We hum a tune,

It’s not pitch perfect,

We croak, cry,

Screech, scream,

Laugh and love

At our flaws; innumerable,

Blemishes and scars,

Stretch marks and freckles,

Crooked teeth and double chin,

No abs; only flab,

For only love we deserve, nothing more.

Bruised and betrayed,

Our love; the balm to heal,

We grow a garden of acceptance,

We sow the seeds of hope,

Together, we walk on the path of thorns,

Together, we worry,

Together we are warriors.

Dark days, gloomy nights,

All pass with you by my side,

There are days we quibble and quarrel,

Our faults gain spotlight,

Wrath and angst; a hurricane we create,

Tears trickle; a deluge we design,

Silence follows; calm after the storm,

Yet thoughts create a puzzling conundrum,

Building the cacophony in our minds,

We doubt, we conceal.

But the roots of acceptance grows,

The river of patience flows,

Inseparable are we,

Our bond is made of steel,

How can I be separated from I?

This poem is about love,

Of self; a treasure trove,

For we search for love in places,

Except from within.

A memory,

The one that smells like hot chocolate and books,

Like a mirage in a parched desert,

Like a dewdrop on a wilted petal,

Like pulpy grapes; sweet and sour,

Catching fireflies, tracing constellations,

Imaginary space wars, with wooden weapons,

Drenched in joy, smelling the rejuvenating rain,

Trekking in the lofty mountains,

Stung by bees,

Chasing butterflies,

Sniffing bird droppings on my shoulders,

Chirping crickets; a live concert,

Berries painted on my tongue,

Threw stones on the lake,

Ripples; whose was bigger?

Brawls, love and laughter,

Now, a fallow heart,

Yearning for a rewind,

A pause,

On loop; infinite.

3.07.1978. I turned fourteen that year. I imagined myself flying in the cotton candy skies, amidst the clouds floating. That year was the same year I wrote an obituary for my dreams in my diary; my heart shattered into millions of pieces, microscopic in size and they could never be glued together. I was imprisoned. But I committed no crime. Or maybe my birth was one. Before I could flap my wings, they were clipped.

I was draped in the grand red *lehenga, decked up in golden jewellery and my hands were red, with gleaming red glass bangles and *alta. The significance of Alta is that it resembles blood, which is symbolic of fertility and prosperity. I wore a big red *bindi on my forehead to hide my worries. Those red chokers choked my neck. I could feel my throat, losing its voice; no matter how much I scream, it reached the void. My eyes were red with tears, the hall was adorned with red carpets and decorations. I was the talk of the town for that day as I received the accolade every girl of my age would receive: the sacred knot. The sacred knot which tied me into knots that I was unable to come out from. I wore my garland of red flowers, sprinkled with tears and made it look fresher to hide the dead petals of my heart. The holy mantras were chanted, the ritual fire was lit, the knot was tied, the drums were beating, the trumpets of joy were blowing, tears of joy were wept among families and we became the match made in heaven. He applied *sindoor on my forehead, red again. He was twenty four and he worked in a construction site, carrying bricks over his head. My eyes looked at my legs, red with alta as it is disrespectful for your eyes to shine in confidence. Women have to be the servile daughter, wife, daughter-in-law and mother. I remember my mother’s words as I left home:”Sacrifice. Marriage is all about sacrifices. We, women have to make many.” It was that day I lost joy, freedom, dreams and most importantly, me.

I looked up to see the sky I wished to own to see the leaky roof. I sat on the cold and dusty floor, pressing my in-laws’ feet; the very feet which kicked me. I swept floors, mopped them, cooked food in the *chulha, got whacked by my husband and in-laws and do I sleep? My pillows are drenched with tears, my dreams became nightmares, my body cried in pain and agony as it counted every slap. With every slap, my dignity slipped, gradually I forgot what it meant. My husband smelt of alcohol, showered “praises” devoid of love and care and used me to satisfy his insatiable lust. Yet I couldn’t raise my voice against this noise; my silence crumbled me.

I was fifteen, 1979- I bore my next burden; a baby. I knew I wasn’t ready, but nobody asks for your consent. My in-laws demanded for a son, the bread winner, the champion of the human race. A daughter is a curse so is the one who bears her. 1980: she was born. I gave her a name. *Asha. It meant hope. I made up my mind to sacrifice once again for her to live her dreams. I didn’t want her to be me. I wanted her to fly and see skies and not leaking roofs. I wished to set her free from the cages of stereotype. Finally I had life beyond those four walls of hell. But having a dream is a crime. Killing it is the norm. Again, I land in the place of shattered hopes and dreams. Again, my body was devoid of life.

