‘Mrs D, Mrs I, Mrs F, F, I…Mrs C, Mrs U, Mrs L, T, Y.’
Yes, why are all these women – in fact and fiction – married?
It has been a long month, and mommy tells me that she finally has the answers to the riddle that am I.
“You’re difficult.”
As in, I don’t listen?
“No, no…you’re just complicated and …difficult”.
Gee thanks mom that really clears up everything.
“That’s what confuses people about you, you don’t want normal things and normal people want normal things. It’s not that bad to want normalcy. What is so bad about being just regular for once! You spend too much bloody time with yourself!”
Yes, why are all these women – in fact and fiction – married?
It has been a long month, and mommy tells me that she finally has the answers to the riddle that am I.
“You’re difficult.”
As in, I don’t listen?
“No, no…you’re just complicated and …difficult”.
Gee thanks mom that really clears up everything.
“That’s what confuses people about you, you don’t want normal things and normal people want normal things. It’s not that bad to want normalcy. What is so bad about being just regular for once! You spend too much bloody time with yourself!”
My mother, poor soul, has worked herself into a healthy rant worrying about what is to become of me. Apparently now that I really AM leaving, my future, my choices, my lack of choices and my general person requires some drastic revamping. This exorcism gives my mother something to do and prevents her from focusing on the looming broken nest syndrome that constantly covets her waking attention. I admit that I am a little flattered but I am a lot more flustered.
Come again? And who are these people I am confusing so much?
“Men!”
*sigh*
It appears that I have somehow completely managed to overlook the fact that I received the good fortune of being accepted to Oxford in order that I may find and ‘hook’ a suitable mate. It also appears that 1100 years ago the city of dreaming spires was born to later be the international hub of learning, so that one fine day in the oh-so-distant future it could hope to provide for the Malang, Maria Amir, an ideal breeding ground of class, intellect and let us not forget wealth to solicit. Or with luck to be solicited by, but I am told that one is a long shot and it is these very ‘impractical’ notions that have now propelled me into the ‘desperate measures need to be taken’ sub-category of shemale. Like I said …it has been a long couple of months.
A few days back I was reading ‘Matilda’ again, my attempt to take a break from Dawkins’ ‘Selfish Gene’, and I got to reminiscing about the Trunchbull in depth. That mean, middle-aged spinster that hung little boys from fans by their shoelaces for being ‘difficult’. The song these children were taught to help spell the word ‘Difficulty’ is especially telling, apparently nothing explains ‘difficult’ better than a string of married women. I find this amusing, seeing as I am being pegged by the same title for being precisely the opposite.
But it did get me thinking about whether or not my ‘me-ness’ was ‘difficult’. If so, how does one even begin to fix something like that? If the ‘you’ in ‘You’ is confusing, essentially flawed, odd, eccentric, impractical, maniacal or ‘difficult’…what then is the remedy? I can foresee nothing short of amnesia or a lobotomy, and I sincerely doubt that either of those have ever been considered cures for anything.
Some of my more noticeable ‘me’s’ include the fact that I cannot seem to enjoy company for very long, people inevitably tire me but I complain about being lonely far too much in my writing, my ranting and some of my more eloquent ravings.
I have tiny hand writing, miniscule really. I usually end up cramping twenty five to thirty five words (depending upon the size of the page) in one line and I write one, three-letter word, to the typed text size of a single alphabet. Apparently my writing has shrunk over the years and anyone who reads it looks at me strangely. At which point I promptly point out that regardless of its size, my hand writing is very tidy. I do not know what this last statement is meant to prove, but I never leave a conversation without it.
I cannot sleep unless I am dreaming. This is why I generally need to lie down for fifteen minutes contemplating something, anything that I can turn into a series of events to last me till morning. Yesterday, I believe I was thinking about roses falling out of people’s brains and power trucks. I do not know what I made of it but I am sure it was suitably difficult.
I am unable to drive without music. I become very nervous if I listen to traffic, and ironically the louder the music, the more confident I am driving anywhere. I also seem to have an unquenchable thirst for ‘roaming’. Luckily my job covers fuel cost, because I drive for no other reason than to listen to my play lists in a confined space, amidst constant motion. It provides the illusion that my going somewhere is actually Going Somewhere.
