One day, some time in the evening
He: Get the hell out of my life.
She: I don't want to see your face.
He: Your face depresses me. The sound of your voice annoys me.
She: I really wish we had not married.
He: My words! Marrying you is the worst mistake that I have ever made!
She: Don't grind your teeth while you speak!
He: Why the fuck are you laughing? You know, we need to take a break from each other.
He walks out.
30 minutes later
He: Were you serious when you said, you wish we had not married?
She: Are you crazy or what?
He: I didn't hear you.
She: Were you serious when you said, "Get out of my life, I don't like your face, I don't like your voice"?
He: I never said, I don't like your face. I said your face depresses me.
She: Same thing.
He: It is not. And, I was the one who asked the question first. Were you serious when you said, you wish we had not married?
She: So what, you also do the same thing. Whenever I point out something to you, you always pinpoint back something or the other. You never accept your fault.
He: Ok, I don't think you are interested to resolve this. We will talk later.
40 minutes later
He: You know, when we go to my mother's house this weekend, I think you should stay on for a week or so.
She: And, what about my Yoga classes that have just restarted?
He: I don't think chucking your yoga classes matters that much. This is more important.
She: Look, my Yoga teacher was on vacation for 10 days. He just came back this week. If you wanted a break, we could have taken it last week.
He: This is only going to get worse, we are falling apart. If you don't agree to this break, it will only get worse.
She: I cannot miss my yoga classes right now. If it has to get worse, let it get worse.
1 hour later
She: Tell me one thing. Who started saying all those things, "I don't like your face", "Get out of my life" and all.
He: Didn't you say you wish you had not married me?
She: But I said it only after you said all those things. And I was laughing while I said it. You were grinding your teeth.
He: You know I become extremely unhappy when I use this kind of language. I don't like saying these things.
She: I know. Thats why I was laughing. I knew you were saying these things because you were angry. You didn't mean any of it. Did you?
Silence
She: Tell me, did you mean all those things?
He: I don't know. At that point, I was very serious. May be. I don't know how to get angry.
(Waits for some time)
She: Why didn't you take me seriously when I asked you to be back before 5? You knew I had a doc appointment. You never take me seriously.
He: Ok, I will stop joking now completely with you.
She: I am not asking you to stop joking. I am just asking you to take me a little more seriously.
He: (Laughs) Taking your words so seriously landed us in this. And you want me to take you even more seriously? You will kill me one day.
(Remains serious)
Friday, June 11, 2010
Friday, June 4, 2010
Becoming whole
I am becoming whole again. Fragmented, broken, angry, I was for the last four months. Anger, not of the righteous kind that nourishes you, anger, of the impotent, diminishing kind that makes you smaller.
I stopped writing, which I had begun after years of hesitation. I read scraps of tabloids, watched movies disinterestedly, and listened to whatever noise played out in the garb of music. I also became quieter, which some say was not very noticeable and akin only to another degree of silence.
I felt as if I was fighting a losing battle against monsters, both real and imagined. Frankly speaking, this is what I feel now. Then, I did not really feel much. Just something sore inside, when pain refuses to go away but is always around, popping up every now and then. Staring at you, mocking you.
Rather then bore you further with the "why" and "what", let me tell you a little, borrowed, story.
In Abbas Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry, Mr. Hamidi is looking for an accomplice to help him commit suicide. More accurately, to bury him, to cover his grave with earth, once he has killed himself. In the industrial wasteland of outskirts of Tehran, he seeks the lonely and impoverished, who would be desperate enough to accept his offer of money for little help. Adolescent soldier away from his native town, rag-picker, exiled Afghan seminary. Some get scared, some discourage him. One of them asks, why don't you share your pain, may be, it will make it subside? Mr. Hamidi desists, even if I tell you, you will never be able to feel what I am feeling inside. You will sympathize, you will probably feel pity towards my condition, but you will not understand me. Mr. Hamidi does not tell anything, but he lays bare the ultimate loneliness of human condition, and its accompanying pain and suffering. But, he still finds something in the "taste of cherry" to go on living.
Suddenly, I am also feeling that the happiness, that I have longed for and tried to attain, is returning. Perhaps in half measures, not fully, but I am losing the resentment towards happiness that I had built so assiduously. And I can feel a void getting filled within, I still don't know by what. I just feel that I am slowly coming back to life.
I stopped writing, which I had begun after years of hesitation. I read scraps of tabloids, watched movies disinterestedly, and listened to whatever noise played out in the garb of music. I also became quieter, which some say was not very noticeable and akin only to another degree of silence.
I felt as if I was fighting a losing battle against monsters, both real and imagined. Frankly speaking, this is what I feel now. Then, I did not really feel much. Just something sore inside, when pain refuses to go away but is always around, popping up every now and then. Staring at you, mocking you.
Rather then bore you further with the "why" and "what", let me tell you a little, borrowed, story.
In Abbas Kiarostami's Taste of Cherry, Mr. Hamidi is looking for an accomplice to help him commit suicide. More accurately, to bury him, to cover his grave with earth, once he has killed himself. In the industrial wasteland of outskirts of Tehran, he seeks the lonely and impoverished, who would be desperate enough to accept his offer of money for little help. Adolescent soldier away from his native town, rag-picker, exiled Afghan seminary. Some get scared, some discourage him. One of them asks, why don't you share your pain, may be, it will make it subside? Mr. Hamidi desists, even if I tell you, you will never be able to feel what I am feeling inside. You will sympathize, you will probably feel pity towards my condition, but you will not understand me. Mr. Hamidi does not tell anything, but he lays bare the ultimate loneliness of human condition, and its accompanying pain and suffering. But, he still finds something in the "taste of cherry" to go on living.
Suddenly, I am also feeling that the happiness, that I have longed for and tried to attain, is returning. Perhaps in half measures, not fully, but I am losing the resentment towards happiness that I had built so assiduously. And I can feel a void getting filled within, I still don't know by what. I just feel that I am slowly coming back to life.
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