Stories that demand to be told | #28

"Palestine is a microcosm of a situation that is being played out over and over again."

Natasha Badhwar

Raju Tai

Smriti Iyer

, and 5 others

Dec 21, 2024

This is the 28th 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

Natasha Badhwar

and

Raju Tai

1. Palestine by
Smriti Iyer

I participated in my first protest in 2019, because till that point I had thought protesting was a waste of time -It changed nothing. When I finally went, I realised the most important thing a protest does is that you stop feeling alone. It is a great energiser. There’s an ocean of people out there who feel exactly like you do about the issues and there’s likely another bunch sitting at home feeling completely despondent. And if protests didn’t work as a metric, governments across the world wouldn't be spending so much time and violence trying to shut them down. They are also running scared of what might happen if people actually begin to talk to each other instead of being hate bots throwing insults and making sure they have the last word in.

The aspirations of Palestinians are the same as everyone else. One of a home, a happy safe space for themselves and the people they consider community. Where one is able to walk across to the neighbours without the threat of being bombed. In a universe where every human life is valued and is allowed to live freely.

Palestine is a microcosm of a situation that is being played out over and over again. Against marginalised and minority groups. The actors may vary in different countries and contexts including my own.

2. Reading: All We Imagine as Light by
Karthik

Parvati has lived a lifetime in her house but does not have the papers to prove it. Prabha might have a marriage certificate, but her husband has taken up a job abroad and left her behind. Anu has a boyfriend who she is not fully sure of and keeps him hidden from the world.

I’ve come to realize that Bombay is an entirely different city for those who have a home there. The rest of us are standing on the footboard of a speeding train holding on to anything we can grasp at. Which is why we are willing to go to any lengths to keep our jobs and accept companionship of all kinds – even when it is exploitative or abusive.

One time I was at a party with my boss. He saw someone in the crowd and started moving towards them. Without even asking, he held out his glass in my direction. I paused an extra second, but in that moment, I failed to come up with any other response to his gesture. I took the glass from his hand. I did not want to risk getting elbowed off the wagon.

3. 12 and 36 by
Shaili

We would discuss our individual creative visions for the living room decor every Diwali and drape the curtains with her old silk sarees, trying out different patterns and styling. Going to the home décor section of the only departmental store in Surat was a reconnaissance survey before every art project – we would then try to DIY that at home. She was both my mother and my creativity coach. I was the elf to her Santa.

I realize now that most things she did were an outlet for her creative energy, an attempt to break away from the routine of a housewife. She did not have a lot of patience though and could never stay at one place, hurrying from one task to another, which meant this elf would do a lot of the execution on the décor projects.

There are a lot of things she cannot do anymore – it has taken a lot of time for her to regain her basic sense of self. Simple things that we take for granted like putting toothpaste on the brush by yourself and saying a sentence clearly without forgetting a word. It is difficult for us to understand the mind that has always walked in a hurry but now must adapt to seeing with one eye and walking off balance.

4. Processing... by
Nupur Chaturvedi

The fact is, my 8yo has been dealing with this for the past 5 years, before anyone gave it a name. She has been braving it with no understanding of what’s ‘wrong’ with her. She has been braving that, and the fact that she’s shorter than her peers, that she’s not as articulate, that she’s adopted and doesn’t have a dad. What has she chosen to focus on? Dogs. Loving them, learning about them, watching TV programmes about them, talking about them. Of course, there’s other stuff too, like toys and junk food and naughtiness and iPad and more. She figured out her own coping mechanisms.

I’m surrounded with love and wisdom: My parents have earned a LOT of wealth in their lifetimes. It’s the wealth of goodwill. And I’ve inherited it. I am surrounded with friends and family and even acquaintances wanting to bat for us.

