmers. And I—I am a longform girl in a reels-first world. In a world where people can barely read an Instagram caption longer than five words, I have the heart of a poet.

I let people go through me like a book. Right from the first page, from the first meeting—they have access to my mind, my heart, my spine. They hold me in their hands and think it means they deserve the ending. I keep thinking they’ll keep reading. That they’ll annotate me. Talk about me with their friends. Come back to their favourite lines and co-write chapters with me. But no. They leave me lying there. Half-read. Misunderstood. Soft-spined and slightly stained. A lot of the times, they don’t even notice when the bookmark slips. They just never return. And I, fool that I am, keep writing. Keep narrating. Keep hoping. Keep letting people go through me like they would go through books. Accessible bestseller at an airport bookstore, the one guaranteed to engage you, stimulate you, entertain you. But also the one you leave easily after you devour it and can't really remember what it was about.

Oh, a poet’s heart is always such a fool.

[theprocast]

Tell me on/off anon what you can't tell them right now + the way the sky looks right now where you are.

[theprocast]

Olive oil for my birthday and other practical things

You cannot sell a poem. But you still have to buy tomatoes, cheese, and garlic to make spaghetti. So you sell your soul, your time, your sanity. A good, warm bowl of spaghetti with chilled gourmet juice brings a little of it back. But mostly, it’s your voice. The way you show up every night. I’d write you a poem, but I don’t think you’ll be causing me heartache. Maybe I’ll write you a funny one. You’re a funny one, I’d say to you between bites of spaghetti I cooked and sips of red wine you picked up on your way over.

You cannot sell a poem. You cannot force a heart to come to you. And you cannot eat tomatoes unless they’re pureed. Fortunately or unfortunately… this remains the way life is.

Please gift me a bottle of extra virgin olive oil on my birthday next year. I’ll buy you a book of poems you can leaf through when I’m asleep on your chest. The stars, like me, don’t know where this is going. But they linger anyway. Let your fingers trace it—our maybe—on my thigh, my back, my neck. Everywhere you can touch me, everywhere I am tangible. You lead, I’ll follow. And even if we tumble, let it be in play. We have enough scars and enough bruises—let’s give each other different kinds of marks.

Light your cigarette. I’ll light mine.

God, isn’t it a lucky thing you cannot sell a poem? And that I keep finding God in my ramen bowl and you in songs I have never heard. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a fish in this life. But I can still simmer, still salt your nights. And in the next? I’ll be your poem. A poem you cannot sell, you cannot throw, you cannot forget, you cannot replace. One you can never write but will keep rereading forever.

[theprocast]

It’s June again but this time I’m smoking in bed. I’m naked and I’m smoking and my thighs are glorious. Murakami doesn’t read as interesting to me anymore, I flip through obscure books, Spanish translated and never known Indian authors, from the bookstall at the metro as I lie sprawled on the bed. It’s June again and I’m naked in bed, eating ice cream. It falls on my neck, sweet and cold, and when I jolt up straight it drips between my cleavage and I laugh. A full laugh. A mouth-open, back-arching kind. And I know: none of this is performative. None of it is for the male gaze. This is mine. My softness. My room. My mess. I’m a child again, lying on a towel after a shower, smelling like rain and something reclaimed. Nobody is going to swaddle me. Nobody is going to kiss my forehead and tuck me in. I am free. The lullabies now are the chirping of the birds at 4 am, the cats fighting in the lowest tree. I’ve given up the whiskey. I’ve given up the desire for your name on my tongue, your tongue on mine. I’ve stopped rereading our messages like a detective. Chinese takeout doesn’t seduce me in sad girl hours the way it used to. I eat slowly now. I even moan when something is good—food, music, solitude. I put on lip gloss, not balm, before bed sometimes now. Being a bitch to myself is so last season. Now I sleep without a goodnight and wake up without a good morning—the texts may be missing but the hours are good nonetheless. Better even. I make breakfast—I eat. I dance while brushing my teeth. I look at the mirror and sometimes—not always, but sometimes—I wink. It’s June again, and I am decadent, I’m divine—I’m mine.

