Grieving lost friendships!

I sometimes wonder why we don’t accord similar level of importance to friendships as we do to romantic relationships. I like the social awareness around the space and respect given to grieving romantic relationships – lost relationships, failed relationships, complicated relationships, long distance relationships or relationships that just drifted apart. I like the lack of awkwardness in asking, ‘What are we’, ‘It feels different’, ‘What changed? We changed. Can we work on some things?’, ‘I need some more love. Can you give it to me?’. While the whole beauty of friendship might lie in the lack of concrete definitions and social norms, I often miss the definitiveness of romantic relationships in my friendships. How close are we? What are we? Are we Friday night drinking friends, are we Sunday morning deep-conversation friends? Are we friends-of-convenience filling our lonely lives with some insincere affection? Are we soulmates of some sort? Are we I’ll-always-have-your-back friends? Are we all of them? Are we some?

I believe in soul families, not soul mates. I hold a lot of people– most of them friends, dear to me. Falling apart from them is painful, often more painful than breaking up with my romantic partners. However, I’ve missed being able to grieve it, being able to talk about it. I miss taking the refuge of music, movies and poetry to grieve about friendships lost – the way I can for romance gone bad. I miss being accorded a shoulder to cry for all the friends that got left behind. I hate my pain being dismissed because drifting apart from friends is such an ‘expected’, ‘natural’ part of life. I wonder why my grief over a break-up of one-year relationship gets more validation versus my multi-year friendship gone sour. I hate my grief not being validated enough.

How to talk about the pain of not being able to hug your friend as often as you’d want to, of missing growing old with them, of not being able to call them up to tell them about your day, of not having the right to call them after a bad day. When friendships end, the reasons are rarely defined – most times they just end mysteriously or sometimes they don’t end at all but just fade away. Sometimes, you just drift away because of distance or evolved priorities. Sometimes, you just grow out and become incompatible – you grow out of the activities, values or commonalities that held you together. Sometimes, you just hurt each other but neither of you want to have the difficult conversation to address the issue, so it let it go till both the problem and the person start hurting less. Sometimes, you just get too busy to make time for all the friends you have made.

It irks me, though, to not be able to get that closure for myself – to go through old pictures, old memory lanes, old cards and wonder, “I miss them. Do they miss me too?” Sometimes, I type out a whole message and then delete it because it seems too corny. I want to reach out to an old friend and say, ‘Hey, can we work on our friendship? Can we pick it from where we left it off?’, but I fear lack of reciprocity and drop the idea.  I like how it is socially acceptable to be embarrassing with your ex-romantic partners. I miss being able to send awkwardly corny messages to my drifted friends without it sounding annoyingly cheesy.

As I am writing this, I am wondering why I care about these social constructs at all. I am not sure. Looks like I am not all that non-conformist as I believe I am, and the years of social conditioning has played its part. What is the point of this post? This is probably me validating my pain for all the lost/distanced/forgotten friendships that I am grieving, and extending a virtual hug and shoulder to everyone in similar shoes – "Your emotions are valid, and it is okay to feel deep pain for lost friendships."

Women, age and the ticking time bomb!

“So, when are you planning to get married?”, I was asked for the 126^th time or was it 127^th? I usually laugh away these questions but this time they came from a dear friend, so I gave it a thought. “4-5 years, maybe.”, I said after thinking for a while; “What about you? When does marriage fall in your life plan?”, I added. “Same – 4 to 5 years”, he responded. “Goodness gracious! We will be 31 by then. Damn! You would be so old, Charul”, he said.

“What do you mean by I would be so old? We would be the same age. Do women age faster than men?”, I responded with my signature eye-roll.

“I mean…you are a girl. 31 is quite old for a girl to get married but not so much for a guy”, he replied in a seemingly matter-of-factly tone.  I rebuked him and called him names, something like a patriarch, an asshole or a sexist. I think I called him a patriarchal sexist asshole.

Even though I rejected my friend’s words, the conversation with him got me thinking because he clearly reflected what a huge fraction of the Indian society believes in. The thought urged me to write this piece hoping optimistically that maybe it will drive the point home to at least 1% of my meager blog audience.

