Stories that demand to be told | #9
Here was my teacher, sharing her life story with me, consoling me. It didn’t matter what was hurting me, she was showing me how to cope.
This is the ninth edition of Stories that demand to be told, a curated spread of the most evocative, resonant, real stories. Ochre Sky Stories is a home for writers from the Ochre Sky Workshops, facilitated by
and .1. A Weekend Dilemma by
Anyone interested to switch to siblings 2-4? Twins girls in the system.
- Who sent this?
Someone on the adoption group. It’s on the Facebook group also.
- Should we think about it?
Can you check the portal properly once?
I did not want to be disturbed, and usually when I was focussing on how to become my best self, I treated all messages like spam, even from loved ones. I thought then that it would be a short disruption but I guess your kids can find a way to break your chain of thought even before they arrive.
2. Our Fights by
Fights showed up here too, fluttering like tropical birds. If they found my husband and I perched on different feeds, they locked our horns and lured us into a fight.
My husband would light the match with a comment on my post. I would stoke a fire with my stinging reply. Friends would add small inflammables as comments. A simple post would quickly transform into a mini CPIM demonstration of the Calcutta of the 80s. Red flags, some slogans, and a huddle of participants who after a point couldn’t quite remember why they were there in the first place.
3. The viper and the mongoose by
I stared at her in disbelief. I felt the blood draining from my face, my ears heating up, heart palpitating.
“You approved all the invoices,” I heard myself say.
“Do you have it on email?” she asked, arching a brow.
Then it hit me, all the red flags falling into place – the puzzle complete. She had not replied to a single email. She had been smart, approving everything either on the phone or in person. I had no concrete proof. No evidence. I could not take her to court or demand that she pay the full amount. She had played a dirty game with a novice. Is that why she chose to work with us? A young design team that would do her bidding, no questions asked?
4. The colour of my skin has a sisterhood by
It really was not till I was dating did the colour of my skin became alive and present to me. The body is like that, nai? It makes its presence felt usually in pleasure or pain or the anticipation of them. In pleasure, I existed as much inside this body and the colour of my skin as much as I lay beside it, observing it. The way the roasty brown of my late teen hand looked against a wheatish cheek. The magenta blouse against this brown back darkening the gaze of a Nandita Das-loving lover. The sounds of pleasure were like my skin too – dark and deep. Freed as I was of conventional light-skinned femininity, I could let myself be anything but shy. The colour of my skin gave me a niche affinity and mental sisterhood with strong, powerful women in real life and out there on the screen. It immediately unpinned me from the possibility of being nailed up on a cross of softness (equated then in my head as weakness), hesitance, and all things that spelt passive and popularly feminine.
5. Dance like a woman by
Until recently, I hardly thought about how women led their lives, businesses, friendships, and families. I saw differences in how women colleagues or clients responded to various triggers. Often, I just ignored these differences, and truth be told, most of my role models were men with a different style. I was inspired by a “take charge” attitude and a framework of what I perceived as leadership. Getting things done, being emphatic & speaking with clarity inspired me. I know the use of assertive & direct language also profoundly influenced me. I had quick judgments about people who were wishy-washy & tentative about their opinions. I am sure I downplayed men who were sensitive & sometimes tentative about decisions. I liked fast talkers & people who made quick decisions.
6. Signs You're Healing by
You start to write; you feel a strong urge to draw and paint. You become eager to use your hands to create, less afraid of messing up a recipe in the kitchen, and more excited at the prospect of creating something - anything! You find yourself wanting to sing and dance. In other words, you go back to becoming the child you once were.
You want to eat better, healthier - but you no longer chastise yourself for indulging in a gorgeous piece of chocolate brownie smothered in hot, flowing Nutella. You start showing love to your body. While you don’t mind showing up at the supermarket sans make-up despite being average-looking, there are days you love to pamper yourself. You dare to wear red lipstick on your dusky skin, and a shiny pair of gold earrings as you don gorgeous outfits regardless of your thinning hair, expanding waistline, and ever-increasing back fat!
You forgive yourself the way you forgive your kids.
7. Wish it happened like this by
He announced a full day of open house at his residence, every Monday for the next 50 weeks. To start, invites were sent to representatives from all social, political, religious, gender, writers, entertainers, teenager, professional groups.
He announced the formation of a truth and reconciliation collective. No issue was off the board, nothing was taboo. All the gatherings were to be broadcast live. Here nothing would be held back. He trusted that people when they talk to each other openly, find durable and best solutions.
8. Meeting my breasts for the first time by
In the 6 months I spent exclusively breastfeeding my child, I realised what breasts are for. This, at the ripe age of 33. That they are also organs, and what amazing organs they are! Why my nipples have so many nerve endings. What lies within - an amazing forest of ducts and capillaries. How beautifully they are hooked on to my emotions and mind. How incredibly they can sustain and nourish another human being.
When I looked at my 6-month-old baby, it was a bit of an out-of-body moment. Here was a creature, one that I had created and animated, literally, out of my own body. Flesh, blood, bones, intent, smiles, and movement. And my breasts were at the centre of this creation. Beautiful and powerful, in so many ways.
9. Sticker and I - A friendship that can never be by
Our crazy cat-lady commune is thriving. And my restless, broken heart has an anchor. Paying my penance for being overly practical when I first met her, Sticker wants it on record: she’s NOTMEOWFRIEND. SHE NEVER WILL BE. The eyes, Chico. They never lie.
As I write this, the door to my room has been left open. Hoping that she will oblige me, as she sometimes does, to paw my face aggressively. Demanding to be let inside the covers, as she tucks herself into a perfect croissant, somewhere within the contortions of my foetal positioned self. She will nip at my toes, every now and then to convey that my breathing is inconveniencing her. I will lay, peaceful. Grateful. Heartful. My not-friend Sticker has taught me the biggest lesson: You are always worthy of space.
10. Motherhood taught me to stop dishing out advice by
I spent the next year trying to settle in with an infant who was like nothing I knew or expected, and a mother slowly sliding into insanity. The drudgery would drive me insane. The continuous cleaning, washing, sterilising, feeding routine was endless and finding five minutes for myself became impossible. I remember telling a friend that the baby is like one inlet pipe and two outlet pipes. All three continuously working.
When she began crawling it was worse. Babies come genetically programmed to self-destruct. The entire house had to be child proofed. And as I went around covering up one socket after another, Ma followed me, uncovering them.
11. Death of an Imaginary Friend by
“Natasha, my husband died two years ago," she said to me. “My children lost their father. He was an officer in the Indian Army."
Here was an adult, sharing her own life story with me, consoling me. She wasn’t feeling sorry for herself. She was asking me to consider moderating my response to the world around me. It didn’t matter what was hurting me, she was showing me how we can cope.
“Do you see me sad?" she asked. My teacher, recently widowed and a mother of two children younger than me, was acknowledging my grief and inspiring me to recover.
12. Personification as a Cheat Code for Creative Expression by
Trauma and Sexuality grew up together. Trauma is a noted historian. He writes detailed reports on your body and leaves notes for Sexuality: ‘Handle with Care’.
Sexuality listens more than she speaks. She can teach you how to dress up, and how to get undressed. Once you embody her philosophy, you won't recognise yourself. Blessed by her, you walk like a pianist's fingers. You savour silence. Even the way you drink water looks different. Sexuality was so amused when you invited her partner, Creativity, but not her. What? Did you think Sexuality was single? No way.
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