Stories that demand to be told | #48
"I retched and spluttered up a mountain of pent-up emotions. He held me while my body rejuvenated itself, along with our relationship."
This is the 48th 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
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1. My belated feminist epiphanies - by
The line between the system and the individual is made of fuzz. If men are the oppressors of women, had I married the enemy?
If men are the oppressors of women, does being a feminist pre-require vilifying all men? Or is there place here for both?
So often, the anger towards the system gets directed towards the individual. For good reason too. It is the system that is rigged, but the system is invisible. You can’t punch a phantom. The husband, on the other hand, is right there, on the sofa. Feeling as gaslit as you. Kind of.
2. Field Notes: What do we want? Just freedom like you - by
I asked Ram Sakhi, who was in her late fifties and collecting mahua flowers, if she had heard anything about the impending displacements and what she was expecting from the authorities. "Kya chahiye humein? Bas tumhaare jaisi azaadi." ("What do we want? Just freedom like you.")
She spoke in the local Bundelkhandi.
The dialect wasn't very difficult for me to understand because it sounded similar to Magahi, spoken in my hometown, Gaya, in southern Bihar.
"You carry a bag and roam around. But look at me. I can't step out of this village. Look at my hands," she said, turning her hands over—palm first, then the back.
Her palms were cracked and calloused, lined with cuts and caked with mud, the skin worn from working the fields. Her back was tanned and split.
Freedom, she said, is a possibility when you've financial independence. "It's hard to come by, though, even if I work day and night," she said, talking about her alcoholic husband and wayward son.
3. Tend - by
So how does your garden bloom when there’s rot, aphids and ants weakening the roots of what were once sturdy plants and trees that provided you shade and comfort?
This is the 5th place, I’ve made home. I’ve been fortunate; to have found a support system here quickly. But it is because both parties have put in the time to nourish the soil on which one has planted the seeds. Full of the goodness of dried leaves and kitchen compost with an occasional seaweed concentrate. It helps that the place I now inhabit takes the individual life less seriously and pushes folks to rely on others no matter how deeply uncomfortable it makes them.
Sometimes mis-communication or the lack of communication can begin to feel like a rotting. Then it's up to the two people to decide to deal with the aphids by dousing them with insecticide, grappling with the dirt excavating ants who’ve made a home at the root when you weren’t paying attention and be willing to get bitten in the process. You can change the soil and If one’s lucky, the plant revives. And then if it doesn’t, maybe it’s time to stop watering the plant, say goodbye and bring a mulberry sapling home.
4. Writing from the body - by
I tried humour, but he didn’t laugh.
I resorted to romance, but he didn’t budge.
And then something happened that neither of us expected.
My voice became hoarse with emotion, rising a few decibels above normal. Words came out from a dungeon deep inside me, where I had hidden the unspeakable. They flowed and flowed like a dam burst. I wondered how I might have looked at that moment, even while speaking these words.
Sometimes things need to break down completely for us to realize the need for renovation and repairs. For a complete overhaul. For us to be able to purge and declutter ourselves of that which does not belong inside us.
I retched and spluttered up a mountain of pent-up emotions. He held me while my body rejuvenated itself, along with our relationship.
5. Homecoming - by
At this stage in my life, where I have been tossed and turned around in the whirlpool of my own emotional upheaval- life felt turbulent. I only saw a journey that was scarring. It started at a very early age for me- 3 years old to be precise- when I was forced to learn to take care of myself and my sibling. Over the years, I mastered the art of protecting myself and keeping everyone else’s needs before mine.
Today, I struggle to let go of this practice. At the cusp of turning 40, I am finally unlearning and practicing the art of letting go.
And, it is not easy.
But this also feels like Homecoming in its truest form. I now seek the road to my own self. The self that I had forgotten when I was 3 perhaps. The child that grew up too soon- way before her time.
I stand here finally beginning to bloom- at my own pace and time.
6. The Radical Act of Listening - by
Listening is not just a polite act it is a political one. In a world where colonial and patriarchal systems have silenced, interrupted, and disregarded the voices of women, Indigenous peoples, oppressed communities, and those on the margins, to truly listen is to resist. It is to challenge the hierarchical model of communication where only certain voices are heard and validated. Listening is how we begin to dismantle systems that privilege speaking over hearing, controlling over receiving, extracting over being present.
When we center women’s voices, when we listen deeply to those whose stories have been ignored or misrepresented, we begin to unlearn dominance and relearn dignity. We begin to co-create spaces where stories are not just heard, but held. And that holding, that sacred act, is where solidarity is born.
Listening is an act of reverence. It is a way of honouring the other as fully human, as sacred.
7. Why I am teaching ‘Leadership and Selfhood through Creative Writing’ - by
We need access to our stories to rediscover where our power and wisdom lies. Words are the ladder we throw into the deep recesses of our consciousness where abandoned stories lie. Words are the kite string that sways with the breeze and soars towards the sky, both grounding us and setting us free.
We are all made up of stories. Data too, but it is the stories that have been neglected for too long. Why do they matter? Isn’t it self-indulgent to bring the self into everything we do? Who cares what my authentic truth is?
I live with these persistent questions every day. I know the answers. I forget the answers. I pin them down again. I have navigated these nuances in all the work that I do. As a writer, a film-maker, teacher, and workshop facilitator. As a parent. A person.
8. The Gift of Nothing - A Poem for You - by
Early morning, this poem arrived, when I was brushing my teeth. Like a one-page summary of what I’ve subconsciously learned through the year.
It brought the gift of nothing. It was my therapist who wanted to give me this gift. My partner too. But poems know the code to install truth deep into our nervous system. And so we let them.
Do you need the gift of nothing as much as me? Will you pass it on to others who need some nothing?
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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