I Remember

Feminism, women safety, gender equality and other such jargon is very popular these days. I say jargon, since that is what those terms have been reduced to. All the relief and inspiration that I experienced when feminism and women safety issues were brought in the limelight has very rapidly been replaced with cynicism and regret, as is the case with most issues that are ever brought into the limelight. For the more popular and important these issues get, the more opposition they end up receiving from the masses.

The Nirbhaya rape incident was one such incident. What started off as rebellion and anger against the country's sad state of women safety, soon turned into a mad charade of male bashing 'Feminazis' and a blame game between the two genders, and in the process everyone forgot what the probem really even was. Feminists started to label all men rapists, and men started the new trend of 'androgyny', and in the general chaos and mess of it all, everyone forgot their real enemy. The problem isn't in the male population, and the problem isn't even with the female population - the problem lies in just one word - acceptance.

Acceptance. "Chalta hai." "Koi na." "Rehne De." That is where our problem lies. The fact that people manage to get away with acts like rape and molestation is a problem, but what is an even bigger problem is how we accept it as a part of life, and move on.

I am twenty two years old now. The first time I was sexually abused was when I was six years old. It was at my neighborhood club, where I went for tennis lessons every evening. A few men worked at the tennis courts, who used to assist the coaches, pick balls, get water, and mainly just keep the kids in control. There were a few we liked, a few we didn't, and few who just came and went. One of those evenings, as we cooled down after a lesson, one of those men, while giving us instructions, very casually cupped his hand on my chest and made uncomfortable movements, and then he did the same with both the other girls in the group. I never gave it a thought, and continued on with my happy existence. In my world of butterflies, crayons and fairies, no such predators ever existed. He did this again the next day, this time even more intensely, which is perhaps why it was on my mind when I went home and generally mentioned it to my parents. I innocently told them how the 'tennis man' used to touch me and the other girls, and how it hurt. While I was unaware of the gravity of the situation then, yet my parents' anger and mortification made me realise that it was probably a bad thing that happened. I remember my father calling the club, red with anger, and I remember him later, telling me the man would never be there again. I remember him telling me to tell him if a similar thing ever happened, and I remember feeling safe. I played tennis at that club for many years after.
I was six years old then. Since then, I have lost track of the number of times I have been sexually harrassed. It has been a part of my life for the past sixteen years. I remember the time I was eight years old; I used to cycle around my neighborhood, and after a few days, I started noticing an old man who followed me around on his scooter, making obscene noises and gestures. I stopped cycling, or only went out accompanied with a servant. I remember when I was fourteen years old, walking home from a tuition, and a man passing on a motorcycle squeezed my butt. I was talking to my father on the phone, and I screamed . My father asked me what happened, and I remember telling him it was a stray dog, for if I told him what really happened, I would no longer be able to walk home alone in the evening.

I remember when I was on my way to school from Chandigarh in the Kalka shatabdi, and the middle aged man with a receding hairline sitting next to me kept trying to poke me with his elbow while I was sleeping. I kept pushing his elbow away and glared at him a few times, but I never told anyone. I remember the time I went for a rock festival and had to ask the bouncers on three different occassions to throw three different men out for sexually abusing me in the crowd as I headbanged to Tesseract. These were the three men I was able to locate in the crowd. There were many who still remained in that crowd, unseen, unnoticed, only felt. I remember the night my cab broke down, and the terror I felt as I walked the 150 metres to my friend's house in the safest residential area in Chandigarh, as a car with four drunk men catcalled and followed me until I reached.

I remember these incidents vividly, and pangs of fear run inside me as I try to recollect the situations I can't even remember. It instills me with fear, the level of tolerance I have accepted this lifelong sexual harrassment with. I have always prided myself on being independent and courageous. I go out clubbing, I go out at night, I go for festivals and gigs, I drive by myself, even at unearthly hours. My parents have given me freedom and independence, and I have enjoyed my freedom. Yet everything I do, or everywhere I go, I go expecting a certain level of harrassment, with a certain tinge of fear. If I am out at night for dinner with my sister, it doesn't surprise me when a car filled with guys follows us around. When I go out clubbing, it doesn't surprise me if I or my friends are harrassed. It bothers me, yet it doesn't surprise me. And perhaps that lack of surprise is what is really disturbing about our society.

