Ms Chatterjee

Walking in the narrow corridor, I carried my books to the locker. It was just 5 minutes past 8 in the morning and Ms Chatterjee would have started the lecture. I was late and anxious, as is usual of me. I entered and to my surprise she let me in. She did have a soft corner for me, I'm sure. As I sat I realised she was reading out my exam sheet to the students for reference. "I would have given it a full grade only if it had not been for the grammatical errors", said she. It meant a lot to me, and I know she guessed it. She saw inside me, the real me, my capabilities. She told me to work hard and come back to the college and join her as her colleague in the future. She had expectations from me. She saw something in me, she knew I was capable. But am I? Yes, I am. 

Gradually as I grow up, coming out of my shield of nervousness and low-confidence, I know I am worth it. It takes hell lot of guts and forcing yourself beyond the limit to come out of that constant rottenness of criticism you have been facing since you were a child. It is hard to come out of it, trust me. But I guess I made it through. Nevertheless, I shake like a bird flying against a gust, when told to do something impromptu, like addressing a room full of audience, be it an ignorant audience.
But do I live upto her expectations? Sometimes I wish she was my mother, I would have been not so scared, not so anxious, not so messed up.

But let's face it...

Alter Ego

I can't figure how it differentiates us, the quality that makes you less miserable than her. Everyone has fond memories of their childhood. She does too. But to grow up into adulthood, and move away from those memories, she can't grow out of it. She can't figure out how others can.

Still stuck in the dusk of that breezy day, playing in the grass barefoot. She doesn't live in her childhood home anymore but her alter ego still lives there, not in the same home perhaps, but in the back lane with the skating court, or in the tree they used to climb and party on near the huge iron gate that would always stay closed. Or maybe in the 'first park' as they used to fondly call it. Or maybe in the pathway adjoining another building lined with pomegranate and bougainvillea trees.

I try to figure out what's wrong with my alter ego, who is too heavy on me these past few months. Why is she mourning a loss? Perhaps she knows that I won't make it through.

I don't need anyone to rescue me, I just need them to divert me. They say, when you get the first sign of anxiety-DIVERT your mind. I just need diversion. But I'll never be rescued. Because my feet are fixed too firmly in my nostalgia.

Adulthood is nothing but the ending. I want to know the quality, and perhaps try to imbibe it in myself, to see adulthood as a new beginning. Maybe I didn't turn out how I was supposed too. Why? Did you turn out to be how you always thought you would? Didn't you scar or burn or fade a little?

I'm sure you did. How did you get out of it? What is the quality that helped you?

Persistence

When you choose a path of social work, which gives your life meaning, and you are abused everyday for doing so, it slowly starts to deteriorate you.

You may try to give up the path, but that won't let you sleep at night, so instead you decide to let it kill you slowly day by day, not the path, but the haters who abuse you regularly-WITHOUT FAIL, you let them kill you.

'Them' might not be so mighty if they were not your blood, but when they are, know that God has planned this as the biggest joke of your life.

When you can't burst out, you burst in and collapse.

Battling against the Self

One's efforts to make one's life better,
like Sisyphus',
ever unrelenting.

Carrying up the boulders like innocent Sins,
Repentance in habit of self-loathing.
One is brought up this way, inefficient.

Anger, guilt, shame, ugliness,
One's food for thought.

The Self is a separate entity,
an arch enemy,
Crawls like the serpent,
disrupting the Head.

One's efforts seek Hercules,
to salvage the Prometheus
of one's Self.

Kubla Khan

   It was a blast heavier than a dubstep’s bass, bashed through my being. The whole room jumped up in fright and finally woke me up. My heart thumped so hard until anxiety filled me up. I looked around, from a satisfied-with-life space I had to hit back to reality- the reality of a refugee camp.

   The blast had spilled blood around, the red of it mixed in orangish yellow-what a beautiful color to paint. Orangish yellow? Oh yes, the hue of the flames. Everything was on fire, our tents were made of cloth, remember? That is how refugee camps are, fragile and easy to destroy, just like our hopes.

I was in complete white, my clothes, my skin, the color of my camp, my sheet, my spirit. White is not peace, sometimes it reflects the lack of color, lack of life.

   I woke up and of thought of Kubla Khan, ‘In Xanadu did Kubla Khan./ A stately pleasure-dome decree’. Where was our Kubla Khan? Where is our Kubla Khan? 

Green Eyes

Green eyes, no, not green eyes. That was some creepy liquid inside that tube that they hit in my eye with an injection. Boom! Right into it. Didn’t even take a second. And I shivered like a hunted fish as the current ran through my body. I saw a white pigeon fly by the serene white clouds. White doesn’t always represent death. It’s all colors, together, like we were until I was diagnosed.

Dark smoke rising through, following the hippie trail, Kathmandu- Base Camp. That’s when I saw that spirit of a person I knew since many infinites before, at least that’s what I thought. You just know it, don’t you, when you see somebody like that?

Head tripping in slow motion as Coldplay plays the classic Yellow. And damn you are back to that sick green shot into your eye, trying to clear out the vibe of the person giving you that shot. And you just die, you don’t even need them to kill you when you see it was the same spirit of a person you thought you knew infinites ago. How sad!

To J

This is what you are called in my device. But don't words fall short for it?
Thank you for being with me in my worst and my best without any bias and impatience. I was always the priority when necessary for me. I never felt ignored and the only person to have made me feel beautiful about myself is you.
It's true that the prime reason I am with you is your cultural food :p nevertheless, the second reason is not the least, it being that I have unconsciously ingrained in myself your benevolent socially responsible qualities. I was never much bothered about doing the right thing as long as it didn't benefit me personally. The idea of truth and justice is what I've learnt from you. From you I've learnt a kindness that knows no bounds, a forgiveness which is granted too easily for good and an honesty which is not very typical of the human race today.
You made my dream of petting a lovely animal come true.
I've been selfish and mean to you a lot many times when I should have avoided it but you never returned the same.
I think you are a God sent to me so that I can have faith in what is  good and humble.
Thank you for being in my life.