[theprocast]

a booty call but make it spiritual decay

When can I reach a point in my life where I can kiss someone without wanting to write a fucking novel about it? Where I allow myself to be horny and indulge in hookups and forget what was said and done after.

Why am I an archive of everything— sensations, soul, sweet nothings. The moan, the thigh touch, the exact angle at which he said “you’re soft” like it meant more than flesh?

Why can’t I just be horny, reckless, easy?

Why must a booty call feel like an existential event? Why must a cuddle read like scripture?

Why can’t a night just be a night? A body just be a body? Desire—brief, blunt, without needing to be divine?

Can someone please connect me with the ambassador of Chill, get me an express visa to Bro Logic Land, where pleasure doesn't mean portal, and skin doesn't mean subtext, and no one writes poems about it the next day?

But I am me and me is already writing a poem before we even touch each other's skin and so me is deciding to write my hunger instead of feed my peace to you on a platter.

[theprocast]

A person to be (a person) with

That's what you need at the end of the day, when all is said and done. Someone whose lap you can climb into, arms you can melt into. Someone who holds you, kisses your forehead, kisses you all over—and tells you they love you.

Someone who asks about your day, follows up on that thing you shared three nights ago. Someone who listens with curiosity and intent and answers with wit and warmth. Someone who is generous and unwavering in their presence and consideration. Who brings back your favourite snack on their way home. Who clears the mess at your desk without being asked. You want to caress their face and listen about their day too.

They say they have grabby hands—not just for your ass or your chest that lead you to the shower or the bed, but hands that grab your hands and lead you to the dining table. Where you sit across each other and eat a meal. Eat ten thousand meals. Hands that wipe your tears. That give you foot massages and back rubs.

That’s what you need. At the end of the day.

[theprocast]

Messy, inconvenient, right-now love

It's 11 pm when you call and I’m crying on the phone. Not a cute, sniffly kind of crying. A full-body, silence-between-sobs kind of crying. And you say: I’m sending you a virtual hug. That would make sense if you were in another city, another state, another time zone. But you’re 25 minutes away.

Keep your virtual hug.

I know you care—you send lunch and thoughtful texts, all these little gestures. But tonight I needed feet at my door. You love me, yes, but on your own terms. And my terms are more sacrificial than yours.

And that’s the part that stings. Because I think I’m still loving like it’s 2009—when friendship wasn’t something you managed. Or scheduled. When your friend said “I’m not okay,” the response was, “Where are you, I'm coming?”

No “next weekend?” No “I’m a homebody.” No “I just got into bed.”

For me, real intimacy is messy. It’s inconvenient. It low boundaries. It’s doing the thing you don’t feel like doing because the person matters more than your schedule or mood. And of course you wouldn't do it for everyone and that's the whole point—you wouldn't do this for anyone but those who are the closest to you.

That's real friendship to me, real love. It’s unhinged sometimes. A little co-dependent. The kind of thing people on the internet would diagnose in three seconds flat. But it's also the only kind of love that feels real to me.

So yes—maybe I’m outdated. Maybe I’m loving like it’s 2009 in a world that’s all calendar blocks and DND mode.

But I’d rather be too much than be someone who sends a virtual hug when they could’ve just shown up. Even if they had work the next day, even if they had to wake up at 7 am, even if they were ready for bed. My love is sacrificial.

But now I am old enough to know that it's not sacrificial in the way a lamb goes to slaughter, it's sacrificial in the Gift of the Magi way. The kind where both people give. Where both people lose something—but gain each other.

If I’m going to give that kind of love, I want it returned in kind.

Not virtual. Not convenient. Not scheduled. But messy, inconvenient, right-now love. If not? We can still continue to be friends and 'chill' but let's drop the 'I love you' because I don't understand 'love' that is not willing to be inconvenienced.

[theprocast]

Sometimes I don’t know whether what I’m writing down should go in my journal, my poetry, my novel, or therapy. So I come here.

