The ache for a companion

'I wake up in the morning. A small heaviness in my heart that soon snowballs into a deep welling pain, that almost threatens to choke me. I mentally shift my consciousness to a happier frame of mind. I need to. The duties of the day await. As the coffee pot bubbles, my spirits lift and sink like the boiling milk on the stove. My most precious part of the day and I feel incredibly lonely. I am happy to be by myself, to be myself. Joyous about the million things being me implies. It is when my pot of happiness and sorrow bubble over that I long for a shoulder, an answering look in a companion's eyes, the squeeze of a hand, the occasional brush of teasing lips on mine, the promise of laughter, life and hope. None which I was blessed with. In my moment of triumph or in my moments of pain, I long for my feelings to matter to someone.

 I want to matter to someone. I want hugs. I want kisses. I want to belong in someone's arms.  To ramble every day nonsense. To talk  profound sense. To be held tight like i matter. I want to feel like a woman. I want someone to embrace the warmth and sunshine that is in me. Instead, i have this cold feel of automation that is a dead marriage. I know what awaits. The grandfatherly brush of lips against me, or the giggly schoolboy and the abusive, indifferent sadist. My heart aches so much that i fear it would burst.

The birds chirp in the morning hour and in that silent heralding of the dawn my loneliness is overwhelming as the swirl of coffee fills the air. Most mornings i love my aloneness, but i hate the mornings of loneliness when they come. They are overwhelming. everything seeming grey, meaningless. I see couples going for their morning walk, a simple act of togetherness and i long to be one of them. I know i would never have that simple pleasure. I can only watch on with that ache, an outsider to that blessing called companionship. I feel like a widow with a mentally dead partner who is physically alive, like a woman divorced while still married. I feel old and beaten. The sun is not yet risen and tears sting my eyes.

My phone rings and i pick it up. There is very little to interest or excite in the conversation. I know what we will speak. How it will be. An automated conversation. Played out every morning. I dare not say anything or ask anything or even be impatient in my desires. I have to be careful with the other who is like a child, an abusive child who can hurt me due his insecurities. If I am bubbly, excited, alive or eager, i share that mood. The days i wake up feeling this deadness, i try to fake it. To summon a feeling of normalcy. It is important. For his sanity. For my child's sake. For my safety and sanity. For the drama that we need to play for the world's sake. For the failure that we cannot show to the world, yet again. For the kindness i need to summon from deep within against an abuser because i am mentally stronger than him and kinder. And, because I can. And he cannot.

I need to strengthen myself from the pain of abuse and i need to continue to make him feel good about himself, boost his self-image because it is so fragile. So i shrink myself a little more, and clip my wings a little. I need to. If this has to work, i cannot fly the skies with a companion. He would not only doubt if he can fly, he would make me doubt if i can fly, and if i had ever flown, and all the while  i would remember the innumerable heights i have soared and the blueness aof the skies i have known. I need to clip my wings so that we are both broken without wings and we could forever beat our broken bodies in the ground. That is the only companionship that is possible, that is the promise of the tomorrow.

Around me laughter spills. There are couples dancing, their eyes flirt, and their hands own their patrner's bodies in familiar, unfamiliar ways. I sit amidst the whirling couples, a lonely married spinster. I would have given anything to have a man, hold me with pride and joy as we twirled away. I think of all the ones who would have loved to have me in their arms. But i ache alone. I turn to look at what should be the joy of my life, he is fast asleep amidst the crowd. I can only politely refuse the offers of other gentlemen and ache alone for arms that i would never know or have.

These are dark secrets i can speak to no one. No one cares. And, they will not understand. They have not lived the million lives i have. They do not know the hundreds of times i have fallen and risen. I wake. I exist now. I come alive in occasional moments sparkling with my old vivaciousness, my mind and spirit free and soaring. Then, the raised eyebrows of society reminds me of what i should be. They look at my bare arms, they look at the fact that rules do not apply to me and why they should. And, the old familiar icy coldness descends in to me. I remember that i am a married woman, a woman in a dead marriage that i can scarce talk about.

I weep no longer. Tears are still a sign of hope. My tears have dried up. I wonder how long this can go on ? And, then you came in to my life. Reminding me of all what I was. Bringing a promise. And, I ache for you now. I ache for the life I know we cannot have.'