I want to start by deconstructing the famous ‘Girls mature faster than boys’ notion. This notion is highly unhealthy for young girls to be fed with.  It is popularized and even encouraged to justify women handling more emotional labor than men are ever expected to bear. Girls are conditioned into believing that they are more mature than their ‘naughty’ brother, and hence more qualified candidates to help mother with the household chores. This grows into women being expected to remember birthdays, keep the groceries stacked, organize parties and maintain family relationships.

This notion is the reason why men are often encouraged to engage in romantic relationships with much younger women(in which there is a substantial power gap) while women are often rebuked for dating men much younger to them. This notion excuses boys from being held responsible for their actions but holds women accountable from a much younger age. There is little to no scientific evidence suggesting that emotionally girls mature faster than boys. Yes, girls generally hit puberty sooner than boys but there is no substantial scientific inference to link early puberty to early emotional maturity. More than science, this is more of a gender-stereotype passed on from generations without being challenged leading to girls and boys essentially responding to behaviors that are expected of them.

Women are viewed as a declining asset whose worth post 30 in the marriage market exponentially drops. There is a constant pressure on women to figure out themselves and their career as soon as possible – there are hard deadlines imposed on schooling, college and settling down in the dream job. All of them need to be met precisely on time and there is little to no negotiation allowed in the timelines. In most Indian families, you are expected to achieve these milestones by 24; if you are from a more liberal family you may be blessed with 3 more years and if you have been extremely lucky you may be allowed to touch 29.9 but not 30…30 is blasphemy! Women bear the pressures of these deadlines from a very young age. These are not only unfair but may also restrain them from realizing their full potential and living their dreams. While men get more freedom and breathing space to achieve their goals, women are forced to accelerate their career timeline to stay relevant in the marriage market.

Another argument often sought when debating in favor of early marriage for women is that their fertility may go for a hit if they marry too late. It is important to understand that women are more than baby breeding machines and their fulfillment and happiness is more important than that of the life they will bring into this world. Their priorities and expectations out of life may be beyond having the perfect family or maybe their perfect family does not have children or maybe it has adopted children or maybe the children are produced through frozen eggs. All of these expectations and priorities are important and correct in their own regard.

Can we just let women be? I could have referenced ‘people’ but the world’s sometimes a little harsher to women, so I chose women for this article. Can we give them the space to breathe, to figure themselves out and settle down in life when they want to and not when they ought to? Marriage can wait and so can children, but personal goals and dreams cannot. If women require those three, four or how-many-ever years to be at peace with themselves, can we please stop shaming them for it?

The woods are lovely, dark and deep but can we not for once hold people accountable for the promises they never made and let them venture into the deep, dark woods to their hearts’ contentment.

Hopping on to 25 – the less glamorous other side!

There is something unnerving about pre-birthday nights for me. I have been telling myself for the past five years that I have outgrown birthdays. Apparently, I had dropped the expectation from people to treat me like the almighty’s choicest creation and turn their lives around to make me feel special. Only that, I hadn’t outgrown them. It is in equal parts ridiculous and egotistical to expect people to spend time and effort to make the day you just happened to pop out of your mother’s womb, special. However, my heart and mind rarely choose to live in harmony.

My extent of making people feel special has been only stretched to pouring the contents of Knorr soup in a cup of boiling water and offering it to a sick friend. I had almost reveled in happiness and gave myself a pat on the back for exuding such compassion. Despite embodying such shallow standards of affection; hypocritically enough, I still expect people to drop everything and invest the entirety of their time in the glorious event that’s my birthday.

It was finally the birthday eve. It was 12 AM; I was half sloshed and cutting my overly priced ice-cream cake, half of which would be thrown away next day because there was no way it would get over. The next thing I remember was making forced attempts at having fun and making everyone around me to do the same. Alcohol is supposed to do that, right? Only that sometimes, it doesn’t. It doesn’t when you have been shoving gallons of it within yourself since the past two days of the extended long weekend because what else is 24-year-old frustrated IT folks excuse for fun? However, my friends still tried with all their might to fabricate fun out of their exhausted bodies, to swing on ‘Taarein gin-gin yaad main teri’, and periodically shout, “Shots, shots”. I glared at their sleep-deprived eyes, alcohol bloated bodies and decided that maybe we could do without more ‘fun’ that evening and called it a night.

