Stories that demand to be told | #47
“What am I doing here?”, the golden existential words came buzzing into my mind as I faced the cold waters. I, who hadn't said a prayer in years, prepared to wash away sins I didn't believe in.
This is the 47th 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. Measuring Time in Saturdays by
It was exactly halfway through, in the third session of the workshop, that I felt as if something had… cracked. Think of a crème brûlée and its gleaming golden shell of caramelised sugar that one must whack open to savour all the soft goodness underneath.
“Oooof.” I exhaled s-l-o-w-l-y after sending in the homework of the third essay prompt. “This is why I signed up. Now I see. Now I know.” I felt as though I’d been whacked open, too.
We are a community that doesn’t shy away from sharing our very deepest vulnerabilities. We honour all the feelings: yes, even and perhaps especially the icky ones. There are hesitant pauses and deep breaths. Sometimes, there are throats tight with tears. Brimming eyes, shaky voices. The real miracle lies not just in the crafting and the sharing (although that is a powerful starting point); but in the way we receive each other’s words – with such tenderness, compassion and gentleness. We hold space for each other. We suspend judgement and really listen...to what is not being said. There is a feeling of being held (even through all those Zoom rectangles). A feeling of being… seen. Holding each other's beautiful and broken parts up to the light, never looking away.
2. My child was defiant from the start. I wouldn't have it any other way. by
Every eye roll and slammed door from my son made me feel powerless. Some parents began judging us, even discouraging their children from playing with mine, fearing he would be a bad influence.
I had to ask myself some tough questions: Did I want to raise a minion who simply followed orders or an individual who could think for himself? Was my frustration rooted in my own ego or my son's well-being?
With time, his defiance came at a cost. His attendance in high school declined, and so did his grades. Frequently, he made excuses to be absent or just not get ready on time. His assertiveness extended from our home to challenging the school system's authority over his time and learning.
He was creative and social, but the structured, rule-oriented environments at home and school exhausted him, causing him to withdraw from participation. It was a mystery to me and his teachers, who never doubted his capability.
3. A Trogon and a Frogmouth in Amboli by
He had raised his head at an angle as though he was looking at the sun and refused to move a muscle. He looked like he was meditating with his nose in the air, refusing to acknowledge the humans around him. But I could see that his eyes were open, taking in our every move. All thought of the strict silence we had maintained with the Trogon was forgotten and Praveen gave us a free reign to chat and bumble around. We took turns to get close to him and take our photos. I got so close that even Albatross was no longer useless and I took some snaps. Its wings, with white flecks on it, were indistinguishable from dried leaves with powdery mildew on them. Stoically maintaining this pose when we were so close must have taken courage on the Frogmouth’s part, I thought. It isn’t enough that his body was crafted for this foliage; what wraps the whole act together is absolute stillness. But I was wondering how close is too close? At what point does its brain, already stressed, finally change tack and switch from fright to flight? It felt like I could just reach out and grab his frog-beak in a rude reality check.
Kaka gave Praveen a thump of appreciation on his back for spotting the elusive creature and I asked him how on earth had he managed it? He said that Frogmouths are very picky and that’s their undoing. They have favourite trees
4. Attention Is All You Need by
“Who are these boys? Can I trust them with my belongings?” I thought, scanning their faces for any sign of ill-intent.
In a sea of thousand faces, no face stood apart. Would a thief look any different here? The absurdity struck me—in this spiritual gathering, I was clinging to worldly suspicions. I would either have to trust them all or no one. I chose trust. I stripped and handed over my clothes.
“What am I doing here?”, the golden existential words came buzzing into my mind as I faced the cold waters. I, who hadn't said a prayer in years, prepared to wash away sins I didn't believe in. I pushed the thoughts away. Analysis would only distance me from experience.
I dipped once but failed to submerge myself completely. I dipped again. This time every exposed molecule of my body got in touch with the dark waters.
5. Rain, Romance & Rabindranath by
I knew the word Nor wester before I had experienced a Kal Baisakhi. It is again one of those very Bengali things – the Bangali lives in hope; is most often unfazed by the heat and humidity because he knows relief is soon to come. And when it does, like many others across the country I suspect the young and the not so young step out and perhaps even sing and dance a bit. I asked a motley group who sing Bengali and Hindi every Sunday morning by the Rabindra Sarobar what songs they associated with rain most often? An interesting list emerged. Rabindranath was not on it. Has Bengal and the Bangali moved on? What is moving on? Is it leaving behind somethings, to pick up others, or adding fresh flavours to our jaded lives? The good doctor asked me why I did not share my song in the group. He gave me a prompt for my essay. So many beginnings with him I think.
A shower which can be anticipated with an overcast sky all morning poses a very practical question. “Should clothes be washed today?” I have of late taken to looking at the weather forecast before I run the washing machine.
6. Do people die? Just like that? by
He really died
How can he?
He is 33
He was working
The book launch
The cover design
What the fuck!
So many people
All in white
All in tears
Shit. Did he?
Did he really?
7. Songs that break your heart and mend it too by
What’s a list that doesn't honour that which is raw and unadulterated and brings with it the familiarity of deeply felt, self-destroying heartache?
Tadap tadap ke is dil ki aah nikalti rahi, sung by K. K. and Dominique Cerejo for Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam, is my all time favourite break-up song because it expresses unashamed passion - letting it all hang out, without restraint. It is the fearless voice of the lover, speaking straight to the creator, bypassing the rest of the world who are but mere bystanders in this emotionally highstrung dialogue.
This is an expression that defies the judgement of silence and death. It screams at the sky, embraces rock bottom, lets the tears roll, and remains nattily dressed throughout, even as the lover cries that he has been looted and ruined in love. Kitschy and true.
"Tadap tadap ke is dil ki aah nikalti rahi
mujhko sazaa di pyaar ki aisa kya gunaah kiya
ki lut gaye haan lut gaye…hum teri mohobbat mein"
Honestly, I shudder to translate these tormented words. I will leave key phrases here:
Suffering heart, painful lament, punished for love, what is my crime, I am ravaged, plundered… in your love.
8. I Want to Eat Your Voice by
Podcasts offered a platter of interesting voices saying phenomenal things. And yet it felt distant. Sometimes too polished. Never an accent that was closer to the geographical heart. Never a voice flowering from my own soil. I was feasting on these voices, but not satisfied.
Then, I got the chance to witness my mother speaking, almost cooing to her newborn grandson. She called him a new adorable name every other sentence, and her voice had an intense melody to it. I was so attracted to her sonic conversations with the baby. It took me a while to realise why. This was the exact melody I must have heard when I was in the womb! And when my brain was still developing! No wonder this voice was healing me.
Even then, it didn’t underline itself - this edibility of voices, this thirst for both makhmali and khurduri textures, the intimate voices that plant the seed of love deep into our hearts. It is only during the lockdown that I realised how voices nourish me. Zoom calls, selfies, videos - nothing brought a fraction of the intimacy I felt while listening to voice notes. Whenever I would receive one, I would take it as a cue to make a cup of tea, as if the voice note itself was a nice bhajiya, a juicy nugget.
Upcoming Workshops at Ochre Sky Stories
The Rhythm of our Stories — Presented by Natasha Badhwar, facilitated by Raju Tai and Vimal Chitra.
Leadership and Selfhood through Creative Writing. Facilitated by Natasha Badhwar and Raju Tai | AshokaX
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