Sirop de Vanille

I love stories. Always have. Always will. Now, if I could only find a way of telling them stories. Tales spun from the tiniest possibilities, wrapped in smoke and stardust. Wouldn’t you like that? I know I would… let’s give it a try.

She was brilliant. A kind of brilliant that managed it all without trying too hard. She made passer-bys smile with her smile. Her eyes were something special. She was a drama queen and she used those eyes to perfection, without ever realising it. You see, she wasn’t really suited to this world… she wasn’t. She was kind and good and honest. She let people know when she was happy and was unable to hide her little moments of sadness and the all consuming grief. She cooked and she baked, only when she wanted to. She laughed whenever she found something funny; at times she laughed just to make herself feel better. She was a star, unfortunately, she didn’t know it. Sadly, she didn’t show it either. Did I tell you about her hair? She had crazy curly hair, gorgeous and wild and free… it felt just right on her. To understand hair, I’ll have to tell you a little story.

I had just moved to a hard-water area (yes, I can see some women cringing and smoothing their hair lovingly) and I was obsessed with fixing my hair and managing it without having to blow dry and hair spray every morning. So, I spoke to a gazillion stylists and even more people, if that is even possible, about this hair straightening, this re-bonding phenomenon. I was advised to get it done, I was told to never let those chemicals near my poor fine hair. I turned to her, for she and I had an uncannily similar taste in clothes, hair-styles, kajal and alcohol. We could be referred to as shallow, superficial soul-mates! She sat me down and looked at me. Her dark eyes staring at me disapprovingly, she said, You cannot get your hair straightened. No, I don’t care about the chemicals or the hair loss, it’s about YOU. Your hair reflects an essential part of you. Yes, I did ask her, what essential part of me is reflected with wavy, unmanageable hair? She smiled and said, fun, spontaneous and un-tame-able. You cannot be tied down and converted! Needless to say, I never got my hair straightened. It might have made my life easier, but it wouldn’t have been me. And being me is important. It is.

So, she with her brilliant eyes and crazy curly hair never tried to change that about herself, for she didn’t know how that would help her cause. You see, she was looking for passionate, extraordinary love. Yes, love. In life, in work, in friendships and in what we these days should refer to as heterosexual romantic relationships. Despite all her naivety, she had been taught to love unabashedly, question what she didn’t understand and observe and learn every new experience or happenstance that came her way. She believed she would eventually find the perfect relationship, for her. But she knew she couldn’t find it with straight hair and clubbing clothes. Just like you, yes, you with the straight hair and that gorgeous clutch, cannot find your man if you went looking for him with curls and a big tote and chappals. It just won’t fall into place… Those kind of opposites only attract in Woody Allen-esque movies and he too… let’s them go their separate ways now…

She had been fed Cindrella stories and numerous other fairy tales. She knew he won’t come on a white horse to whisk her away, but she desperately hoped for a Harley Davidson… or at least one of those nicer looking bikes. When she hit the age of twenty-three, she wanted him to come and get her in a car that had functional air-conditioning. Delhi burns in summers. It does. So, with her heart fluttering and stomach full of butterflies, she tried to put her mind to rest and waited patiently for the man in clean jeans, CK One or Davidoff Cool Water, a nice car, a happy smile and not a roving eye. On her way to finally settling with this list of demands, she had dated many, many boys: pained artists, romantic poets, lead guitarists, wannabe drummers and even, even the nice guy who turns out to be clingy and needy psycho eventually. She also realised that she had in some way, loved these boys/ men. It had been passionate and confusing, extraordinary and something new each time… and fantastic for the first three months. Three, right? Three successful dates in the States, the first date in Australia and a promise of an exclusive relationship after a lot of mixed signals, giggling and phone-conversations in India*. 

We love as colourfully as our saris. We plan it all, we want them to be the ones. We fail miserably and we get up and get at it again, just like our political leaders. So, she loved. She failed. She ran. She stopped and took gulps of air and walked home to her parents, where she had a nice plate of hot food waiting for her. She really wanted to find her Prince, her saviour, the one. But she couldn’t help but cringe at the thought of being saved. She could take care of herself? Couldn’t she? Or did she really need the saving? She asked me once, do I need saving or do I need the drama? I thought and I thought while I fed her ice cream and smoked in the balcony attached to my room. We looked at each other and smiled.

He had been the perfectly charming, perfectly princely boy. He had wined and dined her. He had held her hand and opened the door for her. But he wore chinos and loafers and she liked cotton kurtis with her jeans. He gelled his hair! She didn’t care… It had lasted three visits to his favourite club with his friends… I was surprised it had lasted that long. The girl loved her beer and jumped around to The Doors. 

Her question remained unanswered. We never really said it, but we both knew… we all need a little bit of both. We do! Our love-obsessed existence and Prince Charming-obsessed reading list makes us wish for a saviour, doesn’t it? But as there is nothing much to be saved from… we simply crave security, the comfort of finally stopping and breathing. We all want to stop making that extra effort and flirting like morons… don’t we? At least for a while…? We all fear commitment but look for it every time we dress up to go out and meet friends of friends. And all that reading! All those stories…! Even the sitcoms and movies! The butterflies, the meeting of the eyes, the first touch, the first kiss… ooooh! No wonder these passionate lovers died or got killed or separated (!), they got bored of each other after the first few orgasms! They didn’t have anything to talk about and they were sick of undressing each other. Oh no! don’t get me wrong, orgasms are wonderful. It’s just that they are not the only factor contributing to a healthy relationship… They cannot even guarantee the love will last for more than a few spasms… eh?

Do we subconsciously equate passion with misery? Do we want the drama, the tears, the bitching and moaning to make it seem worthwhile? Does our comfortable existence bore us so much that we go looking for trouble? Did the writers know it all? Had the story-tellers heard too many stories that had bored them to tears that they stopped at Happily ever after or the more exciting They died in each others arms? I wonder when she’ll finally find him? More importantly, does she need to wait with baited breath? I’ll let you know what happens… but today, she’s meeting this guy who wears clean jeans, likes beer and girls with curly hair…

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Footnoting:

*We are a confused lot, and when I term it ‘in India’, it is a very incorrect representation of our population. I just represent a teeny tiny population of the country that is battling with what society is conditioning us to be and what our generation is trying to be. Sexuality, relationships and evolving of gender roles is rampant and at the same time very hush-hush. We struggle with technicalities and the terms and eventually come out breathing. We try and make them all happy – the opposite sex, the parents, even ourselves! People need to be serious and start thinking of settling down. Unfortunately (?) I am quite a bad example of the average Indian woman**.

**Warrants a book!