Men or Murder

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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