Mitra stopped reading. She had forgotten the presence of others in the room. The child snuggled up to her for warmth, not understanding the words but sensing some deep emotion. Dia and Margaret had not spoken a word. Dia got up slowly, and went out. She came back with a glass of water which she silenty handed over to Mitra.

It was then that Mitra cried. Like she could never stop. - From 'Six Tits' - my upcoming novel

Waking up from the dream

I know that this is a dream.
All around me things are swirling.
People rushing by.
Intent and purposeful,
living their lives.
All around me people are feeling.
Thinking. Acting.
Laughing. Crying. Dancing. Wanting.
In a trance I watch.
Just observing the drama.
I speak and yet my words seem faraway.
My thoughts float.
They come and go.
Whimsically, I act on them
or just let them go.
I know that this is all a dream.
I am just a character.
Just like all the others.
The events, they come and go.
The perceived emotions,
they give them color.
A meaning. A value.
The events they come and go.
They touch me not.
I am but a dream.
And, in that awareness,
the question emerges,
Who is this Me that is aware of the dream?

-          Srividya Srinivasan 3/6/2015 

Dance of my life

I am laughing,
the moment holds me in thrall.
Alive, beautiful, full of promise.
So achingly beautiful,
that words fail.
My eyes crinkle.
my smile widens
as my spirit dances...


Past the yet-to-settle smile,
a rush of pain sneaks in,
needing but a split second,
Loneliness follows behind,
casting a vulnerability so fragile
that I can scarce breathe,
A million memories flood in,
a million aches...
I freeze.


Dancing in the moment,
I ache.
Dancing in joy
aching within.

A million aches
familiar and new.
A million joys
holding me in thrall
as I ache.

- Srividya Srinivasan 31/3/2105

Flirting with Time

I rushed about madly,
scared that time was running out.
Time stood still watching me,
waiting for me to come
to a standstill.
I do not perceive its pace,
amidst my frenetic one.

Everything is a blur,
my heightened awareness
screaming its aliveness,
into my being.

I stand in the middle of it all,
calm and still.
All about me is the whirling madness
as Time rushes by.
I wait for Time
to come to a standstill.

Everything is clear,
my heightened awareness,
whispering my awareness
into my being.

We are even.
We are one.
In the stillness.
Time and I.

- Srividya Srinivasan 14/03/2015

Calm

A great calm has descended over me,
casting its spell amidst the madness.
I no longer rush in to add my bit,
have lost the eagerness to explain,
to be understood.

I am an observer now of my own
small dramas and the world's dramas,
a part of it all, and yet not quite.

My grouses first went to a corner
and hopefully,
have slunk away forever.
My victimhood has been abandoned,
the cross slowly disintegrating
out of misuse.

I have lost the need to compete or compare
my former selves to this new self,
except, in recognition of this dawning calm.

I embrace my older, volatile self with love,
and ask her to find a place beside this new me.
Her motives are genuine, even if she does
wear her emotions on her sleeve.

And, we sit in companionable silence,
my older selves and this newer me.
content to just be.
Watching. Observing.
Drinking it all in.

Others.
Myself.
Me in others.
Others in me.


- Srividya Srinivasan 14/03/2015

The Single Mother

The single mother sings a lullaby for two;
the strong one the child turns to,
the man of the house she has to be,
the gentle one the child turns to,
the woman of the house she has to be.

Her fears are not to be her child’s,
Her tears are to be her own,
shed in the dead of the night,
all alone.
She dare not long for herself,
nor dream anymore.
Oh, what can the future possibly hold?

Giant shadows of fear
chase her through the night,
as the world asks, is that right?
Oh, how could you be so bold?

As the darkness falls,
and the walls close in,
The single mother
sings a lullaby for two,
She who sleeps with
her eyes wide open,
beside a trusting child.
She, sings a lullaby bold.

- Srividya Srinivasan, March 2, 2015

Living through the scars

We shall forever be battling our scars, healing ourselves from the deep scars of childhood, to the awkward scars of adolescence, the hard scars of adulthood and scars of frail old age. In the answering spark in another's eyes, the cosy laughter of friends, and the circle of family, we rush to heal, heal our scars. In the eyes of a complete stranger, we finally find our balm until they are a stranger no more, and then we scar again, only to bleed again. - SS

The words of silence

When we speak to a person who does not love us, our words seem to fall in mid air. The room resonates with our words like they have not hit the target. You reach a stage where you wonder if you even spoke anything. - Srividya Srinivasan 

Surreal realities

I wonder what an event is when there is no perspective or emotion for the observer. Does the event exist in one's memory ?

