TO YOU, FROM ME

To the girl who smiles a shy smile every time she finds herself in her favourite novel, in an article about people who love too much, in a poem some great artist wrote centuries back for his beloved. To the girl who has been broken, hurt, wounded but still believes in true love, who watches sunsets and imagines herself taking a long walk on the beach with the man of her dreams. To the girl who is tired of explaining to everyone that wanting love is not a sign of weakness.

To the girl who doesn’t put make up but defends her sisters who do, to her who will give you her hair tie even if she has only one. To the girl who wants to work, who wants to win, but when she does, she first hugs everyone who didn’t, and then everyone who told her she couldn’t win. To the girl who doesn’t pester you for good night or good morning texts but if you like to receive them, she has an abundance of love to send through texts, calls and prayers.

To the girl who knows she is hated by many but forgives anyway, who knows she isn’t perfect but tries anyway. To her, who will keep loving you if you don’t want her but only from a distance, and when you call her three months later in the middle of the night telling her you miss someone, she won’t even ask who that someone is. To the girl who heals with her words. She will talk to you, and make you laugh, she will remind you of happy times and fairy lands till you are overcome with sleep. To her, who stays up after the call wondering who that someone was.

To the girl who knows there is no space for her in the world but is bent on making one. To her, who won’t push you to the side but will gladly step back if you love her. To her who wants her space in hearts more than on land and has enough laughter and kindness to spread in the air. To the girl who works at nights because she knows she can’t be afraid of darkness. To her who sets on to colour each cloud at night, one stroke at a time- white, yellow, pink, blue, so when you wake up you look up at the rainbow and smile. To the girl who lives for smiles.

To the girl who knows the right thing but doesn’t spend time explaining it to everyone. To her who gives everyone time to know, understand and come back to her. To you, who never shun anyone away, even when they’re not sorry. To you who say sorry not because you’re wrong but because you want to make space in your head for brighter things.

Much has been said about you and to you. I’m sure people have tried to assure and reassure you about how perfect you are in your imperfections, how it’s okay to not be so perfect. They have hugged you and repeated to you time and again that they love you for who you are, even if you’re not what they want. Your skin has been caressed, your nerves have been touched, your lips have been kissed. I hope your heart has been hugged too. If it isn’t, here’s your hug. 

I’m sorry I’m bad at consolations. I’m sorry I can’t wipe your tears and tell you you’ll be okay. But you know what, I don’t need to. I’m not here to apologize. I am here to thank you. I’m here to thank you for all the sparkle you carry in your eyes. Every time I look at you in a busy metro train going to work, I smile a little brighter. Thank you for painting my days yellow when they start with grey. I want to thank you for all the kindness you carry on your lips and let fall, petals from a rose who might be hurting inside but only leaves love and a loving red. Thank you for all the devotion you carry in your fragile hands, never once shaking when you hold someone up. I know how tightly you cross your fingers before important announcements. Thank you for never letting common people like us down. I hope every time you cross your fingers, you win. I hope every time you hold someone’s hand, you never have to leave. Thank you for all the abundance you carry in your heart. An abundance of energy you store in one chamber for the kids you meet on streets and ask to recite mathematical tables before you kiss their cheek. An abundance of joy you store in chamber number two for your grandparents and give to them when you see the longing in their eyes, waiting for you to return from office and sit with them to give them office gossip about people they will never know. I know how you have to take a deep sigh and check if you’re smiling wide enough before you enter your frail grandma’s room. Thank you for your joy, it makes her day a little better. Writing error: it is the only thing that makes her day. Thank you for an abundance of wisdom in chamber number three that comes out when you see your parents acting like kids. I know it’s too much to handle two middle aged kids with no sense of timing or place to fight, but I’m so glad they have you, as I’m sure they’re glad too. Thank you for an abundance of hope in chamber number four for every one you have never met but wish good luck from behind the blue curtain of social media. I hope your hope never empties, I hope all the brightness for you. Thank you for carrying a spring in your feet. Every time I look at you from my balcony, I go back inside renewed with energy and optimism. Thank you for making my evenings shine long after the sun has set.

