I realized that oranges remind me of women. Graceful enough to be peeled out daintily, feisty enough to burn your eyes. Today, I ate an orange that felt like an eighty year old. It tasted plain like tap water was injected in every pulp. But it was not the blandness of an inexperienced, naïve woman. It was the anemic paleness of a woman who has seen it all. Tired and drained. Fought with parents but still lived with them, did not get married, got handpoked tattoos because she loved inflicting pain on herself and was a part of a girl gang. This could be her story. Or she could have also been like other kinds of women. It was a conscious choice to call this orange an old woman and not a granny. It told me that it would not appreciate the latter. Actually, I tasted two oranges today – one that A had bought two weeks ago and then the old woman orange that he bought just a few days ago. The orange that lay in his kitchen for two weeks was much younger than the old woman orange. The old woman orange was so detached from the peel. The peel came off effortlessly. The orange had given up on everything, I think. I chewed the bulbs for a minute and spat them out because the fiber made me retch. I realized that these old woman oranges should not be eaten bulb by bulb. They should be cut into halves and topped with sugar, salt and chilly powder. Then squeezed into your mouth directly until your gums burn, swell and become numb.
Under the untamed, curly locks of his hair, lies his brain which is his storehouse of memories. We shall come back to that later, because Arun Neelakantan thinks from his heart. The heart can be a very dangerous place to think from, and we see the repercussions of these impulses shift the course of Arun’s life not just once, but a number of times. Arun does not hold his heart in his palm. He lets it fly and chases it down the narrow streets of a Chennai housing board, up the hills and in the jungle. He effortlessly explains the fluidity of life by aspiring to do music, pursuing engineer’s and going on to become a wedding photographer. Thinking from your heart also makes things difficult for yourself. The brain is the liar. The heart cannot let you lie to yourself, let alone others. But what the heart can do is, let you take a chance. From (impulsively and quite physically) following his heart that circled around a woman and winning her love, to telling another girl that he did not have a girlfriend because he saw the possibility of having a moment, Arun’s heart navigated him. Was it in the right or wrong direction? It was uncertain. But it kept him moving forward at lightning speed. Calling his first love in the middle of the night, while on a rollercoaster ride of emotions, to share that he had become a father is what Arun would do, listening to his heart. Apart from curving into the most genuine smile in the world, Arun’s lips which are tethered to his heart, say things in the exact way it is written in his heart. Arun cannot stay in a space where his heart cannot be. Figuratively and in reality. In a way, he is fragile. Unusually, behind the shield of his heart, he walks forward throwing bombs of words or silence with one hand. Every morning, before he went out, he remembered to stuff some honesty under the collar of his shirt, in his pant pockets or in the pouch of his shoulder bag. Without that, Arun would not be himself. His youth sometimes forced him to leave this honesty locked in his hostel room, and did make mistakes like all of us, but deep down, he knew that these mistakes were unacceptable. That acknowledgement was all that mattered. Further, there was nothing that stopped him from attempting to redeem himself. His rebound relationship ended when he accepted that he was not in love, and the most he could do was being a good friend. His heart-shield was held up once again. There was something about Arun’s eyes. They glitter when he sees a beautiful girl whom he eventually falls in love with and gets his heart broken. And a spark in his eyes dwindles and dies as we watch, when this girl expresses that she might still be in love, while sending him off. The blankness in his eyes makes it clear that he does not want to tell us what he feels. His eyes age with him. When he opens his eyes sitting on a rock, in a jungle, a thin, film-like haze of mischief clears out. But do not be deceived, because it does not completely vanish. Traces of this mischief in his eyes can be seen when he falls in love again a couple of years after a heartbreak. Once again he falls in love impulsively but he does not love this woman fiercely. The savage lover in him died slowly and comfortably. He is adventurous enough to get married in the pouring rain, but not incautious enough to lie to his wife while meeting his ex-lover. There was a sort of tranquility in the way he loved, as he grew up. This does not mean that he stopped following his heart. It’s just that his heart slowed down a bit, making it easier for him to chase it. This was Arun Neelakantan’s journey of finding himself while thinking from his heart.
