Alone and Well

Last night I had a spat with my mother. Well, I live in a real world where row with a dear one is not an alien topic. For some people, parents mean only lovey dovey talks with gentle forlorn undertone. They are either very lucky or bloody liars. And I am neither. So even though I speak with my mother everyday, half the times it ends up in quarrel. Now I have an advantage. I can just hang up and escape the whole unpleasant situation. And I often hang up to her face. Again, I am a real-life person. Which means I am part good, part asshole. Earlier, when I used to live with them I would have to pay heavy price after every argument with my mother. She would never stop bickering. I am an overly sensitive person who reacts quite adversely to any kind of turmoil and the reaction would always go inward. So I would be hiding in my room with headphones on trying to escape the reality whilst a part of me getting a little more fucked up beyond recovery. Now I just hang up and step out on the balcony to watch the clouds passing over the hills. I don't think anything can fuck me up beyond this point. There's nothing left to fuck actually.

So, coming back to the story. I called her up and after one or two usual exchanges she came to the real point. Point was nothing new. She had again looked for some guy who might prove to be my 'saviour'. This time it's some bloody school teacher from Saltlake. It fits the bill for her. Bengali. Check. Lives in Calcutta. Check. Has a dangerously safe and mediocre job. Check. Sometimes I wonder if I am really my parents' kid. I mean there was probably some internal bleeding out of disgust when my mother was yapping about the poor manchild. And when I expressed my disgust openly she began to throw her old and much used weapon. That someday I would regret not marrying on time and how I would die an old spinster. She loves me no doubt; but she is the most unsupportive person in my life. Needless to say, my mood was ruined instantaneously and I hung up. After hanging up I silently uttered an oath of not calling her for next two days. Then I went back to my room, turned on my laptop and started watching FRIENDS where each protagonist is so afraid of dying all alone that their desperation leads to some hilarious outcome every now and then. Then I realised I could have my very own sitcom.

Last week I shifted to my new quarter. Now I own a full fledged 2 BHK apartment with a killer view both from the bedroom and the balcony. I am entitled to get 3 BHK flat but the only available 3 BHK category I flats were on the ground floor so I had opted for category II housing. Doesn't really matter since I am the single occupant. And in civilian world, rank is hardly ever used to show off and brag in front of people. This time shifting was done pretty smoothly without me having to break a single sweat. Well, it is so when one is the subject of affection of the most powerful man in town. My mother was shocked when she first heard the news. She was even more in dismay when I told her I had started to furnish my home. Why? No no just rent a bed and keep your clothes in the bag. You are coming back in a year or two anyway. Why waste money? I listen and stay silent. Bile rises in my stomach. I NEVER wish to go back to that horrendous city ever again. For me, Calcutta means heartbreak and disappointment and clinical depression. And I would better die before I marry some pansy, poetry reciting, so-called intellectual, mediocre Bengali guy.

Honestly speaking, marriage is not a compulsion for me. Nor is motherhood. At the same time neither am I a horny slut. Even if I look or sound like one. No matter how much my mother tries to scare me, I quite enjoy being alone. It's so hassle-free. Just imagine someone breathing down your neck by your side the whole night, taking half the space. Not to mention asshole in-laws imposing unfair conditions upon you. Whereas being single is so easy. No compulsion to shave your legs. No compulsion to look pretty. You can cook or order outside food. You can watch or read whatever you feel like. You can play songs and dance around the entire house like a crazy mofo. No one to share the  toilet with. Or the wardrobe. No one to judge or command. I lay sprawled across my newly carpeted floor with books, laptop and cup of tea and try to picture another person in my flat. The result is neither romantic nor comforting. Then I try to picture myself being in love. The silent hollowness inside my chest starts to crawl up like a giant black shadow. I feel so terrified that I distract myself quickly. If I ever fall in love again, that would be nothing short of a miracle. But seriously, I can never be a conventional wife or mother. I am never going to mollycoddle or babysit anyone. You gotta take care of yourself while I will stand by you through thicks and thins. I can promise you that much.

Sometimes I think of my grandmother. She loved being alone so much that she literally died alone. No one was there by her side to bid the final adieu. The more I relate myself to her the more I feel unsettled. Am I turning into her? What is the right choice? Settling for less and rejoice in the delusion of togetherness or staying honest to the person in the mirror? Why my life always comes to choosing between easy and right? Maybe I am special. I don't know. But I am OK with walking down the path alone until I find someone I can call 'my home'. Until then, I need no saviour, no prince charming. Because you know what? I am no damsel in distress.

I call this one My Song.



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