We have accepted these incidents and this behavior as a part of our lives. We have accepted this ugliness, this disease that riddles our lives. Which is why, when Indian media and social media started paying so much attention to feminism and women safety, I was beyond happy. It was hope. It appeared like a Bat signal in the sky, like a signal to women, and just everyone, that change is coming, help is coming. Yet, we misinterpreted this omen, too, as usual, and turned it into a power play of the genders.

Men are not the problem. When I go out with my guy friends, or my brothers, or any male companionship at all, I feel the safest. I feel invincible, secure, knowing that as long as I have them around, I am safe. When I accidentally got caught in a mosh pit during Megadeath, at least fifteen guys rushed to help me when they spotted me caught under a pile of metalheads. That's why, to all the Feminists out there who blame all of the male population for all their problems, men are not the problem. As with people with general, there are good ones, and there are bad ones. You can't generalise and blame the entire gender for it.

Really, it is we women who are the problem. Not because we wear make up and short dresses or go out at night. Not because we ignore our safety and choose to travel or live alone, and definitely not because we wish to be at equal terms and status as men. No. We are the problem, for all the times we say "Nevermind." We are the problem, for all the times we are harrassed, and accept it as the social situation we live in. We are a problem, for ignoring that guy that flashed at you while you were driving home. We are the problem, for keeping quiet, and for accepting our daily doses of perversion as a way of life.

I vividly recall a scene from a movie I watched a few years ago, where a girl is felt up in a theatre by the old man sitting next to her, and quietly just keeps pushing his hand away. I spent a few years after that movie being paranoid at movie halls every time a guy sat next to me. I always kept my guard up, looking for even the slightest hint of an advance. Yet I relaxed over time, and I gradually dismissed that fear as irrational on my part. Tonight, as I watched Ant Man crawling through an air vent, I felt a hand crawl on my leg. I immediately jerked my leg away, and dismissed it as an accident on my neighbor's part. However, just a few minutes later, from the corner of my eye I spotted his hand inching again towards me. I had smelled the alcohol on his breath the second he sat next to me, and I tensely watched his hand move cautiously, stealthily slowly towards me. The second his hand touched my leg, I immediately snapped at him and told him to keep his hands to himself. I could feel my heart, beating faster with rage and terror, and while I focused on calming myself down, the guy got up and left. Later, on the drive home, all I kept thinking was that I should have said something more, perhaps asked management to escort him out.

I come from a well off home. My father is a government official, my mother is an independent working woman, and my sister is a DJ. I have a car I drive, I always have a cell phone I can use to call help, and I have a constant network of support and help from my family and friends, who would come to my aid in a heartbeat. I live in Chandigarh, which is one of the safest cities in the country. I know martial arts, I'm not scared, and I'm not one to usually accept bullshit or bullying. Yet, everytime I go out of the house, I am always a little worried. I feel safe within the interiors of my car, or with my friends. Yet my heartbeat flutters everytime I notice a car behind mine for longer than a few minutes, or anytime someone accidentally touches me. Yet, everytime I go for festivals, I walk with my hands behind my back. Yet, when I go out late at night, I feel safer when I have a guy friend with me.

This is why we need to fight for Feminism, and this is why we need to fight for women safety. Yes, we need to change the behavior and the social standards in the country, but before that, we need to change this acceptance in us. We need to remove this tolerance. We need to stop accepting and tolerating things that invade our privacy and our safety, even our freedom, and we need to start taking action. The next time a guy follows you home, call the cops (or better yet, have him unwittingly follow you to a police station), or report him. Call out the next guy who tries to abuse you and reveal his ugliness to the world. Don't accept it. Raise your voice, and raise your standards and expectations of life.

This complacency towards our lives and the world we live in is our biggest obstacle. Complacency is eating us alive. I have female friends who aren't allowed to go out past eight pm from fear of rape or harrassment. I know people who have never traveled because it is not 'safe', but they accept it as a way of life. Don't let yourselves be held back and inhibited by fear. As long as you're trapped in your homes for safety, or counting on men or other people for your safety, you're living like a bird in a cage. Forget complacency, forget tolerance, forget acceptance, and start fighting for your freedom - freedom to live without constant fear and mortification. As long as you keep turning a blind eye or letting it go, there will always be a next time; if not for you, then for someone else.