Yesterday, someone I’ve recently come to know through work made a point of calling me and sharing her wisdom. There’s something she said that I am going to hold very close to me: “this is where your daughter’s journey as a unique person begins.” My cousin said, “leave the technicalities to the professionals, you just focus on making yourself a safe space for her.” My friend landed home at 10:30 pm and stayed with me till almost 1 (making mom retrospectively worried about her safety) just to be with me.

5. Why I took a break from Substack and what I discovered by
Namit H

I have been harsh on myself since the beginning of time. Whenever I chose to do something in life, I compared myself with the best and the greatest in that field. I had to either produce a magnum opus or flush my work down the drain. There was no in-between. That didn’t help. It throttled my voice – my imperfect, underdeveloped, and slowly-gaining-its-strength-and-finding-its-rhythm voice.

And when you are in the middle of the sea – the sea of wonderful writings (think Substack) – it is hard not to compare yourself with others. It’s either that or the validation…

I knew when I got back, I wasn’t going to seek public validation. Funny though that the first write-up I published after returning got me the most validation so far. Weird. Not falling into that trap again, universe!

6. The story of my house keys by
Sanskriti Bhatia

When we decided to leave an abusive home and restart life again, the house keys were only metaphorically present. It was the latch that held a shrieking, old door together as we lived in a little garage. I found home in the possibility of freedom that this feeble latch provided. It could have been broken down if the circumstances had not favoured us. But what skies of freedom life would offer, if only the latch of our home held our house together in relatively safer realms. So, we went on.

We shifted again. This time to an accommodation that needed house keys. It was a remarkable moment. What a relief to be in a house which provided safety, not just from those on the outside but also those on the inside. But simultaneously, we struggled to rebuild our sense of home and family in a world determined to deny our existence - a price for our rebellion in a fragile society. So, while the safe structure was strong, the raging storm continued to shake us.

Then, I finally held a pair of house keys in my hands which belonged to a home where my emotions, experiences and bonds truly reside. This house has lived a full life with me; both as a witness and as a companion. After years of seeking refuge all around, I finally announced, “I am home”. It is said that home is where the heart is. Here, I learnt that home is where the heart is both strongly rooted and blissfully free.

7. Hai Bechari! and other bewildering terms of endearment by
Natasha Badhwar

It could be that my train was delayed by a few hours or that I got only two gulab jamuns when everyone else got three. It could be that a concerned elder has discovered that a child now wears prescription glasses. It could be that I have had a health check, been declared fit and advised regular exercise. “Hai bechari,” a kind-hearted relative will say in response.

I tend to respond to the “you poor thing” comment with a quick disclaimer that it isn’t a big deal, I am not really inconvenienced and they needn’t feel sorry for me. I am not a bechara, I am a big fat privileged person. Most of the times my concerned relatives are taken aback. They look at me with dissonance on their faces. I feel equally disconcerted.

My husband tries to explain this code to me. “It is their love language, Natasha,” he says to me. “Accept it with grace.”

“But I am not in trouble,” I say. “I don’t feel like a bechara. I don’t want them to misunderstand.”

“Note this in your diary,” he says, pointing towards the notes app in my phone. “When we want to say I love you to someone, we say, hai bechara. I feel so sorry for you.”

8. If you think you're doing it wrong, you're doing it right by
Raju Tai

I saw myself cringe a lot. While drawing, painting, resuming yoga. Seeing old Canva posts, making notes, looking at the mirror on a tired day. We are used to seeing everything being polished, cling wrapped, and in 1080p. Anything slightly raw makes us uneasy. We want to make it perfect or avoid it altogether. I am sick of these two options.

So, I started telling myself: I’m allowed to hesitate while I write. I am allowed to hesitate when I create something out of nothing — birthing it through the canal of cringe and doubt. I might not be able to love every draft but I love the process of expressing myself.

And and and - how can I feel impressed - if I’ve just expressed - what has been long suppressed?

I have to reach into my dark insides to find something worth saying and emerge again into the bright light. No wonder, I feel like closing my eyes.