A call, a girl, and a question…
My Samsung Galaxy J2 buzzed early in the morning, jolting me up from the deep endless roaring Atlantic of the 16th century, on whose tides rode a magnificent Trinidad captained by a gutsy Ferdinand Magellan. It was an unknown number and so I wondered if I should pick it up. I might have won a lottery by mistake, I told myself as I tapped the green icon.
“Hey handsome! “She said.
It was my mother. She was speaking low and with a touched up tone, but I was sure she was my mother. I am so single right now that it had to be my mother.
“Maa, would you knock it off, please? “I said, and she broke into laughter.
“How did you catch me? I’ve been working on my voice for the last two hours. ”
So it was my mother. How disappointing.
“How many hours did you say? “I asked.
“Two. I successfully fooled the neighbour though. He might as well divorce his wife tomorrow. “She spoke excitedly, as if she’d won an academy award for her stellar performance in Saving Private Ryan.
Okay. Here’s a lady who’s in her 40s and what she does on a fine Sunday morning is practise fake voice monologues for 2 hours, call her neighbour and manipulate him for fun, and then call her son to try the same. When I was in the heaven waiting to be born, I distinctly remember having applied for a simple kind woman whose idea of fun would be simple kind stuffs, like solving Daily Sudoku in the newspaper or something. I didn’t know I would get a Morgo Roth Spiegelman.
We talked for about 20 minutes, during which I was reminded 20 times about the goal of my life – UPSCE – and also how I was an irresponsible, stone-hearted brother, and how my father was an out-and-out dick. Then she went on for a few centuries about this new home she was going to build on the damned plot we bought when dinosaurs were still alive.
“It’ll be like a small farm house. “She said. “There will be beautiful gardens all around. It will be a paradise. ”
Ha ha. The fact is, we don’t have money. And as you all must have come to know by now, my mother is sort of nuts. She told me about this driving school she enrolled into, and then I-don’t-know-how-the-fuck the conversation flowed to her daughter-in-law and she put a million terms and conditions before I could utter a word.
“It’ll be arranged. “She started, ” Laddoo got a dowry of 40 lakhs, so yours will only be higher by miles. Also, I want a sanskaari bahu. Like Gopi bahu. ”
I had already thrown up twice inside my mind by now and to save my sanity, I told her I had to study.
“Alright. Take care. “She said, and I felt my throat tighten. Doesn‘t it happen with you? When your mother is inches away from hanging up and she’s saying bye and you know it is the hardest thing to say, even when she’s been talking absolute nonsense for an eternity, and even when it’s not like she’s dying or something.
She hung up, and I started missing her already.
Isabella. That was her name. She broke into my life like a storm, shook me up and wrecked my inside. By the time she left, I was a hill of my own debris.
I have an id on chess.com. It was a regular day. I was beating the crap out of people. People were beating the crap out of me. Then came Isabella, and we began a match, and she asked me to resign after move 2. That pissed me off. When you’re just 1476, fighting a 1507, you don’t tell the superior guy to resign. I thought I would win brilliantly and so I told her to not to worry because I wasn’t going to let her resign.
“I’m checkmating you by move 40. “I said. And it started.
God! Was she beautiful! Wretched, shrewd but beautiful. She killed my knights, destroyed my castles, captured my queen, and all I was left with was a poor old king. So I resigned. Because she was eating my pawns now (ultimate humiliation, that is, if you play chess).
“Do you even know how hard it is to concentrate when you’re eating a cake? “I asked rhetorically, to cover up.
“😂”Came her reply.
“I’m beating you in the next game. “I promised her.
And it was going fine in the next game – she was telling me the mistakes I made in the last game, and I, like a good student, was checking out her profile and guessing her surname so that I could find her on Facebook.
After some twenty thousand moves, I blundered my queen. And God, was she a ruthless monster! She wrote,
“You blundered. Remind me of what you said in the beginning. ”
“That I’ll put up a good fight and die like a hero. “I said, my self respect now a crushed tin can.
“Well, Hero, I’m winning now. Again. ”
I had never felt so embarrassed before. It was like somebody had undressed me and then invited people to make jokes on my flaccid penis. So I challenged her for a Bullet game.
“Okay. “She said. “Soon. ”
I sent her a friend request which she accepted and then I sent her forty five challenges she rejected.
And then as the day flowed into dusk, Isabella of storms left my wrecked Westeros and moved on to her next prey.
At night, I was wandering through Quora when I found this question –
What’s the difference between loving someone and loving the idea of someone?
I thought about skipping the question, but since I wasn’t designing space suits for NASA, I decided to give it a try. I started to wonder and the first thing that crossed my mind was Doctor. You know about Doctor, right? I’ll tell you more about her someday.
So I begin to wonder if Doctor is an idea or an actual person. The other day, I was watching a philosophy tutorial on ‘Objective reality vs Subjective reality‘, where they showed you how the same object can have multiple subjects. The whole plot of John Green’s Paper Towns revolves around this very identity theme – Who is Margo?
Let’s understand it this way. People identify Doctor with different names. For every living being that’s been around her, she’s a different person. They all see those big eyes and that little smile of hers, the objective realities of her, but interpret her in their own way, the subjective realities of her. Her mother has a different idea of her than her father. For her boyfriend she’s someone else, whereas for her chemistry teacher, she’s someone else. She’s all those persons while she may be none. The thing is, you can’t love the objective reality because you would only be able to see it. Love is subjective, so you’ll always love the idea of somebody, no matter if you’re fucking her twenty times a day or you’re just a long-distance friendzoned guy. It’ll always be the idea, which will change with time.
Whooo! Too much philosophy. Let’s get back to Doctor. My idea of her isn’t singular. I see her as I want to see her. Clumsy, graceful, kind, cruel, phony, humane, troubled, blissful – it totally depends on my state of mind.
So sometimes I wonder if the girl I’ve been in love with for half my life is just a reflection of myself….
How mindfuckingly narcissistic would be that!!!???