To the girl who loves too deeply and lives too less, to the girl who dreams too much and sleeps too less, to the girl who writes too much and expresses too less, I am no one to tell you whether you’re perfect or imperfect or perfect with just a little imperfection. I am no one to tell you whether you should change or stay the same or go crazy. But the good news is, I am not here to pass judgments on you. I know you don’t like judging people. I am here to thank you for your existence and to wish for you all the sparkle, all the kindness, all the joy, all the love and all the life.

Thank you, you. 

THE TIME I FOUND MY SELF RESPECT ON THE FLOOR

In class 9^th, we were once told to pack our bags and shift to another classroom because of some electricity problem or something going on in the school. When we reached that classroom, I saw from the corner of my eye my best friend sitting on a bench and an empty bench beside her. I would like to believe she was saving it for me but she never called out my name. Before I could go and ask her, another friend of ours came and sat on that seat. Since my then BFF didn’t oppose, I assumed she wasn’t saving it for me and got pissed. In a few minutes, everyone settled down except me and two other girls because I realized there were no empty seats anymore. Unfortunately, that room had fewer numbers of benches.  The two other girls ran to a neighbouring classroom and brought chairs for themselves and I followed suit. Just as I was dragging a chair out of that room, my class teacher appeared at the door and enquired what I was doing. When I told her, she got angry and told me to sit on the floor if there is nowhere for me to sit. I did not understand why she said so. I liked that teacher. She was a bit strict, bit rude, but quite headstrong.  I always thought she was one teacher who stood up for the right things and at the right time, but that day I couldn’t understand why she punished me for no fault at all. I was a shy, introvert and under-confident teenager, you know the ones who know the right answers but won’t raise their hands in fear of being wrong?  I was that. You know why I couldn’t ask my friend if she was saving the seat for me? Because I never believed anyone would do it. I wanted people to love me, but was scared of it. Am I making sense?

Nothing made sense that day when I sat on the floor and hugged my school bag to prevent myself from crying. No friend of mine offered to scoot and let me sit with them and I just struggled to remember what had I done that had upset the teacher, was she angry for some other reason? Should I have asked why she humiliated me like that? It might not sound like such a big thing to you, but for a fourteen year old girl with no self respect, confidence, or voice to stand up for herself, it was a deeply insulting incident that stayed with me.

Half an hour later, our science teacher entered the class. This teacher did not like me, she had never done. Unlike my class teacher whose action had surprised me, I wasn’t shocked at all when the first thing this teacher did was to give me a condescending look and smirk. She did not even consider me worthy enough to ask me why I was sitting there. She whispered and asked some other classmates and although there was no reason for it, she gave a satisfied smile on learning the reason. I had never been anything but polite to her and she had never been anything but haughty. I could have been angry, I could have abused her at least in my head. But if I had any sensible voice inside my head back then, I wouldn’t even have accepted that undeserved punishment in the first place.

You know how some incidents affect us only indirectly? They get stored somewhere at the back of our heads play with our emotions. I simply assumed that ‘I don’t deserve’ was the only reason I sat on the floor that day.  I always scored above average, took part in activities and did all that an obedient student was supposed to do, but never could stand up for myself. Never could argue with a teacher or question anything. I didn’t deserve to.

I am pursuing my Masters degree now. Yes, I have become more confident, extrovert and fun, but have I forgotten that incident? No. I can still hear the voice of my class teacher, can visualise the smirk of my haughty science teacher and see the confused but unsympathetic faces of my friends. But yes, over the years I have learned to speak.

At the university, when one of the experienced and popular professors has a lecture, our class usually has more students than the infrastructure allows. So much that we resort to sitting on the window sills, standing at the back of the class, and sitting on the floor. When I entered class today, it was already full. I was almost going to sit on the window sill when a friend said she was going to sit on the floor at the back of the class and I said ‘okay, I’ll join you’. I was used to sitting on the window sill or standing, but when I realized we two were the only people today to sit on the floor, it brought back eight year old memories of a scared, teary eyed girl who felt inferior and rejected and who, I realized today, still lived inside me.

