#also yea we watched what we do in the shadows together and got inspired thats how it is sometimes

[darby-drabbles]

Vamp AU updates from Darla’s visit so I remember all the good stuff but also I’m too excited not to share but doubt I’ll cram it all into the next drawing’s description:

Evelyn, Octavius, Ricky & Tatiana are all vampires in the AU now, while Avery and Nicki are now part of the AU as humans! Ricky n Tatiana belong to @duck-n-clover​!

Evelyn owns a goth nightclub/bar, with a secret (“secret”?) vampire underground scene, Ricky and Tatiana work there as well. Besides having to do a lot of important owner and manager tasks, she prefers to bartend more than anything. The club is occupied with 3 tiers, I guess. Humans who just like the vibe (they r valid), humans aware of the vampire community (usually wearing a subtle but unique accessory indicating if they're dtf/dtb(e bitten)) and of course the vampires themselves! Often marked with a blacklight stamp granting them into a vamp exclusive or vamp feeding zone! They may bring a human or unstamped guest into The Zone if they'd like, provided they know what they’re getting into. There’s another small room off of that featuring snacks, healthy drinks, and comfortable lounge furniture if any companions start to feel weak from the blood loss. The bar has a signature bright red cherry drink, to easily write off any possible stains or spills that could happen, though it’s usually dark enough in there and the crowd majority probably tends to wear black clothes.

Our vamps can transform into bats and also have an unrelated animal form they can transform into, though Evelyn just prefers to be a bat. She never really settled into one that feels right so jumps around, usually between common animals that won’t seem out of place. Dogs, cats and birds mostly. I don’t know when exactly she was turned but she stays very up to date on modern times, although she still sleeps in an old fashioned coffin when it’s not necessary. Is it just aesthetics? Or a reminder of when she was first made! A bit of both, most likely. Can’t stand sunlight for long, and isn’t really apart of a coven. She spends enough time around so many other vampires that it isn’t really a desire for her, though it’s true that she loves her friends and staff quite dearly.

Ricky is the entertainment/hostess buzzing around the club to make sure everyone is having a good time. However, she’s also a little goblin who may take a shiny piece of jewelry here n there, so, watch out. ;) Her animal form would be a squirrel. Can tolerate and indulges in human foods more than the average vamp. Tatiana is the security, and her animal form is a deer.

Evelyn meeting the whole crew because of the club isn’t really a surprise.. but I was trying to think what would make them so special to befriend out of all the other vamp covens she’d meet! I think what will end up happening is a little on the sad side but it’ll be fine.. Andre used to be in a no good spooky coven who Kinda left him for dead, then Levi Izzy & Lucky take him in and care for him, helping him get better slowly but surely. One night someone from his old coven comes back to the area, recognizes Andre at the bar as one of them and demands he come back. (Andre’s “branded” with a particular recognizable scar.)

Andre’s obviously upset and doesn’t want to, which makes the other guy mad. This of course draws attention, and it’s really not the ideal situation in the first place, but especially with some regular humans around. So while Tatiana does her job and tries to stop a fight and escort the bad coven out Evelyn also steps in to try and get the upset Andre to calm down, too. She takes him to a backroom until someone can come to take him home and they end up talking a lot while Andre vents about what happened. Evelyn blacklists a few vamps, and stays in touch with Andre n gives him special treatment next time he’s at the bar ‘cause boy has he been through a lot in this one. They are... buddies now.

Octavius was made some time vaguely between Andre and Nate/Kriss, but again, not 100% decided there. Was probably part of the navy at some point. Works at an aquarium now, just like in the regular universe. Can be out in the sun for stretches of time, long enough to get to work and retreat into the darker undersea exhibits for most of his shift without getting too drained of energy. Tries to keep up with the latest technology but looses himself for a bit and is always a little behind with things. Met Andre at the club and shares a bite to eat (*winks*) with him. (They were both thirsting after the same guy and his blood, is what I mean.) Andre’s a bit territorial? but eventually softens enough to get familiar with Tavey, bringing him back to the Vamp House to meet and befriend the rest of the mix n match. His favorite animals are of course octopuses... but you can’t always swing that transformation, so he defaults to a mastiff dog sometimes!