It was one of those days when I had forgotten how pieces began, or how they ended. I was listening to Bujji on loop because, what is taste? Not wanting to get stuck in the hamster wheel of productivity, I was taking a break from Instagram. Professor S had posted something and my phone had to let me know about it because, what is respect for space? She had written on Breaking Away. As usual, I heard her speak as I read through the piece. There is an uncanny resemblance between her voice and her writing and I felt like a creep for reading it in her tone. She tells stories like she was born to do nothing apart from that. She had posted an album of five pictures. I was reading the fourth page and I thought it was lovely. I did not want to swipe and read what was on the fifth page because I was contented and anything more would ruin that feeling. But, I also badly wanted to. She had written the piece encouraging everyone to take part in the competition. After reading the piece, a normal person would feel like their brains were illuminated, a strong desire to write, a surge of words like the tireless April rains in Bangalore. But, it accidentally strummed the wrong string in my brain. I badly wanted to write again. I wanted to complete the Breaking Away piece that I shelved a few weeks ago because I thought I could not write anymore. But, I still do think I cannot write. Then, I was mad at Instagram for showing me Professor S’s post. I was mad at Professor S for writing, that, for a second I thought it should be made illegal to write something so beautifully.
I spent the next two hours of cancelled lab sessions crying under the blanket in my dark room. After drowning myself in a shallow plate of Rasam Saadham and Potato Poriyal, I told A that I was going to deactivate my Instagram blog, delete posts from my WordPress and go into hiding. I told him I was going to give up on writing because I was not good at it. To him, I’ve said more “I want to run away” than “I appreciate your existence”. The idea of running away is so intriguing and seemed simple that it became my first option whenever something intimidated me. I look up Zostel Alleppey and listen to Santhosh Narayanan’s music every time there is a minor inconvenience in life, because if the sea and some clumsily melodious songs cannot make my life better, what can? I want to run away from home because I want to know what being out of one’s comfort zone feels like. I want to run away from people because I was scared I would hurt them. This time my inability to write made me want to escape from writing itself. A said that I must be in a good head space to write. The rational part of my brain agreed without hesitation. But the other side whispered constantly that I must stop writing, delete everything and forget that I want to become a writer. After I finished crying throughout the next two hours of scheduled lab sessions too, A called me. He asked me why I wanted to write so badly. My lips trembled and I looked at the yellow walls of my room blankly. What should I say? It was not even a relevant question to ask people like me at this point of time. Words reject us every day and that is our biggest heartbreak. A question like this is dripping iodine on the broken heart. It burns and I want to scream, but eventually heals. But, it still burns.
Every person who tries to write goes through this phase without fail, and I try to console myself. Amma thinks I am snapping at her because I have problems. Problems in air quotes. When I yelled with tears brimming and shivering, that I am not able to write and my head felt heavy, Amma’s nose scrunched, and her lips and eyes bounced on all the corners of her face. Yes, what is the big deal if you are not able to write? If you can’t write, then don’t. It’s not like the world will come crashing down on you. But, what if it does? I am unable to do the only thing I know, and believed that I am sort of good at. Professor S once asked us to write about words. I wrote about how words play hide-and-seek with me. In the feedback, she said, “You have such a close relationship with words and I admire this in you”. I really want to believe it. I have been secretly fangirling over Professor S and her writing in college, as well as on Instagram. I have never talked to her outside the classroom. Very rarely even inside. I have always wanted to grab a chair in the department, sit on the other side of her table and talk to her as Hedwig stares at me. But, what would I talk about, to her? I already knew her through her smiles and her writing. Do I know Shadow through Professor S or do I know her through Shadow? It is always confusing. Good writers make me feel like a creep and I don’t exactly like it. Appa once said that I can only write when something ploughs the contents of my heart like the pieces of raw mango spiced and stirred with a ladle in a pickle jar every day. He did not mention pickle jars or mangoes, but I like to remember it that way.
Professor S’s piece was a ladle, but it stirred the contents of the pickle jar in the counter clockwise direction. I didn’t want to wite anymore because I can never write like Professor S. I backspaced the Breaking Away piece I was writing because I can never tell stories like Professor S. I archived all posts on my Instagram blog as my sanity did not let me delete them. It was over. What should have been a sigh of relief, slowly choked me. Professor S’s piece was not flashy. It was simple, real and shameless. She tells me secrets from her life and trusts me with them. When I attempt to tell stories of who I want to be, she poetically writes who she is. It is a sin to write truthfully like her. I can never do that, so I have to run away. Far from writing, ladles, spiced mangoes and pickle jars. A said that there is no running away from this. Maybe for him. These people who effortlessly tell stories are the best and the worst people in my life. The best because they make me want to write. The worst because they make me want to write. A once wrote a story about his coconut head and I am not a nice person who denies it comfortingly. I suppose he has a coconut head because normal heads cannot fit that stupendous story-spinning loom inside them. He would not believe me. He would even laugh it off because storytelling comes to him instinctually. People like this, I tell you.
