shell-o-knee

[shell-o-knee]

Tonight I am Someone Else

It started out as a mild fever. Paracetamols and my mother’s constant fussing took care of it momentarily but as dreaded (by mother dearest, I was preoccupied) it made a dramatic comeback- like an overpowered hero in a painfully mediocre film. Makes one think all that clamouring of thaalis doesn’t rip the virus apart. Next door, Mr Bagga couldn’t stop puzzling over the same. “You must have not done the chants right.”, he concluded from behind the safety of his pathetic makeshift mask. Quarantine was in order, of course. That wasn’t much of a problem, I don’t think it was humanly possible to isolate any further than I already had.

When the news spread, courtesy of the platoon of aunties and neighbourly spirit, it became a commonly held view that the Singhal’s unstable daughter - the one who dyes her hair like a junglee, yes- the one wasting time by studying English, hanji hanji- the one who tried to meet her maker, tauba tauba tauba- was doomed. That is precisely when I started receiving calls for the first time in two long years. A small, awful part of me basked in the attention. 

Contrary to what one would expect, not much changed after the tests came out positive. Stalwarts of the Holy Cow union mass-consumed cow piss, the neighbours murmured, mother cried softly at night, I swallowed medicines and passed out for inordinate stretches of time. The usual. It was all anticlimatic till the day my lungs decided to shake things up a bit. 

It is when I lay gasping for breath that I started regretting my decision of refusing to become a chain smoker- if I had known I was going to end up wheezing like an old geezer in a cross-country one day, I might have as well sinned a little. Short-sighted woman.

My involuntary beatboxing stirred the whole household up. ‘whole’ consists of mother and a morally-obliged-to-check sister. It was extremely embarrassing to be wheeled into an ambulance for the second time in the short span of a year.

 We don’t talk about the first time. 

Ever. 

From what I could gather, there are two types of ambulances- the first type is always gleaming, blindingly well lit, posh interiors and beeping machinery; the second is akin to something Yamraj would drive- a suspiciously dented Omni with a brazen driver at the wheel, the trademark rusty oxygen cylinder of which was now thrust upon my self with excessive force. 

The streetlamps’ warm orange light refracted through the ambulance’s compact window, onto my arms. Orange, then briefly black. Orange, black. Orange, black. Day and night. Orange, black.

The next few days passed in a blur. I made a friend at the hospital on the third day. By the middle of the fourth, she was wheeled out on a gurney and the one at the end of the number on the blackboard was immediately replaced with a two. I cried miserably, more so on realising I did not want to die after all, than on her death. On the sixth day, I sounded a mental verdict that death in the midst of a pandemic would firstly do me no good and secondly, would simply not be poetic enough. There was also the bigger issue of mother being alone. I worry about her. 

It finally rained that day. The joy rains bring to Indians, in my opinion, is unparallel- except for that one time Neeraj Chopra grabbed a gold. To others, rainfall brings dread- too dark, too wet, too cold, thoroughly depressing. To us, it is unadulterated joy- dark but welcomed, cold but comforting, wet yet not enough till we are drenched to our bare bones. Rain is one of the leading factors that unite us, second to only cricket. 

On the eighth day, the squadron of aunties in the colony video called. Something about the multiple sets of empathetic brown eyes and furrowed brows made me tear up. Annoying as they are, I felt...substantial.

 Mr. Bagga visited. Dad called.

Mother never stopped sobbing. 

On the fifteenth night, she sobbed even harder when I couldn’t breathe at all. When it dawns upon one that that certain impending doom that was once sitting at a comfortable distance has sneaked up on you, a sense of panic grips you.  I lay there, terrified, choking, fighting. Alone. 

Alone till I saw my mother and the helpless father with a limp daughter in his arms outside the isolation ward. 

The father was begging for a bed. There were none. I counted. 

He was shaking the young savable limp daughter in the physicians face, still begging. There were none. I counted.

My worn-out mother followed my gaze, then looked back at me. Last stage of grief, briefly. 

I am many things- a burnt-out student, an ex-overachiever, that antisocial neighbour, the girl who tried to meet her maker, always my mother’s daughter, sometimes a friend, and seldom myself, but not tonight. 

Someone readied the chalk.

Tonight I am someone else. Tonight I am Dead and Gone, yes, but more importantly, tonight I am Hope.

PS- this is only and only for the sake of documenting my words. They might not mean anything to anyone but they mean something to me sometimes. Hehe!

[shell-o-knee]

Short story.

I know you’ve probably seen this story plastered across my Instagram but for the sake of safekeeping and to reassure myself that I have, in fact, successfully created literature and managed to float it on the inter-web where it will stay for a short eternity, here it is. Again.