They killed Asha; what’s the purpose of existence? She was seen as a curse. But she was my light. She became one among the many daughters whose statistics decorate the newspaper. Female infanticide. I lost a chance to learn about it in school. Now life taught me. I wanted to see Asha, carry her in my arms, protect her and give her wings to fly. But I knew this world would crush Asha and how can there be happiness and light if Asha is crumbled? I had a dream once again.

Now I stood with my hands red again, not with alta but blood. I remembered the red bangles gleaming as tears were streaming. This time blood dripped from the kitchen knife, which chopped onions and tomatoes for my family. I stabbed them with the same. I watched them scream in pain and it brought joy to a venegeful heart, craving for pain to those who slaughtered Asha. My heart was dancing in delight but that satisfaction lasted a few minutes.

Soon, the epiphany hit. The world moulded a soft cotton heart into iron. No, I don’t have a heart. I lost it. I cried in dismay. Asha is gone. I thought I destroyed the demons. But no. There are many more ghouls in this world, and many more Ashas in their clutches. Death seemed less painful than bearing the burden of the curse. I wiped my tears for the last time. I popped in 1,2,3,4,5 and slowly closed my eyes, praying to meet Asha in a place where we can fly. 

*Lehenga- a full ankle-length skirt worn by Indian women, usually on formal or ceremonial occasions.

*Alta- a bright red dye or liquid color used to adorn palms and feet in simple patterns.

*Bindi- a coloured dot worn on the center of the forehead.

*Sindoor- a traditional vermilion red or orange-red colored cosmetic powder worn by married women along the part of their hair.

*Chulha- a small earthen or brick stove.

*Asha- is used symbolically suggest her longing for hope and light.

Born in 2019, COVID-19 demolished the dreams of millions. Cremation grounds were strewn with corpses, livelihoods crushed, economies crashed, families bereaved. Finally, the dawn broke; a vaccine- the ray of hope, COVID-19 passed away, doctors hailed, people prevailed (a daily prayer we recite today). A lesson learnt- Booming economies or starving ones; fight battles; not with each other, but together.

I felt a comfortable amount of sunshine, peeping through those cream flavoured curtains, fall on my face. My eyes flickered, my pupils ached.

I felt a sharp pain inside my head as I pulled the sheets over to sleep for a few more minutes. But my eyes refused to close. I found an uncomfortable unfamiliarity with this room. I hadn’t seen those curtains, the wallpaper, the shelves or the cupboard sitting in my room. I woke up to the strong smell of a burrito, some hot coffee and fresh polvorone cookies. The room had a unique style which resembled a Mexican motel; vibrantly painted with sky blue, the pine wood furniture, and I noticed the breath taking talavera pottery, creating a shadow on the mosaic tiles. I was sure of either of these:

1) I was in Mexico or 2) I was in a Mexican’s house. The second one seemed more likely than the first one. I wondered how I got in here. Maybe the last night’s booze. I hardly remembered what had happened last night. Perhaps a tough day from work took me to the bar and a lot of shots of some weird drink with a cute guy. His name was Casper or Kane or Kallis. But all of those seemed a less important, I desperately needed to go out of this place. My head throbbed in pain, my palms sweating and my breath smelling like tequila. I paced towards the door to exit, and spread the sweat onto the knob. It wouldn’t open. Kidnapped, maybe. If he was asking for money, well I just had savings for my next travel and nothing more. I strolled back to the bed sitting at my wit’s end. I grabbed my phone and the location was: Mexico. Time: 9:00 AM. Weather: 25 degrees Celsius. Sigh. I felt my sweat blend with the tears of frustration. I wanted to leave. I wanted to work. It felt like my wings had been chopped and I was trapped in a prison. My stomach did somersaults and rumbled and all I could think of is to satiate my hunger. I salivated at the mini breakfast on the desk. I gobbled the burrito, gulped the coffee and munched the polvorone cookies. I examined the items lying on the desk: a few medicines, which looked like antidepressants and a torn photo of a woman. She had big blue eyes, gorgeous brown hair flowing like a brook and freckles which were aimlessly sprinkled all over her face. Her radiant face was wheatish, her cheeks blushed and her smile could attract millions. She was very beautiful. She was my kidnapper.

The door opened, the photo emerged alive; older. Her radiant face turned dull, her eyes which sparkled, seemed to carry her pain and her face lost the smile and instead drew a worried expression. Her skin was no longer glowing, her face wrinkled, and her silvery brown hair was tied into a messy bun.

