Roots

Guest Post By Supriya Javalgekar

I’m a rooted animal,

Almost a plant, one might say.

Watch others taking flight,

Feel a tinge of envy

Long for the skies unknown

For lands farther and greener

Admire their soaring glide,

Bird-souls fluttering from tree to tree,

Unfettered.

 

Weathering storms or the scorching sun

Sea breeze or the mountain wind

Dusty arid or the cover of green

Their wings don’t tire.

Searching for something new –

New nests, new feed, greener pastures or merely

the joy of flight.

I look up at the venturers,

The migratory folk.

I tried on their wings once.

Every flight, felt a burn.

A twinge of regret.

Yearning for home. A sense of loss.

The desire to return.

Then slowly, I grew new roots

(the plant that I am)

In a careless pause for solace,

Ah! The disunion within.

Roots here, roots there…

Uproot from where?

 

Where is home now?

I miss them. All the nests I lived in.

All the little roots I grew every-where.

All my divided selves

Will feel one.

Only when I’m back, finally back

To where I was

Planted, as a seed.

People Ruin Beautiful Things

Travel and tell no one, live a true love story and tell no one, live happily and tell no one, people ruin beautiful things.

– Khalil Gibran

She wore her pink earrings. The bright pink ones, that looked like tic-tac clips hanging from her ears. She wore her yellow kurta and her white leggings, her blue eyeliner and her red lipstick. And after she was done wearing everything she wanted to wear, she examined herself in the mirror.

Not bad, she thought, proud of her new creation. She enjoyed it, this intuitive mixing and matching of parts to create a new whole. It was the reason she enjoyed cooking; throwing ingredients together to create something unexpected.

She twirled in front of the mirror, appreciating how the clothes fit on her curves. Her mother would say she’s not conventionally pretty. But then Meera never wanted to be conventional.

“Are you done?” Mother had popped her head into the room. “They’ll be here any second!” She paused to give Meera a disapproving look, before rushing back to the kitchen. She had asked her stubborn daughter to wear something nice, something that would make her look beautiful and feminine. But Meera insisted on being her usual flamboyant self. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that”, her maternal instinct reared to protect her daughter from her own criticism. “They should like her for who she is.” The mother just wanted her odd child to be happy.

Meera was still admiring herself in the mirror when mother called her outside. She burst into the living room like a blast of air, to find a roomful of people staring at her. Taken aback a little by the sheer number of people (she’d expected 2-3) and the silence that followed, she tiptoed to the only empty seat in the room, right next to her mother.

Once she had settled herself comfortably, the questions began. How old was she? What was her plan for the future? (This one was asked by the boy) She turned to him with glittering eyes and a passionate voice and began talking about her hopes and dreams. By her third sentence she saw his eyes glaze over; a blank expression now stood in those intelligent brown eyes.

Meera’s voice faltered, unsure of what she’d seen. The woman to his right, presumably his mother, took this opportunity to ask the next question, cutting Meera off mid-sentence. “All that is fine beta. But you’ll be taking care of our son as well. We’re a modern family, so you can work part time if you want.”

Meera turned to the woman with creased eyebrows. “You can cook, right?” the woman persisted.

“No.” Meera stared defiantly into the woman’s eyes. Her mother suppressed a smile. Meera had made her decision.

Every question after that was met by staunch opposition, and obstinate denials for things that Meera could do, and did in her own house. And when that intelligent brown eyed boy tried to sneak in a question of his own, her eyes bore into his with a blazing defiance, causing him to stutter. Her mother observed the growing tension in the room with growing amusement, making no efforts to diffuse the situation. Her daughter seemed to have inherited her knack for making people uncomfortable and watching them squirm.

The outsiders could finally take no more, and politely announced the end of the meeting. Finally! Meera sighed as the guests headed for the door. “This is a good thing.” she heard an uncle whisper reassuringly to the boy’s mother. “She’s a bit fat for him, don’t you think?”

Meera headed for her room, and positioned herself in front of the mirror again. She took a long look at herself as she began to wipe the color off her lips.Her cheeks were a little too chubby, her kurta a little too bright, her body a little too big, her breasts a little too small. She smiled, as her critical eyes found fault in every part of her body. “People ruin beautiful things.”

Also published on Constellate Literary Journal

Home Bittersweet Home

After four years of living in a campus far away from home, of traveling between Mumbai and Pune, and of packing, unpacking and repacking my entire life over and over, I’m finally back home. And these four walls that I’ve been living in for two months a year finally feel like home.

Home is good. It gives you a sense of belonging. Of identity. It gives you roots so that you can spread your arms and try to reach the sky without a fear of flying away, or falling down.

Some people don’t need a home. Their search begins outside; other cities, other countries. They go to the mountains and the sea, looking for happiness and self-discovery. Then there are those who don’t have to look elsewhere. They go into their shells like turtles, and a little bit of soul-searching later, have all the answers they need. They are so in touch with themselves that they hardly need nature or the universe to tell them what they wanted all along. I like to think that such people are much evolved, and not so rare. Clearly, I’m not one of those people.

