Crafting

God had taken care of the wild, unruly
curly hair part but I wanted the whole package.
Thick-framed round glasses, a rhinestone glint on my nose, an eclectic bag full of scraps of old paper with inky words that smudged and leaked, poetry in thought and a
confident confusion in speech.
With a padded notebook, inky pen and a seat underneath the coziest tree on college green,
invincible, romantic, endearing.
An image of an intellectual species formulated by years of “non-mainstream” literature and the kind of Malayalam films people forward through
- the stereotypical bhuji.

Fenced, Locked and Trapped Outside.

It was supposed to be about going back and trying to understand this city again. But for some reason, everything seemed different and less… colorful. This city has become strange. All of a sudden, it’s full of boundaries and locks, and I am a trespasser in a stranger’s home.

But the thing about colors, I’ve learned, is that they come and go. And for every utterance of never and forever, the punishment comes with another stroke of gray. And as that paintbrush pushes you forward, your back bleeding against the rough canvas, maybe- just maybe- you’ll be the one adding that bit of color.

A is for Apathy, A begins Anger

I’ve written and rewritten these words in my head. I’ve crossed them out in deep black ink, pressed hard enough to make crafts out of lined paper. I’ve threaded it with sentiments and anger and anguish and sadness, and I’ve undone it, unhooked it, untangled every alphabet. And stared. Even then, I don’t think I’ve felt a word stronger than this one before. I’ve never before been this appalled at a single word’s passive curves- apathy.

While I understand that its antonym- empathy- is by no means easy to come by and can hardly be said to be handed out at street corners, I believe in a middle ground. In between the Pope during the Holocaust and Mother Teresa. And hey, my dear university, you bear a strange resemblance to that particular papacy.

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Said Without A Tear.

Eulogy: November 5, 2011
Because power’s in my blood. 

I never ever thought I’d have to be up here, in just my final rung as a teenager- having to be grown up, speaking adult thoughts from an adult head with a child’s heart in tow. But then again, this isn’t something that can be thought about or be prepared for. The sun still rises and sets, leaves continue to fall, the winds get stronger, daylight is saved tonight and the traffic on I-95 is probably just the same, and things.. keep going- in this circle. Nothing stops to let us catch our breath and decide who is what and when is meant to be right and when is meant to be wrong or how things would have been.

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Letters to Myself

To the newborn me:

Look at all these people hovering above you. The pointed shape of their crimson lips, their exclamations, the white of their teeth, their coarse fingers eager to touch you, to lift you up to the sky- watch it all and try to remember it. Revel in it but don’t believe it. These same lips will bent down in just a few months. These same hands will retreat away from you, in fear, in disgust, in pity, in sorrow, in disbelief, in sympathy. These same faces will change in disposition in response to your change in appearance. “What a beautiful girl,” they might claim but don’t forget, this too will change.

കാത്തുമ്മയുടെ ആട്

Click for Flickr by jeffjose

“നീ വല്ലതും കഴിച്ചോ?” എന്നത്തേയും പോലെ വേനല്‍ അവധിക്കു വീട്ടില്‍ വരുമ്പോഴുള്ള  അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ ഈ ചോദ്യത്തിനു തലയാട്ടികൊണ്ട് ലിവിംഗ് റൂമിലെ വെല്‍വെറ്റ് ദിവാനിലേക്ക് ഞാന്‍ ചാടികേറി. കുറച്ചു കാര്‍ട്ടൂണ്‍, പിന്നെ ഒരുറക്കം, പിന്നെ അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ വക വഴക്കും ഡിന്നറും- പതിവൊന്നും തെറ്റിക്കാന്‍ പാടില്ലല്ലോ.

“കാത്തു!!”

അന്ന് പക്ഷേ അമ്മച്ചിയുടെ വിളി ഒരല്പം നേരത്തെ ആയിരുന്നു, ടെക്ക്സ്റ്റര്‍  തുടങ്ങിയിട്ട് അധികം ആയിട്ട് പോലും ഇല്ല.. ശോ! ഈ അമ്മച്ചി.