Someone tapped me on the shoulder from behind and said ‘Hey, there could be some space in that row if you request that girl to scoot and let you sit with her. You don’t need to sit on the floor.’ She pointed to someone at the front and although I was overwhelmed with her kindness, I was also overwhelmed with a sudden confidence and self respect. I might have sounded arrogant, but I’d rather sound arrogant to others than worthless to myself. So I smiled at her and said ‘Ah! Everyone saw us sitting on the floor. They could have offered if they wanted to. I’d rather sit here than ask everyone around. Don’t worry!’ After a few minutes, someone actually scooted and offered me to sit with them, and I accepted.

I had worked as a teacher with an NGO last year and do not miss out any chance of telling people about it. Before we had begun our classes, we were told never to enter a class upset. Students usually reflect the teacher’s mood and we should be nothing but energetic and optimistic. We were also told never to belittle a student, his emotions, ambitions or complaints. If we do that, the child only loses the confidence to further confess anything to us and we do not want to do that to any child at such a tender age. I’m glad I learned to leave my own problems outside the classroom and that because of me, no child will take eight years to realize that if it isn’t his fault, he should not be the one crying himself to sleep. 

THERE'S NOTHING HERE TO FIX

Hey you, yes I’m talking to you- you, who stays up nights checking everyone’s Instagram stories and wondering why aren’t you as beautiful at 21 as that girl at 18. Dear you, who has been a part of only one college society and sink a little deeper in bed every time you see people’s never ending resume served to you on their Facebook profile. You, who look at girls wearing high boots in winters and wish your feet didn’t ache so much in boots so you could flaunt your ‘winter fashion’ too,

 Dear you, you’re perfect.

You are perfect with that pimple right in the centre of your cheek. You are perfect with your not so perfect make up skills and attempts at hiding that pimple. Your eye liner is not winged as sharp, but who ever said you need a perfectly winged eye liner to fly on those wings? I know you think you’re too skinny/ too fat/ too short but you know what else you are? You’re you. You’re the girl hidden in the doodles in your to-do list, you’re the laughter echoing in your room on a Wednesday afternoon re-watching your favourite film because you just didn’t feel like getting out of the bed today. You’re the tears in your mother’s eyes every time she watches an emotional mother-child scene and thanks God for giving her-you.

Your poetry writing skills may not be as good as everyone else around you, but you are not everyone else either.  You’re the metaphors in your incomplete poem crumpled between the folds of your favourite novel that you refuse to lend to even your best friend. You’re not the words you write, you’re the feelings that escape everyone’s understanding, and you know why you should not worry about it? Because its not their job. Its not their job to understand you, and you’re too full of colours for anyone to make an extra effort to carefully unravel each layer of your rainbow hued skin to reach your soul. But you, you are already there. You have seen your soul, haven’t you? Yeah, it’s a little too emotional at times- crying for a robot in star wars, smiling at that kid selling balloons on the road and wondering if he ever played with them too, your soul is a little too innocent-trusting every smile and smiling at everyone- everyone who says the word ‘forever’ in your ear, who whispers ‘love’ in your dreams that you half remember on waking up. Your soul is a little too forgiving- and forgetting. you love too much and then you forgive, so you keep loving them over and over again even when they have long forgotten you. You forget, but only the wrongs done to you. You forget the nights you hated yourself for not being who they want you to be, you forget the nights you did not want to be living in this body. You forget, and then you keep doing it-over and over again. Your soul is a little too remembering too, at times,  never able to wash away the black paint from those fifteen years old memories of that one night you played with your uncle’s toy. Your soul is a little too tired, of explaining to everyone why you stopped believing in true love, why you stopped believing in yourself, why you stopped believing in life, why you stopped believing that you deserved to live too.

But why? Why did you stop believing that you deserve to live too? Not as they define for you, not as they dictate you while chaining you and safely locking you inside the fort of their expectations. Stop turning and making it easy for them to chain you.  Stretch your arms and tell them you’re not a plastic doll. Take a deep breath and exhale so loud that they have to bow down to your existence.

You know your soul. You know yourself. Then why do you listen to them? Hey you, you don’t need me to tell you you’re perfect just the way you are. You know that well enough. You just need to remind your soul not to forget it. Not to forget itself.  Oh come on, you know what I’m talking about.

You’re imperfect, of course. I’ll believe if you say that. Everyone will believe if you tell them- isn’t that how we always teach others to look at us? By showing them exactly how we look at ourselves. Take a good look at yourself, you. Take a good look at your body and your colorful soul. And tell them (If they don’t listen, scream in their ears) to look somewhere else. There’s nothing here to fix.

