It’s been almost two months I moved to Darjeeling. I had
thought I would turn into some coming-of-age, single, independent female
blogger living in hill station and telling stories of her interesting life in quite
Jamie Zeppa style. But you see man/woman proposes and the bastard Almighty
disposes and then throw it back to your face to emphasise the humiliation. So I
remained the same sad piece of little shit picking up melancholy everywhere;
even in the ravishing beauty of The Kanchenjunga. Is sadness my unofficial,
silent middle name? Perhaps. And especially when the universe chose that name
for you, where the hell would you run and hide? So better face it and make
sarcastic jokes about it. And when the burden of sadness feels too much to joke
about, sit down and write some poetry out of them. Sad poetry is a big hit. So life
sucks pretty much the same way. Only the temperature has dropped and elevation
gone up. No! Don’t you dare give me advice that ah happiness comes from within
etc etc. My so-called ‘black’ part will arise and punch you in the fucking
face. I have no disorder. Just very low tolerance to bullshit and meaningless
accusation. It’s like stabbing a person repeatedly then blaming them because
your white shirt got dirty with their blood.
I have made some friends here in Darjeeling. Some are really
old, some of my age, some are quite younger. I was having a virtual
conversation with one of them who is right now out of town. He was enquiring me
about any interesting update since he had left. In my usual deadpan style I told
him that nobody had been murdered as I had hoped. So life
was still pretty dull. In reply he did a facepalm and expressed he would rather
get drunk and get laid than get mixed up in some ‘murder shit’. I sighed and
told him that yes we indeed lived in a sad time where getting laid was probably
easier than embarking upon an actual adventure. He replied that he did not
think he lived in a sad time as things were easy now. Even though he is a little
less than a decade younger than me I couldn’t help feel like a grandma
suddenly. Now I may not have some serious psychotic disorder as some people
think but I do have a tendency of getting affected by my surrounding way too
much. People who hate me will smirk and snigger. BPD, what else? It’s google recommended. People who still love me
even after all these years of annoyance will smile indulgently. Aww our INFP princess. So anyway, even
after two hours when I was hurriedly disappearing under blankets for the day I was
still thinking about what he had said with such agility and conviction. Really?
People of my generation love easy so much over real? I was reading somewhere
the other day that sad people appear more lively than average. I don’t know how
scientifically true that is but I do appear quite flamboyant on the outside. I AM
flamboyant by god. A life spent with me will be anything but boring, ever. However,
some people out there who usually take my bluntness and flamboyance as
unabashed sluttiness. Oh this girl must be sleeping around with every dude she
meets. An assumption which strengthens into conviction since I have ‘so many
male friends’. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I am innocent. I do have
the tendency to grab people’s weakness and hit them where it hurts the most. So
sometimes I lie. Just to take revenge of thinking about me badly. I love it. It’s
a suicidal pleasure. When anger and sadness mix with something purely
diabolical. I told you, I am anything BUT boring. Ever.
So I was lying under two layers of blankets and thinking. Why
do people always fall for the easy and overlook the real quest? It’s true, real
is never easy to attain and even harder to sustain. But that’s where the fun
lies, doesn’t it? There is nothing more exciting than chasing what you believe
in with your heart and soul. And the insecure, stupid men think I am a whore
with psychotic disorder. When the initial state of hurt passes their assumption
does make me laugh. And if you ask me to cough up some honest piece of
confession, I did picture myself getting involved in some big, complex murder
mystery before coming here. The other day I visited Mr. Plant’s gorgeous wooden
bungalow. Mr. Austin Plant is a British architect who came to Darjeeling in
1942 and never went back. He bought a piece of land and built a house in such a
location that would make your jaw drop in awe. The fairy tale was complete when
he fell in love and married an Afghani girl who came here to study. I was on
the terrace with Mr. Plant devouring his story while admiring the view. At the end of his account I said, your house
deserves to be part of a really good novel. What I did not tell him was that I was
picturing a dead body on the very terrace found during a house-party. I was
picturing myself discussing the list of suspects and alibi while sipping coffee
at Keventer’s rooftop. Or walking past the village shop and stopping for a
piece of evidence. My eyes were twinkling at the prospect of a new quest. Did the
mountains around me chuckle at me in unison? God knows. Anyway, I imagine way
too much.
One night stand? No thanks. Give me a mystery baby. I will
come on solving it.
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