Two Months

Two months. That’s sixty days. It’s exactly one thousand, four hundred and sixty hours, or eighty seven thousand, six hundred and fifty eight minutes. Convert it to seconds, and it turns to a million ticks of the clock. More than a million ticks of a clock, means more than a million possible moments. All of those possible moments, all of those possible feelings, all of those possible emotions, like a vast kaleidoscope of life and its moments.

Of a million moments, thousands of emotions, hundreds of experiences, and all of those stories, the past eight seven thousand and so minutes, have had that one very thing in common – a happy golden.

A shade of golden, pure, gleaming, glowing like the first rays of sunlight that sneakily peek into cold, dark morning rooms, chasing and hiding between tiny cracks in the curtains, like a string of shimmering gold beads, radiating their warmth and glow and breaking the silent, dark stupor of the night.

A warm golden, of an April morning after a week of bleak, watery, chilling snow, a golden as the sun awakes into the sky – blue at last – and slowly, drowsily spreads its arms and stretches its body as far as it goes, shaking the faint slivers of cold off the trees, and into the cracks in the road.

A rich golden, of gold birthing rubies and emeralds on the smooth, soft expanse of pampered skin, gleaming and proudly shining among greedy eyes and empty smiles, like a prodigious star floating with lonely asteroids.

A golden - that shines, that gleams, that glows, that beams, that radiates warmth, and happiness, and richness, and purity. A golden that speaks of only all that is rich and right and good about the world.

For it is a happy golden, that colors those eight seven thousand minutes, and those million moments. A golden, that's made these two months a plethora of happiness and warmth. A happy golden, that makes me write right now, and a happy golden, that predicts a future built on warm mornings and stars.

For Gold

You know, how sometimes it's like you love that person so much that it physically hurts? It feels like from the inside, the love is just consuming you. And it hurts, because you feel like you'll burst if you don't hug him or kiss him, and express that love. Because there is so much of it, it is exploding in you. And it gets hard to breathe, because you're so full of love from inside. And you can just breathe when you're with him, because then it just keeps flowing from you. But it stops your breath when he looks at you, or smiles, because that moment is so intense, and so special, you want to just stop breathing and live it forever. And then when you look at him, or think of him, you have to smile. You smile so hard, such a big smile, that you feel like your cheeks will tear. But it's not enough. Because, to encompass all that love, you need to smile more. Bigger. And brighter. It's like a nuclear reactor inside you. Maybe that's why they say love is radioactive, love is toxic. Because it just consumes you from the inside, and you keep exploding, little by little.

Roadhouse Blues

The Doors’ Roadhouse Blues plays in the background as Jake sits on a bar stool, wearing a full sleeved black t-shirt, nervously shaking his leg and anxiously checking the time. The bartender is obsessively wiping the glasses and keeps glancing at Jake.  Jake’s eyes keep switching between the door and his watch, as if expecting someone to walk in. It is 9:07 P.M. A few men stand around an old juke box, hitting it to try and make the song change, blocking the way for people trying to enter the dingy bathrooms. A loud crash is heard as an old record falls and bounces onto the dirty floor and the bartender swears and runs over.

“Come on, come on, you’re late,” whispers Jake to himself. “You should’ve been here already, Matt. Where are you?”

Jake sat on the stool, his right leg shaking violently as he rubbed his left arm, a drop of sweat dangling on an eyelash. His face was drawn in and tensed, as if he was in great pain, white as a winter morning. He glanced again at his watch, clutching it tight in his hands, as if afraid to let go. 9:13. He stared at his phone, about to click on the green button when he glanced up at the door. His leg suddenly stopped shaking.

“Matt! Oh my God, you are Matt, aren’t you?” exclaimed Jake. “I almost thought you wouldn’t show up, old man. I have been waiting here for hours, I think. Why did you take so long?”

Matt whispers to Jake, his eyes staring intently at a bottle of Jack Daniels’, “Shhh. Be quiet. Don’t want the whole world to know I’m here, do you? So, how does this work, exactly? Old Ben didn’t tell me much, the old fart.”