I’m a person who doesn’t know what type of person she is. When I come across posts where people are categorized into two types, I get supremely confused because I sometimes fit in both, sometimes in neither. Sometimes I need a little inspiration from the world to tell me what’s in my heart. Sometimes, I just need to close my eyes and ask myself a question, and I already know the answer. Sometimes, I can travel or soul search all I want, and still not be able to resolve the conflicts that seem to flail around in my mind. What I do know, however, is that I need a home right now.

And so I’m glad I’m back. Back in these four walls that I can finally make my own. Back in Mumbai, a place where I’ve lived all my life, and yet know nothing about.

And as I move here, I leave somethings behind; people, places and memories that will always remain a part of me. And as I begin my romance with Mumbai again, the word home becomes more meaningful with every passing day.

Mother Knows Best

The first time I heard (and saw) this song in Disney’s Tangled, I couldn’t help grinning like an idiot. How could someone so perfectly fit into a song the infuriating behaviour of mothers all around the world?!

Well they did. And it exists. Right here.

Now I’m not saying my mum is a villain. But there are so many similarities between Rapunzel’s ‘mother’ and my own! The criticism. The incessant nagging. The restrictions. The infuriating ‘mother knows best’ attitude.

This isn’t a post about mom bashing. Though I have been known to do that a lot!

Because there is one major difference between Rapunzel’s mother and mine. A difference that effectively sidelines all the similarities. My mum loves me, not just my hair. (Rapunzel’s hair has magical powers, which is why Mother Gothel keeps her around.) In fact she really doesn’t like my hair, but that’s not the point. Maybe if my hair had healing powers she would like it more. But it doesn’t, so she’s left with plain old me, void of any magical powers, and she loves me for me.

Mothers have this superpower, this ability to love you unconditionally. Whether you are the best and most obedient kid or a super-rebellious one, she will love you all the same.

I know what you’re going to say. People say this all the time. Why are you realizing this just now? What changed?

Well, I guess my attitude towards my mom changed.

Being a feminist, atheist and whatever else I choose to be, I am always defying the norm. And most of the times, defying my mom. (Just like Rapunzel defies Mother Gothel and leaves the tower!) I have always prided myself in being strong and independent and freethinking. In being whatever I am today despite the challenges life has thrown at me. Despite the restrictions imposed by society and *cough* my mom *cough*.

What never struck me before was the fact that my mom is reason for me being so strong and independent, and being able to face those challenges in the first place. She was the one who showed me how to stand up to bullies. She pushed me into music and dance, two of my biggest passions and talents today, to help me get rid of my shyness and become more confident. She urged me to step out into the limelight for the smallest of things. She told me I was meant for greatness. Lucky for me, I believed her.

This dawned on me with a new-found love for my mom.

Because now there is one thing I’m absolutely sure of. At  the end of the day when I come back to the tower after gathering the courage to leave it and see the world, no one will be happier or prouder than my mother.

And today I can admit, although I’m still cringing a little, mother does know best!

Home

How I wish I could be home for a day or two.

To laze around on the bed, and chairs and sofas too

To be encompassed in the glory of the all-pervading love

To be floating in the warmth of your own nostalgia.

Time travel – to childhood, to memories old and new

Search for the old ghosts of laughter and sorrow

Etched on the walls of the house,

Invisibly permanent.

Neither Here Nor There

Most of my friends from Mumbai envy me because I live on my college campus. They imagine what living in a hostel would be like; no family around to trouble or keep tabs on you. You have complete freedom to choose what to do and when to do it. And of course, living among your friends has its own perks; watching movies together, midnight birthday celebrations, and much more!

All of this is completely true. But with this independence comes responsibility. Taking care of your own food, health, clothes and living quarters (room) can be exhausting and can leave you feeling a wee bit homesick; especially if you have been sick for a few days. No one can take care of you like your mum does.

And so, having a couple of days off, I decided to come home for the weekend.

Every time I come to Mumbai, I can feel major changes happening around me; in the lives of my family and my friends. They change or grow as people; and I end up missing all the important moments. Be it birthdays or life-changing decisions, I’m not here to celebrate or support. There is a strangeness in the air; like these familiar faces belong to strangers.

Coming back to the weekend, I reached my house and felt a sense of peace and belonging. This is home. But it only lasted one night. Next morning the uneasiness was back, gnawing away at me as I asked my roommate if she was feeling better. You see, she had been a little sick. And suddenly, I wanted to be back here. I missed her and my other friends. I wanted to be with them on campus rather than here at home.

A question surfaced from the back of my mind; one that haunts me every time I make this transition between Mumbai and Pune. And sometimes even when I don’t. Where do I belong? Which place do I truly call ‘home’? Whether I’m here or there, I am missing out on a part of my life. How do I become whole again?