STARS, SUNRISE, AND SLEEP

 I tried waking up early in the mornings. I tried so, because they told me to.

Now see, I am a night owl. I love the silence of the night. I love how when I look up at the sky at night, its mine. Everything’s mine. I know that whatever I do or say or write or paint, no one will know about it. Everyone’s asleep and I can finally find the solitude to listen to my own voice. There are no responsibilities texting me on WhatsApp, no social duties knocking my door for a customary greeting. I like writing at night because I don’t have to hide what I am writing with so much interest. I like reading at night because I don’t have to answer anyone about why did I just close my book and start crying suddenly. I don’t have to ask for anyone’s acceptance of who I am, and yet know that all my loved ones are near me. I have the security of knowing that in the next room sleep my parents who if need be, will be by my side in a jiffy. But everyone, every Quora answer and every ‘this is what 5 most successful people do early in the morning’ article, and every friend preparing for UPSC and every Aunt interested in my daily routine and even my parents told me how its unhealthy for me to stay up at night and sleep at odd hours.  “Imagine how beautiful the sunrise looks!” My mom once said, trying to make me look at yet another perk of waking up early, others being Surya namaskar and chattering birds and fresh mind and fresh air and for a second I thought ‘wow! That’s a lot! I wonder if there are different qualities of air for people who wake up at six and those who sleep at six. “I see the sunrise everyday Mom. I stay up and I see the twilight turning into a dark blue-pink-aqua blue-orange plus reddish blue- light filled sky. It’s a wonderful sight. Stars are visible in the late hours of the night and then you can see them gradually disappearing to make way for the Sun and then when you feel too emotional or too quiet, you feel like your work here is done, you can finally go to sleep.” I tried to explain to her that my love for sunrises was obviously deeper than she gave me credit for. She shook her head and replied “You have a weird sense of colours.” before going away. But now that everyone was so concerned about my health and well being, I really felt like I was missing out on something. Like I could only be productive if I started my day at 5 in the morning. The world has very strong convincing powers. Even if you’re content and happy within your own little self, it sure knows how to fuck your brain up.

The first time I decided to wake up at 5 in the morning, I went to bed at 10 and lay awake in bed till 12, finally gave up, opened my Laptop and watched Chandler and Monica fight over the secret closet. The one time I was tired of the day’s activities, I decided to put it to my use and organized for myself the perfect calming environment that guy in the youtube video had told about. A little reading in bed, no heavy meal, dark room and an alarm clock far away from the bed. At 4.40 precisely the next morning, I remember throwing a cushion on the alarm clock in an attempt to silence it. Then rang my phone, I had prepared well last night, I thought to myself, put the phone on silent and slept a dreamless sleep. It would have been fine if I weren’t affected so much. The more I failed at waking up in the morning, the more I started thinking that I was really failing at gaining an important experience. I felt like there was something really important out there that the world could experience and I couldn’t so there was obviously something wrong with me. So one day when I was finally able to drag my stubborn ass out of the bed in time and went to the balcony, I was sleepy obviously but also impatiently waiting to experience joy, elation and the so much sought after calmness. The sky was still dark and I couldn’t enjoy the stars today because all I wanted to do was to see the Sun and get it done with. I wasn’t feeling fresh, all my excitement had drained out knowing that only in an hour two, everyone will be up and there’ll be no me-time anymore. I couldn’t think about the birds for I was busy thinking about all the things I was supposed to do during the day. I was groggy, irritated and impatient. The Sun finally rose, a few moments of beauty but nothing that I hadn’t seen before.  Only now I was experiencing it with sleepy eyes and a body aching to go back to bed. As obvious, I couldn’t start my day after that and went back to sleep after paying my greetings to the Sun God.

But after that day, I decided I am not going to wake up early. I am not going to push myself for things that don’t make me happy at the end, in the name of ‘pushing my limits’. I am going to listen to everyone, but most importantly to the voice inside me. And I am not going to quieten that voice or let it get scared by the world’s screams. I am going to decide for myself what I find beautiful and calming, and not let anyone define it for me. I may be imperfect or less productive than the early risers, but I am happy. Sure, I could have practised and made my body accustomed to waking up early, but why? Because you said it? 