Avery is Andre’s human familiar, helpin him with daytime tasks n things. Kinda helps the whole mix n match if they needed anything but most of them can tolerate the sun for at least a little bit of time. Avery is just fine not becoming a vampire, seems like a messy life. Just picked it up as an odd job at some point! They definitely met the gang after Nathan and Kriss get turned, and maybe even close to when Nico was born!

Haven’t thought of Nicki’s role too much but she’s gfs with Evelyn still and might work at the bar as well. Definitely knows they’re all vampires, don’t worry!

[limpblotter]

“Bringing Home Ham”

This is going to be a three part introduction to what might turn into a full fledged Tumblr-base Hamilton (and other musical inspired) fanfiction. I wanted to keep going but I as nearing 2000 words and decided to break it up, see how I feel…idk I had this really vivid idea how the cat and Alexander, the modern day and all sorts of stuff. So this is my take on it all. I will include rating and themes as I post. As of right now, its as safe as you can get lol. No trigger, no smut, no cursing. (Enjoy, comments are greatly appreicated and desired) Cast: Martha Washington, George Washington, Marquis de Lafayette Word Count: 1,962 Part 1 , Part 2 Setting: February 2017, New York, New York Themes: Hamilton, sitcom-ish themes, possibly other themes ___________________________________________________________ “What am I doing?” George breathed through clattering teeth. It was easily below freezing now. The snow was not light, fluffy cinematic perspiration. He was tired. A part of him could not believe he was out in the middle of winter looking for a damn cat. He had trudged through hard, crunchy snow covered sidewalks for about six blocks. He was getting less and less hopeful he was going to find this cat. Was he going to retreat? Probably, George didn’t want to catch his death…surely there was some other way he could make it up to Martha?  He paused by a dumpster near a busted street light. Perhaps it was fate working its strange ways, he convinced himself as he texted Lafayette that he was returning home without the cat. Before he could wait for a response something breezed by him. His instincts kicked in, the moment a figure brushed past him. His entire body lurched away from whatever it was before it could touch him. The figure ducked behind a dumpster and didn’t move from its shadow. “Hey!” George glared at the shadow, just as he turned back around the familiar flashes of red and blue blinded him for a second. He held his hand over his eyes as the lights died down and a figure marched out of the car. “George?” A tall, lanky looking man smirked a bit. “George Washington, well I be damned!” He brunette walked over holding out his hand. “Its been …fuck years.” It took Washington a second to realize who he was talking to. In his defense, the last time he saw this man he was a young recruit at George’s retirement party. Now he was a full fledge officer on the force. “Henry Knox.” He smiled taking the hand in a firm grasp and giving him a solid shake. “I haven’t seen you since…05? 04” He chuckled. “Patrolling?” Knox shook his head. “Yea, I got a call from the library turns out some dunce stole some books from the shelves and made out with them.” He shrugged. “Some goon kid no doubt. Really not worth my time if you ask me, but I gotta make that quota. A night in jail should shake him up.” There was a sinister smirk on the man’s face. George’s spine chilled, this was not the line of work he enjoyed. Watching as men only filled quota, not taking the time to make good judgment. Sure burglary is wrong but clearly at this level it was hardly worth scaring a boy half to death. Still… George felt his old honor egg him on to check the dumpster. Instincts told him the kid was that thing that ran by him, no doubt. “So how’s the wife and you’re little African kid.” Knox spoke casually. George’s eyes hardened. “He still part of that charity you and your lady do right?” “Martha and Lafayette are fine. Actually Marquis made the honor roll.” He paused. “He’s our home-stay transfer student from France. He’s French.” George corrected him trying hard to keep his cool. “Honor roll?” He was definitely surprised now. “Damn I should send you my kid, I can’t get him to pass a class for the life of me.” Knox rolled his eyes. “Its all about the parenting.” George smirked a bit, letting his small jab sink in. Knox’s face was no longer amused as he walked back to the car. “Well, if I see anything, I’ll let you know officer.” There was no way he was going to tell Knox now. No way no how. He watched as Knox drove off and once he was out of sight he turned to the dumpster. “Come out kid.” He commanded, crossing his arms. “I know you’re in there, some get out before I drag you out and right to that cop.” George waited patiently. Seconds later there was some shuffling as the figure came from his hiding spot. George looked down and noticed he was looking at a long haired, somewhat short…kid with olive tone skin, half lidded eyes and dressed in a light jacket probably freezing. He did notice the bag he was carrying and wondered what else he had. “Why didn’t you turn me in?” He commanded his eyes not on Washington at all. He was looking off to the side, hands in his pockets trying to keep warm. “Because I didn’t want to kid, at least not to him. I have other friends who can pick you up.” He spoke glancing at his phone. He watched as the boy started looking side to side, looking for an escape. “Stealing hm? Thats quite the crime but I have to laugh” He smirked. “What?” “Why did you steal books.” “Cause I wanted to ok? Is there a fucking problem, OLD MAN” He hissed, watching George just outright laugh at him. His light tanned face heated up in a deep red color but he made no moves to leave now. He grabbed his straps a little tighter. “Now, why are