of re-membering

Less than an hour after you’ve published your first post, you’re wondering if it’s too soon to write again. Maybe it is. If people knew who you were, they would totally judge you; but the truth is they don’t, so you can forgive yourself for feeling almost smug as you start typing.

You love, love, love being able to say whatever you want. You’ve never felt this liberated before!

So you make a list of things you can finally talk about:

  • What a coward you are! You still smile nervously when you run into your cousins, but do not have the courage to tell them you remember.
  • How fiercely protective you have been of your nieces; you won’t even let them sit in your husband’s lap.
  • How you really feel about all the men you’ve been with, and the women you fancied.
  • How you didn’t know how to pronounce chic until, like, two weeks ago.
  • You real first kiss. The one nobody knows about.
  • The real reason why your marriage broke up.

Here you choke. Warm, wet inhibitions begin to flow through your eyes and you cry like you have never cried before.

Maybe someday you will write a book about the mess that has been your life.


of memories long forgotten

It’s strange how the sight of a blue-white hawaii chappal under a teakwood dining table can break your heart and mend your life all at once.

A quaint little Sarojini Nagar house on the ground floor with a big-ass teakwood dining table and yellowish-white curtains. A seven-year old version of you lying on the floor, naked. Your twelve year old cousin grinning as he watches his brother dry-hump you. Your eye focused on the blue-white hawaii chappal under the dining table.

The crying after, the pain, the horror of it all. No wonder your seven-year old brain blocks it out.

Years later, the memory just comes flooding back on a lazy Sunday morning as you’re sipping chai that your cousin just brought you and your eye wanders to a hawaii chappal under the dining table. That dining table.

And what do you do? Start blogging about it. Anonymously.

The chai just sits there in the mug long after you’ve left.