I love the Oxford English Dictionary, it is probably my favourite book of all time, and that is saying something. My pride purchase of late is the electronic version of said dictionary and I am ferociously looking up words that I had underlined in my tiny ‘word book’, but had never got around to searching. I like the fact that no matter how many new words I can collect, there will always be others. It is a continuity I am comfortable with.
I cannot get through a day without coke. I have tried. I can NOT.
I collect key chains for no reason and for all reasons. I have often claimed to my writing wall, that I will marry the man that can find me the perfect key chain. I do not know what a perfect key chain looks like. But I will. I currently have a single rung with 18 key chains woven in, it is heavy but it goes wherever I go. There are only 5 keys.
I buy irrational amounts of DVD’s and television series. Perhaps this compulsion of mine exists, because I avoid company and prefer the screen- big and small. The conversation is better and the faces are prettier. And I don’t have to change my clothes.
The contents of my purse are unending and I judge women with tiny purses harshly. They manage an elegance with this particular prospect that I cannot fathom. My hand bags are always large, lumpy and tattered. This could be because they always contain: a book I read, a book I write in, my word book / now an electronic dictionary, a piece of charcoal, a pencil, wallet, Key rung (with rings attached), tiny nail clipper, turquoise mirror, a case with my crystal pendulum (which I have stopped using, but like to think I could if I relinquish my cynicism…when), mint strips, kaajal, solid perfume, lip gloss, inhaler, vanilla/mint lotion, cell phone, iPod, some form of candy, Press pass and occasionally something to post to someone or the other. Which is why, I resent people who can ‘travel light’ it makes me feel neurotic. This is not something I need to actively be pressed upon with by complete strangers.
I am phobic about clean teeth, I brush mine four times a day and my recent attempt to try smoking because it hypothetically kills the appetite, has proven that I was meant to favour food over cigarettes. A love for cholesterol is the only passion I am comfortable sharing with my father. I ended up giving my full box of ‘More’s’ (sic) to the Baba Ji who I pick up key chains from at Ferozpur Road.
I am unable to write characters. I cannot willingly lend my emotions or impressions to something other than myself. Even though I realise that essentially a character would merely be an extension of my emotions, I can never give my critters names. I fear that they might become too independent. I am terrified I might lose my mind if they developed their own lives outside of it.
I find that I take comfort in chores, if they are my own. I like doing my laundry, cleaning my room, making my bed and sorting my shelves. It nurtures a notion of normalcy. Which is funny, since I apparently avoid normalcy.
I dislike diamonds. They are by far my least favourite stone, probably because they aren’t one. I collect semi-precious stones and pretend that they actually effect my mood, diamonds only mood-ify money. I loathe money. I do, however, relish the act of ‘buying’. I agree that this is oxymoronic…or maybe just Oxy.
I prefer the company of men to women but I am terrified of being a woman in their company.
I repeatedly make the mistake of choosing healthy skin, bright eyes and well nourished hair over a depleting waistline, via the consumption ratio of select edibles high in almost everything. Apparently in this particular equation three odds are not better than one.
I am haunted by the notion that matrimony could very likely be the ‘End of all that I am’ and relish the idea of leaving a world where it is the only solution to being female. However, I cannot for the life of me explain why I already know- in excruciating detail- what my wedding dress and shoes will look like.
I apparently have the power to make babies laugh. No matter where I see them, in street corners hanging by the arms of beggars or staring up at me in restaurants. If I smile, they smile. It has never ‘not’ happened. I do not know what this means.
I am incomplete without the presence of the colour ‘Turquoise’ in my life.
I can cook, when I choose. I find watching BBC Food one of the most therapeutic exercises known to woman, apart from reading Austen perhaps. I actually enjoy cooking. I conceal it well.
I believe altogether too much in Love at first sight, I do not however believe in Love that lasts.
I take intense, irrational pleasure in defying religious thought, ritual and belief. I have written in my will, that I want to be cremated when I die. I find the notion of flowing with the wind far more preferable to being buried in the earth. I think I shall be ignored when the time comes.