A has an incredible taste when it comes to food and that is partly why I hang out with him. When he is not ranting to me about my unhealthy habits, we go out looking for the best beef fry in town. His Mi makes the best beef pickle and that is another reason why I tolerate him. I was frying Pappadams for the first time because A wanted to introduce me to a terrific combination that I am forever grateful to him for. Meen curry, rice and Pappadam. I had to think twice or even thrice because my mind’s taste buds refused to blend fish and Pappadam. But, when it’s food, I trust A more than I trust myself. I burnt the first two Pappadams dark brown like faces of angry old men before I fished the third one in edible condition. A and I also ended up munching on the old men faces one each because fish curry rice tasted multiple times better inside a Pappadam blanket. I now realize how a good piece of writing is like the third Pappadam. The act of writing itself is like frying Pappadams for the first time every time. But, I want to delete everything, run away and go into hiding after my first Pappadam. A would be proud if I told him I finally understand what he had been telling me all these years. But if tell him it was a pack of Pappadams that did the job, I will have to forget about my share of chicken cutlets that his Mi sends.
This is your memory of a song. It’s midnight. You are on a highway that never seems to end. The feathers on the dreamcatcher car pendant fly lightly but turbulently. The grey clouds on the pitch black, starless sky curl together when you duck a little and look up. The blinking yellow-orange lights play hide-and-seek at every curve of the road. A drop of rain makes a surprise visit. You turn on the radio and amidst the static, the acoustic guitar plinks. Rhythmically, the raindrops fall on the car window. A song like a blanket. This song is a warm embrace that radiates love and compassion. It lets you bask by the bonfire of retied bond.
Un nenjile baaram, unakaagave naanum sumai thaangiyaai thaanguven (Your heart is heavy with burdens, I am here to carry those burdens for you)
The song plays. The droplets on the car window pregnate into bulbs and dribble down making thin, vanishing yellow-orange streaks like they are tired of enduring for a long time. They were all trust-falls. You breathe heavily into the glass window and the glass fogs. Before it vanishes, with your fingertip bent a little on the back and squeaking against the glass, you write our initials with a heart in the middle. You smile at it despite its impermanence. You are on your way home after an exhausting trip and I am so sure that you are going home because sleep caresses your eyelashes and dances on your eyelids. The road will end at your doorstep and the rain will subside. The thought of crawling under your musty quilt curves your lips upward.
Ini ellaam sugame (From now on, it’s only happiness)
Here’s a wonderful cover version of the song by one of the most loved singers in recent times: https://youtu.be/mkj9odTTO48
You see a bottle green tube light pitched on the side of the road and you know what exactly it is. You stop for a glass of chai. Raindrops trickle through the tiny gaps in the thatched roof. The steam from the glass tumbler rises, swirls along with the song and disappears into the dim light which tethers buzzing winged termites with an invisible thread. This song tastes like the first sip of chai on a pristine, rain-washed night. The smell of plain, normal, unextraordinary chai tickles your nostrils as you hold the tumbler on the rim, close to your lips. This song ends just how a glass of chai does – making you want more. Your heart wants to hear words of comfort till you completely believe them. That is exactly what this song does. It swabs your doubts away like the car wiper swooshing against the front windshield till the rain tires. The song fades into the sombre and the silence that follows is balmy and gives you a pleasant company for the rest of the road.
I revisited an old playlist of mine today and it was the best, tightest, warmest hug I could give myself. AJ was the first one to gift me a jar of songs. She made an effort to write a list of songs for every mood I would have when she flies to Mumbai. When we did not have 4G unlimited internet and could not send song links in seconds, this jar saved me. I downloaded these songs along with the ones I watch on 9XM everyday and had a little playlist for myself. All these songs were mine. Everything that happened in my world, was connected to one of these songs. Today, I exhausted my internet and Spotify didn’t work, thank Ambani. I did not have much to do and I had to listen to songs that I had downloaded on my phone a few years ago. I turned off the lights, plopped on my bed and scrolled through the songs. With the hype that I gave you in the first sentence of this, don’t think my playlist was a soft, slow, relaxing one. It has Main Tera Boyfriend, Yeh Jawani Teri, Hawa Hawa and Tune Mari Entryaan squeezed between Jag Ghoomeya, History, I Wanna Write You A Song and Issues. The mood that these songs come with, are very different. Some make me want to dance, when some make me whistle along. But, these are songs that make me feel like I’m home.
