Stories that demand to be told | #24
"I missed my children. I wanted to know the man I had married. I wanted to be with myself. It was time to remove the scaffolding of my job and inaugurate a new life. So, I quit for love."
This is the 24th 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. The thing with Booze by
During that time, I once lost an entire Sunday because I just could not recover from a hangover. I had planned to finish a writing assignment that day. From feeling sorry for myself, I began to feel disappointed with myself for losing precious time coping with hangovers instead of doing something that I had always wanted to do.
How badly do I want this writing life?
After that, I started to avoid gatherings for months and used all my free time for reading and writing. When the finals of Cricket World Cup came up, I allowed myself to go out with my friends. It was a Sunday night and I was keeping it cool with small gin drinks. I might have shifted gears had the game veered in India’s favour. Luckily for me, that didn’t happen. But I still got up with a small little unnecessary headache the Monday morning.
Finally, on 20 November 2023, I realized I need to stop drinking altogether.
2. The ‘Real Work’ by
They had started making me anxious, those apples, though this would never happen in the early days. And to make it worse, I was a high-functioning apple eater, so anything I had to do, I could do with an apple by my side. It’s dangerous when your habit does not disrupt your life, because then there is no pressing reason to stop.
Then, a few months ago, I quit cold turkey. No exceptions, no loopholes. Even a bite from someone else’s apple was off-limits. I did not, and have not, faltered.
Things improved overnight. It feels good to break free from the hold something has over you. I am less anxious. I have more time in the day. I no longer need apples as a form of self-medication. And my relationships are better. I’m more focused, more present.
“Undoubtedly, the right decision”, I tell Usha as I stretch to pat my back. A decision that comes with no regrets, no loose ends.
There’s just one problem. I think I miss apples.
3. 33 by
This year, I tried hard to fall in love. It was honest. It was stupid. What I didn’t factor in was that love can’t be planned. It doesn’t fit into that carefully curated to-do list. And so, it crumbled before it even found some strength. This year, I learnt to be comfortable with aloneness.
And I wrote. I wrote terribly. I wrote beautifully. I wrote to feel seen. I wrote to give words to my insufferable self. I wrote with the awareness of shame – shame that I am not good enough. I wrote with the awareness of fear – fear that I’ll make a fool of myself. I wrote with the awareness of calm – calm that filled the open space when words tumbled out.
It was also the year of courage, clarity, gratitude and perseverance. I started projects I am going to continue working on. I chose paths I am going to continue exploring. I allowed bitterness to melt away. I embraced the rogue this-is-itness of life.
4. Lunch dabbas are a portkey by
As steel clinks and plastic bases thwack against the desktops, aromas waft through the room, the smell of roti and sabzi, pulao, the illicit excitement of finding chicken in your dabba, the congealed mass of maggi which only tastes good cold if it has been lying in your bag for 3-4 hours.
There are types of dabba bringers, of course. Those who brought food that is efficient to pack and finish, parantha rolls (like yours truly), the ones who were sent hot tiffins which would reach just before the bell tolled for lunch, the ones who would have napkins and spoons packed carefully with their lunches, and they would set their tables like the queen herself were coming to dine. The ones whose dabba leaked and spilt its oily liquid contents all over their lunch bags, the ones who brought the coke that fizzed in the school bus, making the contents of their bag sticky and sweet.
School lunch breaks are the first time many of us escape the rigour of our families’ food habits. The first time I ate prawn, the time I knew what Bengali food tasted like, that guava could be made into a savoury-sweet sabzi eaten with roti. Lunch break was the melting pot of cultures our constitution intended our country to be.
5. a ride home by
I notice a motorcycle with 4 people on it, two little, two big, enjoying being squeezed against each other. As I move forward, college kids stream out, some of them evidently swept up in their young love exciting romances, and the others heading to buy vada pav. I notice their movements, the way they look at each other and smile, maybe after as long a day as I’ve had, they’re still smiling. I feel all the feelings.
Many thoughts flood into my head, a deluge of words. I’m so obsessed with making a mark, leaving a sign, that somebody will look back, thinking of me. I’m in such a rush to get ahead that I very often forget where I am. I’m ultra ambitious and I want to be the best, it’s the easiest place to be in. In the frenzy of being better than everybody else, I tend to forget the company I'm around, the gentle voices and kind faces. I forget this is the dream. This is where I'm meant to be, so why am I not able to take it in at the right time? When will I be able to enjoy exactly where I am? Something’s always missing, if my career is flourishing, my love life is suffering. If my friendships are great, other parts of a fully fleshed out life are still waiting to be seen. Is being able to have it all a big fat myth? I look at people with envy, they always have something I don't.
6. The Ramblings of a Restless Mind by
I am the traveller in this relationship. He is the homebody. He is someone who wants to return home the moment he books his tickets. I am the one who packs, travels, flies, taxis to different places. And if you are thinking I am a lone traveller or avid wanderer or romantic backpacker, let me stop you — I just like to travel for work. Not for pleasure — that is too much work.
I am excited about meeting people, visiting far off places, eating local cuisine, soaking in the green-ness of the beautiful countryside, and not really letting the weather beat me down.
Udit on the other hand has problems the moment he steps out — too humid, too hot, too cold, too dirty, too many people, so much noise, so much stupidity, bad food, bad bed, too many people, bad roads and so on and so forth…you get the hang of it.
He will avoid stepping out of the house if he thinks there is a neighbour waiting for the lift in the lobby. He avoids them like the plague—God forbid if he has to say hi, he might self destruct in five seconds.
7. How to Have It All by
‘I want to stop because I have never stopped and I am exhausted. And I am fulfilled as well,’ I wrote in an email to a friend. I was standing by a street corner in Manhattan tapping these words with a stylus into my phone. A pocket of sunlight, the distance from home and the solitude of a free morning during a work trip suddenly brought some things into perspective for me. ‘Other Natashas, the ones who write, nap during the day, cycle to the gym, cook a meal, I want to let those Natashas out.’
I missed my children. I wanted to know the guy I had married. I wanted to be with myself. It was time to remove the scaffolding of my job and inaugurate a new life. So, I quit for love.
Love’s a decent hobby—but can you make a vocation out of it? Maybe you can. What about a calling? Motherhood could be my calling.
Who knows what is around the corner till we turn it? Who is to tell what is inside us till we stand still and let it emerge?
8. Being Besharam with Rangs by
Being a sensitive person has meant that little things bother me, tiny stimuli can trigger big emotions, and anxiety can crawl up my chest at any time. If I get burdened by the painful side of sensitivity, why not use the same wiring to lean deeper into the pleasure that tiny specks of colour bring? I might not have synaesthesia, but I get regularly awestruck by a purple sky and a sexy orange highlighter. It’s the colour of chocolate that I taste before I take a bite.
A few times I’ve been told to tone down my excitement. But I want to be besharam with colours, in my journals and on my skin and admire others who dabble in their own risky colour love.
Out of all the lovely things my partner has ever said about me, it is “she brought colour into my life” that strikes the most to me. I aim to be a bringer of colours all my life.
Discover the transformative power of personal writing with Natasha Badhwar
and Raju Tai at Ochre Sky Stories Memoir Workshop.
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