Disgraces ¿

Today, A, G and I were talking about families. A and I agreed with each other on a spiritual level about the comfort of being the disgrace of the family. I have never got to be one and there is so much pressure in not being one. Women are somehow trained to not be a disgrace and it is very intentional. The three of us were dreaming about a world of disgraces. That earth will probably rotate from east to west in a clockwise direction. Or it would just bounce around because catastrophe is comfort. It would be a world where love is freer, where people fall deeply in love, get their heart broken but have the strength to fall in love. Again and again. With everyone. It would be a world where there are no small loves and big loves or small heartbreaks or big heartbreaks. All loves and all heartbreaks will be processed passionately in all their depths. It would be a world where she would love him and also him, where he would love her but also be suffering a heartbreak.

The biggest taboo in this dystopia is love, unfortunately. We are constantly trying to straighten love that is twisted, in all its glory. Why do we define love as if it is linear? This gives me answers to a question I’ve asked myself. Why do couples in old songs go dance in parks where either nobody is watching or everyone could be watching?

“Yamma, you with the basket of dry fish – move in front!”, the conductor of the bus yells in the middle of the song, but the lovers still do not snap out of their imagination of dancing in a park. En Kanmani Un Kadhali from the film Chittu Kuruvi, is one of my most favorite songs. It is also the song that made me wonder what the matter is with romance and parks. Romance, in this song, initially happens in the most ordinary place – a town bus. In a bus full of people, there is an invisible bubble around two people who are dreamily staring into each other’s eyes and teleporting their souls to waltz in a garden that probably smells like dry fish, mallipoo and sweat-infused Athar. Romance usually happens in a world where no one else exists. These worlds are usually parks and gardens – out in the open. What is this contradiction in making the private more and more public in order to be private?

Most of the song happens in the park, but the intensity of the romance remains in the bus. The bus is a very good brewery of sweat, but also love. Sitting in a jerky bus with a lover was a safe date option and also a calm one because you could casually sit and look into each others’ eyes until you reached your stop. Relationships and romance were very private issues back then and even now. Secretive indeed. Meeting your beau in public was a rare affair. Especially, for a woman to be seen with a man in public was considered a disgrace. Falling in love was unofficially frowned upon. So, most of the romance happened in private, through the eyes rather than the hands. Here, in this song, note even through the mouths. The bus was a space where people lived very passively, floated and swam in their own heads like Kaber Vasuki sings in one of his compositions David Foster Wallace. Sometimes, it is also the hatchery of nosy aunties involved in moral policing. So, while sitting in the most ordinary spaces like a bus, men and women imagine dancing in a park that is expansive and open. In their imagination, the space is vast and is capable of holding all their feelings in its nooks and corners. Pleasure of women has always been sidelined or even considered shameful. The empty park becomes a space for a woman to be more open and express their love fully. It is where the hands speak. Kisses happen behind a mere screen of two flowers, hugs happen out in the open. This empty park is one of the spaces in the world of disgraces – where love is shameless, out in the open.

In the world of disgraces, there is no compulsion to impress, behave or even do. In the world of disgraces, we swim. We love freely.

Oranges

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. 

If It Weren’t For The Pappadams

• 

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.

Hello, Writing. How have you been?

I write this with no aim. I never imagined I would google ‘Personal essay prompts’ ever in my life. I felt like a drug buyer in a black hoodie when I did that – a little guilty, very addicted to writing but also aggressive due to the inability to do it. Being rejected by words is the most depressing experience and is the highest level of insult. I am writing about not being able to write. I pity my pathetic self, that does not know to do anything else. I do not stare at the walls for hours anymore, looking for words. Even if I do, I believe I can now peer through the orange paint, cement and get to the bricks. But, words still will not come to me. V, in one of her letters reminded me about Renaissance artists who took years of gap while painting. Professor S asked me to paint or sketch and get inspired. She said it was okay to run out of words in the head. I really wanted to believe in what they said. Bongs put his fingers out, counted and told me six words. “Don’t be hard on yourself da”. I am trying.

As I type this, the ceaselessly blinking insertion point gives me more annoyance and anger than hope that I will be able to write. It keeps waiting for me, but is also exasperated by the time I take. It sighs and rolls its non-existent eyes at me. As graphic as it can get, the blinks of the insertion point are like a series of irritated foot tapping, with crossed arms and a grumpy look. I do not completely hate it, because it diligently sticks around even if I type paragraphs and then slowly backspace them like a sadist. I do not use notebooks and pens because they cannot erase some words prooflessly. It is at this point, when I am struggling to get words out on the screen, I realize I had taken the insertion point for granted. I think of the number of times I have worn it out by typing, re-typing, deleting. Now, can it hear my grind my teeth in stress? “Enough of the revenge”, I want to yell at this thin line at the end of the paragraph that keeps blinking and asking me to write more. What is it? A monster with unending hunger for words? A mesmeriser who lures me? Or a will-o-wisp that glides away as I get close to it?

On certain days, words are like a house cat. And on others, they are like the cat on the streets. Both never come to me at my convenience or hear me out, but I assumed I will be daubed with attention when I least expect it. They failed me this time. The cats have gotten comfortable with their siesta when the sun shines in all different shades of gold, and their deep slumber when the sky begins to darken. Now, they also entagle yarn as a hobby. They care least about the hours it takes me to detangle and wind them into balls. I have reached a point where I do not wind the yarn anymore. I let the cats play with them till they tire themselves, hoping for the day they come to me when I call them. But, this is more miraculous than tangled yarn winding themselves up into rolls and balls.