I string an incident with each song. Now, those memories come gushing out and take me back in time. I listened to Nallai Allai on repeat when I was in Kodaikanal. Listening to it now brings misty mountains in front of my eyes and the scent of dried eucalyptus leaves to my nostrils. That Vijaysethupathi song reminds me of the time AJ and I had the best sleep over, and how all of us danced on the terrace. I go back and listen to old songs because some things are too good to happen again. I can only relive memories through these songs. I listen to these songs because I can sing along effortlessly. It is like sitting on the floor of the dark attic or walking through dusty store room in my house, familiar and comforting. Sometimes, these songs are glued to memories I would rather forget. I stopped listening to some songs because they forced me to confront reality. Running away was an easier option. But, now coming back and listening to those songs, looking at that emotion in the eye and going past it, is much more relieving.
All of us have had different playlists growing up/ growing old. Sometimes, taking a pause and rewinding reminds us where we come from and what we are made of. V and I gift each other playlists too often. We have not met each other, but by sharing songs, we give pieces of ourselves to each other. I know her through her choice of songs. I know her through the lyrics she fell in love with. Making a playlist is an art, to her. And I could not agree more. Making a playlist for someone else is magic. Running out of songs to listen to, is a situation that I dread. I need to keep fuelling my playlist to run everyday. I gift songs to people when they feel like they are hitting rock bottom, hoping they would levitate, and I think, all of us need a bunch of songs and an old blanket with bobbles that we hold onto, to carry to our graves.
Baskets and bags hanging from the balconies on either sides of the road waiting to be pulleyed up once they are filled with milk packets and sometimes they are waiting to get rid of the garbage covers, welcome you to B street, Shanti Nagar. Here, one can often get confused by the electricity wires that resemble clothes line. Vegetable and fruit vendors walking up and down the street, pushing their carts and advertising by yelling the names of their product, is my morning alarm. Parking vehicles in this street without being shouted at by the reckless drivers in this area, is almost as difficult as tightrope walking. Constant honking is a ritual, here. This busy street is not left alone by the kids who love to throw plastic balls right at the balconies. The street takes a break from the chaos in the afternoons. It is the time of the day when kids stagger back to their houses from school like their energy had been sucked out of their bodies.
One’s evenings commence with kannada hymns played at the chapel, next street. Taking a walk across the streets in Shanti Nagar could be one of the best things to do in the evening if one loves dogs and enjoys petting them. The smell of sizzling chicken in the roadside eatery fills the air. Post-sunset, the street remains brightly lit, with its aligned, amber shaded street lights. Bikes speed past the street throughout the evening. The balconies are usually left open in the evenings, inviting the chill air of the city. At this hour, one can hear endless cooker whistles. Meal preparation for the next day is done at this dead of night. The road is abandoned by the vehicles, but not the still active kids of the street.
I complain about the leaky taps all day. On Sundays, the balcony has no access as washed clothes take over the whole place and the whole house smells of liquid detergent. I hate how the heater warms water so quickly. This means I have to get out of the bed soon. Coming back home from college and plopping on the cozy corner in the tiny living room, is the best feeling ever. I sit on this single bed to finish my assignments, have dinner and watch Netflix. One, because it is extremely comfortable to almost drown in a corner of the house. Two, because that is the only place we get internet. Mobile chargers, power banks and laptop charger have all made their home here. I get easily annoyed by the kids who incessantly throw plastic balls at my balcony during my nap time. They sing Despacito in gibberish and that makes me smile a bit. Moisture seeps through one of the walls and turns into an abstract art, pigeons knock on the glass windows, taps squeak every time they are opened and shut, cooker whistles freak me out in the middle of the night. There were so many reasons to hate this place. Things were imperfect. But, it is home, after all. And I miss it more than anything else.
This is the story of a girl. A little girl who wanted to gather and store stories in a tote bag. Or, it is the story of stories. You decide. The girl had a butterfly net, binoculars, magnifying glass, brown bags and tie straps on her, always. On days when the sun shone the brightest, on days when it was not so bright and on days when it rained, she would catch stories of smiles. Stories of piping hot tea, buttery cookies and a wrinkled face which always had flour in the creases. They were stories of an old woman, her Gran who had unwritten and untold stories in a small tinted jar. Gran owned a little café in the town. The smell of boiling milk filled the tiny room, all day. Gran’s frothy tea and cookies were the talk of the town. It is surprising how she had new guests everyday, and some old faces returned once in a while to visit her. They would hold her hands to express their gratitude, and leave. The little girl, being her curious self, tried to catch these stories, so that she could fill her tote bag and they will all be hers.