- Srividya Srinivasan

The spark in the eye

I saw the old wary look in a young child's eyes and a sparkle and a twinkle in an old woman's eyes. There was a lump in my throat that I could scarce control for both. The human experience is precious indeed. - Srividya Srinivasan

May be we are all only thoughts...

Maybe we are all only thoughts and thoughts are the only things that exist. Floating around, seamless, ageless, moorless, stretching unto eternity. Maybe I am a thought projected as a person. A thought that was a person long ago. A thought that is me now. A thought that would arise as me in many lives to come. Maybe I am a thought conjured up long long ago by someone. And, the thoughts that running through me now will be a person someday ? Maybe we are all nothing but thoughts

- Srividya Srinivasan

Child She He

The child had to be admitted to school. The school that everyone went to. Home schooling was definitely an option. But, they had decided to give it one try before considering schooling the child themselves. So, it was settled between them all to brave the outside world. Finally, it was time to widen the circle. To see, if they could let the others in. 

They had fallen in love with each other, intensely, passionately, their souls instantly fusing to shut out the world. None existed around them. He changed his name to Mr.She and she became Mrs.He. Their identities merged. The world laughed at him, for has any man given up his identity for a woman or borne her name and survived?  He shrugged and grinned. He had no loss of identity by becoming Mr.She. He was proud to bear the tag as her partner, as the lover of her body and free spirit. To take on her identity was an honour. She wore the tag of Mrs.He with equal pride, flaunting it with a brazenness that was terrifying intense to others who wore theirs as matter of social security. 

And, yet they were not married. Technically, at least by the world’s standards. He saw the fire in her eyes, and she saw the answering spark in his and there it was, a marriage by fire. Sacred was their union and unwavering was their love. Their identities had fused to the point that they needed no social sanction. To the world they were sinners, but they cared not for the world nor its values. They only knew this. The world was an outsider to their sacred union. Letting in the world and its opinions, morals and its structures was a sin, like their intimacy was put out on trial for the titillation of the public. The only religion they practised was love. In all forms, physical, mental and spiritual. They flowed into their silences as they flowed into their conversations, picking up silences that they left off midway or conversations they closed years later. The presence of the others into something as sacred as intimacy was almost blasphemous to them. The only third that they welcomed was the child, born out of their beautiful union and passion. A sacred reminder of their fusion. They gave it a name Child She He.  

The child grew in love, fostered in silence and harmonious conversations, in wonder and awe of love and all things natural and profound. They studied nature together and their spirits often spoke in harmony and yet not a word was spoken in the teaching. 

The boy stepped into the class. His carriage was proud. He looked different from the others. Talked and walked differently. He spoke words in the language they all understood and yet he spoke them differently. Slowly, deeply. As if, he meant every word. They seemed to come from some source deep within him. He spelt his name clearly. Child She He. They all tittered. Who is She that you bear her name? All our names just have Name He. The one from whose womb I came, he said proudly. I am product of the love of two people She and He. I shall bear her name first before his with pride, as she bore me with pride, he said. They fell silent, confused and unable to answer him. 

He looked around. The girl across the room caught his eye. His eyes sparked. He smiled. There was an answering spark in her eyes. It was like there were no one else in the class room. 

- Srividya Srinivasan

Desire

'The body and skin respond to the human touch in ways that the mind can scarce discern. But the mind is very involved, an eager participant and creator of desire. The body responds of its own accord pulsing, throbbing, craving fulfilment indifferent to the label one would fix to a partner, while the mind rejoices in feeding it with secret pictures. Be not fooled that the rock bed of a steady marriage lies in the fatherly touch from an elderly husband or the icy indifference or passive submissiveness of an indifferent wife and that fidelity lies in the mindless repetitions of a cold act of the parting of legs, or the panting of breaths. You need to be comfortable in your skin to be a lover. You cannot create desire. You feel desire. It needs a special eye and touch to be a lover, to be lovers, a certain coming together of mind and body where the repetition is desired. A familiar coming home to, where the uncertainty of the exact moment of outpouring lends it spontaneity. Familiar lovers lead exciting lives because they come together in desire irrespective of who has initiated it and when. The unexpected is often the magic.'  - An excerpt from '6 Tits; by Srividya Srinivasan

Two Selves have I

I am alone.
Alive in my aloneness.
Dead to the world. 
Genderless.
Stripped of my femininity
for eternity.

