I’m a one-person woman.

There are times when we all feel like it would be nice to have someone to go back home to. Someone to meet and talk to, someone to call in the middle of the day when you’re having lunch alone because no one at work will talk to you. We wish for closeness and happiness and a perfection that we read about in books and watched in movies and which has eluded us for long. Sometimes, we look at those big figures on the screen with the love shining out of their eyes and it seems like the biggest waste ever, because if that story had happened to a real person, a person who’s probably you, how much more awesome would that be. Instead of those soul-less people on screen, it would be your life and your heart and your happily ever after. Yes, even in the ones where there are other women and dirty diapers (I know it’s clichéd, but what can I say, it’s easy), even in those ones, it’s all about the moments. Those fucking moment which you wish you had, because you would know much better how to respond to those words, and you would look much better and you would have the better responses and your life would be more fitting than those empty figures who have no thought after their 180 minutes. The fucking moments which seem to happen to everyone else and go by so frequently and those moments with which you torment yourself at night, thinking about what have beens and those moments of seeing someone’s face and that eye contact and that one second of mindless glee when you think this is it. This is what I had been waiting for. And then it passes, leaving behind nothing but another wasted moment and at the back of your mind you’re thinking of the mail you forgot to write and how your relationship with yourself is in a rut. And you need to take it up another notch and you think tomorrow morning I will exercise, and wake up early and make my life turn around, because that is what we are supposed to do as humans. Determine our fate. I shall take my fate in my hands. I will do something about this. I will make it work. And then the next day the maid wakes you up at the regular time and somehow there is no time to exercise and there is no impetus because at the back of your head you’re thinking it’s alright I can do it myself so what if no one loves me. And then you still dress up because even though there is no one to see at work, there might be someone on the way, or the guy you’re supposed to meet might be it or you might have that moment of eye contact. Who knows. And then you take your sad little who-knows and put them in a bundle and close them up because you know that you have a crush on the married, old guy with the delicious looking salt and pepper hair chained to some cabin and you know that you are still going to be thinking about your last boyfriend even when you meet the new guy and over and above all of this you will not feel the slightest ripple of anything because you have been conditioned to feel only on the big screen and anything less than all consuming maddening love seems frivolous to you and it’s a shame really because you were meant to love and be loved and all this is such a waste. All of it is a waste. Yet, you finish the day, meet the new person and make life go on. Because you know, it ain’t a movie.



One comment

  1. Jitendra · June 1, 2014

    You remind me of Claire in this story..

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