Repost: Ego

Although he hurt my ego, and my instinct was to blame him for hurting me, I held myself. Since I knew it was my ego that was hurt, I told myself I should not react in defense of my ego. This made me feel good since I got to tell myself, "Look how noble you are, allowing him to say what hurts you because you don't want to defend your ego." Being aware of this self-deception though, disarmed my defense, and I was left again with my offended ego. I now became very conscious of my self-deception and my ego; I was also aware that these were subtle incidents in one's soul that others may not notice in themselves. This last bit was also a defense mechanism in which I told myself not how noble I was, but how everyone else must be just as bad, (although I was also praising myself for noticing).

(Edited and reposted. Now on Instagram.)

Repost: Feeling

Sometimes it feels like what you feel in the moment is all there is to feel, and all you should ever feel and all you should have ever felt, as if you owe this feeling your loyalty, and you feel guilty (alongside the original feeling) about all the other times in which you didn’t feel this feeling, and all the other feelings you felt instead of this feeling, and you plead with yourself to never forget what this is like and to never let it go, but of course, this is futile, as each moment is transitory and soon replaced with another overwhelming feeling that imposes itself on you. 

[Reposted on Instagram too.]

On Forgiving and Forgetting

He wrote about forgiving and forgetting, because he wanted to forgive and forget. He wanted to forget first, so there'd be nothing to forgive. But even though he forgave at times, he wouldn't forget. He would sometimes, however, forget he’d already forgiven. And at some point, he found out he'd been mistaken all along; that there was nothing for him to forgive. But this too he eventually forgot. 

[Posted on Instagram. Edited here on 30-10-2022]

His Loss

She said it was his loss. She knew he didn’t think it was his loss, but she wished he thought it was his loss. She said it was his loss because she wanted him to think at least she thought it was his loss.
He said nothing, because it didn’t matter to him if she thought it was his loss or her loss. He just wanted it to end.

[Edited on 11-11-2022]

Untalked About

I don't want to talk about it. I do want to write about not wanting to talk about it though. But if I write about not wanting to talk about it, I'll have talked about it. So instead, I'll write about not wanting to talk about it and wanting to write about not wanting to talk about it. If no one knows what I wanted to talk about, then I won't have talked about it. But something is still nagging at me, and I think it's because the truth is I do want to talk about it; I just want to behave as if I have never talked about it.

[Posted on Instagram. Edited (because of a mistake) on 3-11-2022]

On Knowing

It's good to know. It's also good to know when you know. It's okay not to know. But it's bad not to know that you don't know. Worse still is not to know and to be certain that you do know. And worst of all is when you don't know and you think you know and you bash everyone else for not knowing what it is you think you know.

[Previously posted on Instagram, written in my notes long before that. Six sentences, before I knew about six sentences.]

Choices

Looking back, she thought of it as a moment of frankness, in which she was being honest so as not to lead him on. He looked back and remembered it as a moment of cruelty, in which she had been callous to him when she could have been kind. Then again, there was this other moment, which she remembered not being so honest to spare his feelings; he remembered that as a moment of deceit and deception. The truth hurt, but so did a lie. Sometimes it seemed to her that she was stuck with no way out, between two pains. No matter what she chose, she would be accused of a crime.

[Posted on Instagram.]

The Neck: Part 2

He wrote a story about falling in love with her neck. He was very clear in the story about how it was only a part of him that loved a part of her. And though they had never talked before, he shared the story with her and told her the story was inspired by her neck. She loved the story, and she wanted more. She didn't mind that it was only her neck or mostly her neck that he wanted. She used her neck to make him want more. She wanted more parts of him to be in love with more parts of her. She liked how in love with her neck he was, how obsessive he seemed to be over her neck. It made her feel attractive, even special, since he was someone she wouldn't have expected to notice her. He had surprised her with the story, and she had surprised herself by liking someone who freely admitted only liking a part of her. She would have considered this to be superficial behavior before if she had seen it from someone else, and she never saw herself as that. She had a good opinion of herself, and rightly too as others would testify. But it is often the case that we don't know what we're capable of until we are put in a situation. This unpredictability in both of them excited her. She had discovered more about herself and people in general through reading the story and through her reaction to the story. She understood now that she was also made of parts and it was part of her that liked this part of him that was attracted to her neck, she also understood that the part of her that would have judged others for this behavior was part of her still; contradictory parts that coexisted within her, and the contradiction gave birth to more forgiving parts; for as she forgave herself she also forgave others (including him) for being made of different parts and not functioning always as coherent wholes; and as she forgave others this made her feel less burdened and thus allowed her to abandon the judgmental part of her while she enjoyed for a while this newly discovered part, which she came to know through reading the story about her neck.

[Part 2 of The Neck, still needs some editing.]

The Brahmin Tutor

As a child growing up in Bombay, my grandmother wasn’t good at Sanskrit. She went to the house of an older Brahmin student who would tutor her. At the Brahmin house, they covered all their furniture and made my grandmother sit in the balcony so she wouldn’t touch anything. After partition, when my grandmother moved to Karachi and enrolled in a college, she was shocked to see her former tutor there. The tutor made a pleading gesture, putting her finger to her lips; she had married a Muslim and migrated with him.
“Please don’t tell on me,” she begged.

[Edited on 14-12-2022, three years after her passing. Now on Instagram.]

Disappointing

Sometimes I imagine looking at myself from the eyes of another, in which case, of course, I wouldn’t be myself; I feel the disappointment of the other; I feel doubly disappointed in fact, since I also feel myself being disappointed at having disappointed another.

[Previously posted on Instagram, slightly edited here.]

The House that Someone Built

This is the house that someone built.

This is the house that we were told that someone built.

This is the house that we were told never to leave, that someone built.

This is the house that we were told was the best of all, and never to leave, that someone built.

This is the house that we were told its people were blessed, was the best of all, and never to leave, that someone built.

This is the house that we were told no others deserved, its people were blessed, was the best of all, and never to leave, that someone built.

This is the house we barely knew, that we were told no others deserved, its people were blessed, was the best of all, and never to leave, that someone built.

This is the house we barely knew, the only house we really knew, that we were told no others deserved, its people were blessed, was the best of all, and never to leave, that someone built.

[In my notes from 2018, posted on Instagram three years ago today, 01-10-2019.]