Stories that demand to be told | #14
I find God in most things; The wind blowing through the trees, a downpour, an orange sunset, the crinkle in my friend’s eyes when they laugh loudly, a movie that make me cry...
This is the 14th edition of Stories that demand to be told, a curated spread of the most evocative, resonant, real stories. Welcome to Ochre Sky Stories, a home for writers from the Ochre Sky Workshops, facilitated by
and .1. Ashraf Ali Sayyed Hussain Is Not a Terrorist. The Cow Vigilantes Are by
My heart sank for a reason, my father was right. Despite the influence of the medication, he remembered being restrained. What hurt more though was the underlying terror the episode revealed – my father was terrified that he was being restrained because they suspected him, a Muslim man, of being a terrorist. He was about 80 when he died.
A recent video circulating on social media shows Ashraf Ali Sayyed Hussain, an elderly Muslim man being beaten up by a dozen men on a local train in Mumbai, under the suspicion of carrying beef.
2. The wisdom of mothers: From Saroj Devi, Neeraj Chopra’s mother, to Uma Mishra, bereaved mother of Aryan Mishra, why love is the resistance we need by
What does it mean to hear words that build bridges and seek to preserve and nurture rather than tear down relationships in a shrill age like ours? What does it take to push back against hyper-masculine politics that mainstreams hate and violence against minorities and others on the margins?
The grieving parents of Aryan Mishra should not be the only ones asking the obvious question, “Who gave the cow vigilantes the right to shoot anyone in the name of protecting cows?” Neeraj Chopra’s mother isn’t the only woman who knows how to express an inclusive love.
They have spoken their mind; their words have gone viral. The baton must pass on to the rest of the silent majority. Common people, who have honed resilience as an everyday skill, have shown us how to repair the fraying of our socio-political fabric. They know that community and mutual respect is all that matters in the long run. Love is the resistance we need.
3. Notes From Therapy by
Learning about the intergenerational nature of trauma has been eye-opening - this stuff is the ultimate domino effect. I understand now that perhaps the most coveted privilege on earth is being born into a lineage of reasonably well-adjusted humans with healthy attachment styles. And that the bravest, loneliest thing one can do is to be a black sheep.
Boundaries, Boundaries: Learning to say no without feeling like I've kicked a puppy has been my personal rite of passage. In therapy, we discover that boundaries are not acts of rejection but rather invitations to deeper connection. They are the framework within which intimacy can flourish. By clearly delineating where we end and others begin, we create the space necessary for authentic relating.
4. Home is the inheritance of stories by
I guess my exploration of the inheritance of stories is a seeking of all the Punjabiyat we left behind, and an honouring of all the Punjabiyat that’s always echoed in my family home. My Dad’s theth Punjabi that involuntarily slips from his tongue every time he wants to express an emotion. My massi’s book of Punjabi wedding sangeet that she hand wrote and promptly sent photocopies to the entire family. How the word family didn’t really exist in our vocabulary, for the longest time it was “tabbar” – a word that honours the large, raucous madness of being a Punjabi. My brother’s almost awe-inspiring way of having a jugaad for everything. My mother’s insistence that an auspicious day must start and end with kheer.
And me? People have always told me “You don’t seem Punjabi enough. Are you sure you are from this family?
5. Why Mumbai? by
You see, cities and towns are a combination of fact and fiction, image and imagination. I have lived three times in this city. Each time, I saw some of it and imagined some of it. My experience was a culmination of both. The real and the felt. The city in its age and time meeting me in my age and time. Each time can be considered a lifetime of sorts. Separate, yet continuous; one leading to the next.
With each age, the city has felt different to me. The city has shape-shifted to provide me with varying challenges and benefits. Yet, the reason why I always come back to it is neither the good nor the bad. It is just one fact - here, I am Parool. Just Parool. I don't have roots here. I don't have relatives here. The history I have with this city is mine and mine alone. And so the only baggage I carry is the one I have collected. I don't own anything here, except for the memories I made. The city fulfills my wild desire for the unexpected. You never know how your day will begin or end but begin and end it does and it leaves you with a story worth writing at the end of it.
