Dirty Laundry

She sits there, unapologetic, explaining that it was okay for her to be rude to Mister at first because mothers have the right to be concerned about their children’s decisions.

My mind immediately darts back to moments from a lifetime ago.

A neighbor asks how I fared in class 10 board exams – and before I can open my mouth, she says 82%, beaming with pride. I am astounded, because it is a gross exaggeration – a full 5% more than I actually scored. The man in the kurta pajama congratulates me, tells me how proud he is of me, and leaves. Mom instructs me to tell everyone the same figure, because 77 is not good enough.

S., my cousin, is upset with me, and I am crying because the phone is locked and I can’t make a phone call. When she gets home, she asks me to stop bawling, because it isn’t as though his world will collapse if he doesn’t talk to you for an hour. 

I have just broken up with my boyfriend, whom my mother likes and wants me to marry. Who will marry you now, you skinny little scarecrow aren’t exactly her words, but she finds a way to convey it regardless.

When I finally tell her what her nephews did to me when I was a kid, she refuses to believe me. You must be imagining it.

I have always known that my existence was meaningless and feeble, even inconsequential to hers – and I was basically just a burden she couldn’t seem to get rid of.

And she is looking me in the eye and telling me: I was concerned about you. 

This, coming from a woman who never said a kind word to me in her life; had nothing to convey except her disappointment at how I turned out. Blind, hot, white rage flashes through me like a lightning bolt.

I scream until my head explodes, and then walk out.

I step back into the room only to overhear what my sister has to say – she needs to understand that the past was equally difficult for all of us.

Equally difficult? Rich, coming from our mother’s favorite child who has never been abandoned like I was.

of stories

She seems confused. She talks about women, then talks about adventure. She’s seduced people, almost cheated on her boyfriend, been in a live-in relationship, by her own admission. What kind of person puts stuff like that on the internet? I don’t get personal blogging anyway. Why not just stick to a topic and blog about that? What does it matter whether you tell your story or not? Who cares?

She’s talking incessantly about me, without even knowing that she’s talking about me. To her I’m Anawnimiss, the ‘ridiculously shameless blogger’.

It was amusing at first, to listen to someone I know talk about my blog without realizing it’s mine. But then words started to sting. And yet I was quiet for the longest time, nodding my head, which is so unlike me.

I wanted to tell her that my story matters. Every story matters, because stories never belong to any one person. There are hundreds of people, women and men, just like me, with stories just like mine. They are traveling, dancing, getting married, having children, yearning for change, just like me. There are women who are just like me, looking for answers, looking for love, and for independence. There’s a common thread in all our stories that binds us all in a sort of fabric that keeps us warm.

Instead, I say: I don’t know, maybe sharing gives her strength.

Yeah right. What is she, Batman? Let her come out in the open and declare her real identity. Then I’ll see how much strength she really has to tell the truth.

Okay, she didn’t really say Batman, but you know what I mean.

But she’s right, you know. I really ought to come out in the open some day. And you know what, I’d like to see the look on her face when I do.

of a bumbaclot

I woke up this morning to this comment on my about page.

Needless to say, I was pissed. Surely I wouldn’t have 180+ followers if my writing was this shallow! At first I was going to allow it to appear and reply to him in the comments section, but then I realized that my Chetan Bhagat syndrome wasn’t going to allow it and I would HAVE to write a full blown letter to whatshisface about it. So here goes:

Dear Subrat,

(Is that even your real name?)

No, I don’t know what you mean, but thank you for your “sincere suggestion” that I write like Chetan Bhagat and am an aspiring Rakhi Sawant. I will take this as a compliment for two reasons:

1. I may find Chetan’s writing uninspiring but hell, he sells books and people make movies (and money) out of his brainfarts.
2. Rakhi thrives on negative publicity (such as this) but thrives nonetheless. By god Jejus ki kasam, I would give my other arm and my remaining teeth to appear on Big Boss. I could get a set of sparkly white dentures with all the money. (I’d also get breast implants but that’s besides the point.)

I’m a glass-half-full person, you know! Oh but how would you know? You didn’t bother to read anything other than my posts on the bad stuff Indian girls should not be talking about. Yes sir. I’ve recently learned to decipher my stats page and have been doing my homework. Gotcha, you bumbaclot!

At this point, I’m wondering this: if I were to write more posts about divinity and how Indian women are destined to pander to the whims of the men in their lives, would you then think I’ve grown up and/or graduated? Also, what upsets you more, the fact that I have sex or that I talk about it?

In my defense (rhetorically speaking), if you were to read between the lines lines that do not contain the words “sex”, “masturbation”, and “vagina”, and “naked”, you’d realize that I also write about independence, love, heartbreak, freedom, family, and the general travails of being a single woman living alone. I write about weirdos I come across (such as yourself). I write about pain and depression and thousands of other things that your birdbrain may not be able to process.
But I don’t blame you. With your head that far up your ass and your eyes shut as tight as a camel’s ass in a sandstorm, I don’t know if you ever can. So I just hope you’ll leave me and my 180+ followers alone so I can “find solace” in my “graceful writing” through which my readers can “gather good” about me.

Really looking forward to hearing from you.  Go on, say something that actually makes sense. I challenge you!

Also, I don’t mean to nitpick but I think you meant “posts”, not “blogs.”

~ Anawn

of disbelief

I got the following comment yesterday from a fellow Indian sister, who seemed particularly upset with my post on masturbation.

Indian girls doesnt do mastebation. Only immoral and shameless girls like you who writes about personel things on net. you are also living with a boy without any marrige shame on you. you are dirting our name of Indian girls . you are going to hell……………………

of criticism

Your first hate mail from your lone visitor with 50 page views.

Wow. You must be getting somewhere. Someone visited your page 50 times to make up their mind. They decided that you were self-obsessed and delusional. Whew! Well, what can you say, you are these things, and more.

You are also just a little insecure, a little jittery about telling the truth. Tired of all the secrets. You’re also reasonably happy, on most days at least. Someone who has always liked to talk, but is tongue-tied in the company of new people. You are judgmental about people who leave cryptic names and laugh at you because you’re won’t give out your name.

But then, to be fair, you  are self-obsessed, so maybe you should tag all your posts that way.