Fool in love.

They say it’s harder to change as you grow older, but she makes me want to change so we can grow older together. She inspires me like no one has before. I want to support her in every thing she wishes to accomplish, and hope I’ll be there to share in the joy when she achieves success. I want to be the one who makes her smile and laugh when she is down; and the one who makes her and keeps her happy on a rainy (or snowy) day.

But maybe I don’t deserve the role. Maybe I’m not the person I think I am and maybe she’s better off without me, away from me. Because if the good cannot overcome the bad, and the positive cannot outweigh the negative; it’s just not right. She deserves to be treated like a princess, and respected as a queen. And the court jester can’t play the part.



Every time I think I’ve got her out of my system, she shows up and effs me up all over again.

Temporary highs, and recurring lows.

“Nobody likes to drink alone.”

So I guess I’m having a rum and Coke, since that’s what he’s got for himself.

And so it started.

This was supposed to be my weekend away from having a drink. Today was supposed to be me relaxing on a couch, catching up with a movie I neglected to watch 6 months ago, and having a proper dinner, cooked at home; which hasn’t happened in at least a week.

So much for that.

The rum and Coke leads to an MGD, which leads to La Trappe. Tripel. ‘Strong Beer’ the label says.

There’s no reason why one leads to the other. Or in that order. Except maybe the age-old “liquor before beer, you’re in the clear”.

But it’s good beer. Better than a domestic. Because even with it’s rich, multi-optional, incredibly diverse, cultural cacophony of people from around the world, it’s often tough to get the right beer when you’re in Toronto. Depends on where you go I suppose, but the LCBO doesn’t quite do beer justice.

So on we go. Another week, another weekend, another Saturday, another night.

Another beer gives us an escape from the recurring questions of “what’s next?” or “how’s the hunt going?” It let’s us recall Dodgeball and Vince Vaughn and the merits of the members of the Frat Pack. It let’s us revel in the Raptors’ 30-point lead over the visiting Jazz, or dream about Wiggins. And forget about the worries that’ll come back Sunday evening.

And then another. “One last one,” before we call it a night.

As we step out into the cold, a couple of swift movements and the flick of a few fingers gives light to a burning death stick.

Another temporary high. Another escape from a recurring low.

And a companion for the walk back home.

A Random Desi Romance

With the expected melodrama of every romantic comedy.

We’ve all got flaws.

Mine is that I fall in love too fast.

Not love, love. Not the dance around trees, yell it out from the top of a hill, crazy stupid Bollywood kind of love. But the love that one feels when around someone where everything just seems to fit.

It’s the feeling of butterflies in my stomach, of my smile when I hear her laugh, of the thought that I don’t want our moments together to end.

It’s the moments that make me think she’s cute, even the moments that otherwise appear illogical (like carrying a pair of heels in her oversized handbag).

Where her little quirks amuse me; while with anyone else they’d annoy me (as she apologizes profusely for rushing in late for a movie).

Or the carefree way with which she enjoys the world around her (as she launches into a random pose for a photo opportunity in the middle of a street).

It’s the way she looked at me as I handed her a glass of champagne, the way she whispered in my ear throughout the movie, the way she held onto my arm as we walked down the street.

Or maybe it’s the hyperbole in my imagination, as I recreate the events of what would have otherwise been a pretty good first date.

Every time I see her, I fall victim to the intoxicating aura of her presence. And for the three days that follow, I’m frequently caught thinking of no one else. As I keep hoping I’ll someday tell her how I feel, I’m constantly reminded of the fact that we’re not together. And then I spend some time trying to forget that feeling; only to have it all come rushing back when I spot her again on a Wednesday evening, sheltering herself from the rain with an unfolded newspaper, running towards me, flashing those pearly whites.

And I find myself back in my non-existent random desi romance.