6. something to believe in by
I find God in most things; The wind blowing through the trees, a downpour that provides my city with a much needed cool, an orange sunset, the crinkle in my friend’s eyes when they laugh loudly, the clatter of feet rushing to tell me something quickly, a movie that makes me cry, a generous man holding the lift open. Something holy, something special, exists in every one of us. An energy is there to be harnessed, it just depends how you look at it. I often wonder, for somebody who was raised without an image of God, I sure do see them in practically everything.
7. Letting Go by
My hair. My long hair. Letting that go. That piece of full-frontal vanity, unlike lacy lingerie, that seemed to take an increasing amount of keratinous care and cruel criticism! Even today, when I sit myself down in my stylist's chair, and she begins by taking hold of a bunch of my short hair to make it shorter, the joy. It's like someone freeing Sisyphus' hands from his rock. And I luxuriate in the sounds: the whisper-soft snips, the razor-hum on my neck, the blow-dryer's whoosh, and that thing she does to thin and shed and thin and shed, looking down at the now mostly white threads of a carpet I no longer want to tread.
8. The Education of Yuri by Anuradha Pati
Duckback raincoat, growing up it was a brand known for its durability and costing few times more than a plastic raincoat, and was something to aspire for. But with a raincoat, also came the rule to use it. So if you wanted to get drenched, it’s better to have something cheap, to avoid one more sentence in the line of scolding you got when you reached home, drenched to the bone “such an expensive raincoat and you did not even use it?” For a cheap raincoat, it was just “why did you not use the new raincoat?” Less guilt, you see.
Topaz blade, jingles from advertisements of those times, Vicco Vajradanti, there is a lot of nostalgic memorabilia.
9. Call me Cranky by
I’ve woken up cranky because of the conceptualisation. I’ve been waiting for an Indian show centred around women that hits the nail on the head. That’s memorable and not something I will forget that I saw a month from now. Four More Shots Please, Bombay Begums and many others are in that slew of shows that one watches over a weekend and immediately forgets. This one upset me more because this is our nth attempt at showing independent, liberal and free women and none of them seem to have been given enough of a personality. They are all caricaturised stereotypes. More time has been spent on developing the men on the show than the women.
10. A Disco Dancer by
this is my father
the life of the party
dancing under the moonbeams
of light and shadow
this is my father
neither young nor old
beads of sweat lining
his temple
eyes closed
11. Fire by
I burn incense sticks by the windowsill;
jasmine fumes, the full moon, fill up my room.
I close my eyes and imagine the hills,
lights of the fireflies cut through the gloom -
I saw her there, but I still struck a match.
I saw her there as I forgot to latch.
12. Curly Thoughts on Curly Hair by
For my curly hair, I was called junglee and tribal, as if it was a bad thing. In Marathi, the word for a girl with curly or unkempt hair was ‘jhipri’ which rhymes with the word for a bitch, ‘kutri’, and so I brushed my hair aggressively, the Marathi word for which is ‘vichrun kahadne’ which reminded me of the word for scorpion, ‘vinchu’ as it left my scalp stinging with my own torture.
I wanted to yank the curliness out of my hair by brushing, oiling, and scolding them every single day. By the time I discovered the concept of getting them ironed, it was the last day of school. I got my hair ironed for the school farewell. For the first time in 15 years of school, people looked at me and held my hand in surprise, and said, “we didn’t know you were pretty”
URDU se DOSTI, a beginner's workshop facilitated by Vimal Chitra
Urdu is a language of love, history, and poetry. Discover the jaadu of Urdu with poet, screenwriter and spoken word artist, Vimal Chitra in our 2 day workshop, Urdu Se Dosti
Discover the transformative power of personal writing with Natasha Badhwar
and Raju Tai at Ochre Sky Stories Memoir Workshop.
surprised to be here again! but more than elated :) feeling the love
Beautiful