“Don’t whisper. It’ll seem odd. Are you new at this? No wonder you took so long. I told Ben I didn’t like the new guys but he won’t listen to me,” scowled Jake. “Now I’ll have to sit and train you just to not get caught by the police. So tell me, where is it?”

“Where’s wha... Oh. It’s here, in my pocket. Right inside,” whispered back Matt.

“I said no whispering!” snapped Jake. “Now call Jones and ask him for a drink and make up some small talk, and pretend you just met me. Did you understand that?”

“Umm.....” Matt seemed uncomfortable at some thought.

“What?” said Jake, rubbing his left arm.

“I’m nine months sober. Bin tryin’ to get rid of the old stuff. It kills you, you know? Just kills you.” Matt heaved a sigh and asked the bartender for a glass of water.

“So what’re you doing here, selling me tar?”

“I need the money, boy. It’s all about the money. My wife, my kid, the US government. That’s all anyone cares about; money. Money is running people, son.” Matt sighed heavily, crossing his arms on the bar. 

“People have forgotten everything else; love, happiness, kindness. It’s all about money these days.”

“If you want money, why don’t you get a job? Work for your living. You really want to risk getting thrown in jail for a few bucks?”

“You’re telling me that? What you’re doing, this will kill you. Jail will last two years, maybe five. This stuff, though, this stuff kills you boy. So why do you do it, eh?”

Jake remained silent. Sweat trickled down his neck, and his right leg began its rhythm again. Up, down, up, down, up, down, up, down, shaking like a leaf.

“Don’t do it. Control yourself. Think of everything in the world you’re missing,” Matt said, leaning in towards Jake, softly stroking his beard. “Think of what your life could be. Don’t do it. Believe me. It will be the best thing in the world to you.”

Jake snarls at him, “What do you know? What do you know about any of this? You don’t know anything about me, so don’t try to lecture me. Just give me what you came here for and then leave me alone.”

“Son. I’m telling you again. Don’t do it. I used to. I didn’t do tar, but I did the old poison. Alcohol, it kills you. It slowly kills you till you feel nothing inside but euphoric... numbness,” said Matt, his eyes growing soft and dreamy. “It feels good, oh how it feels good. What a feeling, to be numb and to feel nothing inside, absolutely nothing. And you drink and drink, one drink after another, bourbon after bourbon. You feel like there’s nothing wrong in the world. You feel like you can do anything; build a Taj Mahal in a day, become the president. You feel strong, you feel powerful; you feel happy. And you go on, drowning yourself in that feeling, day after day. First it’s one glass a day. Then it becomes two, and then three. You promise yourself, this is it, no more. But slowly, yes, slowly it becomes a monster, becoming bigger and bigger. Three become six, and the six just disappears into ten. Next thing you know, you’re drunk. You’re drunk all the time.”

 Jake watches, sitting perfectly still, as Matt’s eyes become glazed and he appears to disappear into another world, and he continues. “You’re drunk in the morning, you’re drunk at work. You can’t walk straight; hell, you can’t even put your own food in your mouth. Then you say things. You say things you regret. Bad things. And the next thing you know, they come and they take your baby away. Your baby!”

Matt coughed in a sob, “They took my baby away, son, and they said I could never see him again. And I was so drunk,” a tear trickles down Matt’s cheek, “I was so drunk, I didn’t even fight. I just sat and watched as they took away my Charlie. There were three of them. They were big, powerful, dressed up in their suits and ties. They said I couldn’t take care of him, and sent him away to another family. I watched as they took my life away, and didn’t even realise it! I decided that day. This was it. That poison had killed me alive, and I wouldn’t let it control my life anymore.”

Matt paused to breathe, hastily wiping the tears away, and continued in a tone as sad as one could only imagine, “And here I am, Jake, without a job, without any money and without my son. Here I am, nine months sober, trying to make some money and prove I can be a father for my son. And here I am, telling you not to make the same mistake I did. You look like a smart kid, you do. Don’t waste your life away. Don’t make the same mistake I did. Don’t do it. You can walk away right now.”

Jake stared at Matt, eyes wide open. He stared at Matt, blinking his eyes slowly, blinking away the tears. “I... (his voice trembled) I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise, I just... I’m so sorry.” He stared away in horror.