From A Jar of Songs To Spotify (And something in between)

The Jar of songs and words that AJ gifted me

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.

Apology to Myself and You.

Picture Credits: Janu

You,

I am sorry, you could not be in the front row for that dance in kindergarten. I am sorry, the back of your ear was examined to see if you would be fair or dark, when you were just born. I am sorry, you had extra coats of rouge to look fair enough on stage. I am sorry, “Vellai aa irukavan poi solla maataan” (he who has a fair complexion wouldn’t lie) was a light joke. I am sorry, you had to scrub green gram powder wildly onto your face only to develop a mild allergy. I am sorry, you always had to pick clothes in bright and pastel shades because you did not want to look darker. I am sorry, you had to watch advertisements that preached that the only way to success was fair complexion. I am sorry, you had to watch movies where dark skinned people were milkmen, rag pickers and goons when fair people were doctors and engineers. I am sorry, people persuaded you to eat fruits saying you would become fair. I am sorry, you almost stopped using bright pink lipstick. I am sorry, your weekends had to be with your gran who always tried homemade skin whitening packs on you. I am sorry, you were told that you would look good when you go to college only if you are fair. I am sorry, you had to listen to your grand aunt rant about not wanting to marry her son to someone with a dark complexion. I am sorry, the smell of Fair&Lovely makes you nauseous now. I am sorry, you added filters to every photo of yours, that you almost forgot what you really looked like. I am sorry, every Casting Call poster said that they wanted fair girls but boys, they did not really care.

I am sorry, everybody at home were disappointed with the tan that you came back with, after a long sports day bringing home medals and certificates. I am sorry, you always had to stand facing bright lights for every selfie. I am sorry, Pears soap had to make you squeaky clean and fair instantly, making your skin dry. I am sorry, Santoor moms were always annoyingly fair. I am so sorry, it took a Kajol , a Sushmita Sen and a Priyanka Chopra for everybody to accept that dusky skin is beautiful. I am sorry, you had to see Rajnikanth in Sivaji bathe in a tub of fairness cream just because Shriya did not appreciate the difference in their complexion. I am very sorry, you had to listen to and watch ‘Oru Koodai Sunlight’ (attached youtube link at the end of the post and I suggest that you watch it) which is still the most pointless song I have ever come across. I am sorry, you had doubts about yourself. I am sorry, you grew up thinking you were not enough. I am sorry, you had to go through this, in the first place.
But now, you know that you were not alone. I am proud of you for falling in love with who you are. I am proud of you for embracing everything about you, or even trying to.

Oru Koodai Sunlight: https://youtu.be/ESAXsMYMMa8

When the Lock Finally Clicks

What would it be like, when the doors finally open? Who would be your first hug? Would you save it for later, for the one who lives a flight away from you? What would it be like, when the lingering smell of alcohol fades from your palms? Would it be a relief to be finally inhaling without a hindering mask? Would it remind us how we had taken almost everything for granted? What would it be like, to her, to be on a local train again and carelessly let her hair fly in the wind? By this time, she would have grown it out, her wavy locks. What would it be like, to her, having her feet in the sea and regain the forgotten feeling of sand tickling her soles?

Would it be raining on the first day? Would everyone want to get drenched head to toe, or  complain about having to stay indoors one more day? What if it was sunny? Would they go out, or play a few more rounds of Ludo King with the ones sitting right across the room? Would the carrom board go for a slumber in the storage, or have a siesta under the bed and continue to make visits during the weekends? What would it be like, when Swiggy starts delivering regularly? Would the in-house MasterChef get a break? Or, would they continue to experiment with cocoa and pani puri? Who would your first drive be with? The ones who put up with your moods and messed up sleep cycle all these days or the ones you had not met in what seemed like ages?

Would the YouTube channels, art pages, podcasts and blogs that mushroomed during the lockdown still be active? Hope so, because we turned to them in our most difficult times and we will when the storm settles. Will you buy more sketch books and journals, or was it your one-time thing? Would households still whip up Dalgona Coffee, or agree that it was nothing more than just instagrammable? What would it be like, when no one really cares about each others’ productivity? Would you still update twice on Daylio just to make yourself feel better?

What would it be like, when four of us can squeeze ourselves into an auto? Would we have to wait in front of the trial room with a mount of clothes, or would we click away on Myntra? Would we pick date dresses for the girls, or suggest a Netflix party date? What would it be like, when the cinemas open again? How much of the sour cream seasoning will be in your popcorn tub? Would you still choose your laptop with Netflix subscription over missing iconic dialogues muffled by loud whistles? Would you want to skip ads or sing along with Vicco Vajratanti? What would it be like, when we have to go attend classes? Would we miss scrolling through our phones on the side? What if the doors open when you are half way through a book? What if they open when there are fifteen days left for your first mango pickle to be fermented? What if the doors stand ajar when your masterpiece just needs one last touch?

When the doors finally open, where would we all be? What would we all be? I wonder.

10, B Street

• 

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.

The Tinted Jar

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.

If Santa Brought Words

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.