Musings : #18

I’ve been going through an internal turmoil,

The man I love

Is also the one I would not like,

I wish to splice my soul

Into two – let a part love

And the other dislike.

But my heart beats for both –

Love and it’s counterparts,

And I still don’t know

What this shall become.

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The Hero

Today I’m gonna talk abt a guy. A really, really handsome guy. I’m already blushing. He’s the kind of guy who I’ve always wanted to date. He’s the kind of guy whom I’ve always wanted to be my life partner. He’s the kind of guy who perfectly fits my definition of Prince charming. He’s a bit older than me. But he’s puts in a lot of effort to prevent any issues of generation gap from ruining our relationship.
One of the best qualities in him is that he respects my mom and me a lot. He is always open to our ideas, no matter how out of the box they are (especially mine). Never has he ever shown any form of masculine dominance nor has he ever imposed any strict rules on me.
His life is a tale of sacrifices and hardwork, more than half of it being for his family and beloved. Not a singer but he has quite a collection of lullabies and bed time stories.
He’s not much of a cheerleader but a subtle supporter who tries his best to protect his family. If my mom is my superwoman, he is my superman (without capes of course). And by now you must’ve guessed, I’ve been talking about my dad.

Me as a kid: My broken nose

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In a kindergarten school, you will find varieties of kids: to one class will fall the notorious mischief makers, another will include the hyperactive extroverts who would always talk their opinions loud in the class and a third class which would accommodate a rather smaller crowd of kids who would look around and observe things in silence, who would shout their views  in their childlike brains and would actually be omnipresent without actually giving a slightest hint of their omnipresence; a rare class to which people like me would fall- the introverts.

As a kid, I was an introvert; and not the kind of introverts who would post “#iamanintrovert” on social media shouting out loud to the world of them being introverts, but the kind which by law fitted the definition of being “a shy, reticent person”, the kind which chose to sit alone watching the other children run around and play. Back then, I didn’t know if being that much of an outcast was much of an issue. Even now, I’m not sure if being an introvert is cool or a stigma; there would be one opinion less in the world and it, in no way would endanger the world of being turned upside down.

I had just this one friend who would, be it rain or shine, stay with me, as we walked around haunting the playgrounds like ghosts. She too was more or less like me: soft spoken, monosyllabled opinions. Introverts understood introverts, like two peas in a pod. We were inseparable. As the other kids played, we sat under the trees, sometimes talking, sometimes just chewing candies- two introverts made for each other.

Then, one fine day, she decided to play with her elder sister, two years senior to us. She invited me to join her too. I wasn’t sure if it was a good idea: two kindergarten students with a bunch of grade two hooligans. But needless to say, I had this one friend (one of the many side effects of being an introvert) so I reluctantly followed her.

The game was called “Catch the thief”, as simple game of one girl (the thief) being chased by a bunch of other girls (the police) – like a cat and mouse chase. With some kind of cross paper scissor done, my friend was chosen as the thief and I with the bunch of seniors was a police. The game began. I ran with the others, trying to match my steps with them. Imagine a cat running along with a crowd of lions. My dear introvert friend ran as hard as she could, with her little feet flapping along the floor. But can a cat outrun a pride of lions? One of the seniors caught hold of her pinafore. Another went after and blocked her front. I tried to run fast too and I did, I was close when I felt a sudden lateral drift and a bash from behind.

The next few seconds went in daze: I lay flat, pressed on the floor- as I felt a heavy weight get off my body, I struggled to get up- the first thing I saw was another senior tumbled sideways from my body, her mouth wide gaped- someone scream, cried- the nurse rushed toward me, pulled me up and pressed my nose with her thumb- every single student in the hallway gazed at me- she carried me to the sick room- still pressing my nose, she washed my face-and as she removed her thumb, there was blood, all over it- she bandaged the wounds on my knees. And only after she handed me a glass of water did I realize it was me screaming, crying. The water tasted metal, not just the glass of water that I drank but also the rivulets that dripped down my face, into my mouth. Something was bleeding. But what?

I missed the first class after break, lying on the sick bed. Later I was just an hour before school got over was I taken to my class. I was asked to sit back with my head titled behind, resting on my bag.

Dad was horrified to find me in a white shirt that was now vermillion from the collar.

Only at home did I come to know that I had broken my nose. That day was probably a turning point in my cosmetics. I had a nose with a deviation to the right. The nasal septum deviation, later blessed me with more problems of rhinitis and inferior turbinate hypertrophy.

I guess it was a part of growing up. A traumatic part, but still a part of my kid- life.

Musings : #17

Hope shall still shine, even if someone has pushed you down, and another crab has pulled you right after. Mind you, they can knock you down but they can’t knock you out unless you let them do it.

Me as a kid: The last time I danced Bihu

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I have never been a good dancer- to the public- I don’t dance. Even so, I do at home when I’m alone and my phone is playing my favorite song.

To the outside world, I dare not tap my feet as the music grooves. But secretly when I’m all by myself and there’s no one around to witness, I move my hips like Shakira.

But that’s me now (I’m quite embarrassed to accept the truth). What I’m about to tell you is one of the many queer incidents of my childhood which involves me, dancing and dhoti.

Bihu is a traditional festival of Assam which beyond the bars of religion, is more of a festival including dancing, singing and gift taking (vice-versa). Bihu dance is a popular form of dance which in the erstwhile Assam was performed in open fields- it being more or less of a singing duel between the male and the female dancers. While the females dressed themselves up in the colourful, embroidered floral Muga Mekhela-chadar, the males donned dhoti and Muga jackets.