I wished everyone a good night and thought of hitting the bed. “Oh God, let me turn my phone to silent mode. I don’t want to wake up in the middle of the night with all the calls and messages. And Facebook, shit, I thought I will remove my birthday this year. All the unnecessary wall posts, man – so many notifications. I can’t handle them.”

I woke up the next morning and suddenly the realization seeped in – I am 25! Everything that followed, reiterated it, in not so fancy ways. I picked up my phone expecting at least a dozen missed calls like every year. It’s funny how I tried to mask my embarrassment from my own self when my phone read ‘2 missed calls’ and one of them was from mom. Then, I opened Facebook and pretended to nonchalantly browse through the newsfeed. I heard something break inside me when I saw only three notifications. I tried to rationalize it in my head by telling myself that those ‘HBD Charul’ posts are the ones I give two hoots about, but deep within it pained to know that I am not even getting those irritating ‘HBD Charul’ posts. It’s like that feeling you get when the creepy guys stop making passes at you-you never wanted them in the first place, they were outrageously annoying, but it makes you stop and wonder for a while if you’re attractive anymore.

25 is a rather funny age. You’re old enough to understand the things that shouldn’t matter anymore but still too young to stop caring. It gradually dawns on you that the attention and affection that became too difficult to handle at one point in your life has gradually moved out when you were busy growing up. That Skype call from friends settled in the US did not happen this time. I realized that along with me, they grew up too and finding jobs and looking after their fiancé became more important. The birthday messages in the ‘Others’ folder also shrunk down to three from thirty-three. The creepy guy who religiously sent monthly poetry to my inbox also seemed to have found another muse. I judged myself so hard when I almost missed that weird poetry.

My old friend from college called up, I acted cute and asked him to sing ‘Happy Birthday’, he blatantly refused and asked me to grow up. I spent a significant amount of time wondering how old one is supposed to grow in a year because he did sing it last year. I laughed; a light, hollow laugh that was meant to mask my inner chaotic battle. My mom called next, “Baby, Deepali aunty asked for your hand in marriage.” “Mom, I need 5 more years”. “Honey, who do you think will be interested in marrying you after 5 years. The rate at which your beauty is deteriorating, do you think that even you would consider marrying yourself after 5 years”, she said, matter-of-factly. I stared at myself in the mirror and my growing acne and weight seemed to suggest that mom wasn’t just trying to be sarcastic and funny.

Gradually, it sunk in – the horrible realization that I am now on the less glamorous other side. Life is a bit harder this side, you may end up looking less pretty and your likability radar may shrink, one bit at a time. The less glamourous side may not seem as amazing, but it is more peaceful. It throws you out there amongst the crashing, fast waves. However, I believe that eventually, you learn how to swim and reach the shore stronger than ever. The other side is intimidating and often sprinkled with spells of loneliness. You learn to find comfort in those spells. You explore the forgotten, uncharted spaces of yourself and serendipitously discover solace in them. The extras get trimmed out and the constants remain, and they are the only ones who matter – the only ones who ever mattered. The next morning, with the maturity of the first quarter sinking in, I happily welcomed myself to the other side.

A letter to the girl who radiates happiness!

Dear best friend,

It has been two long years in Hyderabad and I was contemplating over how I have changed as a person; over things, experiences and people who got added to my life. Surprisingly, what stood out in the entire list was you and this fact compelled me to write something about you – about us, disregarding how cheesy it might sound. I seldom write about people, because how can you put down what someone means to you in words and do justice to those emotions, but, today, I want to try.

I remember seeing you at office for the first time – bright blue shirt and black trousers, poker straight hair, make up so heavy that it could give one of those models a deep complex, heels so high that I wondered if you need to directly rush to a party right after office; and I immediately stereotyped you to be this loud Delhi girl I can never become close friends with. Funny how first impressions and be so misleading at times!