I judge people by their voice. Always. I either trust their voice or I don’t. Sometimes, if I cannot make out the tone I am looking for I look at their hands, but I usually get what I need from the voice.
I am impressed by people that are completely unimpressed by me. This is depressing.
I hate being ignored. I pretend, quite convincingly, that I prefer it. I do not know why I do this.
I miss having pets more than I miss my parents, my sisters or my lives. I miss horse riding at night, clad in bulky sweaters and talking to my dogs. I miss the sympathy that only animals can give and that I can take without feeling like a hypocrite.
I dislike ‘big’ things. Houses, cars, boats, egos. I have lived a life where ‘bigness’ was the only thing that mattered and I was always the shortest person in my class since kindergarten. I like Volkswagen’s and cottages.
I can talk a mile a minute and stay silent for days. My audience has nothing to do with it.
I take comfort in collecting, framing, taking and compiling collages and albums of old photographs, letters and mementos. I save candy wrappers of my favourite chocolates, ticket stubs, flowers and bottle caps.
I write for the sake of hearing a pencil scrape on paper. I cannot abide pen's. I only use them to fill out forms. If I can’t think, I write notes to my television, prayers to my hand lotion and odes to my bathroom sink.
I am unable to appreciate the allure of tea. I do not relish its taste and I cannot fathom the brand of ‘eastern chai’ writing that has spawned a generation of ‘exotic’ eastern authors. I shall say it ‘I do not like tea’…in anything but lotions and bath products.
I sometimes pretend to read books I haven’t to sound smart. Then I always go back and read them, so as not to feel dumb for needing to sound smart.
I hope – desperately- for a life that is unpredictable; filled with toe-tingling kisses; travel; mistakes; rainy days; spicy flavours; words; yellow flowers; camping trips; guitar twangs; poems; lingering promises; post-its on bathroom mirrors; road trips; bear hugs; sarcasm; coffee mugs; theatre tickets; running; bicycle rides; salsa dancing; useless reveries; mood swings, photographs; crest toothpaste; pizza; children’s laughter; old books; new shoes; falling out of skies; library cards; coloured glass; baby powder; flowing skirts; long letters; jukeboxes; paint brushes; grape candy; straw hats; horses; side walks; tip toes; sharpened pencils; blue pillows; flip flops; airport escalators; silver charms; song dedications; balloons; animated movies; swords; fairies; stars; old leather couches; big TV’s; grand parents hands; thunder storms; black and white movies; post cards; burritos and enchiladas; Green tea shampoo; old spectacles; coca cola; fire places; key chains; silly phone calls; cold nights in blankets with cups of coffee; back packs, concert T-shirts; lamp light; gardens; involuntary smiles and persisting madness.
I don’t mind it being Difficult.
Come again? And who are these people I am confusing so much?
“Men!”
*sigh*
It appears that I have somehow completely managed to overlook the fact that I received the good fortune of being accepted to Oxford in order that I may find and ‘hook’ a suitable mate. It also appears that 1100 years ago the city of dreaming spires was born to later be the international hub of learning, so that one fine day in the oh-so-distant future it could hope to provide for the Malang, Maria Amir, an ideal breeding ground of class, intellect and let us not forget wealth to solicit. Or with luck to be solicited by, but I am told that one is a long shot and it is these very ‘impractical’ notions that have now propelled me into the ‘desperate measures need to be taken’ sub-category of shemale. Like I said …it has been a long couple of months.
A few days back I was reading ‘Matilda’ again, my attempt to take a break from Dawkins’ ‘Selfish Gene’, and I got to reminiscing about the Trunchbull in depth. That mean, middle-aged spinster that hung little boys from fans by their shoelaces for being ‘difficult’. The song these children were taught to help spell the word ‘Difficulty’ is especially telling, apparently nothing explains ‘difficult’ better than a string of married women. I find this amusing, seeing as I am being pegged by the same title for being precisely the opposite.
