Theloopylululog

At 3, I dreamt of owning what my little brother had and I didn’t.

A penis.

When I realised it was beyond where my thought could reach, I let it go.

*

At 5, I dreamt to be like my Mom. A dream my sister shared.

A teacher.

When I found that involved handling wild children and their wilder parents, I quietly replaced it.

*

At 10, I dreamt what my Mom dreamt I should become.

A doctor.

When I swooned at the sight of blood, the dreamt took off shaken and stirred to it’s bones.

*

At 15, I chose to stop following my parents, siblings and society and dreamt of following my dream.

A fashion designer.

Everyone as expected raised their arms, legs and voices. They wanted me to become sheep err an engineer.

Com’ on Dudes! Have you even met me? Even my hair knows it doesn’t include a single byte of tech in it! What have you been smoking?

They allowed me the luxury on their condition that I arm myself with a graduate degree first. Which in did. In subjects I didn’t much care about. BUT I honoured their deal and went on to take the road less travelled for life.

My life. My choice. The world can go f*** itself.

*

At 21, I finally took the bend and walked alone along a lovely path filled with the unknown. My big dream! It was wonderful albeit a bit lonely.

*

At 22, the dream wobbled on cobbled streets. I quit fashion school because I couldn’t let myself bribe someone for a certification.

Ofcourse, everyone and their uncles came along with machetes to hack my choice to pieces.

I didn’t pay heed. The next big dream was right around the corner and I really had no reason to listen to a world that didn’t care a hoot about my choices.

*

At 25, I found my dream job.

I heard whispers, oh…she is too old to become an assistant designer.

*

At 26, I found love I had dreamt of as a child in a man from a different caste. I was too busy dreaming of a wedding.

More whispers, no way are we allowing you to marry that man against our wishes!

*

At 28, I set up my own workshop and my debut collection under my own label was soon out. A culmination of many big dreams of the past.

By now you would think the world would have learned to shut its trap having come to terms with the rebel I was destined to become. Seems like we both don’t quite understand the world so well.

The whispers had turned to noise.

You can’t be doing it alone. You need a man. Not a man you like. A man that fits our boxes of race, caste, and a whole lot of checkboxes that you have no clue of.

Maybe they were measuring the length of his trouser’s inseams too. I am sure someone somewhere has a perfect dream number for the inseam! No wonder my choice didn’t measure up.

*

At 29, all my dreams were coming together to celebrate a big bash. I was dreaming of the next big thing for the next decade.

A stand alone store, a wedding, a honeymoon, a boy and a girl, a dog, a cat, a hamster and a cottage in the mountains. I wanted all of that and I was ready for the grind it took.

The world was busy hacking it’s own plan to bust my bash.

*

At 30, I was busy dreaming of shedding the abusive man off my back. My dream had become a nightmare I lacked the courage to wipe off my skin.

I was told to try to continue changing myself so he would stop chasing other skirts.

No he wouldn’t. The man was a narcissistic casanova with his own dreams of bagging as many skirts as humanly possible before he died. I was just a number!

*

At 31, when I closed that painful chapter dreaming of a new life, everybody wondered why I couldn’t manage to correct him. They were sure it was something I lacked.

*

At 33, my dream of retailing my label at some of the most radically happening spots in town came true. I was finally doing well; physically, mentally and emotionally.

The world wanted more. Get married. Get settled. Where are our grandchildren? You can’t let us die without having spent time with our grandkids! You are not worth much to us single.

Obviously. When was I ever enough? When did my dreams ever matter? When was my choice mine alone?

When will I finally rake up the bravura to ask the world to just shut up?

I moved on silently sucking up the vitriol coming my way.

*

At 36, burn out. Completely burnt out.

New dreams beckoned. I shut shop.

I found them wondering, now what? What is wrong with you woman? Why can’t you do as you are told? Why do you have to always listen to your heart?

*

Next stop. Everest.

YES. Everest. I dreamt of summitting the mountain I long to see up close and personal even today.

I quickly realised it would cost me atleast 3 forthliving lives if I planned to live all of them frugally either as a monk or a beggar. Before the world and its auditors heard it on Pluto I deleted the dream. Swoosh!

*

At 37, I dreamt of becoming a writer.

Before the world could care enough to applaud,I instead fell in love with a black man 12 years younger to me.

Even my grandmother joined the world to diss me. She would rather have me married off to that obese neighbour of hers. Why? Because I was hellbent on wasting my fertile ovaries and he was struggling to find a bride despite doing everything by the book!

Ouch!

*

Just when I turned 40, wearing zebra print for the first time, admiring my bold choices till date, the man left. The dream of a new adventurous life in Kenya drove off into the savannah sunset with him.

I was, as was usual left by myself to grieve and mourn the life I lost and the death of yet another dream I didn’t see coming.

*

At 41, I stopped dreaming and grew greyer. Started living for the day and went in for a wild hair cut.

Why cant’ you dye your greys? – them

Why can’t you just zip it for once and mind your business? – me.

Everyone, including my best friend and her parents assumed something was seriously wrong with me. Why wouldn’t a man choose me otherwise?

Helloo!!!

I quit looking at people. Made choices that meant something to me and me only. Had minimum contact with the outside world. Chose to be a monk from within. Valued my peace over everything else.

The world kept on banging on my door. Go out there. Socialize. Make some money. Stop living with your parents. Be useful. Make babies. What are you worth? You are worthless! You are wasting your life? You might as well die.

*

But here I am trying to dream again.

I just turned 45. And I plan to live all the way to 93. Why? Simple. I want to!! Because I can!

I plan to do all that I have postponed to do as yet.

I dream to go greyer. Go all chessboard on my head. Play chess on my head full of black and white. With myself!

Get a pixie. Go bald.

Get 8 packs. Not the beer! The abs! The abs! God!

Go to Denmark. Fall in love with a blue eyed man with a deep scottish accent.

Visit the valley of flowers. Sleep by a mountain stream.

Catch a sunset by Everest.

Have many more conversations with Shiva on the ghats of ganga at Kashi.

Run wild in the Amazon forest.

Live like a monk in a idyllic village like Castlerock. A mountain. A river. A steam engine that passes by my home. Writing letters by hand to all I care about. One especially to myself.

Live among trees, birds and rain. Not people.

*

My big dream at 45?

To wake up to a day where my life is mine. My choice is mine.

MINE ALONE!

A day when the world wouldn’t care if I have a vagina or penis or both or none before it decides to respect me, my life, my dreams and my choices.

Where I can walk by on a road without the burden of the eye of the world weighing on my back to prove myself to it.

When I am finally free to be ME. No conditions applied. Definitely not the ones written like ants crawling on water.

Wouldn’t that be nice?

Don’t I know it will remain just another big dream of mine! Alas! Alas!