She let out a sigh and said, “You found out.” I had no idea what I had found out.

“I..” trying to give an explanation for what I had been doing.

“Don’t. Just listen.” she said with assertion. Her eyes stopped me from moving, freezing me to the bed. She just wanted me to listen and I was willing to. I was perhaps spellbound or hypnotized by those ocean eyes. I had no clue. At that moment, I felt like I had no choice but to listen.

“I was not like this; heartless. This is not my profession. I was not this poor, I would have served you a feast, if I had at least one tenth of my previous wealth.”

I continued to listen to her story with rapt attention, wondering what sort of story it would be. “Tragedy”, my brain read.

“History books would have our ancestors’ names printed all over. The Waters*, from Oceana*. Haven’t you heard about them?”

“Yes, I have. A noble family; they usually take care of the administration of towns. They were affluent and had a reputation of being benevolent. Well it’s rare to find even a quasi-Water these days.”

She gave a smile. It looked like she did it after centuries of grief and it reminded me of hope. She took a cigarette from her pocket and lit it. She smoked a little and removed it from her mouth.

“We lived in the banks of river Thyle* in the town of Capsi*. My father, Harris Water had three younger brothers: Marcus, Maxwell and Jonathan. My mother, Viola had two daughters: Isabelle, my younger sister and I, Lily. We were all one family; a happy one. My aunts, my uncles and us. We lived together. My grandfather owned many acres of land, orchards and a huge bungalow. When he passed away, the lands and the bungalow were owned by my dad, as he was the most generous and responsible and my uncles got the orchards. Initially, they were envious and were fuming with wrath. But my father was too magnanimous to allow his brothers inside his property and bury the hatchet. Soon he delegated responsibilities to each one of them to handle the property. Maxwell was given the cornfields, Marcus was given the responsibility of the town hospital and Jonathan got the dairy farm. My dad was the overall head and constructed residential apartments for the town people. My aunts and my mother owned a restaurant in the town, which sold the most sumptuous food. Together, as a family, our business flourished. My childhood was a paradise; I reminisce those days even today. Belle, Rosa, Jack and I were a gang and I was like a gang leader.” She laughed a little; an obvious tear trickled. I was still listening to the most intriguing family drama plot, as she went on.

“The sun rose, and we were out playing in Uncle Max’s corn fields. We ran like mad children till our bones would break, we climbed the tallest trees, the highest walls and did the quirkiest pranks. We once threw cow shit on Miss Melody’s face, you know.” Again the same pained laugh. I smiled, a little to make it not awkward.

“We used to lick the fruits of our orchards instead of stealing because we were frightened of our uncles. But we stole Miss Miranda’s precious golden mangoes not only to taste the juicy pulp but to see her chagrined face, as she would storm into our bungalow and yell with her squeaky high pitched voice. When we went to the dairy farm, we fed the cows there, especially Matt. He was a cute little calf who was loved by all. He often fell ill, but we stood by his side all the time. He loved us too. He would moo in glee every time he saw us and we would laugh at how funny his moo was. We went to school, but we ceased to touch the books. We used to mutter about why we need to add numbers, why we need to know when the Battle of Waterloo took place and so on. They say right, nothing is permanent? Well, so was our happiness. Our life was more than perfect, more than comfortable, more than the best. But the wind decided to change the course of its direction. There was a quarrel, I don’t remember for what, maybe a property issue. This led to a series of quarrels and suddenly my dad was the ‘outcast’. My uncles glared at us, my aunts stopped talking to us, and even my cousins. Sooner than I could imagine, my father was charged for treason and was banished. We were flabbergasted: my mom, my sister and I. Surely my crafty uncles were behind this ploy. They were such materialistic, deceitful bitches. My dad always worked for the community good. He did so much for the people and they always showered their love. My dad couldn’t bear such an accusation against him, he was suffocated, choked and was unable to breathe after this. His heart wept, my mom wept and Isabelle and I still didn’t understand what was happening. Naive Belle asked, “When will we go back?”. There was no going back. My father passed away due to cardiac arrest. We moved to my mother’s old house in Mexico. It felt like these events happened in a few seconds and it left us traumatized. The wounds would never heal, we knew it. My mom worked as a waitress in a cafe in Mexico. My sister and I went to some school, tried to learn Spanish. Nothing worked anymore. Alcohol, cigarettes, drugs were part of the daily ritual of my pity-party. I loved my dad. I loved my life back in Capsi. Maybe the perfect ones are always chosen. My life felt empty and bare, my mom gambled. A lot happened in Mexico: I got pregnant and my mom committed suicide. She was broke and only her insurance could pay the loans. I stopped school and I worked as a care taker. My sister was intelligent, she pursued her career in business management. She really wanted to start her own enterprise. I was stupid back then to just sign a few papers, which gave her the ownership to one last property of my mom. She never wanted to sell that; her whole childhood lived in that property. She was willing to give her life instead of that property to pay back the debts. But my Belle sold that property to start her business. She was no longer, my Belle. She was a different Isabelle, an egotistical one, who cared the least for me and my child. She’s probably earning billions in California or New York City, and I’m here mourning the loss of my daughter, Blake. She was my only purpose to live. My sister killed her. She didn’t want anyone to pick up a fight with her in the name of property. Was she my father’s daughter? Never. She was my uncles’ niece. Mexico, was a city which has only drowned me in trauma. Have you seen a worn out sweater? Have you seen how all those yarns separate? Have wondered why they separate? Because they have been used, a million number of times. I gave warmth, love and affection but I was used, just like my dad. All he did was love and look at what happened to him. My Blake, she didn’t even have a chance to call me ‘mom’ and what happened to her? Will she come back?”