For those of you wondering what dhoti is, it’s just a piece of white cloth, which when draped skillfully around your waist and legs, forms a kind of loose trouser which successfully protects your dignity…most of the times.

I studied in an all-girls school. So, due to the unavailability of boys, the rough and tough, tom-boys were picked up to play masculine roles in dramas and dances. Owing to my boy’s cut hair, I too had to once bear the baton and be a boy-dancer; that too in our Bihu festivities. Which obliquely implied me wearing dhoti, raising my hands in the air, partially flexing my hip and smiling at the beautiful girls flirtatiously. I was just a third grader then. And in my company were girls from first to tenth grade.

The next day, we had our quarterly exams in the morning and hence were instructed to bring along with us our costumes which we would eventually wear once our exams got over and the festivities started. However an overzealous friend of mine probably heard only the “costumes” part and hence, the next morning, she was seen, all clad in ochre and white, ready to dance any time soon.

Our exams got over and while we were all busy draping the white piece of cotton linen over our groin, the other girl was busy, sampling spraying her clothes with deodorant; while I on the other hand tied as many pins as possible to tighten the dhoti and finally sealing the upper part with a Gamosa.

And then the dance started off. We were supposed to dance as long as the Principal himself got tired of dancing and walked on the stage to conclude the program.

Fifteen minutes into dancing, the others around me pretty much forgot that we were dressed trans our gender and our wardrobes could malfunction any time soon. Especially that overzealous girl who would not stop shaking her hips, and her hands moved in sync with the music. On the other hand, my hips were more cautious of what was covering it.

The song tuned into a more upbeat one, more people chimed in to join the dance and as we kept jiggling our legs, the friend standing beside me all of a sudden crouched down, holding something. I looked at her. She was gathering something around her. And before I could realize, she stood up holding a piece of white, fidgeting with her dhoti. Maybe it was my conscience or something, for immediately I jumped right in front of her, covering as she draped it up, once again.

But for some reasons, she decided to quit for she pulled me by my dhoti, dragging me out, into the backstage. As she did that, I prayed, hoping against hope that my dhoti would not meet with the same fate. Once out of people’s eyes, I grimaced at her. She let go of me, changed herself into a pair of trousers and I sighed as I watched the principal walk up to the mic and conclude the dance show.

I sat there, thanking my stars and my pins for not letting me meet with the same fate while at the back of my mind, I decided: Next time, I shall dance only after knowing the costume for it.     

Musings : #16

Sometimes we forgive, but don’t forget…

But what’s reality is that forgetting a terrible past is the beginning of forgiving…

Me as a kid: The Holi Misadventure

Happy Holi 2019

Holi is the festival of colours, which despite having the mythological victory- of- good-over-evil connection, is now more reputed as the festival of fun, joy and rain-dancing.

As a kid, it was my favorite festivity which would begin with me waking up in the morning; carefully taking out the coloured powders which me and dad would have raided from the roadside markets the previous evening; getting dressed up in a white frock and walking about with my neighborhood buddy splashing colours on anyone who would catch our glimpse. Before frolicking around, I and my friend would both be served a special flavoured milk and ladoos. Then we were allowed to run about till noon.

Fifteen years later, I am reminded of an incident which was obliquely related to Holi and was a total fiasco on my part.

It was a Sunday morning. Back then, when I had just started schooling, I had no idea when my school was closed and when it was open. All that mattered to me was that somedays, I would be woken early in the morning and other days I would be allowed to sleep till late.

I sat with my father watching the morning news headlines- I had the least idea what the reporter read on the television screen- but then I heard that lady in black utter “holi”day.

‘What did she say?’ I asked my dad.

‘Holiday’ he replied.  For some reasons, my mind decided to listen to only “holi” of “holiday”. I was aghast. Today was Holi and I was kept in the dark. We did not even go shopping for colours yesterday evening. It was already ten, only two hours till our curfew.   

‘Today is holi! Where are my colours?’ I hollered. In vain did my parents try to explain that it was just a Sunday for in the end, me and my determination of a four year old was unshakable.

And hence it was, my self-made off-season Holi in the scorching summer of May.

I ran out with bags full of the remnant colours of the last ‘actual’ holi. That obviously followed me being mad at mom and dad for not enlightening me with the upcoming holi owing to which I was devoid of any new colours. I was lucky enough to have watched the morning news which edified me with the “holi”day.

I waited in my garden, sprinkling some gulal on the bushes. An hour passed by. There was no sign of anyone, let alone my next door neighbor who could be seen gulping down a glass of milk in his front porch.

Milk- that special ‘Holi’ milk.

I waved at him. He waved back with a grin.

Come over, I gestured.

Why?, he maimed back.

I threw a handful of red powder in the air, hoping he would realize that it was already noon and we were missing out on a lot of pranks.

He looked at me quizzical.

Come over here with your water gun and bag of colours, I signaled.

He waved his palm at me, went in and came out, still wearing a black T-shirt, with no water gun.

I grimaced at him,

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Holi Hai!!!’ I smeared his face with a multitude of colours and he yelled back,

‘What holi? Today is not holi?’

His words had no effect on me, just like my mom or dads. This time I attacked him with my water gun.

He tried his best to explain that it was just a Sunday and no ‘Holi’ but in vain. My mom happened to pass by. She knew I had gone too far. Therefore, she pulled me in, right in front of dad’s eyes, ran out and apologized to my dear neighbor then came inside to give me a good dressing down.

That was a really important day in my life for that was the day I realized that “holiday” and “Holi” are literally two different words and a mix-up could be fatal. Otherwise, every other holiday would have been my festival of colours.