of hope

So the fiancé met my parents yesterday. I’d like to think it went well, considering the warmth with which he hugged my father before he left, but it didn’t start that nicely.

I’ve never really thought much of my parents, and don’t get along with them at all. Mom was basically away a lot; she was (still is, actually) a struggling actor, which, by the way, I would happily give an eye and an arm to be. The thing is, she was really good and deserved more chances than she got, and I always sympathized with her on that front. The trouble is, she is always play-acting, and will mostly choose from among the following parts: Continue reading of hope

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of nothingness

Days pass, and you think of a million different things to talk to the boyfriend fiance about.

All you want to do is pour your secrets out. At first it’s easy to do. You talk about the blog and he tells you how much he enjoys reading it. Then he offers to stop reading if that makes you uncomfortable. Surprisingly enough, you don’t care anymore.

Then you start talking about your childhood. The difficult stuff. Sometimes even you are shocked by the things you say. Continue reading of nothingness

of rituals

 You’re getting dressed for work, trying to carefully select the earrings you’re going to wear today. You want them to be just perfect. It’s become something of a ritual ever since you moved in with the boyfriend. Every morning you wake up hoping that you will have become a beautiful person, but of course you haven’t and then you’ve to resort to dressing up some more to disguise the ugliness.

It usually doesn’t take you this long, but today you’re just standing there staring at yourself in the mirror feeling Continue reading of rituals

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

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.