you upset?” He snickered a bit, the kid had some nerve. That was something George could entertain. He didn’t …feel like a thug. Twenty years on the force and George knew what he was looking for. The kid looked clean, he was anxious, he didn’t look like someone who was used to stealing or at least didn’t like it. “I’m not.” He looked to the side, upset, his lower lip quivering from the cold and nothing else. Nothing. Else. “Its alright you want to steal, its easy but it is also illegal…why do you want books anyway?” “None of your business, old man.” He paused for a second. George wasn’t taking him in so many he could play nice and get home before he turned into an icicle. “I don’t have a library card ok.” “Son…” George felt the laughter bubble up again. “I’m NOT your Son.” He felt his anger bubble up. He wasn’t usually angry but god he couldn’t stand being made fun of. “Look all you have to be is eighteen or have an adult, a parent or someone sign for you.” He spoke, his smile died a bit when a sudden flash of emotion came over the kid’s face. A certain…color of defeat colored his eyes as he looked off to the side again. This time not to avoid eye contact, he was looking off…somewhere to something that only he could see. “Well, I don’t have either of those requirements.” He frowned. “Dad split, mom is dead and my cousin OD’d in his bodega a week ago. So…” He shrugged. “I’m up shit’s creek without a paddle.” George scanned his face for the lie and got nothing. He was telling the truth. Washington felt something in him change as the boy spoke. “And you’ve been out here for a week? I’m sure you have other family.” He watched the teen shake his head. “Foster care?” “Yeah ok, those losers haven’t even noticed I haven’t been in school for days. I’ve been out selling what I can to get some cash to make it through the winter.” This kid wasn’t living, he was surviving. Everyday was a chance battle to find food, steal and make a profit. George saw this boy was much older than he seemed but even that couldn’t protect him from the merciless winter of New York. He could tell this kid was cold and perhaps even hungry. He was small and Washington couldn’t tell if it was natural for him or the fact he was out on the streets. With that, George took off his scarf and handed it to him. “I don’t need that.” He immediately retorted. “Why are you giving me this?” “You look cold” George answered. “And if you’re hungry my wife made roast, I’m sure there is some left over.” He held out his hand. “I can take you home, get you some food, maybe help you find a place to stay.” He could pull some strings with the police, use the search engine to find other family anywhere in the country. The kid looked at his hand and then at his face. “Catch is you give me your bag.” Washington didn’t know what this street kid had on him. He didn’t look like a thug but he had a family to protect. Whatever he had in his bag could have been a weapon or drugs. Something he would not risk Martha and Lafayette with. After a minute or two of deliberating, the teen shivered, the cold deciding it for him. He shrugged off his bag and handed it to George who found it heavy. He was a man that kept fit but the bag had to be close to seventy pounds, he noticed the straps were barely together. “What’s your name, kid?” “Alexander Hamilton.” He muttered softly, Alex looked up and noticed he had probably said it too soft and opened up his mouth again. “My name is Alexander Hamilton.” After getting his name the rest of the walk was silent and awkward. Alex was worried that he was getting into a bad situation, what if George was a drug dealer or a pedophile…but a warm bed was all he needed. He was not throwing away his shot at a shower either. George on the other hand had a lot on his mind. Like how to tell his wife he was bringing home some strange kid. Hopefully she would still be upset at him and in the room so he could have more time to think. “Here we are.” He smiled back at Alex who was looking around at the nice home. He whistled feeling a bit impressed. The door opened slowly, George turning the key so slowly that the click was muffled. Just as he managed to get it cracked open it was jerked open from the other side. “George, bless your damn stars!” Martha jumped at him, wrapping her arms around his neck. She was practically hanging on him. George quickly dropped the bag and held her up, slightly dumbfounded and entirely nervous. “What were you thinking going out there in the cold over some cat!” She wanted to hit him for being so foolish…and terribly kind. “Look George there is something I want to say…” “Me first.” He gently placed her back on her feet and backed up, from behind him Alex poked his head in and frowned. “Can we come in? I’m still freezing my ass off out here.” He moved around Washington and glanced at Martha. At first glance most people didn’t know how to take her vitiligo but Alex didn’t stare for long. “Where is your bathroom, Mister?” “Down the hall to the left.” George instructed then turned back at Martha who was left, staring at Alex as he waltzed in, her mouth opened. “I…might have lost the cat but I found a kid.” “George…” She began looking up at him still confused. “Look I know, its insane but he was homeless and cold.” He began. She opened her mouth to speak again and he kept going. “I couldn’t leave him in the cold, he said he had nowhere to go. He was stealing library books of all things. No doubt this kid has no street sense…” George couldn’t imagine how Alex managed to even survive a week out there. Martha’s eyes softened a little. “I’m going to call a favor, see if Greene can run his name or Social in the database and find him another relative somewhere… He’s got none for now…” “So we’re keeping him?” Martha smiled. “...he’s not a pet Martha. We’re keeping him until tomorrow and I’ll find him a real family, his family, he can stay with.”  