My desires stifled.
My realness guarded,
sacred to my aloneness.

The mask fits better.
The mask i put on.
The mask the world wants.
The mask of adaptability. 

The surreal day beckons.
The dawn of automation.
Of roles to be played.
Things to be done.
People to be met.
Battles to be fought.
Issues to be handled.
Anger to be faked.
Passion to be feigned.

Two selves have I.
One for the world,
One for my aloneness.
Earlier I had just one.
Soon, I will have none.
As the mask fuses
into my defeated self
until the real and the
fake are one.

- Srividya Srinivasan - 25/10/2014 

"Our very thoughts are our prayers at the altar of our own selves, Our unmasked naked, uncensored love for life - our divine offerings to our own highest selves, and the deep rush of thankfulness in being the exact person we are lucky to be - the blessing that we crave to receive." - Srividya Srinivasan

The delicate art of loving ..

You cannot create love out of nowhere nor can you work at it. Love is a spontaneous recognition of oneself in another, and celebrating what one aspires to be in another. Love is an act of loving the best part of what one is and what one wants to be. It is a joyous abandonment of boundaries, an acknowledgment of one's strengths and weaknesses and an utter relaxing in one's skin.

People talk about compromise and adjustments in love and working at love. Real love being spontaneous and true would automatically bend to the truth in the other. Real love operates with grace, humility and an easy passage for what is right and what elevates the common created oneship. It is actually between people where there is no love, no possibility for a spark and the only link being a everyday wading through existential transactions that demands compromise and adjustments. One needs a daily reminder and affirmation of the link because what holds the two people is a functional practicality or fear of social ostracization. It is not strength that holds such people together but their vulnerabilities.

But nurturing, strangely is a part of real love too. Reminders play a different role here. The reminder and the nurturing is not to keep the pale shell of the initial spark or intimacy alive through empty acts of gifts and anniversaries but to actually become the person who initially enjoyed that spontaneous recognition in the other. When two people recognise what they initially liked in each other, they keep coming back to that point of joyous reunion. Countless times will they lose their way but countless times will they joyously come back to a reunion. Countless times will their love be born and in each birth they recognise the strength of the togetherness and through this parting and meeting, will they realise that their beauty is best expressed in the union. Loving and nurturing the union becomes the most precious act of acknowledging life and love. So they will live, and so they will love...

- An excerpt from 'the book THE SPECIAL THEORY OF RELATING ' - By Srividya Srinivasan

The Story of happily every after ...

Today's question: What is it to relate emotionally ? If there is no emotion attached are we still
feeling ? If we do not feel then does the aspect exist or does it cease to ? Is death a lack of feeling ? What do we mean when we say relate? What triggers relating ? What causes it to disappear ?

The Story of happily every after ...

When we relate to someone, we relate to an interesting, real and aspirational us that we become with relation to them. When we feel good with someone, it is not only because we like what they are when we are with them, we like what we become in their presence. It is the latter that motivates us to meet them, talk to them, desire to spend time with them and stay in love with them. A drop in their excitement, enthusiasm in being with us is handled by us either as a personal failure of our own attractiveness or as a drop in theirs. We desire people who make us continue to feel desirable.

When the perceived importance of the feeling within one that made one relate to something or someone reduces or disappears then the relating reduces or disappears. If what you felt or perceived as a new exciting you when you encountered a new idea or person is not lasting and your regular old personality comes back, you lose faith in the excitement or the fresh feeling and revert to the old you. After a while, even the memory of the excitement seems fainter and fainter until you are not sure it even existed.

When we fight with someone especially in a relationship, it is either a fight about recapturing that emotion or a denial that the emotion even existed in the first place. Most women since they have long term memories believe and can remember the emotion and excitement and hence put their faith and hope on recapturing it with the man. For the man, the memory is so faint that he does not recollect it or does not believe that it can happen again. The man fights to establish the fact that excitement and euphoria is short lived. He either continuously seeks it again and again through various means or various people. The woman tries to recapture it with the same person again and again. And, that is why when she takes a step forward or tries to remind him of who he was when they met or who they were at the start the man seriously does not relate to the person he was then nor the emotion that held him in thrall. The woman wants a replay of what was strong and beautiful and binding between them a million times over. When a woman asks a man if he still loves her, she means do you still love me the way i thought you did when we first met. Do you mean it with the same intensity and am i still the most important thing to you still in the same way?

