Why can’t we be blobs?

 4^th Feb 2015

I love how dreams transcend the barriers of gender, religion, time, nationalities, race, structure and distance. I can be anyone/anything in a dream. This morning, I was an eight-year old Pakistani boy amid a ground full of other boys, all of us clad in a same kind of uniform. The chief colours surrounding us were white and green, the colours I associate with Islam. I was just sitting at my bench, gazing wistfully above at the sky. Almost all of us were conversing in Hindi. I had a lace-like cap on my head and big eyes, round with wonder and full of curiosity.

And I vividly remember thinking: Why can't we be blobs?

I believe that we are more than the differences that nature has created in us. We may have different sexualities. But I refuse to let the fact stand in my quest of finding me and finding you . . . and perhaps finding us. The real you isn't one that gets a boner everytime you watch porn. Heck, the real you doesn't even watch porn. The same way the real me doesn't rant about my menstruation cramps and PMS. I believe the real blobs that reside in us wouldn't care about trivial matters as such. 
I believe that we all are blobs. Blobs that can be anything and everything at once. Anyone and everyone at once. But the difference is in our perception. We limit ourselves to a single woman or a single man. We let others(who have already limited themselves) limit us, when in fact we all are limitless.

And the best of friendships, they happen when we treat each other as blobs.

I easily make friends with a 48 year old woman who pronounces ‘Dolpa’ as ‘Dolpo’. I see the blob in her almost instantly as we exchange warm smiles : I give her my all teeth smile and she gives me her gum revealing smile.  ( I so love it when people ‘give’ me their smiles. Not the cheese smile they do for photographs. But they actually give me their smiles for memory keeping.) We talk about the most mundane of things for an hour or so. Then a golden silence follows. I bask in the glory of having met another blob.

I can’t bring myself to talk to that sleek haired girl wearing a 8-inch heel and a sequined saree. Like the saree draped over her frame, I feel as if the blob within her is veiled from sight. I try to meet her mascara laden eyes and gaze into the blob within. But the scornful look that meets my gaze startles me. The blob in me tries another smile, a nervous lips only smile. She sweeps me with another of her haughty gazes. The blob in her is trapped inside all those layers of makeup, narcissistic sentiments and the need to be a hottie sensation. The blob in me looks away. I feel my shoulders drooping as I try to console my blob. 

I can find the blob within a woman more than twice my age. But with most people my age, the task seems almost impossible. I feel as if I would have to excavate for a long long time just to get a glimpse of the blob’s frail body. 

And somedays it feels as if my soul is being crushed by the realization that I am in a country where we still are bickering over equality. And I dream of a day when we will transcend equality and embrace blobness. A world where people have to fight for being treated as people. And I hope we treat each other as blobs. Ahh! There is no rehab for Hope.

P.S. The title is a reference to a piece of music in Bridge to Terabithia.