She sneaked into Gran’s café kitchen one evening and hid. Gran pulled her hair in a bun and started boiling milk in a huge barrel, to make tea for all her guests. What the little girl then saw, surprised and confused her at the same time. Gran climbed on a short stool to reach for the jar of stories and opened it. Glittery particles filled the air when Gran stuck a spoon into the jar and shovelled a little of what was inside. She then stirred it into the milk that was bubbling and ready to accept the other ingredients. When Gran took the tea cups and cookies to serve, the little girl followed her quietly. The guests Gran had today were a young couple who were quarrelling over something, an old man who sat in a corner, an old woman who sat in the middle of the room reading a book and a group of bikers. Gran, with a smile, served the tea, while the little girl waited in one side of the room with her butterfly net to catch these stories.
Suddenly, there was a heavy thump on a table. It was from the one the couple were sitting. Leaving the girl alone, the boy walked away without turning back. The girl continued to sip her tea casually. This was when the old man noticed the woman reading a book that he had written years ago. The man staggered to her table and started a conversation. They seemed to have a really good time, bonding over writing. Meanwhile, the bikers had begun planning the next trip, in spite of today being the last day of the previous one. The little girl caught as much as she could and ran back to the kitchen. Now, when she spilt it on the slab, all she could think of, was Gran. She thought of how Gran added stories to everyone’s lives and made beginnings out of endings. She thought of how the stories from the same jar had different effects on different people. She thought of how Gran, instead of keeping her stories to herself, gave it out generously. Now she knew why Gran was happy almost always. The little girl quickly pulled the stool, climbed on it and looked at the jar. It was half empty. Her shoulders fell in disappointment. But, she quickly remembered. She emptied all the stories in the tote bag, into the jar. They were all her stories. But, not anymore. This feeling was much better and the tote bag felt lighter. From then on, the stories that she collected went straight into Gran’s jar, who had no clue about how this was happening, but was just grateful.
We all have a love-hate relationship with words and at some point of time you would have thrown a pen across the room in frustration. Words, to me, is like the pair of spectacles that I stuff under my pillow and wake up thinking that I lost it in the crowded bus, the previous day. Sometimes, my professor finds them for me with her writing prompts, sometimes characters from my favourite movies do. But, there are times when I have to wait all day, for them to make an appearance. Life would have been easier if storks dropped off a bunch of words that I am looking for, on my doorstep. Blankly staring at walls when I do not have anymore words in mind, has made Amma worriedly ask me if I am okay. Not once. Several times. Words are inconsiderate and harsh. But, they are also kind sometimes. They cannot make up their mind, or I cannot wrap my head around it. I genuinely don’t know. “Um, what is.. what’s that I want to say? How should I say it? Uh okay, never mind”, I say in my brain almost every time I open Notes on my phone to make a blog post.
Deleting a whole paragraph letter by letter, the next morning just because it sounds a lot more stupid than it did last night, is extremely normal, yet hurtful. Being mad at words that sounded poetic last night, but are goofing around in the morning, is something that fellow aspiring writers would relate to, on a different level. I also hate how I have to open Notes a hundred times in a day only to write something that makes no sense because my brain needs a couple of knocks to detangle words. I have been mad at words that decide to untangle themselves when I am all tucked under the comforts of my musty blanket and my eyes involuntarily drooping. What’s with words and nights? They secretly have something going on. But, somehow third-wheeling in their romance does not make me feel miserable. In fact, I enjoy this whole chemistry in silence. What makes me furious, is the next morning hangover when I feel like I remember nothing about the previous night, but also remember everything. Despite all this, there have also been days where words piled in front of me in the dullest afternoons and waited for me. I am thankful for days of both kinds, for, one teaches me how precious words are and the other gives them to me in my cupped hands and watches how I handle them.