The man is forced to go through the motions pretending the memory and emotion or he rejects it outright. He has no recollection of having been captivated by this woman and instead grows stubborn in his refusal of the memory. He grows colder and colder while she tries to come closer and closer. He cannot for the life of him figure out why he was chasing her in the first place or what he found attractive. She was attractive when they met because she was not committed to him in particular and was hence a conquest to be won. He becomes interesting to his own mind as a conqueror and a talker and is a new person within himself and unfamiliar at that and hence a man in love becomes confident, vulnerable, real and exciting in his own eyes. The woman enjoys becoming a target of this excitement and in turn becomes sexy, desired, pampered, adored and interesting.

Post the chase, the man loses memory of the game and gets busy with practical aspects and the woman is left with an empty promise of a lifetime game of adoration and excitement that she fails to get. The more it is denied to her, the more empty she gets and more clingy and emotional. The more emotional, clingy and demanding she gets the more he grows distant and impatient and uncaring. She wants to get to a point where they were wonderful together. She is keen to start from there again. During an argument she would keep coming back to that. The man is rooted in the present. He sees a clingy, emotional, crying woman and he for the life of him cannot relate to her. All he wants is to run. The man gets impatient, angry and pinned down when accused of having changed in his affection or expression. He will fight tooth and nail to deny it but the excitement she craves and the importance in his eyes that she desires will be denied to her. And, this is the eternal battle of the sexes. Beneath this battles lies all the innumerable accusations that each gender throws at the other. 

So, how does that explain the happy, devoted couples that seem so much in love for long ? If you look around the percentage of genuinely happy couples are relatively lesser. They are the ones who connected through a real not necessarily ideal connect - the image that the man put out was closer to his real nature and the connect he felt with the woman was closer to the real woman. Also, subconsciously they get into the rhythm of feeding each other the image that initially excited them. It is a life long feeding of the same and becomes a habit and a way of life and at some point their joint personality. It is nurturing of a  self image and nurturing of a reflection of the self with relation to the other. Additionally, society views them as an ideal couple and this positive image feeds them into greater success as a couple So, they tend to grow together as a couple. 

So can any man and woman become a couple ? Yes. And, it lies with the man.If he could relate to the fact that for her the relating means starting from the point when they met and nurturing that connect. When we mean starting, we mean an emotional starting. And, it lies with the woman, in trying to work out newer connects and points to relate from so the man is not left challenged with trying to continuously live up to the initial promise . As a couple, both have to create fresh situations of I love you. It should not be a case of when we met and then ever after...

- An excerpt from 'the book  THE SPECIAL THEORY OF RELATING ' - By Srividya Srinivasan

100 years from now ...

100 years from now, we would be a memory. A face in some forgotten lost picture. A scribble in some notebook somewhere. Some megabytes of data and some pixels in some obsolete digital memory. Who would know how you loved ? That you danced or you cried ? That you ran a start up or ran a marathon ? Who would know if you enjoyed your coffee or drank wine under the stars? Who would care if you made love or died a virgin? Whether you spoke Chinese or English, Hindi or Persian ? Ten years ago who were you ? Who were the people in your life ? Who is beside you now? Who will be with you ten years from now ? Will you even be or would you have become fresh memory? Yes, pack that ego carefully. It is fragile. It may not need to last 100 years but it needs to survive with you today.~ Srividya Srinivasan

Elusive Darkness ...

Death and Darkness are just hiding, pretending that they do not exist. Hiding just behind the bright lights, the facebook friends and the birthday wishes. As soon as the laughter is stifled and the candles snuffed out, they will come out and seize and snuffle the brightness of life and claim their victory. It is just a switch and we do not have the control.

- Srividya Srinivasan

Is Shakti Shiva or is Shiva Shakti ?

May every man find the softest and most fragile expression of his personality with the right woman who would treasure and honour the beauty of his femininity and not misuse it and may all women find empowering and supportive men who would exult in her self expression and success without fear of being overshadowed by the power of her masculinity and in that beautiful new world, shall we enter as partners, equal and empowering, supporting and caring, vulnerable and strong. Happy Valentine's day !

 - Srividya Srinivasan