I’ve been here for ten years now. And that’s the longest relationship I’ve had as an adult. Okay, probably should go to therapy.

[theprocast]

See, I’ve let you go. The act of that, the acceptance of that took longer than the time I loved you, than the time you were here. Did you teach me something? Yeah, men always do. But I don’t want to learn anymore when you’re the one that needs to reflect, learn, and grow. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. It doesn’t bother me anymore.

See, I feel not much now when I think of you. Earlier, you were a knife that felt really good? Because it filled a hole that I thought was killing me. And then you started to twist inside my heart, my mind, my soul.

See, I had to remove the knife and then that caused a lot of blood loss. I needed blood but nobody on this planet had the same blood type. So while I was bleeding, I had to simultaneously create blood on the side.

See, once you’ve done something like that, you don’t need anyone. You don’t need anything.

See, I’m complete now. And the best part? I now see that I was always complete. I did have to destroy myself uselessly though to come to this realisation.

See, I’ve learned. Yet again. But not again. If the purpose of life is to learn and to live, I’ve paid my dues. Now? The living is left—abundantly, gloriously, brightly, peacefully, and powerfully.

See, there’s poetry in that too. In the living.

[theprocast]

And when we were finally alone in the room and you sat on the bed and gestured for me to come. I climbed on the fed, facing you, sat on your lap, legs spread on both sides, on my knees, hands around your neck, over your shoulders. Yes, a scene from the movie. But what I remember is how you hugged me. How you rested your head on my chest. How I know this moment meant something for you in a way you’d never forget. We sat there in that cuddle hug position for I don’t know how long. That was my favourite hello, my favourite way to greet someone you love. The first time. The last time with you.

Six days later when it was time to leave, everything was packed, everything checked, we were getting late but took five minutes to just cuddle in bed. Knowing this was it. Yes, we were to meet again soon. But it sucks that you have to say goodbye first to say hello again.

Before we were going to exit the room, you held me next to the door. Kissed my cheeks, my nose, my forehead. Tried to surpass my kurta’s neckline and kiss my breasts. Then, to my surprise, you kneeled down. You kissed me on my belly and then below. And then you stood up, smiled, and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

Ever since stepping out of there, checking out of that hotel, flying out of that city—nothing went as we planned.

You were supposed to meet my mother. The next time we met we were supposed to explore each other’s bodies more. We were supposed to share more trauma from our past. We were supposed to eat more fruit and fries. We were supposed to celebrate my birthday in Goa. We were supposed to go to Miniso and we were supposed to buy you a yellow shirt that actually complimented you.

And yet none of that ever happened. And yet we are now strangers. No, now we are worse. We are strangers who used to love each other.

Let it pass, I must remind myself. April is soon going to be over. There are all kinds of love in this world but never the same love twice.

I will not love again in the way I loved you. That’s okay, I’m creative, I’ll find other ways to love. And I will not be loved in the way you loved me. And isn’t that actually a good thing? You left me alone, you left me confused, abandoned. You left me shaking, you left me crying.

April is over soon. I’m letting this pass. You? Do whatever. Take care, I guess. Yes, your tenderness existed. But it lasted for a significantly shorter amount of time than needed for my heart to be satisfied.

[theprocast]

It’s been a while but tonight is a night I want to vanish. From the world. From this life. Let there be no trace that I existed. There’s nothing worthy to leave any part of me behind to. There’s also nothing much worthy to leave behind. Better. It was supposed to get better. Why does it get 1% better for 10 seconds before yanking me by the hair ten times worse? If everything is an illusion then why is this suffering so damn real?

[theprocast]

I want to make out with you while listening to Keshi songs on slow Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday afternoons. Curtains drawn, lights off, the room bathed in the warm, honeyed glow of a lazy sun.

I'll make us iced coffee and chai while you speak to your father on the phone; neither our beverage choices nor our boundaries with our families are the same.

I will re-explore your body and figure out: where you are ticklish, where you are hurt, where you long. And I will touch you in a way that you never again have to wonder if I even find you truly attractive.

