A theory.

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Schrodinger stipulated the cat theory to explain uncertainty. Mayans did the whole world’s going to end thing because everything that is born must die. The old lad on the corner of the street shared his theory about how all pet dogs are increasing and are in almost every house as a part of a master plan to turn the furry barking balls against us to end humanity eventually. Everyone has theories. More than often reality is boring, monotonous and just not as exciting as info media feeds our brain to expect it to be and like we always mould things for our benefit, we come up theories. Conspiracy theories, anthropological theories, random hysterical theories , scientific theories and the like .

Even I had one.
My theory was that , if I think of a scenario or a possibility , the chances of it happening in real life substantially decrease. Maybe I came up with this because I never met my expectations in life . Or I never really got what I wanted.
I was pretty convinced this was legit.
I constantly played a game in my head, if something was to happen, be it a huge birthday party or a date or exam results, I used to think of the worst outcomes and convince myself that now that I had imagined of the worst , only better was to come.

I did this with him too.
I knew about all the skeletons in his closet – all his shady shenanigans .
I imagined the worst kind of man he could be, the worst things he could do , hoping they would never manifest into reality.

Every morning when I used to watch him drink water with breakfast I hoped he gulped in 3 parts poison with 2 parts hydrogen and 1 part oxygen .
I never felt guilty about all those thoughts .
Maybe because I’d grown to hate him.
Maybe because he was a sick man.
Maybe because I was tired of the constant threat he posed on me.

I always knew his testosterone ignited a need for a sense of domination, superiority in him. And I had seen virtual proof of him doing unimaginable things to girls .
I still heard their voices in my head whenever I stayed up for longer than I should have.
‘ what are you doing ‘ all of them frantically asked , as if customary, followed by a scream- or a cry.
It was like his sins haunted me every night. I didn’t know how he lived with himself.

What I can’t forget is that one afternoon.
‘ be a good girl and pour me some ‘ he said , looking at the half bottle of antiquity.
I always did what he asked me to, everyone in the house did too.
‘ where is everyone else ‘ he managed to slur with a breath reeking of spirit .
‘ gone out for the day ‘ I said as I got some ice for him.
He generally didn’t drink before it was dark outside , but Sundays are special , aren’t they.
He put his glass down on the table , slamming it down so hard it woke the dog up.
Walking towards me – whatever walking his hind limbs could manage at that moment – he looked right into my eyes, which were always wet and brimmingly teary, I looked back into his only to have death stare back at me. His face showed lust and slur and need but his eyes – nothing. I kept staring until he was close enough for me to only see the black of his iris. He grabbed the corner of my Tshirt which I knew was to rip it apart , I also knew resisting was pointless. As he worked his dirty hands upwards disgust choked me and I let out a scream ” STOP IT , DAD , STOP IT ”
My words were unheard and my body crippled.

He did worse things than the worst I’d imagined him to do .
My theory failed on him.

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Unsolved.

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6 different partners , 1 significant life event and over 720 days of undefined friendship, unprecedented arguments and a range of mutual emotions from indifference to infatuation later, here I was , sitting on my bed at 3 am with way more than the appropriate amount of caffeine in my system , mentally stuck in the lounge room 50 metres and atleast 20 sweaty teenagers apart from him.
If you looked at him in a room full of people, his tall structure and brimmingly above average face aside, there was nothing remarkable about him. He’s the guy sitting on the metro floor reading a book you’ve probably heard of with an appropriately disheveled mane . He’s the guy you look up from your phone to see but don’t glance back at again. He’s the awkwardly likeable friend with a rather accustomed sense of humour. He’s as normal as normal gets.

I could say his presence in my life made him extraordinary for me, but then I’d hesitantly erase out the ‘extra’.
He is there for me and he isn’t.
He knows me a little more than I’d like to be known about, and he also didn’t know me at all.
I’d think about him if he hadn’t talked in a while, and I’d also let it go even after months had passed.
He is the pandora to my existence.
He is the kind of puzzle I like with a few pieces missing.

The raging oestrogen in me often replaced the faceless man pining me down on the bed to roughly kiss me to peak the edges of my desire with him, only for me to push those away.
I’d repeatedly convinced myself I was in love with him because not labelling it was too confusing , but I knew love wasn’t the right word for it.
I didn’t want to figure him out, yet I yearned for him to understand me.
I didn’t want to label what we had, yet I craved for him to force me to do so.

What we had- if we had something- was absurd and indescribable but elementary and insipid and the same time.

For he lit me like the streets on Diwali, I hope I was atleast a faintly flickering flame for him.
He was to me like the 0.1% gasses are to the air we breath, not significant enough to distinguish but simultaneously incumbent .

And to put a million raging thoughts to rest, I think he still is the only mystery I prefer unsolved.

Life and other debauchery.

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I was sitting in a cafe in the middle of an overcrowded mall drinking overpriced coffee on a fully occupied table for 10, alone. It wasn’t one of those out of focus moments where it seems like you’re contemplating the meaning of life unconsciously having a stare contest with a random corner tile, or maybe it was, i don’t have it titled yet.

‘ That trip changed my life, i swear ‘

I heard a friend mid conversation, talking about ‘the best trip of her life’ , like the last 46 she’d talked about.

Trying to be more involved in the conversation, I adjusted myself in my seat and put up an attentive demeanor only to realise i was participating in a game a 20 questions amongst a group of unimaginative teenagers. The girl on my right turned towards me, looked me in the eyes with a perturbed expression and said ‘ So,Aria, tell us about something you did or something that happened which held out to be the most significant thing in your life’

That question,rather prevalent, sent me into a thought frenzy, which eventually spiraled down to a tornado of introspection. I thought of a few incidents, the moment i got my 12th board result? the day my dog died? or the day my parents split? none of these felt like the right answer. It got me thinking about how insignificant the last seventeen years of my life have been. And how from all the skills i’ve acquired to the things i’ve done to all the decisions i’ve made that have built upto this moment since the bane of my existence have been “in the middle”. Even though I don’t have the faintest idea about what holds up to be tagged as a ‘significant’ incident, I know i haven’t encountered it yet.

It dawned on me, how i’d never felt a fiery ball in the pit of my stomach because i’d never done anything to ignite the will in me, how i’d never felt my adrenaline gush through my veins to consume me , how i’d never felt something so unnerving it was almost pleasurable.

This does not mean I was thinking about how I should climb the Alps or Hike through the mediterranean forest or meditate on the tip of the K2 for the thrill of doing something consequential. All it did was stir up a banter of existential dread and a questionably monotonous existence. I thought about how the rest of my life will pass like it has up until now and will continue to until one day i’m married with a couple of kids i made with a husband who’s expected to love me along with a mediocre job in a subpar firm where i sit behind a desk doing something I don’t love conforming to what society expects of me , degrading my self worth and my motivation to do something extraordinary along with the onset of old age and i will eventually watch my fledglings do what I did taking my last breath on a hospital bed probably due to a heart disease.

I didn’t realise how unnerving my inclination towards melodrama is but I did realise that what I need to do for now is find an answer to that question.

All this was probably building up since a long time considering how the most exciting thing i’d done was hop on a metro alone to a place on the other side of town and come back in an auto at 10:30, most of which was more terrifying than enthralling,i might add.

Snapping out of my passive aggressive thought process which I hoped i wouldn’t  convince myself to be a hormonal rant forecasting my proclivity of staying away from productivity, I answered ‘ ask me this question 5 years from now, and if I still don’t have an answer, bury me alive ‘ .

I got up to leave, hoping, that i was taking much more than a cup of coffee from that table that day.