[11toe11-blog]

Horsewomen

  May i enter. Quietly. For insight. And take back nothing but truth.

____

I sit here waiting. 

I sit here waiting for you.

This is uncomfortable. This is actually a rather unsettling feeling. My breathing is no deeper than my upper chest. I am distracted. I want some distraction. Watch something nonsensical. Eat. Eat plenty. Something to comfort me. This sense of hunger, of not being full, no matter what i am putting in - from the healthiest to the junkiest. 

He wants to mute me.

He is making pulao and raita. Just what i need maybe. Maybe with that i’ll be satiated. Calm this restlessness. 

Weight on the chest. Cant go, oh damn! on it. Just watch it. Even if i spent the last month and a half working this weight off. 

Actors freeze writers block.

Dont i have anything to write? After steam rolling for a week.THe point when i assumed things would come together into a giant revelation?

Breathe into the belly. Reach out from formula. 

“What do i mean by…”

I miss. I miss kalari. Its a fact. I miss. I miss thiru. I miss. I am a miss. I am amiss, between a miss and a missus. 

Something in the face sharts shifting. Music is hindustani. Kishori amolkar he announces, informs, sticking is head out of building pulao.

Watched S’s viva. As she discussed body widsom as the maker and keeper of stories, and the source of the individial truth and meaning making process we all search for.

Watched Su’s body leave her home of 85 years. Watched Su’s body after her spirit left its home of 85 years. He brows were tight together, as if frozen amidst a painful exercise to recall something. 

Mid sentence, mid building he walks over for the hug, hug of reconciliation, hug of understanding, a hug to acknowledge, a hug to reassure - one of us, both of us. 

A death happened. 

Finally. After a dance on the edges that lasted almost 2 years. I remember sitting in the room with my therapist as art of the Art Therapy studies, and role playing with a strange dream, where i was arguing with R and having some experience of the Buzz road first floor centered around my possessions- why it cant be moved or something and his friends being around and me feeling alientated; while down in the ground floor abyss, the dreamer was distinctly aware of death waiting. The house didnt quite look like this, but was the same. In a way that spaces rearrange them selves in dreams, an additional corridor there, an elevation somewhere else, a door connecting two opposite ends of the house directly. 

I dont know her at all.  I have barely spoken to her more than a few handful of times in the 4 years that Buzz road has been my home. And none of the conversations have lasted more than a few minutes. She was a fine looking thin lady. Who i was told was a shell of her former robust self, and had alzheimer's setting in. So the main door, which is the common entrance to all the three floors had to be locked early enough. She would have anxieties otherwise. 

Nothing too loud or boisterous. 

Its never been loud or boisterous at buzz road from the time i have known it. Maybe when i got to know it, it was around the time it had gotten contemplative, retrospective, nostalgic. With not enough energy to hold the heightened states of merry making and large groups splashing their vibrance around. But finding them quietly in the folds of memory, back and forth, and reweaving them, alone. 

I came into the quiet buzz road; a buzzing road thats quietened now, i realize.