She wept miserably, her voice turning weak, her hands were shaking as she took my hands and pleaded, “Blake, please give me another chance. I have no sister, no mother, no father and no family. I want only you. Please come back, dear.” She wailed, my heart felt numb. I could suddenly feel my heart heavy, the whole room heated up, my eyes burning and tears couldn’t stop. All of a sudden, I felt her hand intertwined with mine, her eyelids shut, her head on my lap, as she lay unconscious.

*****************************************

The setting swiftly shifted to the hospital, Lily in the emergency ward and I stood facing the door in front. I felt beads of sweat, neatly arranged in the lines of my hairless palms; my veins carried fear and anxiety all over my body.

An hour later, my hand pushed back her silvery brown hair and my palms caressed her wrinkled face. Her face was still exhausted without food, I saw her breathing heavily. She slowly opened her eyelids.

“When I was 13 years old, my parents died in a plane crash. I felt abandoned, lonely. I could never have those happy family pictures, all of which my friends had. I did not lose my parents, but I lost me. The happy me.” I said.

She took my hand, drops of tears created patterns in the crisscross of wrinkles.

“Blake, dear, you are not alone. Take me home. The obnoxious fragrance of these hospitals make me nauseous.”

*************************************

We sat in the sofa, listening to the Spanish songs together, soothing our minds. My mind slowly shifted to the scenes in the hospital, which happened a few days back.

********************************************

I felt a hand, trying to pull my arm. Frightened, I turned to see a middle-aged nurse, with a really concerned look.

“I need to tell you a truth. Follow me to the file room.”

The next minute, I was surrounded by a thousand files, neatly stacked in teak wood shelves. She scanned through the files for the year 2001, and she came out with one. The file contained a report of Nurse Maria, which read:

ANGEL HOSPITALS, MEXICO.

Patient name: Mrs. Amanda Ross

Nurse: Ms. Maria Rodriguez

Two years back, a patient named, Amanda Ross, came to this hospital for Border Personality Disorder (BDP), accompanied with compulsive lying. People with this mental illness, feel depressed and anxious, suffer from panic attacks and also lie frequently without no absolute reason. Usually their stories would contain intricate details and would portray them as victims or they claim to be affluent. Her daughter, Blake Ross, passed away due to some unknown illness, the experience traumatized her and from then, she has been suffering from this psychological disorder. Her husband, a wealthy businessman, tried all different treatments to cure her illness. He reached a saturation point; he could neither bear the pain or her beautifully fabricated tales. Frustrated, he left her in our home for mentally ill patients. I was her nurse in-charge and tried my best to help her. Every day, she called herself as Miley, Jane, Mary, Nancy. I was tired of hearing her fantasies but I continued to provide her the best care possible. But in all her stories, Blake was her daughter, she loved. One day, she ran away from our care and we couldn’t trace her. Six months after this incident, I was transferred to the main hospital, after a 3-month suspension.

“Two years have passed, and I was shocked to see Amanda again. I wasn’t surprised when I heard that the patient’s name is Lily. She’s still the same. Anyways, how are you related to her?” she asked.

