of malice

At first I decided not to write about this; to not tell you what happened tonight. But I’ve come to depend on this sharing. When I can’t figure out how I’m feeling, writing to you seems to be my only way out. So here goes.

Much against Mister’s advice, I went out dancing, alone. We fought about it – he was concerned about my safety and I was concerned about my mental health. I haven’t done anything other than work-sleep-work for the last two weeks and I’ve had it. My life is a fucking nightclub, and I’m starting to feel out of place. Again.

I’d have let it go, but today was one of those days when I just couldn’t bear being indoors anymore; I couldn’t bear being the. weaker sex. It felt like I was dissolving into the shadows little by little – becoming nothing in his absence. Like I didn’t exist as an individual. Who says good girls can’t go dancing alone?

So I went to that club to sit in that stool by the bar. And secretly, to see if A. was going to be there. I hadn’t met him since he told me he was in love with me. After what happened last time, would he even acknowledge my presence?

Maybe not. But somehow, I needed to know tonight – I needed to know that I owned his heart. It’s not like I wanted to act on it, but I have been attracted to him for a long time, and I needed to know he was still in love with me. Does that make sense?

To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether to go in, so I stood outside for a few minutes, trying to make up my mind.

Another couple that frequents the place dragged me inside, and A. was the first thing I saw.

But he was wrapped in a pair of arms – and those arms belonged to someone I know intimately. Someone who knows about my history with A and how I feel about him. They were swaying to a song. My song. And when I asked Giggles to meet me today, she told me she was busy with work.

How long has she been lying to me for?

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of memories and bitterness

In exactly an hour, I’ll be onboard a train to Kolkata with my mom and my little brother. (I have to give him a name one of these days!)

I’m unusually calm today. I thought I’d be excited, nervous, or some such, but my hand is steady and my voice unperturbed. Which works really well for me, because I have a whole lot of typing to do before I leave.

As my mom and I packed up the last of the things to take with us this morning, we talked about how much things had changed since I was a baby. Continue reading of memories and bitterness

of scars in love

But hey, the good thing is, I’m a dad now, he says with a bright smile on his face, trying to put off talking about unhappiness for another time. You’re usually trying not to yawn or roll your eyes when people talk about how unhappy they are. I understand, you say, but you never mean it.

But this day is different. Continue reading of scars in love

of motherhood

Your baby? She asks, visibly amused.

You’re beaming with pride as you talk. Yes, my baby. I am the one who tells him bedtime stories, wakes him up with kisses and irons his clothes and cooks for him and packs his school bag and helps him with homework and goes to his PTA meetings. I am the one who hand-painted the t-shirt he’s wearing right now. I am the one he comes to with bruises on his knees. I’m the one he counts on to protect him, you know. So yes, he is my baby more than he’s yours. Continue reading of motherhood

of hangups

You remember how, when you were young, calendars were meant to be hung on the wall. You liked being the one to see it first – to check if they had mountains, or flowers or deities on them. You always hated the ones with the deities; the house was full of their pictures anyway!
As soon as a new calendar arrived, you’d turn to February. Your birth month. The picture on this one was always the best. Next, you’d go to October. Your brother’s birth month. You’d show it to him, but he would be unimpressed. He didn’t care much for calendars anyway.
Dadi would look for a clean spot on the wall in the kitchen and hang it there, out of your reach. You’d loiter around for a while, but eventually forget all about it.
At the beginning of every month, dadi would take you to the kitchen, where the calendar was hung. Smiling, she’d tear out the first page from the calendar, almost in slow motion. She’d look at you intently as she gave you that old, yellowing month, stained with turmeric and oil and memories. You’d hold the sheet in your hands, look at the new, glossy picture that had just been revealed, and wink gleefully.

Continue reading of hangups