Weekend monologue

Hey there. your sweet bitch is back. full of  gloom and bitterness, just the way you like it, aah! 

So next week, i shift again, to another place in cochin. i will be living with this 74 year old woman, whose hair is still marginally mostly black. She lives with an equally old dachshund. this immediately set my imagination rolling with thoughts of pleasant 4 o clock evenings, with tea, trees and a dog beside me. which is pure balderdash, bcos evenings do not exist for me. only nights n early mornings n artificial lighting in between. n that is also adulthood, i hear my inner non-me say. The old woman is not going to let me use her kitchen, which i am not too pleased about, bcos i badly need to, for chai, oats, boiled vegetables, etceteras sake. shes also sorta implied through conversations, that i need to be sorta nice-ish n kind-ish to her, her who is an old woman of 74 fine years, she kept repeating. how do ppl manage to imply so many things? i never manage. n then, also, if i cant manage to imply things, i wish i wudnt so easily read into what ppl r implyin, damness! neways, i am not majorly into kindness, but i do ok with ppl who do not tell me how to live my life...n lemme use der kitchen. wt say, Ms. 74? ola. ofcourse my parents r very excited abt dis, i am not completely sure why, so i really shouldn't say ofcourse. i think its bcos she had this invisible beacon in her hand, enlightening the way to misery of the old and the single. which my parents aren't, like superbly gladly so, and they were for like a few elongated milliseconds so kicked to have each other. And i guess they are also glad that im going to have an on-residence intro to what the rest of my life is going to be like, if i refuse to get married to some nice boy, while i can still "catch" one. i remember some recent movie line, which goes (quoting with some modifications), how sad it is, shucks, shucks, when wisdom is wasted on the wise. Strike a chord, oi? 

Anyways, later on, acha had to get something n i had to get something, both from the city. But the city is a big place n since my father is a most inconveniently brilliant man, to do things simultaneously, he ignored my instructions n parked the car in the middle of neither here nor there, n asked innocently, is dis ok? to which i drawled n whined about how it is d middle of nowhere. to which my father most irritably imitated my drawl n whine. at which point, i realized why i never do a kiddish drawl n whine with most ppl, but instead always use the "i will mince meat u, if u dont do things d way i want" tone. i have spent countless hours all through out my life, wondering, why i cant communicate normally, why "we", whoever d other of d we mebe, tgdr, cant communicate normally, effectively, sanely, like emotionally mature non-existent adults. after all, we all want that, right? we dont want the conflict or the tantrums or the friction? peace, joy, all such exquisite items, why we foresake them ppls, i ask. i ask sometimes through misplaced tears of righteousness even. but no. nohoho.  no-no-no-no-noonsense.  emotional maturity, from father dearest to urs truly, stuff of fiction. I reconcile, it is no longer an offering on the table, it is zimbly a fancy brainfucker of a mirage in the desert.

Then what? Then we stopped in front of aarya hotel. now again, like many other familial mysteries, i do not know whats with my dad and hotels named aarya. no, there is no an-affair-to-remember woman from his youth named aarya, i think her name was ambika or anila or something. But gettin back to my point, the thing is, if ever we have to make a stop in between journeys, we always stop infront of a place named aarya. now my guess is this, acha always says how tamilians r like this, n tamilians r like that, n basically tamilians r the worlds greatest ppl ever, atleast ever since he discovered them in coimbatore during his m.tech days. n he has also said how there used to be this restaurant chain named aaryas run by tamilians, where the service was always excellent, n the sky was always blue, n d daisies bloomed pink etc. so anyways, now these two points have been bundled up in an illogical way in his head, to give us the net result of forever aarya. right.

also, as i was figuring this out, i was thinking how much i think like my acha, like how i think bongs r like this, n bongs r like that, n bongs r the greatest ppl ever, atleast ever since i discovered them during my ma.eco days. n that was also when i realized, that since i will always call bongs bongs n not bengalis, even if some bong tells me, it hurts them so, it is again evidence of how i am just like my dad/parents. you see, i perform all my loving and bcos-i-love-you-so actions, without bothering about significant details or how my exact love-actions affect the ppl who r being so helplessly loved. does anybody get that? you there, yes you, u getting it? There is so much of strain and so much of giving involved in the loving process that you feel that you are entitled to ignore such details. no? yes.

Which brings me to the easily forgotten but repeatedly realized point that parents deserve nothing more than infinite kindness, glow-rendering warmth and a golden glaze over the harshness of reality from us. atleast for mine, from me. but, its just that, by the time realization translates into action, instead of  infinite kindness and glow-rendering warmth, they/we get the occassional grudging company. n that is good goin! by my parents standards. so cheers really.