The Unforgettable Desire

Or, How We Accept Care Earlier this year I was out with a couple of friends from school. I met one of them a few days ago, so I knew what’s up with her. I had absolutely no idea about the other, I was meeting him for the first time since school. As we sipped our drinks, they began sharing life stories. He was confident about his life, including marriage, pretty sorted. I wondered, how can someone be so sorted? Then, I realised, he doesn’t feel the need to fight convention. I envied him, for a moment. When she fell apart talking about her life, he comforted her, reassured her, and the phrase that comes to my mind is, like a gentle man. I adored them, the care he offered, the care she needed. It was my turn to go next. All I said was, there’s nothing wrong in my life. I sipped the last of my drink, admitting, I know I have the power to make every single change I need, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. This scene of comfort returns to me every now and then. That’s how it’s suppose...

I held out a coffee tumbler that I had bought a few weeks ago, after I decided to quit drinking coffee. My grandfather took it from my hand, read the text on it – Do what you love, love what you do. ‘This is what I used to tell my students. I didn’t use these exact words.’ I turned my head towards him, ‘This is what I often tell my friends and juniors too!’ He continued, ‘Accounts is a subject that I love. I used to tell my students that to understand the subject, to do well, they have to love it.’ I was excited. ‘I say the same for English!’ There were a few other people in the dining room then. Different conversations were taking place at once. No one was paying particular attention towards us. I had been making a presentation of coffee mugs and the equipment that I used to brew filter coffee. My voice itself is a people repellent. I talk so much for so long that people lose interest. They are also aware that I won’t stop until I am done showing everything in my agenda, so they re...

In the last couple of years, a lot has changed within me -be it the perks of having a plenty of alone time or the downside of a mind that’s never without a thought. I am a person who jumped off a cliff at Rishikesh. Between the moment when I was off the rock-solid ground and hadn’t hit the water, I thought, “Did I jump, or was I pushed, or did both happen at the same time!” When I was out of the water all I could think was, “What’s the big deal about the experience? It was so tiny a moment to feel anything at all?” When I asked so to my already-experienced-cliff-jumping brother, he said, “That’s just how it is.” All I am saying is that I had a thought even in that tiniest of a second and I am unashamedly okay with it. It has been recently remarked by a dear friend of mine that I think so much that I do not let myself feel anything. I am working on those lines whose roots are as deep as the hive in S tranger Things , believe me . Having firmly established that, the one thing that...

I am the woman who breaks families. Sita, Draupadi, Helen of Troy and the likes of them, the ones who are known to have triggered wars so tragic and glorious that poets, singers, storytellers Couldn’t help themselves but keep those women alive ages after their lifetime. No war was their fault. If something has to be blamed, how about the fragile male ego? Those wars, - they were the wars of testosterone. - they were to prove the right over wrong. - they were to show the prince charming from ugly frog. - they were to let men drown in their ego. - they were to pump up the unquestioned pride. - they were to limit women into boundaries. - they had nothing to do with women. - they were about men and their conquests. I am no Sita, no Draupadi, no Helen I am a woman who breaks families, for real. I make married women from generations before feel useless. I ask them, how could they tolerate what was done to them? I ask them, why did they n...

I have been juggling many life choices in my mind. I took a month off from Hyderabad. I went home. Before I left, I was in an internship that changed my way of looking at things. I realized, either I am not willing to accept ‘reality’ or I am not meant for jobs. I cried many times in my office washroom. I was frustrated that I could not read and write in that period of time. When it was over, I went home - away from the environment I usually live in, away from the people I usually interact with. I went home to discover myself. In the one month I spent at home, I read five books. I did not write anything worth publishing on my blog. I ended up with a few drafts nonetheless. What I liked the most at home was, the way my parents looked at my reading. Every time my mother talked about my reading habits, I could sense pride in her voice. I challenged my father at reading books. I had a good time. Every other day, I used to tell them about a strength or weakness of mine that I discover...

One day in my M.A. classroom, a professor was teaching Emily Dickinson’s “She Sweeped with Many-Colored Brooms”, and I was scribbling a poem of my own in the last page of my notebook. I stared up, not looking at anything in particular, unaware that my gaze was in direct contact with that of the professor. He asked me, “Do you sweep at home?” “Yes”, I replied. “Girls usually sweep”, was his response. Unable to control the rising adrenaline and noradrenaline within me, I replied without being asked, “I sweep because I live alone, I cannot afford a maid (irrespective of my issues with cheap labour), and I like a clean room. I don’t think it has got anything to do with me being a girl. I am sure, any responsible human would do so.” I do not remember what happened next as my response was ignored. I went back to writing my poem. Do you realise what happened in those few minutes? My developing sense of responsibility was overshadowed by my social sex, my gender, and its role in this societ...

[The following post is a personal and subjective take on the issue. Any offence is deeply regretted, or maybe not. Read it till the end and you might understand why. Forgive me for the irony and paradox used.] We belong to the Indian culture where we respect our elders and love the ones younger than us in our family, by default. I am simply stating a fact, without raising this culture to greatness or demeaning or comparing it to any other culture. If you are born into a conventional (Hindu, as I cannot speak for other religions) Indian family, you know you are supposed to touch the feet of the older members of the (extended) family, join your hands on the road if you meet the neighbouring uncle or aunty, share your personal belongings with your siblings and so on and so forth as gestures of respect and love. If you don’t, then either your parents are blamed for not giving you the correct upbringing or you simply become ‘that’ kid whose lack of such gestures is taken as naughtines...