“എന്തോ?” ഞാന്‍ ഉറക്കെ അലറി. “ആ” എന്ന് അലറിയാല്‍ അപ്പച്ചന്‍ വഴക്ക് പറയും. നല്ല കുട്ട്യോള്‍ “എന്തോ” എന്നാ വിളി കേള്‍ക്കുന്നേ എന്നാ അപ്പച്ചന്‍ പറയുന്നേ.. ആ, ഇനി ആദ്യത്തെ ദിവസം തന്നെ വഴക്ക് വേണ്ട – എന്തോ എങ്കില്‍ എന്തോ.

What Will Never Be

flickr by jitenshaman

If I were a boy, I wonder whether my dad would drink with me. I wonder whether he’d sit me down, and offer me a crystal glass with a bit of golden whiskey and jumping soda. When I grimace at its bitter taste, he’d tell me, “son, this is good for the heart. It’ll make you a stronger man.” And I’d stay with him on weekend summer nights with my feet on the kitchen counter, watching the blurry pirated Malayalam movie playing on a flat-screened TV, sipping and savoring the spicy chasers with circular onions on the side. When I drive with him sitting next to me, the smiling photo on my permit would wink.

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On Letting Go.

Her blue eyes intrigued me the most. I’d take my favorite crayon box next to her, and poke and prude those shiny blue’s until I found one that blended a bit. Unlike all the other dolls that I kept near my bed, she was kept on a shelf above my desk. My mom had bought her for me from Austria and had told me that she was very fragile. Her bright-blue eyes rested on a porcelain face with perfectly blended circles of painted rouge. Sparkling golden curls lay perfectly on her shoulders, a deep blue cloche hat framed her face and a long laced dress finished the picture. She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen and with her, my life began to change.

Speechless.

Words. Some days exist solely to prove that no matter what people say, words are never true substitutes for swords. Words fail me in those arguments I staunchly believe in but am unable to voice. Words fail me in those conversations in which I just want to keep talking and talking and talking, just because I don’t want to hear the other side speak. Words fail me at night when thought after thought forms in my head, but I am unable to pen them down on this empty white page that mocks my silent fingers.
Words. Some days, after a few faces smile and laud my way with them, I consider them my friends. Those days, I consider myself lucky. But they’re not the norm.
Because today, I failed. In silence, I failed. Holding my phone close to my ears, wincing at the voice on the other end. Wishing with all my might that I could say more. But no words. None at all.

Of the Song She Sings.

“Be as a bird perched on a frail branch that she feels bending beneath her, still she sings away all the same, knowing she has wings.” – Victor Hugo

“Why don’t these doves fly away?” I asked the boy in charge of the petting zoo. He almost burst out laughing.
“Well, the wings are clipped!”

The Other Kind of Christians

You know them- the ones who stand on the road and preach, who hand out pocket Bibles and scream about damnation, who used to scare my elementary school friends and accounted for the countless collections of orange-colored Psalms that non-Christian friends buried in my backpack.

Growing up in a traditional Malankara Orthodox Syrian household, I always saw them differently. They were.. well, the other kind.

In a Stranger’s Mind

fic·tion /ˈfɪkʃən/ –noun
1. the class of literature comprising works of imaginative narration, especially in prose form.
2. something feigned, invented, or imagined; a made-up story.
3. an imaginary thing or event, postulated for the purposes of argument or explanation.

Naseemah. The layers of kohl she applied this morning had gathered on either ends of her eyes, giving her the appearance of a warrior after his hardest battle. The ends of her straight black hair had found its way out of the tired bun she had made and hung instead out of every curve, prying open her breaking head. Her fringed bangs had, however, stayed in their place, adding the sole bit of order to her system. What had she done today? Her thoughts found her voice. Well, not much, the writer answers.. just buried a stranger.

The Weight on my Chest

Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.

