Disclaimer: Stream of consciousness.
Which I am beginning to believe is just a glorified term for ‘I am intelligent but I still ramble.’
Family is never anything about blood. Family is always about love. But that means nothing without loyalty. Like in the books I read as a child. Like Phantom showed through his purple capes. We will hate anyone who causes any of us pain. We will not be forcibly civilized and do rubbish.
And we will always keep channels of communication open. I can love you and I can be oh so pissed with you and it’s all still beautiful and perfect if I can tell you – look at me, this is what you have done to me.
‘Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
I never know what you are thinking? Think.’
And have someone tell you this but no one has the balls. Oh why did I have to have so much of this ballsiness! ‘I don’t like this. I’m sorry but where it mattered may be I don’t have balls. I couldn’t stand by you. But I love you. Let me love you.’
And then he came home. The only man I had permitted myself to lean on till the men came to my life. Who has seen me from the time I was three. Nearly reaching thirty, he still thinks I am the same as I always was. And it was comfort. And it was warmth. And it was happiness. And the pain just went away.
And then they came home. They who are like family in close quarters. Let’s go outside. Let’s eat outside. Let’s eat together – a family that eats together stays together – that’s why nutella and toast will never ever just be breakfast. And I will always remember that maggi and soup we shared that night. And the taste of her hot rice, rasam, and potatoes at 3 am in the morning laughing from the sheer idiocy and tiredness of it all.
It was happy. I can be happy. I can be proud and purple. I can be me everywhere I go. I drape myself in silk and wear the rings – over sized and ugly but that look just perfect on my arthritic hands.
Families everywhere. Girls who couldn’t have been more than 23 holding babies, looking like little babies themselves. Smug women with their idiotic bermuda-clad men who will always stare at your breasts. But the women stay smug and order chicken in fake accents. I think of mixing food and meat and I think of her. But then I push it away because it is now negative, how can it be negative? How can a child evoke something negative? But not a child, not really a child, not quite the child anymore. And the hurt, the betrayal. So I push it away and eat.
And eat. But it keeps coming back.
I think of collecting husbands. I have one for his house and now I’m planning on another for his beautiful words. He writes haiku and haiku that makes sense. Not like my stupid udon tempura chicken in Sunnyvale that made no sense, that looked like puke. I look at the glasses. Somehow it’s all nauseating now, the meat, the area, they have ruined my Indiranagar with all that fake glass. Why did they do that? Don’t they know we are a tropical country? And glass is hideous. And mine is dirty. I order clean glasses. I fuss with the child. But ah, the child is not my own. May be I won’t have one who is my own. May be he was right about that. May be.
Ah verdammt, may be there will be nothing – just idleness and a workshop of writing that never happens, and sleep that’s never slept, and pills – always so many pills, always popping pills. Always a bid to get rid of the pain that he put there – the spineless bastard and his bitchy, bollocky mum – and share space with them again? For what? To prove what? Bertha Mason. Fire with fire, fire with fire, fire with fire. But always, always that ache, that dull throbbing in the head, in the joints, everywhere that starts and then I go nowhere.
And I come back losing money and losing love from Ernakulam. Was it worth it? Was it even required? Optimism fades. Darkness descends and we order ice-cream. And I can hear him say it to me. I see him as we were that day – walking, laughing, looking for cigarettes, holding arms and then fighting – I could hear him say with all that light – ‘It will all be fine, da. Don’t worry.’ I could feel him then and just as I did, I could feel the distance growing, growing, growing. What if we never met again? What if nothing happened? What if my two husbands left me? What if they stopped loving me? All of them left off loving all of me? What if he no longer seemed interested in insemination? What if they thought I was boring? What if I no longer did anything that was worth anything?
Panic attack. Panic attack. Panic attack.
I spilled chocolate over silk and thought of unfulfilled sex. That was laughable, wasn’t it? Who says no to free sex? Apparently plenty of men.
Men without balls. Women without scruples. Story of life, isn’t it?
Blue the colour of my skin, blue the car we drove in, blue was the night, and blue the messages and calls from loved ones ringing assurance, suggesting plans. And blue the tears that poured out. Blue songs on the radio – so old, I’m so old now. Too old for drama. Too old to be anything but content and happy. The very thing I was till it was blue and ruined. And we bumped over a hump and another blue song played. And memories, always memories of men and the few women I’ve always loved beyond prudence. And Goa, and the sea.
‘Oh sea, this is your name.’
‘O d’und leer das Meer.’
And I even know what it means now in French. And so life gets better or worse? Am I up or down? Is it over or has it just begun?
Da ba dee da ba die… how can you make sense of pain? And how can you have a family feud when you don’t have a family anymore?
Tup ti dup ti doo as my blue-eyed man would say.
Sil vous plait.