"Please take someone along with you," he said.
"I will manage on my own, I always do."
"What is the opposite of martyr, that is you."
I used a saucy phrase...may as well be called something interesting. But can I really manage on my own? This burden of 'self-contained' can be disconcerting...frightening. If I am so much in control, why is my universe in such turmoil always? Do I bring this upon myself? Only because I like being alone sometimes does not mean that I "would be happy all by yourself".
I did not ask to fall, so if I manage to get up on my own why is it considered a move towards being alone?
I do reach out...perhaps my hands are not long enough...
A happy moment: An acquaintance said he was reading an old column of mine on the bus from Goa. This column is from a few years ago, it is not on a website, so he could not have downloaded it. "Oh, I have a register with the print version, a scrapbook of your works." He is from the media world, a more glamorous one...I wondered how he connected and to what...Of course, I was happy. Who wouldn't be?
I regret: Not spending enough time with my cousins and nieces. All I have is a 'card' drawn on a piece of paper -- a house with a chimney taking up a quarter of the space, the rest is the sky with a huge sun...behind are the words, "To bg (big) khaala with lots of love." I cannot frame it for if the picture shows, the words will be hidden; if the words are visible the picture won't be seen.
Why can we not have both? Why can we not get everything? And where are the cards that came every day? Why do we stop valuing what we have only to seek what we don't?
Someone wanted to know if I was dead or alive.
Somewhere in between. My sleep is fitful these days and the wakeful moments are as thick as velvet clinging to me.