Matt looked at him with kind eyes, patting him on his left arm, and Jake suddenly winced and sucked in his breath. Matt slowly looked at Jake’s arms, and then back at his face with sad, knowing eyes.

“Listen to what I said Jake. You have a choice. Your life has just started. Don’t make the same mistakes I did. Walk away,” Matt tried to convince Jake, holding his hand.

Jake stared at Matt’s face. His eyes were stormy as a thousand questions races through his head. Sweat dripped down his face, falling on his shaking leg. His leg shook, up, down, up, down, up... He stood up, slowly dragging his hand away from Matt’s, and buried his head in hands.

“Please. Please just give it to me. I can’t. I’m sorry,” whispered Jake. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. I just can’t. Please. Please just give it to me. Please. I’m sorry. I can’t do it. Just GIVE IT!”

P.S. This was another assignment for my English class :) Written exactly one year ago.

Fairy Tale Lives

You dream. Fairy tales. That's the stuff your dreams are made of. Of glass slippers, knights in shining armor, mermaids that sing, good that always triumphs, evil that always fails... of worlds over trees, and faces with moons, of naps that last a hundred years, and the one primary foundation of each and every one of these dreams, each and every one of these stories - true love that lasts forever.

We've been brought up, listening to damsels in distress being rescued by their Prince Charming, their knights in shining armor. Grown up, hearing stories of 'the one'. Spent our childhoods knowing that one day our Prince Charming will just miraculously happen upon us and rescue us from this frail, timid life that swirls by as a massive blur of pain, chores, suffering, homework, hard work, tears, loneliness, and all that is wrong with the world. We take our lives as an ordeal that must be lived through and just barely tolerated until the moment we find our golden knight who will sweep us off our feet and, on some sort of magical, flying contraption, of course, whisk us away to his castle in some magnificent palace set on a beach, with a yacht, and live the rest of our lives on exotic fruits, French delicacies, and lots and lots of love. And we drudge through all of life's despairs with that image in our heads, looming over our heads like mosquitoes in a hot, Indian summer, buzzing away constantly, sucking the blood out of us, slowly and slowly.

And it strikes you, on a lonely Wednesday. You sit on your couch, Johnny Cash singing "I will make you hurt" in the background, a 90s sitcom on tv, your blonde little puppy curled up at your feet, and a laptop in front of you. It strikes you, that perhaps, just perhaps, we've been doing it wrong all along. Maybe, just maybe, fairy tales are fairy tales for a reason. That perhaps we've been wasting our lives. No, not in a negative, suicidal "Oh my I will never be happy in my entire life" way, but in the "I should stop dreaming of fairy tales and live this life instead" way. You realise, you've been so absorbed with tomorrow's dreams, you forgot to live through the emotions of today.

And maybe that's what we've been doing so wrong. We are looking so hard for that perfection, and for a little blue bird to come sing in our ears, that we forget to notice all the potential knights around us. We forget to notice all the smiles, all the songs, all the dancing and happiness, and all the times that good triumphed over evil. That bunch of mosquitoes over our head is so busy brainwashing us and sucking all the reality out of us, that we forgot to live. Maybe if we had, we'd have realised we live in our own fairy tales. Perhaps not in a castle with a yacht. Maybe our Prince Charming doesn't have a perfectly chiseled nose and deep blue eyes to stare into. Maybe he doesn't write us poetry and slay dragons for us. Maybe we don't have long gowns of blue silk and matching glass slippers. But we have Beirut, and Johnny Cash, and Jinja Safari, and all that pretty music in the world. We have Pablo Neruda and Richard Sesnik to spin their beautiful words. We have our own blonde little puppies that like to lick our faces, and our own sitcoms and soap operas for the good to triumph over the evil.

And we have our Prince Charmings. They don't have perfect noses. Their eyes aren't passages into their souls. Their hair isn't smooth and silky and strong enough to lift horses. Their bodies aren't like Roman sculptures. They can't write poetry like Pablo Neruda, or sing like Eddie Vedder. They can't play football like Messi, or shoot a hoop like Michael Jordan. They might not take bullets for you or slay dragons.

