I write…
I am unable to play with ‘em words… They used to listen to me, dance to my tunes? And now I struggle, and use ‘em ellipses even more than usual. Does that make a difference to me…? To you? Or to them? Ellipses… Three evenly spaced periods… It doesn’t even make sense. Full stops. One after the other. It’s as if someone changed their mind about ending the sentence… but then… isn’t that, in some weird effed up way, “kinda cool”? It is as if you went for a walk one fine morning (eeyuch) and instead of stopping at a particular point to turn around and come back home, you kept on walking. It always takes that first (out of line) step doesn’t it… and then… it’s easy. Just like now, I am typing away, you are reading, probably not caring. Your eyes lazily roam the page, contemplating clicking another link to another page or another post or another world and there… you did it. You clicked. You roll your eyes because the page is still stuck on my attempts at writing. Writing. It’s ridiculous how much I guard this term, this phrase, this way of being. I write. I want to write. I am a writer (died in school, but still). Writing for redemption. Writing for me. Etc… I have managed to convince myself of my ability to write, I am guessing, at a very subconscious level. It is not the Id, not the Super Ego, not anything. It’s a manifestation of a fact so close to my frail pre-teen existence that now, at the age of twenty four, without any proof of it, I manage to hold on to it. Tightly. Steadfastly. Believing. Hoping. Scribbling. But never really doing anything about it. Because of course I don’t have time. I don’t have time to take up something seriously, but I can watch five movies on a free day, and cook an elaborate meal for myself and make a ridiculously yummy cocktail (which I can replicate!) and clean the damn loo because I am a woman obsessed. I cannot take it seriously… I am sure I can… I cannot pursue it. Something so close to me, that I am terrified of failing at it. Something so important to me that my mother still narrates stories to me to put to paper one day. Something so ridiculously elusive that despite all the preparations I refuse to complete any of it. All I do is stock my house with books to read, stationery to write with, notepads to write in. Incomplete stories. Ellipses completing them? Carrying them forward in a parallel universe. Somewhere they will be retold. Completed. I write. From poetry that was never poignant to prose which became lyrical (to my ears). I write. How? Syntax needs attention. I don’t really care. It is quite evident. Vocabulary isn’t that great. Really? You understand me right? You hear me? Do they talk to you? Does it stifle you with syllables? What does it do to you? What happens when I play with ‘em words. I write. And I am unable to finish what I started. Now what do I do with a book full of crazies?
Sanyas… anyone?
One doctor says, “Don’t take stress. Don’t be sentimental, emotional or sensitive. And don’t be aggressive. Just enjoy life…”
I look at him, amused and a little stunned, thinking, does he not realise there won’t be much of me left if I am not any of those things?
Another doctor says, “I wish I had treated you from the beginning… please stop all these medications. You are putting on weight because of these. They don’t suit you!”
I look at her and think, FACK!
I look at her again and re-think, Oh! So that’s why! It’s not the sweet tooth or the JD! Yay!
They all ask me to not take stress. I am stumped.
They all ask me to join the gym. I am annoyed.
They all ask me to relax and enjoy life. I want to scream now.
The medicines make me drowsy and very sleepy. In my drugged state, I dream of a little cafe where I bake cookies and cakes… I read… I have a special Masala chai and Hot chocolate recipe. People come over and I feed them and they pay me. They sit around reading and playing the guitar… I smile. In another dream, I am mixing cocktails for random strangers, with the sand in my feet and the sea-breeze in my not-too-frizzy hair :)
Maybe. Maybe I should just quit and run away. To the hills or to a shack. Chilly beef or chocolate chunk cookies? Hot chocolate or Kiwi margaritas? Winters by the sea and Summers in the hills. SPF 30 baby! Here I come! (?)
Used to it.
Everyone is looking at you. Every single one of them. They don’t know your name. They don’t know where you are from. They don’t know. Would they like to? Is that why they stare incessantly? Stare at me. Stare at you.
Am I provocatively dressed? No. Am I covered up. Yes, from neck to toe. And should it even matter? Ideally? Should it? No. But here, I cannot crack a joke in a “public place” without attracting attention. They stare at my phone. They stare at my face. They look closely at my shoes, my jeans, my very ordinary cotton kurta, my nails, my hair, my hair clip. They look. As if memorising every detail. I am used to it by now. Aren’t I? Delhi woman. Used to it. So I ignore them and laugh at something you said. We laugh and they are straining their ears to listen in on your joke. You take my bag from me and their eyes follow your every move. Its disturbing.
Its disconcerting. I scowl, I frown and I look like I could bite their heads off. But they stare. They look at you. At me. At us. Out of the corner of their eye. Openly. Slyly. Lecherously. They look bored. They look interested. They look hungry. They look scared. But they all stare. Stare at your face. At your gait. At your shirt to catch a glimpse of cleavage? At the swell of your breasts. At your abdomen. At your crotch. They don’t stop staring.
Its a stare-a-thon. They even smile unabashed at times. Some look away. Some you need to stare at angrily. They stop. One stops looking and the second one continues. Then the third carries on the torch. It continues and you carry on walking. Tired of fighting unless someone says something or touches you. Even then some of you shut up. Shut up and walk on. Walk briskly. Walk fast. Enter some coffee shop and forget about them. Reach home and take a cold shower and get rid of it all. If only.