But it did get me thinking about whether or not my ‘me-ness’ was ‘difficult’. If so, how does one even begin to fix something like that? If the ‘you’ in ‘You’ is confusing, essentially flawed, odd, eccentric, impractical, maniacal or ‘difficult’…what then is the remedy? I can foresee nothing short of amnesia or a lobotomy, and I sincerely doubt that either of those have ever been considered cures for anything.
Some of my more noticeable ‘me’s’ include the fact that I cannot seem to enjoy company for very long, people inevitably tire me but I complain about being lonely far too much in my writing, my ranting and some of my more eloquent ravings.
I have tiny hand writing, miniscule really. I usually end up cramping twenty five to thirty five words (depending upon the size of the page) in one line and I write one, three-letter word, to the typed text size of a single alphabet. Apparently my writing has shrunk over the years and anyone who reads it looks at me strangely. At which point I promptly point out that regardless of its size, my hand writing is very tidy. I do not know what this last statement is meant to prove, but I never leave a conversation without it.
I cannot sleep unless I am dreaming. This is why I generally need to lie down for fifteen minutes contemplating something, anything that I can turn into a series of events to last me till morning. Yesterday, I believe I was thinking about roses falling out of people’s brains and power trucks. I do not know what I made of it but I am sure it was suitably difficult.
I am unable to drive without music. I become very nervous if I listen to traffic, and ironically the louder the music, the more confident I am driving anywhere. I also seem to have an unquenchable thirst for ‘roaming’. Luckily my job covers fuel cost, because I drive for no other reason than to listen to my play lists in a confined space, amidst constant motion. It provides the illusion that my going somewhere is actually Going Somewhere.
I love the Oxford English Dictionary, it is probably my favourite book of all time, and that is saying something. My pride purchase of late is the electronic version of said dictionary and I am ferociously looking up words that I had underlined in my tiny ‘word book’, but had never got around to searching. I like the fact that no matter how many new words I can collect, there will always be others. It is a continuity I am comfortable with.
I cannot get through a day without coke. I have tried. I can NOT.
I collect key chains for no reason and for all reasons. I have often claimed to my writing wall, that I will marry the man that can find me the perfect key chain. I do not know what a perfect key chain looks like. But I will. I currently have a single rung with 18 key chains woven in, it is heavy but it goes wherever I go. There are only 5 keys.
I buy irrational amounts of DVD’s and television series. Perhaps this compulsion of mine exists, because I avoid company and prefer the screen- big and small. The conversation is better and the faces are prettier. And I don’t have to change my clothes.
The contents of my purse are unending and I judge women with tiny purses harshly. They manage an elegance with this particular prospect that I cannot fathom. My hand bags are always large, lumpy and tattered. This could be because they always contain: a book I read, a book I write in, my word book / now an electronic dictionary, a piece of charcoal, a pencil, wallet, Key rung (with rings attached), tiny nail clipper, turquoise mirror, a case with my crystal pendulum (which I have stopped using, but like to think I could if I relinquish my cynicism…when), mint strips, kaajal, solid perfume, lip gloss, inhaler, vanilla/mint lotion, cell phone, iPod, some form of candy, Press pass and occasionally something to post to someone or the other. Which is why, I resent people who can ‘travel light’ it makes me feel neurotic. This is not something I need to actively be pressed upon with by complete strangers.
I am phobic about clean teeth, I brush mine four times a day and my recent attempt to try smoking because it hypothetically kills the appetite, has proven that I was meant to favour food over cigarettes. A love for cholesterol is the only passion I am comfortable sharing with my father. I ended up giving my full box of ‘More’s’ (sic) to the Baba Ji who I pick up key chains from at Ferozpur Road.
I am unable to write characters. I cannot willingly lend my emotions or impressions to something other than myself. Even though I realise that essentially a character would merely be an extension of my emotions, I can never give my critters names. I fear that they might become too independent. I am terrified I might lose my mind if they developed their own lives outside of it.
I find that I take comfort in chores, if they are my own. I like doing my laundry, cleaning my room, making my bed and sorting my shelves. It nurtures a notion of normalcy. Which is funny, since I apparently avoid normalcy.
I dislike diamonds. They are by far my least favourite stone, probably because they aren’t one. I collect semi-precious stones and pretend that they actually effect my mood, diamonds only mood-ify money. I loathe money. I do, however, relish the act of ‘buying’. I agree that this is oxymoronic…or maybe just Oxy.