But they can make you happy. And they make you smile. When you're sad, they will hug you and hold you and protect you from those fiery dragons of depression and sadness. They will make you laugh, and they will be Snow White's evil queen's mirror for you, because for them, you will always be the prettiest girl they know. They will save you, and they will protect you, even if from a lonely cockroach on your kitchen floor. And they will love you. They will love you like sunshine.

So wake up. Wake up and breathe. Wake up, and smile, and open your eyes. Breathe in the sunshine. Breathe in those wafts of fresh air coming in through your window.

Wake up, and live your fairy tale before it wafts away into broken dreams and oblivion.

All That Glitters is not Gold

Here's another one of those essays that I wrote for class. It was a definition essay this time, hence the essay required for me to either define a word in the best way possible, or pick a word that has changed in its implications over time. I picked the word 'Twilight'. *sigh* Yes, I did. And here's why.

“All That Glitters Is Not Gold”

There is a light spring breeze blowing the white spring blossoms into the air. Some birds slowly, calmly glide into their nests; others recklessly hunt for food in the slowly fading light. The sky is a canvas painted blazing red and soft hues of yellow and orange, even pink, slowly forming a spectrum with the dark blue sky. “Wow, what a beautiful picture, twilight,” says my friend. “Yes, it is,” I reply dreamily, staring out the window. “Edward Cullen is like, SO hot,” she responds, even dreamier. “Wait, Edward Cullen? What?” “The vampire? In Twilight?” she replies, confused. And then I realise what she is talking of – Twilight, the new horizon of the young adults and moms of this generation.

Long gone and forgotten is the sparkling sun, or even those shiny, craved diamonds. The new sparkle in lives of eager teenage girls is now only of Edward Cullen, the glittery vampire. There existed a time, long ago, when the word twilight referred to “the soft glowing light from the sky when the sun is below the horizon” (Oxford, Twilight). However, that definition has now been buried under the four books and four films of Stephanie Meyer’s vampire saga, Twilight. These days, the mere utterance of the word provokes strong, mixed reactions. There are those whose ears perk up, which is in most cases, due to the intensity of the meaning of the word today. Some people’s eyes go soft and they lose themselves in a dreamy land of shirtless werewolves and sparkly vampires and shriek out their love for that fantasy world. Then there are some whose eyes harden and they yell every profanity known to them in disdain at the concept.

Twilight has now gone from being a word to describe the time of day, to an entire culture. It started in 2005, when a Mormon wife, Stephanie Meyer, dreamt she saw a sparkling vampire and a woman standing in a beautiful meadow, and the vampire, in her dream, loved the woman and wanted to kill her at the same time. This inspired her idea for the novel which is now almost a cult novel and has received an almost ridiculous amount of attention and following all over the world. Teenage girls all over the world immediately fell for Edward’s old school, nineteenth century etiquette and his, literally, painful love for Isabella Swan, the saga’s protagonist. Though readers over the globe unanimously agree that the books are not well written or contain ingenious plots, unlike the Harry Potter series, yet the clichéd, young adult novels’ fight between good and evil, a love triangle between a werewolf and a vampire, and stunning actors playing the roles of these characters have been the source of all the attention and hype, including even groups of TwlightMoms, or the Volturi Vultures.

 However, while there exist those whose hearts beat only for Team Edward or Team Jacob, there is an extremely large portion of the population who like to believe the Twilight series is, as Urban Dictionary puts it, “a book that is a cringe-worthy testament to teenage hormonal fabrication,” or even, “a series about vampires that is guaranteed to make you 25 percent dumber each time you read it.” (Urban) The saga has received as much insult as it has praise, and has led to extreme accusations of being “a piece of shit” (Urban) and the hero, Edward Cullen, has often been deemed a fairy, a slang term usually used for homosexual men with flamboyant or homosexual traits, or a half-dead sparkly pedophilic vampire. Therefore the saga has not only changed the meaning of the word twilight, but also of the names Edward, Bella and Jacob.

It is of note how the title of the saga, Twilight, came to be. In one of the later chapters of the novel, anyone who read Twilight, would have noticed Edward Cullen, as he talks of the twilight. He says, “It’s twilight. It’s the safest time of day for us. The easiest time. But also the saddest, in a way… the end of another day, the return of the night. Darkness is so predictable, don’t you think?” (Meyer, 2005, p. 232) Here, we see the original definition of the word twilight coming into play and hence, used as the title for the novel. This is a very important factor that is brought to light, as people are slowly beginning to forget the meaning of the word twilight, itself, and now focus only on the saga, which is, ironically, named after the original meaning of the word itself.