I was numb. Wrong. I felt betrayal, anger. Wrong. The fiery emotions were put off by the winds of sympathy. My hands shivered, unable to accept facts and suddenly my clouded brain couldn’t distinguish between fact and fable. I mustered the courage, I cleared my throat to mask my shaky voice.

“Blake didn’t die. I’m Blake Ross.”

************************************

I sipped some wine, as I read her Lorca’s poems, her favourite. She continued to fabricate, and I continued to be enchanted. She loved my mesmerized look, as she narrated her Mexican fables; that’s what I would call it.

“I’m Julie”, she said yesterday.

“I’m Charlotte.”, she said today.

Perhaps her name will be Victoria tomorrow. But that didn’t matter. Empty, bare and broken hearts have begun to heal, to bloom. People say, ‘Search in the places you have lost.’ I lost my family in my teens; I had given up the search for another family. People asked me to see family in others; you can find one. These words always annoyed me; I abhorred the hopeless optimists, who poured sympathy all over me and always gave false hope. Nothing could replace a family; no money or no person. The years of happiness shared as a family will never exit, but will always exist. All these thoughts kept ringing inside my head, ‘I’m not a poor little girl, who needs help.’ All these years living alone, trying to make myself comfortable, I realized that I have failed miserably. Yes, I was a poor little thing. Yes, I need to search for a family. Yes, I made a terrible mistake. Yes, I should have listened to others. I often engulfed myself in these futile pity parties, and all I wanted was to find the lost. I could never imagine to find the lost again, I never could have guessed that a compulsive liar would be my source of happiness and warmth. I realized that no treatments, pills or drugs could cure her, but only a Blake could. She would cook the most delicious feast when I come back home from work, caressed my wounds; one by one and she loved her Blake. It was astonishing to see such a kind of love amidst the cacophony of battle cries. She was more than a compulsive liar or a mentally ill patient. She was family.

*Note that the places and names are fictional.

Yesterday, I had bruises.

Today, still hurt.

Forever? No, they’ll heal and I’ll learn.

World is drowning,

In an ocean of vices,

Deceit, anger,

Envy, chicanery,

Manipulation, betrayal,

Where all good that blooms,

Latent; only darkness prevails,

All good that blooms,

Lies broken in a gloomy corner,

Goodness; in every era wins over the evil,

While now the tables are turned,

A game where the good succumbs,

A game where the evil conquers,

Selfish desires over abnegation,

War over white flags,

Wrath over love,

Arrogance over humility,

All the love which tried to sprout,

Killed by weeds of hatred,

The rotten apples are chosen,

The good ones are thrown,

Rotten apples are golden,

Good ones are fungal,

We are taught to be smart,

Not by reading,

But by learning to manipulate,

We are taught easy ways,

Short routes, quicker lanes,

Earning money is the way,

Not earning love,

Rich becomes richer,

Poor persists to perish,

It has all become the game of money,

Money has replaced heart,

Materialism at the zenith,

Humanity under shackles,

Shattered was the dream,

Of a utopian world,

Where love was ubiquitous,

Copious and meaningful,

Chicanery; the way to go,

Lying; a habit to learn,

Manipulation; technique to success,

All these replaced,

Diligence and grit,

As ingredients to success,

As we live in such a world,

Where being good is a problem,

Being rotten is the solution,

Where we are coerced to lie; a thousand,

Where we are asked to be,

Selfish and greedy,

Or else we can't survive it seems,

Where we are taught,

The way of life; deceit,

Where money gains primacy,

Over humanity and happiness,

Where we become used to,

All the injustice,

Which is force fed to us,

Yes we are gulping it in agony,

We live in a world of anxiety,

Where the good wilts,

Too fragile to digest,

The fact that what rots,

Is not rotten,

And what blooms,

Is not beauty,

Reading stories of,

The good winning over the evil,

Celebrating their victories,

In festive spirit,

But all have lost meaning,

In this new world,

With new norms,

The new order,

The world's new desire,

For me to change,

From an innocent soul,

To a monstrous beast,

From having simple desires,

To having materialistic ones,

From being magnanimous,

To being pusilaninmous,

From believing in peace,

To believing that everything,

Could be achieved,

With wrath and war,

From being a naive kid,

To being a master of manipulation,

From honesty,

To sugar coating,

From kindness,

To insolence,

From humility,

To hubris,

From dharma,

To deceit,

From a fragile heart,

Wait, you should not have a heart,

Yes the rule book says so,

Follow it,

With all your heart.

If today is your night sky, wait for the dawn, as a tomorrow is born.

- tomorrow is better and bright