The Unforgettable Desire

In a world where mental health is being acknowledged, Where people are willing to hear stories, Hoping it will help the storyteller to live that day, Sleep that night, wake up the next morning, Without the thought of killing himself/herself; In a world where people are trying to understand, The beginnings of anxiety or depression, And ways to cope with it, My mind shouts, “Screw you.” For as far as my memory allows, I remember the desire in my 8-year-old heart, I remember the desire to die. It wasn’t a desire that came in the pre-teen years, When I began believing no one understands me in this world. It was a desire that I truly wished to be true, So I asked my then believed ‘god’, To give me end stage brain cancer, On the days that I cried as well as when I laughed. When I was diagnosed with initial stage of cancer, I began believing that there is perhaps someone out there, Who heard my voice and responded wisely, To my unthoughtful, pe...

A man sitting on my seat offered to get up when he saw me undecided - should I ask him to get up or simply climb up the side upper berth?   I took the book that I was reading out of my backpack as he began to get up. As we stood side by side for a few seconds, he asked me, "What are you reading?" I showed him my copy of Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie's Americanah . He tried to read the author's name and perhaps, failed. He returned the book with a look that made his friend chuckle. I wanted to tell him, it's a Nigerian name. I wanted to tell him that the title of the book is what Nigerians tend to call people who move to America, something like Amriki or Amrika-wale as we Indians might say in Hindi. I didn't want to explain without being asked, which was quite unusual for my ever-explaining self. Later in the evening, as I climbed up to the upper berth, allowing my co-passenger to have the lower berth all to himself, I wondered about the former moment. I bega...

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...

The One who Swam with the Fishes , Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan, India, HarperCollins Publishers India, 2017, 1st edition, 152 pages, ₹250. Add caption Satyavati has long been seen as a fisherwoman who manipulated her way to the Kuru throne. A selfish unashamed woman who wasn’t satisfied merely by being the queen but made her to-be-born sons the heirs to the throne of Hastinapur instead of crown Prince Devavrata. Meenakshi Reddy Madhavan, in her The Girl who Swam with Fishes from the series  Girls of The Mahabharata weaves the story of how a fish-smelling girl of divine birth, raised in a fisher community, finds her way to her Destiny. It shows the story of Matsyagandhi evolving into Satyavati of The Mahabharata . The contemporary storytelling makes the book distinct from the poetic language of an epic. At the same time, the Vedic setting and time period isn't forgotten as the modern storytelling describes a span of year in terms of rain and that of a month in terms o...

One January evening in a small mining town, Pralav decided to meet his old friend. His friend had returned to town after five years. They had known each other since their first day in an engineering college. For the most part of their job, they had been colleagues. At the age of 57, Pralav, feeling quite right in his head after a few months of dullness, wanted to visit his friend in his new house. Or, so he made it seem to his friend. Over the 32 years of his occupation, he had gotten used to whispers that surrounded him. “Mad, he is crazy.” “He is not in his right mind.” “Oh, what was he talking? Is he active these days?” “Just listen to him.” “Poor man.” “It’s a pity.” “His life isn’t even worth living.” PTSD has a strange way of unfolding. Two near death mining accidents later, Pralav was admitted for psyche consult which perhaps would have helped him had mental disorders been an open talk in the town. People assumed him to be a mad man because he needed the consult. The whisp...

Big round eyes popping out through a thick pair of glasses, an ear to ear smile, a long pony tail, and chubby cheeks. That was a munchkin of happiness thrown her way. Dragged to a family picnic on a sunny December morning in a tiny city of Maharashtra, Avni spent her time faking smiles and Namaste at women her mother introduced her to. “Could I have had a better time in this alien territory?”, thought Avni. She had spent twenty long years in one place, and didn’t see the fun in shifting to a new place. Oh, wait! It’s an old place, new to her. Duh uh!

It began with a ‘Hi’. No, I think it began with a concern. ‘Whose kid is he, walking on the boundary wall?  How can parents leave kids at that? I hope he doesn’t fall.’ He jumped inside, my heart skipped a beat. I reminded my scared self, kids don’t develop the sense of fear so early. I let a short laughter out loud. I cannot jump from two feet height on to the ground now. In my musing, I forgot that I was still looking in the direction of the kid. He had seen his stalker by then. He waved. I ignored. I went back to chopping vegetables. It was noon already and lunch was yet to be prepared. I looked up through the window, he was right there waving with a big smile. This time, I smiled back. I ran through the kitchen, assembling ingredients and vessels. Then I heard a ‘Hi’. I saw  across the window. I did not reply. I was chopping bitter gourd by then. I stopped and stared; I looked up, smiled, and said ‘Hi’. I saw him jump in glee. He went up the wall, walked, and jumped....

He: I like Hyderabad more than Kolkata and Bangalore. But then I get bored easily. Me: Okay. He: Sometimes I get bored of being a guy. Me: Try being a duck sometime. He: Being a girl is a better option. Me: You like experimenting with yourself? He: Yes. It’s nice to doll up sometimes, who doesn’t want the extra colour in life? Me: Hahaha, yeah! He: Let me try then. ME: Let me know how it goes. He: Sure, would love to, but only if you keep it a secret. Me: Cool. No moral policing either.

“I speak three languages, write in Two, dream in one. Don't write in English, they said, English is Not your mother-tongue. Why not leave Me alone, critics, friends, visiting cousins, Every one of you? Why not let me speak in Any language I like? The language I speak, Becomes mine, its distortions, its queernesses All mine, mine alone.”   -Kamala Das, An Introduction I have been asked, “Odia is dying, isn’t it?” I don’t answer the question. Because, I cannot answer the question.

‘Always.’ It has probably become the new definition of ‘love, no matter what’ and certainly, of the unrequited love. It has been the most romantic word ever since the ‘Prince’s Tale’ was seen in the pensieve. Yes, the story was soul stirring. But she believes that the word has been exploited. Unlike the ones smitten with it, she wonders about the question it answered. How touching can an ‘Always’ be, if there is no one to ask, ‘After all this time?’

Sundays are supposed to be cheat days, aren’t they? You get to stay in bed as long as you want, eat whatever keeps you alive, have a FRIENDS marathon, check your newsfeeds every now and then, and curse yourself for not doing the piled up work. Such was my last Sunday, that is, 13 November 2016 till I randomly invited a couple of my friends on Facebook for an event of Storytelling Open Mic that I had signed up ‘going’ two weeks ago but was in no mood to attend that day. Being quite sure that no one I know will show up and another event being there in two weeks from now, I was quite comfortably tucked into bed when at four in the evening I got an unexpected call.