Stories that demand to be told | #2
"My Dad’s moustache is my twin. Living a watchful life under the eyes of my father. A snip when it grows unwieldy. A caress when it wants one."
Why do we write personal stories? The rear view mirror of our lives needed to be wiped clean and angled just right. The primary witness must be heard.
This is the second 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, faciliated by
and1. Decoding rejections by
I stopped refreshing my inbox for updates from editors. Instead, I enrolled in workshops, joined book clubs and writing communities, volunteered with refugee families, showed them how to use the Tube, tried to make them feel at home while I suspect, in reality I was trying to learn from them how to plant roots in a foreign land that is less than welcoming. I taught their children to converse in English, took the little ones to parks, and they taught me how to play in a place that doesn’t speak the same language as you. I ranted to the therapist, I struggled with my feelings, so I conducted journalling workshops with single mothers. Who was helping whom?
2. Aaji’s Lunchbox by
In those months of harvest and hell, Aaji used the lunchbox as a treasure chest of ornate objects: a copper ring, a kajal box, a carved wooden comb, a silk handkerchief, and a tiny face mirror. She turned to her lunchbox for beauty, love, and solace, in her fleeting moments of rest.
The anklets of her firstborn lay in the lowest chamber of the lunchbox: a tiny band of black thread with tinkling bells that Aaji retrieved from the contractor after her baby was crushed under his sugarcane-loaded truck.
3. Born in This Land by
If you are snatched from this land when you are twelve years old and carried away by fate to the other side of the country, you will not make the crossing very well. You will not smile because you can’t see the sky. Because when you look up, tall buildings have cut the sky into pieces and gobbled up the sun. You will cry because your heart aches for the trees you used to climb and for the friends who were born in the same land as you. You will long for the rhythm of the shifting seasons you knew so well as a child. Your small-town heart will never quite catch the drumbeats of the big city.
4. Hibernation by
Once a year, the skies open up and torrential rain raises the level of the lake. Wind dishevels its perfect appearance. The dirt at the bottom is disturbed. The pristine façade is exposed, bare and naked, for the world to see. No matter how hard the lake tries, it cannot hide the muck. The pieces of garbage loosen in the dirt and rise to the surface. When the rains subside, the lake is still again. But now, its surface is spotted with garbage, plastic bags and bottles, wrappers and trash, that it can no longer hide. The vast expanse of the blue sky reflects on its still waters once again, the clouds – a tapestry over the objects lost and now found.
I am the lake.
5. Unlikely Friendships by
In the evening I ventured to hike up the pine forest alone. The villagers warned me that a leopard had been spotted recently there. Honestly, I don't fear any other animals as much as humans. To my surprise, that golden brown indie dog followed me as we had known each other for years. My shooing away didn't deter her. So we started our journey, I gasped for air and stopped frequently while climbing up, and she would wait patiently just ahead of me. If she even sniffed another human, especially a man coming towards me, she would bark with a ferocity that was so unlikely to come from a weak body as hers. We came back, I let her come into my room, fed her and she went to the corner of the room to rest.
6. Happy Father’s Day by
I have seen a few photos of him when he was younger: A thick beard with an almost non-existent moustache. This moustache seems to have weathered a lot of anger steaming out of his nose. He looks like revolutionary fighting from the depths of the jungle. Stark, dreamy, and impressive. But in all the photos since I was born, you can see responsibility creeping upon him with the dependable rectangle moustache.
My Dad’s moustache is my twin. Living a watchful life under the eyes of my father. A snip when it grows unwieldy. A caress when it wants one.
7. Imperfect Grief by
“You will see, she will be the only one who will hold up. She is strong,” my father said in the morning. That evening, he was taken to the hospital for the last time.
He was not delirious, or in a medicated trance. He was healthy, laughing and breathing when he said this.
“Why did he say that? How dare he? Am I not allowed to be weak?” I asked my mother through my hurt.
8. I attended a Writing Workshop by
I signed up for the Ochre Sky memoir workshop only to realise that I was the lone male member among an interesting group of twelve members. The workshop introduced me to a world of women who wrote with a passion - a passion to see things more deeper and write in detail rather offer superficial descriptions. Their works taught me how to re-examine various incidents in my life from the lens of someone who doesn’t think or act like me. At the end of the workshop, I wasn’t sure if it helped in transforming the way I write but it certainly helped me in transforming what I read.
9. Windows, Mirrors, and Glass Doors by
There is regret about what I could have become if I were anchored to one place, especially what it could have done to my sports career. How would it have made me popular in my school? Doors to a new house, doors to a new school, doors to new friends, and doors always stopping me from becoming more of me. And inside me, doors were closing suddenly and with a clap. They were rude and unexpected. I had closed some doors, like the door to my own company, which I decided to exit. Life was tumultuous, and I felt like I was in a wild river rapid. I was being jostled in the water at a furious pace and could not look for any doors while hurtling down.
10. When I crossed the border by
The compact storage section (CS) of the library soon became my favorite place in the world. This housed old scientific journals, some over a 100 years old. I spent several blissful hours there marveling at the parchment texture of the papers, smiling at the use of archaic scientific terms. The CS was always dark and a little musty. Rows upon rows of metal racks filled with old journals lined the floor. The afternoon light filtered through the slats in the floor above creating the most beautiful diffraction patterns on the wall and the floor.
I suppose this is where I crossed the border from being someone who felt like an imposter, to a woman who didn’t mind calling herself a scientist.
11. “You cannot hurt your father” by
More than a decade ago, in my mid-thirties, I had spoken to my therapist, Father Os about my fears and barriers. “What are you afraid of,” he had asked.
“I am afraid of hurting my father,” I had said haltingly in a small voice.
“You cannot hurt your father,” Father Os said calmly. “Only your father can hurt your father.” He wanted to free me of the burden of assuming responsibility for my father’s emotions. I had been deluded about this for too long.
12. Strangers on the train, boon or bane? by
He was not a shopkeeper. He held a Ph.D. in Sports Education. Even more exciting fodder for our unexpected chat? He vehemently disagreed with how sports was taught in schools and colleges. He had his own vision of how sports education can transform lives. I listened and nodded, my hands resting on the pillow on my lap. I shared a bit about how reading and writing can also transform lives. He listened with his nodding head.
Our masks came off when we silently had our dinner. Parathas of two different shapes. Mango pickles of two different colours.
Write with us, Natasha Badhwar and Raju Tai in Ochre Sky Stories Memoir Workshop.
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Amazing, amazing! Such a storehouse of compassion, self-awareness, humour and sheer talent 🌸