The rays of the sun were roasting the asphalt covered road at a painstakingly slow rate. The gusts of loo only brought with them - like unexpected distant relatives - nasty dust particles and absolutely no relief. The road beneath was scorching away the soft pads of Silky's bare feet. She twisted them into the loose gravel, making crunching noises in the process. Her big, doe- like eyes held a distant look today - deprived of all mercy. A part of her wanted nothing more than to sit in the cool shade of a lush Peepal tree but the call of duty took the upper hand and could not be ignored - after all the boys (and Lolly, the only other female in the gang) were counting on their leader. She could hear the urgent pitter-patter of Lolly's lithe feet behind her. "They are coming Chief", she panted out with apparent worry in her voice. "Call the boys and assume battle formation", Silky growled out, not moving her eyes from the path ahead. Any acts of motherly concern and compassion for the worried girl were to be reserved for till after the brawl that was scheduled for this noon. The rival gang on the other side of the junction had snatched away her newborn baby by force two long years ago by taking advantage of Silky's deplorable condition. Two years she had stewed away in silence, planning and plotting, bidding her time with an almost eerie sense of calm and patience. Two years hence, as Rhamnousi, the goddess of revenge would have it, Silky had at her disposal, a "take or leave" opportunity to avenge the vile act and she was planning on "taking" it by the neck. All it took was a swaying member from the gang of the nemeses - highly narcotized on the leafy marijuana plants - ready to break the law of the land and claim glory for his boss. Silky had them by the hip and they knew it. The only way out was by fighting tooth and nail. Carnage was bound to take place today. "Any time now", Silky thought to herself. As if on cue, a low rumble, too low for an average human ear to catch, came from the expected direction. Her gang members behind her readied their stance - their noses twitching for any signs of danger. The weather itself took a mournful and funereal turn. The rival gang came riding in on clouds of dust, stopping right behind the junction - the no man's land. Silky's slick back fur glistened with oil and sweat. She locked eyes with the opposition's leader and let out a snarl. "Let's show these grimy sons of cats where they belong boys", she spat out. Steeling her back and letting out a long wolfish howl, Silky charged at the miscreants - not waiting to see if the the rest followed - thirsty for blood and vengeance. She was not called the "killing machine" for nothing. Teeth, blood, blows, claws, ripped fur and more teeth. Howling, yelping and biting continued as the afternoon sun bore witness to probably the most brutal gang war of Bank Street ever. Down the street and up the stairs, on the second floor; with his hefty textbook open on the study table, his hands clapped tightly on his ears and his eyebrows furrowed up with frustration, bespectacled Kittu let out a wail of annoyance. Shaking his fists, he cursed out loud - "Damn these stupid dogs".

I think this literary device is known as an anti-climax. As with everything in my life, I am not sure of this claim too. Anyway, if you think the ending is rushed, it has been done that way deliberately. If you think this story is highly unnecessary, you are right.

xoxo.

[shell-o-knee]

Why RuPaul’s Drag Race has my whole heart.

A crude entertainment series lacking grains of refinement one might expect in a show popular to this magnitude, RuPaul’s Drag Race is hands down one of the most interesting reality shows I have ever seen (albeit the list of reality shows I have watched is not quite long). The show, riddled with copious amounts of sexual innuendos, loquacious trans, gay or queer men and what might seem as unnecessary drama does tend to catch a first time viewer off-guard - especially one completely oblivious to the art of drag. I was lucky enough to know what the word drag meant in context of the show and thus was only taken aback so much. Honestly, the show and the participants seemed rather obnoxious and shallow to me; the hot pink workroom, the gigantic wigs, the exaggerated makeup really threw me into a - for lack of better words- cultural shock. 

Then what got me hooked on to the show? Fascination and awe. As I surfed through episodes after episodes of challenges, runway looks, critiques and individual stories my respect for these drag queens just kept increasing. That is not to say I didn’t respect them, their professional or social choices earlier - I am an undergraduate student who dyes her hair after every meltdown and posts questionable reels - I am as imperfect as a teenager gets; my respect grew when I noticed what went into being a drag queen and further in being a part of the competition - psychologically and physically. My mind was blown to bits by their death drops, their ability to sew (or hot glue) entire runway costumes in the mere span of some hours, their power to retain lyrics and choreographies speedily, their sass and their will to change the society’s gaze towards their community - not one thing short of being fierce.

Another emotional response that my brain subconsciously decided on when I first started watching the show was getting intimidated - I mean it is but natural to be intimidated right? There they are, in all their drag glory - perfect bodies and budankadongs, absolutely comfortable in their own skin, unabashedly queer with lustrous skins, insanely outstanding make up skills and dynamic personalities - and there I am, borderline depressed with mismatched socks. However, slowly but surely this feeling of intimidation waned away, giving way to a sense of comfort I never thought a show - some pulsating pixels on a screen - could bestow upon me. I was privy to their inside jokes (henny), I shook my fist at diabolical queens and shady jabs, I agreed with the judges on Monet X Change’s sponge dress being god-awful,  swayed to the lip syncs, got teary-eyed by personal stories of struggles of the queer community - I clicked my tongue at bad conturing, I used the same jargons as them, I audibility gasped at twists - in short, I was involved knee-deep in their diva business. The almost seizure inducing pink workroom and wildly coloured manes had grown on me to the point of me being unfazed by the ultra zoom in on Trinity’s tuck in All Stars season 4. As a straight Indian teenager, you’d think I would feel like a sore thumb sticking far out but somehow…I felt welcomed. There were no judgements, unless you were a competing queen or had really horrible dressing sense, it didn’t matter where you came from, what your sexuality was, how much money you owned or what skin colour you were born with - everyone was a part of the race fairly and squarely. 

 I have no proof to support if RuPaul’s Drag Race is different from its TRP-hungry contemporaries in context of being scripted right down to every word and mouldable to the will of the wealthy. Despite this lack of evidence, I cannot express in words how much joy it gave me to watch someone ELSE develop as a person, the pure unadulterated pleasure it gave me to watch people realise their dreams and to think, somewhere in a little town a closeted teenager or any human for that matter might be watching these queens and thinking what a beautifully crazy time it is to be alive. Boots the house down, mama.

Ps- Completely unrelated but this articles comes from my spontaneous outburst of love for drag at 3 a.m. If the article seems all over the place - that’s because it is. Cut me some slack people.