When I visit my parents, I often hear the neighbours saying to my mother, ab to beti aa gayi hai, aapko help mil jaegi. Probably it is a proud moment for the entire ‘Women’ community, but personally it pisses me off. No, I do not mind helping my mother in her chores. I mind when people believe it is the duty of the daughter to do so. When asked, why not the son’s? The most common answer is, Arre wo to nalayak hai, ladke thodi samajhte hain. Personally, I believe not only this statement is offensive to men but also comments about the speaker’s failure in parenting. But then it is the socially accepted characteristics for men to be careless and women to be responsible. Yes. And if it does not offend you, then you are another deluded toy in the game of patriarchy .

Parents. They play a great role in the shaping of one’s childhood. But today I am not going to glorify them for a certain trait of theirs like I have done before. Sure, I acknowledge every move, decision that they have taken for the betterment of their children. Sure, they have sacrificed a lot. But that doesn’t mean they are great. They are humans. They have their flaws. They have their better sides. But I will not glorify them.

Even though I long for changes, I am not very good at adapting to them. When I woke up this morning with my usual irate mood, I chose to listen to the songs of the theatre society of my former college. As the songs soothed my mind, I got a sinking realization that nobody around me is going to call me Cadbury here in Hyderabad. Happiness is… being called Cadbury. Sadness is… not having the people around who called me so.

I was 14 when I was diagnosed with PRE-B-ACUTE LYMPHOBLASTIC LEUKEMIA at Christian Medical College and Hospital, Vellore. It was a hard time for my parents to manage a household in an unknown city where an unfamiliar tongue was in power where as I enjoyed all the luxuries of a private room in the pediatric ward. But then came my aunt with her one year old daughter, Anusha, to my parent’s rescue. She managed the household chores which mainly included preparing the dishes that I demanded, my Dad took care of the official paper work at the hospital and my Mom somehow managed to handle my tantrums in ward. Becoming a doctor was never my ambition, not even for the essay writing in school. But my stay in Vellore among all the doctors somehow inspired me to become one even though I sucked at biology.  I went back to school, chose biology as my main paper in high school and I am glad that I could at least get a first division in the board exam. By the end of my schooling, I knew very...

Last night during a WhatsApp group conversation, one of my friends mentioned that he wakes up at 7 in the morning to which some replied that it’s too early for a Sunday. I was thinking in my mind that 7 AM is early for any day. I probably haven’t seen the rising sun, felt the morning breeze for some years now. As I woke up this morning, the first image that I saw in front of me was a 10 year old girl coming out of her room in a half asleep state to see her Dad at the dining table having tea, mom in the kitchen preparing breakfast for the family and occasionally calling out her son to wake up. And even though I could sleep more this morning, sleep did not come to me. Homesickness! This image has struck me on Sundays before, at least in last one year. This was it. How my Sunday began with a warm Good Morning and not a lazy I don’t want to wake up. Now when I look back this image was real, I wonder what we did waking up at 7 in the morning. I can’t think of doing anything now. A bit...

That awkward moment when your parents say, “Beta we are your best friends, you can share everything with us.” I mean, come on, all of us have been through this phase at least once in our life. For me it’s more than once! Yeah! You can try imagining the intensity of growing awkwardness. Usually I am the ‘talk-without-thinking’ person who goes on chattering no matter what. People keep hoping for me to stop but when I do, they have a big problem; a problem which is more important than the latest terrorist attack that they won’t leave me in peace till I start talking again. I mean no one said that people who talk a lot can’t remain silent. And when they eventually are silent, it doesn’t mean that something is wrong with them. Sometimes they just want to be silent. They’re tired of 24*7 tittle-tattle and they need a break. It appears like they haven’t got a brain but the thing is all the blabbering is just a wall, most of the times. Silence can haunt some people to death. People like...

A couple of days back my father had asked me, “When is Father’s day?” Not paying much attention, I replied may be the second Sunday of July. And now I read that Father’s day is on 16 th June 2013 in my Facebook updates. [Long live Facebook] But my immeadite thought was - Oh my freaking god is this why papa had asked me a couple of days ago and I had no idea!  Probably a month ago when I dedicated a blog post to my mother on the Mother’s day, I had made up my mind to do so for my father on the father’s day. For my mom, I started writing because I was bored and did not want to study for exams. For my father, now I am writing because suddenly after reading the updates I have the urge to write. Writing for my mom was far easier than writing for dad. Even though I see mom as the emotionally stronger person but I still believe that Papa has an ocean of emotions within him which he fails to convey. I do not know from where to start when it comes to him. Okay here’s my first att...

I suffered from a minute ache in my wrist which eventually led me to Leukemia. It was a rare symptom and so maybe then on whenever I get to hear that a person is suffering from something as small as a mere headache brings the horror that it can lead to something really big. It is just me and people hate me for this. I cannot help it. It’s not like I intentionally choose to think of bad stuff but it’s just I have been through it. Every time I see her hands shivering, I am worried. She is not old enough to have her hands trembling when she holds a vessel or serves us on the dining table. It is not something really common. The worst part is the doctors don’t get to know the cause of it. Just prescribing some random pills to minimize it isn’t a solution. (Who would know this better than me?) But again, how am I supposed to help? All I can do is see her suffer. I wonder if being a Ganesha fan gives her all her strength :-) Every time when she has a headache, I am tensed. Hea...