Monday, February 9, 2015

The Goodbye Post

Sometimes we outgrow even our best relationships. Of course, thanks to the history we share we don't give these up easily. We hold on to them for a long time, try myriad tricks to revive the magic and just refuse to see the possibility that maybe the relationship has served its purpose and no longer occupies the same place in one's life.

The ideal thing would be to, of course, cherish the memories the relationship gave one and at the same time start moving on but it is far easier said than done. The sense of loyalty can be the strongest of chains. The fact that moving on doesn't necessarily mean betrayal needs to be accepted first before one can take a step on a new path.

I have had my struggle and this evening, after months, I have had a sense of closure finally. I'm putting an end to The Lid Is Lifted​- this blog. The Facebook page for the blog will continue to exist though there will no longer be any more updates. Ever. I have realised for good that my beloved blog doesn't go well with who I have become all that I have gone through in the last couple of years. I have decided that it better remain the pristine symbol of my teenage than try accommodating the present me uneasily :)

I have created a new blog but for now I don't wish advertising it. It will be 'out' when it is meant to.
This post is for the small legion of my ardent followers who kept egging me on to post something and always made me feel good with what respect they had for my writing. I'm sorry if this means letting you down. I will always cherish your kind words and I'm grateful that my blog connected me with such wonderful people who went on to become good friends :)

Those who know me well and have at some point followed my blog (both overlap to  great extent :P ) would know what my blog meant to me. It was what kept me sane, to say the least. Letting it go has been anything but an easy decision. But suddenly I feel free...and I think my writer's block is melting away :)

Friday, June 27, 2014

Letter to an Unborn Daughter – New Age Woman

What I consider my best work so far, and something I'm emotionally very invested in, has been published by this digital magazine here-

Letter to an Unborn Daughter – New Age Woman

Your likes and comments there will decide whether I get paid for my contribution or not!

Sunday, December 29, 2013

I can be my hero, again

"I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this."

Melancholy is a very seductive enchantress. Victimization is so mind numbing that one knows not when and how one has plunged into the depths of it and is now addicted to the sedation of regression. The reverie of getting back up after having fallen down again is a clever mistress that doesn’t let you go till you are its slave and don’t want to go.
Love, added to the mixture, makes the concoction highly dangerous.

Love, hence, has its side effects too if one knows not how to rise with love and is content with being a passive recipient of it, as most women are particularly likely to be. I say the first part out of my personal experience with unbelievably intense love that besides making me experience heaven, slowly led me to forget what it was like to be my hero. And the second part is derived out of my understanding of the impact of our cultural symbols and motifs on women.

The whole process is so subtle, particularly if one has a source of unconditional love to fall back on no matter how small the issue is or how many times one has already made a call, that one barely notices all that melancholy drags down with it. At the end of the day, no matter how much one is egged on to stand up and no matter how lovingly one is helped to stand up, one keeps falling time and again due to the sheer lowering of the threshold of frustration tolerance that has taken place somewhere in the process. 

I tell my love today "just see how strong I'm gonna be from now on. I'll make you proud of me. I'll be like before" And even before the day is over, I have resisted calling him some ten times and finally give in and take it all out with another crying spell. Am I depressed, I wonder. That can't be, for I'm supposed to know depression; I study psychology. I tell my love that I'm ashamed of myself and secretly fear that I'm losing my mind. But he lovingly applies a band-aid on my ruffled self and I make another determined promise to be strong. In the lap of sleep, I lay my anxieties to rest. In the series of horrible dreams that I have been having since some months now, the next day tops the chart. I analyze it through and through for what it could mean (we have just finished psycho-dynamic therapies in class). That only worsens the matter and my hunch that I'm losing my mind is stronger. I let my guard down at one point and am less discerning of my listener. Somebody prescribes me an anti-depression tablet and diagnoses my problem as stemming from lack of spirituality. I die a little, again. I confided to the wrong person.
And, if one has seen oneself as a warrior of light for most of one's life, then it's not hard to imagine the beating one's self esteem must have taken. I am practically drowning.

And the only way left for me now is to go up.

Analyzing my state of mind has not led to much. I have only drowned in self pity at what I have become. I'm no longer a person of action, no longer harsh on myself. I'm no longer my hero. Yet I analyze some more, and this time, with brutal honesty. I am ready to admit that my obsession with my love could have contributed to it too.
I realize that have taken on the role of damsel in distress after my love re-entered my life and drowned me in love, making me come face to face with my hitherto un-recognized need for love and pampering. I have loved fairy tales since always but only in the last one year did I get to live a fairy tale, as well as my childhood, that I had never lived because of being the archetypal eldest child that is never considered a child. I have vented all my deepest resentments and taken out all of the latent hostility buried inside in the safe, containing, I dare say therapeutic relationship provided by my love. I have been given the opportunity to be cleansed but I guess I have loved bleeding so much in the cleansing process that I keep holding on to the remnants so that there is some more work to do. Knowing that there is not even remote possibility of male chauvinism entering the picture, I have let the feminist in me sleep and have acted more like a toddler than a woman of substance I like to think myself as. I have let down myself.
It's high time I reclaimed my self.
And I know what I need to do.

