Earlier today, I was speaking to an old friend of mine from back home. She railed against the fact that I hadn’t been speaking to her as much in my second year at University than I did in my first.

There was nothing astonishing about that, frankly. Seeing as I had taken up more extra and co-curricular responsibilities for my own good in a year which counts for 50% of my degree, I was indeed clambering the peak that is time with marked unease – coughing, spluttering – barely managing, but still.

The part of our conversation that struck me, got me thinking and eventually led me to writing was how she said that I don’t need her any more. Be advised, this is no romantic attachment that might be referred to implicitly or even explicitly. She went on to explain her assertion, saying that I did not need her any more because I had more people now. More people to talk to, she said. Therefore, she alleged, I did not talk to her.

Before proceeding further, I should clarify that I consider most – if not all – writing product of a moment(s) of profundity. Here, I risk trivializing the art, consider me reckless.

Her words, themselves, did not really form an affront to me. She was right. I knew she was. I knew she was right because, even before this seemingly dull colloquy with my dear friend, I had always known that relationships are always forged out of a sense of ‘bankability’, trust – faith, if you must – and a certain confessional attitude that has become acceptable between the two concerned individuals. The more of these sort of relationships you form, the faster you tend to – but not always – move on from your past ones. A phenomenon that is very simple and very real.

What was it that struck me then, you may ask?

I feel it was the realization of this particular phenomenon happening to me. That perhaps, it was I who had forged more relationships and was more inclined to moving on ‘talking’ to other people than ‘talking to her’. That I, now, had too many options to choose from and had forgotten that, once upon a time, I had established this one connection too. It was then that I felt the truth of her words. It was then that I spoke to this idea first, like Charles Dickens would to a ghost, before it explained itself.

Perhaps what I am saying here is that sometimes it is all too easy to move on from old friendships to new ones. To find some one else who is willing to listen to you, to help you knock that chip off your shoulder. But for something like that to happen continually, you need to sustain your friendships, cherish them. So that when you have that talk again, you get that same old complete satisfaction, that old sensation of sheer lightness.

It is my thinking – admittedly, not very profound – that if one is able to sustain all his old friendships he will continue to develop new ones, in an ongoing cycle that is characterized by mutual respect and return.

So thank you, dear friend, for teaching me this invaluable lesson.

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Scratch that

Of Friends

I was always a bit of a hermit; easily confused for arrogance, my weariness or neglect rather, to socialize and make friends deluded all but me. Which brings me to how: I was always, always, always looking for me-time.

I was always looking to get away even with that limited number of friends who I loved and trusted and who loved and trusted me – and I shouldn’t take this from them- who bore me, who tolerated me, who took care of my mood swings and childish attitudes and complaints and my constant whining about everywhatever and laughed at all my jokes which laced with sarcasm. I would vanish off for hours without telling anybody; sometimes go hide in the computer lab, just to be alone. I would deliberately walk around the entire place, in the rain with my phone turned off (freshmen year comes to mind!). Funny how I always wanted me-time then.

Funny how I do not want it anymore

I had a flair for drama. I thought me-time was all deep and dark and mysterious and broody and sexy. It was maybe something I did not do deliberately, but I know I did. I wanted to wallow in the darkest moments of self-loathing and self-despair, I did not want to share, I did not want to sit and talk, I wanted to run away, far, far away. When I did talk to someone, it was  always a relief but – and although I don’t think I am a masochist- I never voluntarily talked. I would brood. And brood. And brood. And my idea of funny was dark cynicism which essentially threw stones at the world for just be-ing.

Oh don’t get me wrong. I still throw figurative stones at the world for being but I have come to accept it and I constantly find myself berating the old-me for being such a pain in the freaking arse! I find myself craving for the happy lull of friends around laughing at the fart-sound the couch made when someone sat on it- simply that. I find myself craving to reach out and put my arm around their shoulder in half-a-hug, laughing at something. I find myself needing someone who can sit infront of me so I can be negative and cynical and sarcastic and between all that, a little wise, a little funny, a little insolent. 

The irony of growing up is that you really want to be growing down. You dislike long dupattas (while you made saris out of them in youth), you want to cut your hair shorter and shorter (while longer hair was your ultimate dream as a child)… But I digress.

What I want to say is: I miss my friends. Yes, given that some of them are busy, some moved on, one turned out to be talking behind my back and then denying it (typical of so many girls!), the oldest one “cannot do this anymore” and the more recent one ”cannot do this anymore” either; I don’t know if I miss these friends or just miss friends, period.  

I guess I miss the innocence that friends bring with them; the sense of -in retrospect- gullibility that you can trust them, love them, be loyal to them and they will do all of that in return. I miss the ease with which you can rely on them, just call or message or mail and take up with them where you last left off- even if it was months back or just a day, not to forget their absolute acquiesce of your attitude and your odd sense of social etiquette including but not limited to, eating with your mouth wide open in sophisticated restaurants and talking to salesmen in a very fake but impressive british accent…

I always thought friendship, like love was about sacrifice. Doing things for your friends, being things to your friends… but sometimes I find myself thinking, maybe like all other things in the world, friendship is about selfishness, no different. You are friends for yourself, not the other person. You want more than give, you put conditions and time stamps on your feelings and you are constantly measuring, calculating, counting what you did and what they did and how they disappointed you.. never the other way around. What a scary thought that is.

… So if there were those who ”cannot do this anymore”, maybe it was my fault afterall.

This blog is ofcourse dedicated to F, Y and M.A; always and forever, there :)

Picture credit: beautifulineverything.com