The picture you see used to be the bookshelf at the foot of my bed, in my room, in my house. Now it houses my mother's crockery.
My wardrobe, which used to be stuffed with my clothes now has other clothes that look strange and out of place. I look around me room these days and feel a sense of alienation. I can't complain. I now have a house that will be personalised and made my own. But that doesn't cover up the inevitable sadness of being separated from my childhood.
I woke up feeling disoriented, again. It's still dark. Everything is very quiet. The bed feels strange. And yet I could hear the alarm ringing on my phone from some distant space. I spread my palms across the bed and started looking for it. The further my finger inched, deeper the disorientation.
And then I found it. The menacing, monotonous beepbeepbeep - beep beepbeep. And yet it was the relentless beeping that made me realise, I was to give a test to the grade 7 students today; carol singing practices were to be organized; I had to meet the Head Of School to discuss my leave in January.
My leave in January! Weren't the rings suppose to come today? What happened to the bag I had to buy for the trip? Have I called my college friends and confirmed if they have received my invitation?
More than the alarm these thoughts woke me up, nice and alert. I looked around. People were stirring around the house. I was walking to the bathroom door, when I happened to look at the time. 7AM! I'm supposed to be in school in half an hour! And so I scamper around, brushing teeth, picking out clothes, packing my lunch. All the while, mom would probably be rattling on about this and that that needs to be done. Half listening, and half praying that I reach on time, I step out of the house with half worn shoes. I usually finish wearing it in the lift.
Now here I am, sitting in the car with the slightly chilly morning air whistling through my ears and wondering if I'm going to wake up from this dream.
"First you dip your brush lightly in water and make light confident strokes on the paper. Then you dab your brush in colour and follow the water strokes." Your brush caressing the paper like a tender lover; colour swirling on the canvas, dancing to your tunes. I watched as your large fingers guided the small brush around with such dexterity that I thought your hand was shivering.
I watched as the colours trickled through the path you made for them. I gazed as shapes began to appear unwittingly.
I wondered how it would be to be the colour at the tip of your brush; to be gently guided across an empty dance floor. And then I'd dance. And when I'm tired, I'd rest. And as I rested, I'd become part of a beautiful landscape.
She sat with her feet crossed in front of her, staring at a blank wall. There was a lot to be done but this blank wall was too attractive. She decided she deserved to stare at the blank wall for everything that was done. Little did she know, the blank wall was built wrong and had been tilting all this while. She doesn't know it yet, but that wall is going to fall. And she won't know what hit her.
Bright round dark globes outlined by long curling lashes stared at me, transfixed. When I looked at them, lush pink lips parted into a smile that melted my heart. I couldn't help but smile back. Hands started flapping. The little pony on top of the head bobbed, resembling a silken water fountain.
"Hi!" I said, instinctively turning on the coochicoo lingo. "whoozis little girl! Such a pwetty fountain you have on your head. Wassyour name, baby?" The mother came into my line of vision.
"His name is Aakash. He's a boy." She smiled at me radiantly.
"Oh!" I said, "but he's got a pony." "Yeah. It's a genuine mistake."
Talk about gender stereotyping.
I'm still alive. Recent life events, that took place over the span of two years, have kept me from putting pen to paper...
Ok you know that's a lie. I've just been extremely lazy and moderately self depricating, to be able to write anything. And as always, unless it's perfectly beautiful and absolutely brilliant (in my own opinion of course) I won't put it out there for anybody to read. As a result, I gave up writing altogether because I couldn't begin to write (or complete writing) anything worthwhile.
So as punishment, or practice, as reprimand or redemption, I'm going to write crap. Everyday. Until I'm able to produce what I want to. I'm going to make myself write every little thought I have and read it; torture myself by putting my thoughts out there for everyone to read.
Wish me luck.