MY IRRITATING TENANTS

My mother and I were discussing the pigeons in our balcony today. We have better topics to discuss, but you cannot ignore the pigeons in Delhi. They’re everywhere. And I like to believe that most of them love my balcony. They shit there, on my clean clothes pinned outside for drying under the sun, they speak/sing/shout there and I feel like strangling them. They sometimes also come inside my room which is right beside the balcony, and sit on the fan and my bookshelf. If it’s not clear yet, let me tell you that I hate them. They’re annoying, irritating and not worth writing about.  But sometimes, I tend to find them interesting. These times, when I have nothing to do and stand in my balcony for hours, I stare at them instead of the sky or the road below. Now two of these pigeons, Mr. and Mrs. Feathers as I like to call them,did some family planning and coincided their mating dates with our holiday dates. So last month when my family returned home after a long weekend away, we were surprised (shocked and annoyed and irritated) to find that Mrs. Feathers was now a mother to twins. These two eggs were laid near a plant because apparently it was a cozy place and since there was no one to clean the place for four days, it was ample time for the Feathers family to plan their future and execute their plans. I tried to convince my parents to throw the eggs away but they won’t let me. They’re kind humans and all that. So now that our rent free tenants weren’t going anywhere for at least a month, I tried to befriend them. As a good neighbour, I would visit them in the evenings and get to know the family. Mr. Feathers, I gathered, is a dedicated architect. He has an impressive knowledge of different kinds of materials used in making a nest and definitely knows where to find them. Every other day, he would try to impress my maid with an abundance of dried leaves and thin tree branches spread in the balcony. My house help, a mother of two however, was not interested. She cleaned the mess and cursed the pigeons for increasing her work, in her native language. Mrs. Feathers on the other hand is dutiful housewife. She loves her two kids and doesn’t leave their side except in the evenings, when she goes for a gossip stroll with her friends. The Feather family though a little annoying, was a simple and happy family. In time, the eggs hatched and came out the twin Feathers kids, and it is now that my real bonding with the family, and real learning started.  I saw the kids grow up and observed that in order to spend more time with the kids, Mrs. Feathers had started to sacrifice her daily flying-stroll. Mr. Feathers started returning home from work in the afternoons and enjoyed the daily meal of water and snacks(that my father kept for them) with the family. Their little shoe box house, courtesy my younger brother was now a home with two loving parents and two babies dearly loved. I however, still not interested in helping them, just grew more and more impatient. Why were the kids not flying? Oh, they’re too young. Now? Still young. When will they fly?

I asked my mom the same question today as we observed the kids walking around in their verandah. “They can fly now.” My mother declared, in her motherly I-know-because-I-am-a-mother tone.

“No they can’t. They just walk around” I argued.

“They can fly now, they’ve grown up and their wings will support them if they take a flight.” She turned to me then, smiled and said “They just haven’t realized it yet.”  I was instantly taken back to a few months ago when I had graduated, was giving entrance exams for my masters degree and was scared out of my wits. The exams were difficult, the selection process more difficult. So one day when I was extremely nervous, my mother held my shoulders, looked me into the eye and said “You can do whatever you want to. You can walk this path. You have the capability, you just haven’t realised it yet. But you know what the good news is? It doesn’t matter whether you realize it or not, you just have to put one step in front of the other and keep going on without quitting.” Six months into my Masters now, I believed when she said the same about the Feathers kids. I wondered if Mrs. Feathers too had the same confidence in her kids.

After a few hours, I heard some commotion in the balcony and rolled my eyes. The Mister must have brought more stuff to build their nest. Why couldn’t they just be happy with the shoe-house? I went out and much to my delight, the noise was their wings flapping and the elder couple kissing each other before they flew away. I looked back at their house, and the kids weren’t there. All four of them waved me from a nearby tree later as they started flying in circles above my building. My tenants had finally left their temporary house for their endless one.

Hmm.

 I’m not in love with them or anything but I don’t mind when they sometimes come and enjoy the delicacies my father keeps for them on the handrail.

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TO LET: A Shoe Box, spacious and solid, overlooking a wide verandah. Meals provided, cleanliness taken care of. If you know any other Feathers Family looking for an accommodation, contact below.