 People were talking about the sheer energy she possessed. I can imagine. Even when the last time we exchanged pleasantries, as i walked to junk the compost into the new compost pit we had going in the back yard, she was clear in her gaze, her glance inspire of all the tubes running out of her.  Was that the last time she saw me? Or when i had my lungi pulled up, carrying the water cans to the first floor. I had put on an effort to be myself, anticipating judgements for my hairy legs, or my unconventionality inspite of my desperate attempts to fit into the conventional. Whatever conventional means.

I now wear diamond earrings to honor a memory. Of someone i have only met in books and ideas. WHo would have thunk!

He comes over from the pillars of pulao. Share a few grains of his memory. 

The sense of community he is experiencing at the moment - in the virtual world with the responses that came in response to his tribute to her, -in this space, with his cousin who he felt he had nothing in common with. A point he always kept making. Until now, when he seems to suddenly have noticed a shared childhood. He accepted his cousin’s invitation to be there on the 10th and 13th day and was touched by the gensture, though he trailed off  a “my beliefs are my own” as he made his way back into the kitchen.

From the kitchen he recounts and as kishori continues to inspire the pulao, how his aunt took him to the hospital after his infamous fall off the rockface, he had managed to get back home pushing his conked motor bike before fainting in the loo with a shirt soaking in blood. Quite dramatic. This bit of the story is new to me. I knew of the fall. And the 7 stitches. I didnt know she featured in the story, which i imagined to be the grand fall that shook the 3 worlds and its from that impact on the earth that i was born. 

He was 18. My parents copulated. 1983.

This is quite a nice start to the mythical story.

What is this sentimentality? I am not a sentimental person. Sensitive yes. Sentimental? Not really. 

In all senses i am aware of the fact that death doesnt mean anything. Other than the change of the playing scene.  For the person who dies. Atleast for most people who die. A change of play for the actor. 

For the co-actors, yea its awkward. Suddenly, the improvisation has new energy, an unknown. Space available for new possibilities. 

Also a sense of a loss of the playing dynamics, which has to be refigured in new context. 

Thats all death is. 

And i myself must be dying in a million ways in the million multiverses, never mind “the other” dying. The infinite stages strung together and the actor playing out the infinite possibilities of each second. 

The thought of him dying was obsessive,for last two years. Its only of late that i have been able to relax. Otherwise it was a high alert since his tryst with the fissure and bp. I would be up at night watching and monitoring the deapth of his breath as he snored on. The thought of him dying and the paranoia that set in was a pattern repeat of the tightly controlled panic I experienced regularly as a teenager when my mother came home wheezing and we spent the whole nights praying and trying to help her get some relief. With no one else to turn for help.  Sheer holding-on to the the caregiver, protector, provider. 

Sheer holding-on as the intermediate caregiver, protector, supporter.

Today i am lot more relaxed. The pattern that was triggered two years ago has eased. It gave a sample of the minefield of triggers that lay dormant in my mindscape. 

Last night when he spoke of his will, after the initial reaction of sheer panic setting in, and then watching it pass, i was able to engage in the conversation - who should the bangalore house be left for? A. She has plenty in her name already. What about AV? Wonderful idea. He is a lonewolf with a strong sense of community. And will find some meaning and continuity, “make something with it, share it”.

Pondi house is for me. 

There is no house in pondi yet. There is land in pondi. And our dreams for the home. Our mutual curiosity of this human instinct,  nesting. What does it mean to make a nest with someone - which is neither his nor mine, but ours. 

Pondi house is for us. 

Its ours. 

Quite fitting for the closet romantics that we both are.

Such a relief this sentence gave me. Pondi house is for us. Its ours. 

What a burden it seems to be lifting from my shoulders. 

My self image  moves, glides past the harshly lit railings where it was held prisoner by my critical self - ever questioning my intentions of  initiating and insisting on insisting on a home in pondicherry. Is it greed? Is it the easy way out? Are you in this for the money?

To something lit with a much softer glow of depth and wisdom. And love and respect. 

Ustad Ali Akbar Khan takes the manch. 

Nobody else may understand this. But we do. You and i, do.

That ours is a dance of light and shadows. We love and hate. Trust and mistrust. We make love with the enemy. Sleep, cook. Learn to trust. Love. The historical “ other”.

Far from Romeo Juliet. Far far from it. Infact, it probably starts where SSpere left off. 