Destiny and a bit of conscious maneuvering of it got us together as flat mates and I want to write about how much I fell in love with you with every week that passed. Is it too cheesy already? Oh, I am a cheesy and mushy person – I pretend to be this cool girl, but I am so not her.

I want to build up and then reach this point where I tell you that I have found my soul mate in you, but an impatient person that I am, I will blurt it out already – ‘Honey, I have found my soul mate in you.’ I want to recollect incidents, you know those incidents when you look at your partner and think, ‘He’s the one.’ I want to talk about the ones when you made me feel that you’re the one.

I remember those mornings after some reckless drinking nights when I walked up to you with regret, sobbing softly. Sometimes I would walk up with a vomit-engulfed T-shirt, sometimes with a blacked-out memory, telling you, ‘My life is over. I have turned into one of those girls I hated.’ Thank you for telling me outright that you’re not going to say that it is fine, and it happens, and it is okay to be young and reckless. I want to thank you for being brutally honest and telling me that I am turning into a shitty person and that you don’t like this person. Thank you for loving me just enough and not being the forgiving and endearing person that I wanted you to be at that time. Thank you being the friend I needed, not the one I wanted.

Thank you for being at the first row for all my plays and performances and cheering for me every time, every single time. It means a lot, you know to have loved ones telling you that they’re proud of you. Thank you for the jewelry, make up and dresses that I borrowed every time. I often wonder what I’d do without your wardrobe.

I remember the days when I went through an existential crisis and forgot how to smile for days, and even weeks. Thank you for helping me get out of it to figure out who I am. Thank you for shaking me up and telling me that I’m your hero and that you derive your strength from me.

How can I forget my fracture and the way you cared for me like a mother – taking my tantrums, cooking for me, cancelling your parties and working from home because I was being a baby. The time when I was admitted to the hospital for the viral fever which chose to not leave me for three straight weeks. Thank you for taking my tantrums when I refused to talk to you because you left me alone for an hour to have dinner. I behaved like a cranky little baby. Thank you for letting me a baby, then.

Thank you for paying heed to my whims and remembering the little details that I whimsically throw around sometimes. You remembered that I once whimsically stated that I want to have a swing where I can sit and read, and went ahead and gifted me that swing on my birthday. I remember staring at a Winnie the Pooh soft toy for five minutes and claiming that I want it. It was both funny and flattering how you without another thought walked into the store and bought the Pooh. I remember being cranky and telling you that I am bored of you and that I need new friends. You smiled and patiently took my uncalled temper, went an extra mile and suggested some new people whom I can be friends with. I often wonder if I deserve this kind of love – the kind of love which spoils you. Thank you for spoiling me, sometimes.

I reminisce over our breakfast discussions, about my bizarre ideas of love and life and you understanding those ideas. It’s strange how we’re two extremely different people and yet understand each other so well. Thank you for supporting me on my solo trip despite knowing how reckless a person I am. Thank you for gifting me a solo trip package with a book, a diary, chocolates and flashlight. These little things, these little things that you do for me – they are everything!

I often wonder how some people continue to love me despite my expression of love being so vague. Thank you for understanding my expression of love even when it was so indirect. Thank you for understanding that I love you even when I wasn’t by your side for days on end when you were sick – emotionally and physically. Thank you for understanding that I love you the same even when I failed to plan your birthday even half as meticulously as you planned mine. Thank you for understanding my quirks and idiosyncrasies, accepting them and loving me despite them and sometimes, for them. Thank you being the person I can share my dreams and stories with, thank you for waiting for me at dinner. Thank you for being my person.

My vocabulary is not capable of doing justice to my emotions, but I’d just like you to know that I feel extremely lucky to have you in my life and you belong to the group of people whom I call mine and take for granted, sometimes. I love you!

I forgot to mention one thing – you radiate happiness. It falls off your shining cheeks, glittery eyes and infectious laughter and everyone in your radar gets a gift of that happiness. You can walk into a dank, dingy room and brighten it up with your smile. You are amazing! I think I have already crossed my threshold of the number of cheesy words I can use in a day.

Love,

The girl with the fake accent