I sit for the last time in my balcony, like learning an imminent death. The rooftops are still but the trees are responding to the small despair, flailing madly that the despair might be tossed about, passed on, bequeathed. I watch them at it, and do not watch them, eyes glazing as the sun dims like pulling away, tugging at me to open my eyes wider, work harder to hold this all in. I sit there, a frozen picture of a girl with ghosts reflected off eyes that belong somewhere else, a body rigid and unflexed before the whitewashed balcony, fixated, unborn, unrealized and unforseen. Papa tells me the sight makes him sad.
He asks for me, why all the trees in the backyard are gone. Two weeks back, we had marveled the firs, looking at how they stretched to the heavens. A dozen of them. She tells us that the rains ripped two out, so she cut all of them. I don’t understand the logic, but I don’t see. I can’t bear that, for the image of growing trees is intact in my memory. That’s how I’d like to remember it.
His gifts have come. I lie to them that I ordered them, they believe me, but also believe the worthlessness of these things.They say that coffee flasks and active gear are useless and should be returned. I close the door.
We watch Ramleela at night. They comment that the movie has nothing, but in my head are star-crossed lovers, shooting each other to death over falling prey to enmity. I think the idea is actively explored and I think that’s fucking beautiful.
Hi. You are a good person.
Thank you for thinking so…
I love you
I need to banish myself for I am so deeply misunderstood, that my silence is taken as ignorance. I am so deeply misunderstood.
What one positive thing has anyone ever said to me in the recent past? One positive thing? I want to run away from everything, banish myself. Things are only demanded of me—but am I truly acknowledged? I wonder now
I have been reading Arundathi Roy for anger, Jhumpa Lahiri for loss, the New York Times for politics and Kindle Magazine for questionable habits. It’s the only way I can find myself when no one loves me—to find shade in books that twist your logic into something that could be fought for.
This is all I have now.
I feel criminal without doing anything remotely insane. I am accused of listening to music, reading on the phone, not responding to texts and not being prompt in messages. Nobody understands that i am so deeply ravaged that I am first trying to find myself and establish base before I can help anyone else. The anger has traveled inwards, to the self and debased me. Literature is the only thing that treats me reasonably in these times. People yell, point fingers or speak behind my back.
Today, I literally had to stop driving and park the car and fling the keys to my mom because I couldn’t bear how much she was yelling at me for reading on the phone. Yes, I use up the data plan to read the New York Times, The New Yorker, Kindle Magazine, Galli Magazine and Caravan. And yes, I still think its a mighty good use of my time.
I have lost myself so severely that its evident in my eyes: they flutter around searching. My stomach grows fat with unhealthy obesity, I refuse to budge, to realize myself. Don’t you understand I need to find myself before offering frank comfort?
It hurts to be this way, this quietly angry, this reasoning of trying to happy for irrelevant things: There is a bowl of shells there, I can smell the earth, I will sleep touching the sky, I will put old photographs on the wall, there is a smell of jasmine, there are birds still in our skies.
This is how i try to see light.
Maybe I should allow the violence within me to manifest. I would then hate all of you, without reason.
“I saw how the media can just excavate you and leave a shell behind. And I was lucky to learn from that. So when my turn came, the barricades were up.”
– Arundhati Roy