Imagine in play space: Romeo is reborn. Some 20 years ahead of Juliet, who was stuck in a limbo in some portal. And they finally meet. And there is nothing in the way- no warring families, no borders, no jealous friends, no helpful friends either - there is nothing helping, there is nothing standing in the way - except themselves. And all their assumption and presumptions.

“oh! I dint realize you were so obsessive.”

“Oh! I didnt realize you had such a nasty streak”

“You dont listen”

“This is far from the ever after i imagined”

Well, as i write this i suppose this is following the graph of every relationship there is. Nothing unconventional here. Inspite of all our ideas and stories of how unconventional this is.

Also, we arent really gear shifting because we have no kids.

Am i ok with that? Not having a child? Yes. In many ways. It will be nice to have someone to shape and mould and protect and spoil. But when i imagine, i dont think i will be doing something very different from what my mother did - circumstances and conveniences may be different - but the structure is the same - shape, mould, protect and spoil and love - with different degrees of ingredients - but still a replication of the process. Thats what nature is best at, no? Replicating. I dont want to do that. I can see past that temptation. 

A cat will do. Or a squirrel. Or a raven. Or a garden lizard, according to him.

Coco.

One coco gone from the terrace. So many coco’s playing around in the goundfloor garden. 

Sleepy. 

Call with K is postponed to tomorrow. 

Project Objex continues to delvelop and offer rich insights offline. Though the thread is held online. No, The thread is seemingly held online.

I find myself pretty uninteresting at the moment. 

Stitching classes with mom is nice. Nice is a strange word. And a strange word is what i need to describe it. She is clear and simple. With sketchy camera angling skills. But in her area of expertise, she leaves me with no room for doubts or confusions. Reminded me of how she used to teach me as a child. I remember she used to say a thing only twice, if i made her repeat a third time, i would get whacks for not paying attention. And now she seems to be the epitome of patience, as i also notice my child self coming to the fore, to provoke and test, with disinterest and wandering attention and confusion. She holds the thread with such firm clarity and patience, that i notice the child self dissolving away, making way for me to inhabit the present. In the beginning, 15 minutes into the session,  i noticed fatigue and disinterest and irritation setting. And by the end of the class i was clear and inspired and received the information she was clearly trying to transmit. I notice myself eagerly summarising all that i understood at the end of the session. Satisfaction and closure for her. And for me. 

All that the giver has to give, needs a taker. 

So that the giver can give fully and completely. And be free. 

I feel when i am listening to my mother, i feel i am also simultaneously receiving from my grandmother. A line of women who understood cloth. And clothes.

A line of women, who were a few generations ago not permitted to cover their breasts, fashioning the most interesting and quirky ways of covering and revealing. 

A line of women, some of who also sliced and placed a breast or two at the altar of life unlived.

A life of women who may have forgotten the joys of sun and wind and rains on naked breasts.

For me to understand R, i had to bring it closer to home. Last night the news of his aunts passing, meant that the inevitable event of his parents passing is clearer in the minds eye. I wouldnt have understood it, if i hadnt played out the scene of mom passing. And i notice that i keep telling myself that i will hold it together, like a stoic -like the stoic. Though the physical sensation is of a collapse a caving in. Like it matters. As if what matters is how i respond to it.

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden disappearance of an actor...

Ashwini BIde Deshpande takes the mach.

The transformer catches fire. In a way that i have never seen it catch fire before - with a big long sideways trialing flame. And abruptly stops. WE gather candles and he goes to alert the watchman to make the calls to the electricity board. And i wonder if its a hello from the other worlds.

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden appearance of an actor...gentle drizzzle 

And its true. In an improvisation, a sudden disappearance of an actor...and the only thing that matter there is how you respond to the moment, to the change in space, how i respond to a new space.

He does the tadka, a vertical flame lover the ladle he uses for tadka.

We are such theatre.

But why is our sensation of it so mundane and unheightned. As if there is no audience. 

The sense of audience , of someone watching is what has fuelled most of the adventures in life. Like on is at once living at writing ones autobiography, and featuring in a biography, all at the same time. The vantage of the witness. Is what inspired this whole era of camera and film and now virtual.

Very many ways of the mirror.

The vantage of the inner witness. Makes me relax a little, teeny weeny, into the belly. The breath is quarter an inch deeper.

What was the word that mom used for leaving a little extra provision of cloth - side something...let me check the book. Not side - seam. Seam Allowance. At least i got the first alphabet right. S.  Mom and me have a long way to here, i see.