For lunch, we will spend too much time deciding what to order and end up ordering from different places because you don't eat gluten and all I crave is bread.

It's not just being in different cities that is our issue, isn't it?

Our hearts may be sweet and pure but that doesn't mean they belong together—not even when they have so much care and affection for each other.

What to do now? Goodbyes don't work, promises don't either. Let's just linger?

[theprocast]

Jasmine and strawberry: The scents of us

Before our first trip together, I ordered some essentials last minute—whatever was available on Instamart from the brands I trusted. That’s how I ended up with a jasmine body mist and a strawberry shower gel.

That’s how jasmine and strawberry became the scents of us.

An odd combination. But then, so were we.

And yet, in mid-October, under Bangalore skies and gulmohar trees, it worked.

Lathering bodies with strawberry shower gel and stepping out fresh to room service ordered in. Late breakfasts and early lunches—never brunch, though.

Jasmine body mist, every time after I used the loo. It didn’t smell, but I wasn’t going to take a chance.

Also, every time after I smoked. You weren’t going to say anything. I know. But you were going to think it. And I would know.

It’s mid-March now.

The shower gel is long over, and I just sprayed the last of the jasmine body mist in my home after a Monday afternoon smoke.

And I nod to the repeated realisation: the oddness of jasmine and strawberry worked in the haze of Bangalore, in the slow softness of our days together. But in the realness of my routine in Mumbai, and yours back home, it wasn’t something that could be mellowed.

The scents of us are over. The love... I’ll give it another month or two. And the grieving? Three, tops.

When I restock scents for my next trip—whenever, whoever—I don’t want to think of you.

[theprocast]

Things I want to tell women as a woman

I struggled for a long time to consider myself as a woman and not a girl because we just call each other girls despite our age. As if being a woman is old and sad? But boys can’t wait to become men. Or you have to shoulder great responsibility like marriage and children to qualify? I don’t know what it is that signifies that transition from girl to woman but I think it’s important to see that as a beautiful and powerful and desirable change.

You don’t need to be sweet and selfless and pretty and kind and nurturing at all times. I mean at the base of it yes because all humans being should be. But like society and media has always made us think that that is the desirable girl. Lol desirable woman. The good woman. Watch Yi Seo in Itaewon Class. Ko Moon Young in It’s Okay To Not Be Okay. Byun Hye Young in My Father’s Strange. Learn from them. How to stand your ground. How to not let society place you in a helpless position. How to fight back. How to be rude and fierce when it is to protect yourself or those you care about and not feel one bit guilty.

Money is the way people control you. Have your own money. Save it. Figure out investing at some stage. Don’t rely on your parents, partner, brother, whoever to do that for you. You don’t need to be good at math or business. It’s not about that at all. It’s about knowing your value, making sure you’re reaping the benefits at work and ensuring that you aren’t just spending all your money on stupid shit and making unnecessary decisions. You will learn only by making mistakes. God knows I still am. But money will always mean power. And as a woman you need a lot of that in this world.

Surround yourself with women who have found a way to be who they are. How will you know who they are? They just have that aura. You can’t miss it. No, they don’t always wear a power suit and hustle. And no, they don’t always write self help books. They are women in your life. They do whatever they do because it’s their decision and that’s why they always look so content and joyous. I get that sometimes you don’t have that choice. Like irl I really am not able to meet such women. So then I turn to writers and my mom and her friends and the vice president at my company and artists. I don’t have to be BFFs with any of them. I just have to observe them and take in the good and learn. Reach out when I need to. And stumble and stumble and stumble.

Don’t ever give up your life for a man. That’s literally the worst thing you can do as a woman. That’s a quote from the kdrama The Package that I can never get out of my head.

Emotional stability is critical. People will play you and they will be shameless and they will do it all again. You cannot seek validation or your worth from their actions and words. You cannot rely on them. It would be nice to but you can’t. Even if you lose everything else, don’t lose your emotional stability and the belief in yourself.