I prefer the company of men to women but I am terrified of being a woman in their company.
I repeatedly make the mistake of choosing healthy skin, bright eyes and well nourished hair over a depleting waistline, via the consumption ratio of select edibles high in almost everything. Apparently in this particular equation three odds are not better than one.
I am haunted by the notion that matrimony could very likely be the ‘End of all that I am’ and relish the idea of leaving a world where it is the only solution to being female. However, I cannot for the life of me explain why I already know- in excruciating detail- what my wedding dress and shoes will look like.
I apparently have the power to make babies laugh. No matter where I see them, in street corners hanging by the arms of beggars or staring up at me in restaurants. If I smile, they smile. It has never ‘not’ happened. I do not know what this means.
I am incomplete without the presence of the colour ‘Turquoise’ in my life.
I can cook, when I choose. I find watching BBC Food one of the most therapeutic exercises known to woman, apart from reading Austen perhaps. I actually enjoy cooking. I conceal it well.
I believe altogether too much in Love at first sight, I do not however believe in Love that lasts.
I take intense, irrational pleasure in defying religious thought, ritual and belief. I have written in my will, that I want to be cremated when I die. I find the notion of flowing with the wind far more preferable to being buried in the earth. I think I shall be ignored when the time comes.
I judge people by their voice. Always. I either trust their voice or I don’t. Sometimes, if I cannot make out the tone I am looking for I look at their hands, but I usually get what I need from the voice.
I am impressed by people that are completely unimpressed by me. This is depressing.
I hate being ignored. I pretend, quite convincingly, that I prefer it. I do not know why I do this.
I miss having pets more than I miss my parents, my sisters or my lives. I miss horse riding at night, clad in bulky sweaters and talking to my dogs. I miss the sympathy that only animals can give and that I can take without feeling like a hypocrite.
I dislike ‘big’ things. Houses, cars, boats, egos. I have lived a life where ‘bigness’ was the only thing that mattered and I was always the shortest person in my class since kindergarten. I like Volkswagen’s and cottages.
I can talk a mile a minute and stay silent for days. My audience has nothing to do with it.
I take comfort in collecting, framing, taking and compiling collages and albums of old photographs, letters and mementos. I save candy wrappers of my favourite chocolates, ticket stubs, flowers and bottle caps.
I write for the sake of hearing a pencil scrape on paper. I cannot abide pen's. I only use them to fill out forms. If I can’t think, I write notes to my television, prayers to my hand lotion and odes to my bathroom sink.
I am unable to appreciate the allure of tea. I do not relish its taste and I cannot fathom the brand of ‘eastern chai’ writing that has spawned a generation of ‘exotic’ eastern authors. I shall say it ‘I do not like tea’…in anything but lotions and bath products.
I sometimes pretend to read books I haven’t to sound smart. Then I always go back and read them, so as not to feel dumb for needing to sound smart.
I hope – desperately- for a life that is unpredictable; filled with toe-tingling kisses; travel; mistakes; rainy days; spicy flavours; words; yellow flowers; camping trips; guitar twangs; poems; lingering promises; post-its on bathroom mirrors; road trips; bear hugs; sarcasm; coffee mugs; theatre tickets; running; bicycle rides; salsa dancing; useless reveries; mood swings, photographs; crest toothpaste; pizza; children’s laughter; old books; new shoes; falling out of skies; library cards; coloured glass; baby powder; flowing skirts; long letters; jukeboxes; paint brushes; grape candy; straw hats; horses; side walks; tip toes; sharpened pencils; blue pillows; flip flops; airport escalators; silver charms; song dedications; balloons; animated movies; swords; fairies; stars; old leather couches; big TV’s; grand parents hands; thunder storms; black and white movies; post cards; burritos and enchiladas; Green tea shampoo; old spectacles; coca cola; fire places; key chains; silly phone calls; cold nights in blankets with cups of coffee; back packs, concert T-shirts; lamp light; gardens; involuntary smiles and persisting madness.
I don’t mind it being Difficult.