—

“Excuse me? Can you.. help me? Is there a church near here? I am.. I am looking for a women’s shelter. I’m not crazy, I swear. I’m not a crazy woman. My name is Julienne. I’m not crazy… I just crawled out of a window this morning.. And I don’t know.. I’m not crazy.. I am just pregnant. I need to get to 30th street but I don’t have money for the taxi or the train.”
“Uhmm the church is..-”
“No no, I don’t want the church. I need money to get somewhere. I’m trying to run away from him.. I’m not crazy. Really really… I’m not.”
“There’s a church on your right side if you go out this road..”
“Is it open now?”
“I’m pretty sure…”
“Okay… thank you.. thank you..”
“.. good luck..”

Sleepless Nights.

The window is half-open. It’s one o’clock. Don’t these kids sleep? No, not here. This is the place where noons become midnights and evenings become mornings. Everyone wears timeless watches and clocks tick in beats of solid whispers, fading away into nothingness the second- sorry, the antisecond- they are made.

The figure in the window is huddled over the desk. The loose, dark hooded sweatshirt and shorts are unisexual. The figure is a student and that is all the definition It needs. SheHe doesn’t need an identity beyond the name of the university stamped on HisHer identity card. These buildings define. Imagine the people, they tell you, who walked through these same hallways. Can you imagine?
Oh God!
I trip again on the protruding edge of an old pavement stone. This is what I get for taking random walks in the middle of the night, staring at random windows and pretending to understand what someone else thinks.. I forget where I am going. hah! Double entendre.
Philosophy.

A Journey with No Destination

I quickly shut my eyes and took a deep breath. The open door of the bus allowed for two minutes of real fresh air as a woman slowly descended the fraying steps, her purple sari rising just enough to display her edemic ankles and puffy little feet. The conductor tugged on the rope and drew the door shut. I couldn’t help but lean forward and watch the woman waddle back into the darkness between the dusty-white buildings.

My sweaty hands were a constant irritation. One tightly clutched the iron bar above my head while the other was bound to a plastic shopping bag. I alternated hands, carefully wiping the sweat off onto my cream-colored churidar top. There were three layers of people squished behind me. I could smell the coconut oil from the hair of the lady closest to me. I shut my eyes and composed myself. I’ll make it through.

Overflowing Ears.

It’s suffocating. This noise. One thing after another. The noise seeps in and sticks around, slowly fiddling with every organ in my body. A scratch here, a pull there, a tear here, a block there. Is this what They meant by the real world? I think not. The Real World is yet to come. This is but a Practice; it’s not even time for the Dress Rehearsal. The motto around here is “Work hard, play hard.” Yea, yea the adjective in use has multiple connotations here too.

The work is deafening, the parties even more so. Nauseating. The few moments of silence are perhaps the loudest of all. Robots shouldn’t think. It hurts them too much.

To be a Girl.

 

All you need to do is learn how to fly.

A monologue. Partly true, partly fictional. I imagined myself performing it.. at a “feminist”s monologue night. But I don’t think I will. Few brown girls do. Sigh. No one has the guts. There’s something in our culture that forbids it. There’s something in our roots that makes us ignore our own flaws. Well, let me write it down anyway. Maybe one day, I’ll get the courage. Maybe, maybe not.

And the stage lights rise. A spotlight focuses on that figure in the middle..

I found out when I was four. My grandparents had argued a lot that day. After it was all over, Ammachi, my grandmother, was sitting in the kitchen muttering something. At first, I couldn’t make anything out. I was just sitting there and playing “teacher” with my teddy bears. But then, I began to recognize words- especially one of them.. rape.

I had learned the word a week before, when I was watching a Malayalam movie with that weird balding guy with the long hair.. I forgot his name. Well, he was hugging and pulling a girl on a bed and then blood started to come from her mouth and she was crying and then, she died. I asked my cousin what had happened and he said that she was raped. I thought it was like a gun. I knew a lot about guns. Dishoom!