I didnt realise or register that R’s aunt used to play male roles in the play. She was an actress.  I didnt know R’s very married aunt was happy to flirt with the handsome doc while R was getting stitched up from his fall. But around her, knowing that she lived down stairs, and  maybe from the kind of home she lived in and her seemingly very traditional exchanges with people around her, I shrank. I felt I would be judged for not fitting in line with the expectation of a space. Walked past her awkwardly, pausing only for pleasantries. Not visiting her in her room as often as i could have and as often as i wanted to even, for the strangeness of the exchange. 

Nor having the balls to suggest playing some classical music to her. Some respite from the dreaded TV. 

Did i judge her illness or her age or her wealth?

Made it all about me?

Wanting to listen to music quietly together with a practical stranger at her bedside, we must share some language no? Some connection had to have happened. Some step one and two had to be crossed to find that step three. Or could i have straight have jumped to three? Long and short, that want, which kept appearing as an image, i believed was a response to her experience of intense loneliness. And my helplessness. 

Which is understandable, one of the first descriptions of her from people who knew her was how social she was -how she was surrounded by friends. Yet in the past year and a half she saw no one except  the nurses who were with here round the clock, her children, daughterinlaw, sister who regularly visited and maybe us once in a while and her, and occasional visits from her nieces and nephews. Watched plenty of TV. And went in and out of a hospital. And lived in looping memory. Ate mostly from a tube. The dabba that formulas came in we now use to store flowers for the pooja room everyday. 

I would have really liked to go and sit and listen to her, her  stories. But i didnt have the balls. What if she rejected me. I would take it very personally. I would be very hurt. 

Because i kept dancing on the brink of the rejections. Dreading rejections from R, from friends, from peers, from the kalari. That i so intensely yearn to belong. 

And so imagining that possible rejection, and a cruel word - i never made an effort. Even when i wanted to. 

Just before she left to the hospital the last time round, I didnt go into her room. Walking past the gesture of one of her nurses to come in - justifying it mentally with “not wearing a mask”. Maybe i was arguing a lot with R and had no bandwidth for the extended family at the moment. Maybe when i argue with R i see no reason why i live here. Maybe when i am arguing with R, i feel I dont belong here. And my whole presence here is a lie. And i dint want her too catch my dishonesty of intentions, of superficiality. My fears.

I have often been plagued by the feeling of helplessness here at buzz road. Much lesser now. This round of our stay has been far more hands on, “empowered”, and with room for changes and play of dynamics. Me allowing myself to do the things i feel like doing at the cost of being “seen”. 

Noticing caste encoded in the body memory. Because i have no lived memory of it. My earliest association with identity is being told by my father that i had “no caste, no gender, no religion”, i was human and a girl as equal to any boy. 

Why then did i feel my space shrink here? Did i subtly read your judgments without even noticing it? R tells me that you singled out your daughter for her dark skin. Not moer than half a shade darker surely, because i didnt at all notice any color variations in your skins; you all looked like you were from the same family and that was it. Is that why i feel great kindship with the people who work here - because i unknowingly somewhere by the color of my skin maybe they judge me as one of them?

So there is a story of rejection here that i picked up from the space and wove into my story.

Kabira khada baazar mein

Mangey sabki Kahir

Nahi kahoon sey dosti

Nahi kahoon sey bair

I spent an hour faffing to escape finishing this page. Because it doesnt seem to be getting over. One think is linking  to the next and then to the next, faster than i can write. 

Or want to write.

I can let go. 

Yes. 

I can let this go. 

I dont have to hold on to it like the bag that L and I tugged between each other other over compulsion to be the ideal daughterinlaw/good samaritan.

Lets me just summarize to myself that today i glimpsed the family, this group of people bound together by blood relations, a lot deeper than i ever have. I noticed wounds, as much as i noticed bonds. I noticed bonds, as much as i noticed wounds.

And i have no idea how i walked into this story, which seems to be an epic in itself with my own sense of great mythical journeying. I want nothing from them except peace and resolving and healing of wounds. 

And thats what seems to be happening.

No one is counting all this work we are doing in the GDP. I always liked micro economics over macro economics.

Something. 

Sleep

___

I gently close the door behind me. Notice the skin a bit shirvelled from time spent a touch too long in war. Thank you for keeping me safe in your waters. Thank you for the waves.