The clouds swallowing the sun slowly, reminds me of sipping from a glass filled with red wine. I should just be honest and say that sunsets also intoxicate me a little. The sigh of relief when the sun completely goes down is similar to the one I heave when a singer finishes a song getting the right notes. Who called the sunset ‘an end’? My fellow sunset-watchers would completely disagree with that statement. It is a process in itself, and many of us fail to notice it. Sometimes, sunsets remind me of the melancholic violin and sometimes I am reminded of the tinkling piano. It amazes me how everyday we look up at a different sky and we never get to see the same sunset again. I tear up a little thinking about the stars far far away that bestow upon me a new sky everyday. Goodbyes have always been hard for me. By that, I mean montages of me being short of breath and forcing a smile amidst all the pressure I put on my lungs. I did not know what kind of goodbyes could leave a smile on my face, instill hope, be comforting and warm until I started watching sunsets. Sunsets give me the strength to hang in there. It brings me closer to people and whispers that I am not alone. The birds that fly back home reassure me that there is always a place where I can come running back to, if I mess up.
It is weird how I trust the promises made during a sunset a bit more than necessary. It is also magical how the disappointment and pain of the breaking of promises made during sunsets, heal faster. There is so much romance between sunsets and music that makes me jealous. Is the music enhancing the beauty of a sunset, or is it vice versa? I wish I knew. From grooving to Masakali on the terrace to sitting in a pool of tears listening to Oru Dheivam Thandha Poove, a setting sun has been the best spectator and the warmest embrace. The latter, quite literally. Watching a sunset is easier on my eyes, than watching a sunrise. The mellow glow and the slow down is what my heart needs everyday. The sunset is also an evidence that every person is similar to the 12PM sun that lowers its tones with the passing of time. I fear recreating sunsets on a canvas. Somehow, I cannot forgive myself if I mess up trying to recreate something as beautiful as a sunset. A smear of crimson, a spray of orange or lumps of purple and pinks – sunsets taught me that imperfect perfections exist. I only wish I had a palette to mix this oxymoron in the correct ratio to give life to my canvas.
I don’t know if she knew it, but the day I met her, I felt that we were going to be best friends and drive people crazy. Was it because we had similar stories? Maybe. I admire her for the strength and beauty she is. Once she finishes crying, she smiles. She even laughs a little, but, always had her face covered with her left hand. I do like her perfectly shaped, long nails and the crown tattoo on her middle finger. But I badly want to see that beautiful smile that she chooses to treasure behind her palm. My slightly swollen pair of eyes are enough for her to understand that I had cried over something, the previous night. Mascara and eyeliner cover-up business does not work with her.
We have spoken to each other about our insecurities and have been amused of how similar the two of us were. She has told me stories that have not been unveiled to anyone else. I have seen the side of her that a lot of people have not and, so has she. Every morning she shows up with a smile that is as beautiful and bright as a sunflower. She later tells stories of the previous day, and I always wonder what gave her the energy to be this positive. Sometimes she sleeps in class and sometimes she creates her mandala masterpiece on a lipstick-stained tissue paper during the lecture. She even giggles at memes when the professor is teaching Indian Constitution. She also says that this is not where she belongs. But, I think that this exactly is, because she has a hundred stories to tell, and they are all worth listening to. We have spent a whole hour discussing about school life, and she came up with the most hilarious and embarrassing content that I could relate to. She does not hesitate to tell the world who she really is. She is unapologetic, and that makes her even more beautiful.
She knows that one Samosa and a big blob of the slimy ketchup from Arrupe Canteen would solve half the problems in my life. Also, now that we have found an Idly Kada for breakfast, she exactly knows that the two extra vadais would make me stop talking about things and people who are no more significant in my life. We connect through food. With her, I can eat fryums soaked in noodle soup and chilli vinegar with fried rice without being judged. She says she ‘likes’ to eat with a fork, just because I would use the spoon. She makes sure that the first spoon of Parppu Buwwa from her tiffin box goes into my mouth. She never forgets to stuff my favourite chips in my already full mouth. She always put others before herself. She feeds me everyday as I yap away, she is brutally honest when I come to her with teary eyes, she says that I have all the answers to my questions and I am just not ready to take it, she tells me I look pretty even if I turn up like I’m homeless, she asks me about my day and makes sure I am okay. And that’s why she is my mom in college.
She could sit in front of canvases for hours together. Paint drips from the brush and crawls down her elbow. Her coffee mugs are all stained with the colours of the rainbow, for she loves the feel of some bitter caffeine on her tongue as she creates smudges and shades on the canvas. The mirror always had the privilege to see her colour smeared face, before she washed it away. That was her. A piece of art, herself.
The Little Journal 