It is fascinating how youngsters today tend to relate the word twilight directly with the novels and movie. Before the saga became such a sensation, poets and authors would write of twilight, and its beauty. The word and time of day, twilight, inspired many, such as Shakespeare, William Butler Yeats, and Pablo Neruda, who wrote poetry on twilight. William Butler Yeats, in his poem Into the Twilight writes about it, “And time and the world are ever in flight; And love is less kind than the grey twilight,” (Yeats). Twilight now, however, has become the source of internet memes, which mock the novels and films, fan fiction, and journals dedicated to poetry inspired by the Twilight novels. Here is an example from one such blog, by a young fan from London, whose poem starts as, “Ed, your lazy languid gaze Cuts like a knife into the haze Of life, it holds me and it stays Within my head, like you, for days.” (H.)

The recent craze for internet memes, which are “an image, video, etc. that is passed electronically from one Internet user to another” (Oxford) have also incorporated the Twilight saga, usually in memes which pick images or situations for other films and then compare them to Twilight saga, saying “Still a better love story than Twilight.” A popular meme shows Tom Hanks, from the film Cast Away, with a football he befriends in the film, which has the title mentioned above. Many cover the theme of Bella, usually lying or sitting helpless, pining for her “sparkling boyfriend” to do the work. The memes have supported the mockery that the novels and films generated in a number of people. All of this has again given the Twilight saga, and hence the word twilight, an almost cult base.

Therefore, it is interesting to note how changing cultures and fads across the world can so quickly and rapidly change the meaning and implication of a mere word. The word twilight, previously simply the description of a time of day, has now turned into an entire culture, an entire concept on its own. Not only has it changed the meaning of the word for the present youth, it has created its own world, and changed the meaning of several words, such as Edward and Bella, along with it. As Grossman said in an article, playing a pun on both meanings of the word twilight, “It's Twilight not just in America. The shadow has fallen over the entire globe.” (Grossman, 2009)

Letter Nostalgia

There are some conversations that flit away like flies. There are some that just fall into place and become part of our lives. And then there are some that just jolt you awake and make you want to rejoice, and celebrate being alive, celebrate conversations, and words, and beautiful people.

I wish every conversation was like this. 

I've made a new friend. I've known him for less than one week. If you put together our conversations, I've barely known him a day. Yet, I wish I had. For I miss letters, and I miss having good conversations, and I miss writing long messages to people that can actually convey an emotion beyond 'lol'. 

I miss rambling away, and just writing - actual writing, with full words and spelling and grammar, unaccompanied with emoticons because the words are expressive and strong enough to express your emotions. I miss the good life.

There's no feeling in the world more thrilling or special than the moment you receive an envelope with your name on it (unless they're bills or report cards, of course). The excitement and pure, unadulterated pleasure of receiving a letter, and just tearing the life out of the envelope (I, however, like to tear open the envelope very, very neatly) and then losing yourself into those few pages.

So, four days ago, I talked to this glorious friend, and we naturally begin to talk about books (I said we have actual, long conversations where the two of us actually write - of course he reads!) Conversations with him remind me of letters. For the messages are long, they're expressive, they actually have CONTENT, and I simply love reading them, for with every message I realise there is still hope for this world! And he wrote this in his message: 

"Reading a lot sometimes makes you feel as if you're living a life you'd already lived. And it makes you weak and soft. My lesson was in a way to teach me not to spend a lot of time reading miserable people rambling their way through *universally proclaimed* classic stuff! I guess, the allure of reading always, even if you don't like it, holds one back from actually seeing what the reality offers. It creates a trance like state which you initially love and quietly succumb to but can have disastrous repercussions in the long run. As someone famously said, first live and then read. I firmly stand by it."

He just pinpointed my childhood in a paragraph. For that was what my childhood revolved around - words. Printed words. Black, small, odds angles and curves, on a creamy yellowish-white background. That was my childhood. 

And he described exactly how I felt.

So now you know why I simply just had to share it and create an entire blog post about it.

Make sense?

Who am I kidding, of course it does!