I promise not to fly to the bed or the phone when I’m in distress. I’m simply gonna write about it and better understand it in the process. I’m gonna resurrect the blogger in me again.
I promise not to dig up my past in order to better appreciate how much I’m understood at present by my love. I’m simply gonna believe that I deserve to be loved so, as he keeps telling me, because of who I am and how much I love him. I’m gonna love myself again (and this time not as a defence but as true valuing of myself).
I promise not to keep comparing my present with the golden years I had so recently lived that lasted so short. I’m simply gonna go with the flow and do my best. I’m gonna be my hero again.
I promise not to brood and die some more when I fall the next time. I’m simply gonna get up before even I myself notice. I’m gonna be brave again.

My new year resolutions, yeah. Why wait for two more days to get up when every pore of your body is dying to, eh?

Friday, November 29, 2013

Because love is worship

Poetry and prayer- there could be hardly any more beautiful ways of expressing awe, wonder, love and gratitude. Whereas one makes me express my love for God to the world, the other allows me to do so directly to God. Yet at the same time, they are one and the same. Poetry is prayer and prayer is poetry.

Since childhood, God has been my mainstay and best friend. Naturally that means I have been a God-loving person since always. My prayers, no wonder then, are out of the ordinary. I speak to God in a hybrid language (Odiya + English), the way I would talk to any familiar person, and my reasons of praying are myriad.

Rare bouts of maturity make me ask for divine grace. That's my word for all the little little miracles I encounter everyday that make me fall in love with God's genius more and more. There was a time I hated the word leela. Now I'm wiser enough to appreciate it for what it is. God doles out for me my share of little little tragedies too, but the way I am always surrounded with various means of overcoming all the hurdles and how I come out shinier and stronger after every run in the washing machine, makes sure I still have my faith in God very robust.

Instances of experiencing beauty, make me grateful and express my appreciation of the genius that God is. "God, You're brilliant" is my first utterance somehow, on seeing a beautiful scenery or an act of kindness. At times my love makes me feel the same too.

At other times, it's about keeping me on the right path and keeping my loved ones safe and happy.
All this doesn't mean I don't chant mantras. I do. Many people my age find those to be superfluous. I don't. I have my experiences to speak for. Mantras give me a sense of order and energy, (and some exude peace). Earlier, when I was dealing with the usual adolescent phase of questioning all second hand values of parents and society, I had questioned the need of talking to God only in Sanskrit. Over time I came across the fantastic explanation (by myself, beat that :D) that just like I would like my love to serenade me with poetry, even though poetry is not an absolute must to make me listen and melt with love, I realized God can be allowed to have his favorites too. Of course I don't know for sure if Sanskrit is indeed the favorite language of God, but with all the beauty and sophistication that there is in that language, at least to me it appears like it stands a good chance to be that.

I like my God to be perfect, yet relate-able. That's why I project ideas like these onto Him. What I believe my God to be like, is only for me to decide. Not a priest's, an agnostic's, an atheist's or a person of another religion who has objection to my idea of God. My conception of God is He who is the amalgamation of all the qualities that I see as the loftiest and aspire to myself. Why is He necessarily a male? Well He is both, Ardhanaarishwar, but I say Him for want of a better pronoun. Why this post? Well, I thought I don't think of a reason before writing about one love of mine; I need not hence before writing about another.  

Monday, October 28, 2013

It's 5 years now!

Five years. My blog has been my like my shadow, witnessing and recording much. I’m practically ashamed of my first score of posts but I don’t delete them just to be able to keep track of the changes my writing and my life experiences live through. On this day five years back, I published my first post on this blog and going through some of my earliest posts I can see the changes and all that have remained much the same. Today, I celebrate five years of this companionship. 

On this day, here's a quick list from yours truly of her favorite posts on the blog. Do breeze past some :)

Monday, October 21, 2013

While we kiss

My heart beats to the harmony of your breath on my face,
Fast, fleeting, nervous and suddenly still like death.
I live, hang in suspension and live again,
And recognize that I never actually lived till now.

The rhythm of your lips moving on mine,
sets me into a waltz, of rapture, euphoria and ecstasy.
I go up and down the alleys of drunkenness
Dancing to the tune of divine enchantment.

I drink the intoxication drop by drop, and in buckets,
That your fingers work on the nape of my neck.
And drown deeper, and deeper, while we kiss
Into the illumined oblivion of boundless love finally let out and expressed