(no subject)
i never have a subject. i suppose i should. here i am sitting with a box of manischewitz matzo crackers and sabra salads' version of "chumus" and wondering why i miss seder at Zach's house. no honestly its not the free wine. or champagne. or bourbon. or any of that since the fumes got into my nose and would not be dislodged. like this nagging feeling that i'm not doing all i could right now. to do well in school or meet people or get involved. this lethargy will not be serenely brushed away as i do with most of my nagging feelings. the ones that are quite valid and relocated away to closet marked "hindsight", where my mind returns sure enough when that confidence of mine (based on what? truth? devotion?) fails. inevitably.
my mother says to me: i am never wrong. i believe her. there is always an iota of truth to what she says, even if i disagree. i wonder why. i am going to be an incapable mother. i could never say that to my child. not because of the lack of a confidence. i could never believe myself. do i believe her because she is my mother? or because i cannot remember a single incident where she was truly wrong.
i miss my grandmother. she is sick, and unwilling to cure herself. i am not patient with people who don't trust doctors to the point where they won't take prescribed medication. or go out on the roof and walk, as she is supposed to.
the roof.
the roof is where i dream of falling in love. perhaps that's why i tend to look down. in calcutta i stand under the clouds that seem so close, a different girl. perhaps even a different woman. between the lines of clothes that are drying in the sunlight and the thousand colors of saris that hang down the buildings, never to be repeated again. this is where i dream, inhaling the smell of a city as ancient as history. a city that is living history. aren't we all?
here i imagine a wedding. not in a fancy hotel with chandeliers and mini samosa hor d'vours. i imagine a husband. a fire. a red silk sari, simple in its pattern, soft to touch, bordered only gold. no swarvoski crystals or gemstones. no jewelry. none. only a ring. golden. round. no stone.no makeup. vermillion powder. in my hair. only flowers, white tuberoses in my hair. it is the only thing that is fancy, this braided hair, exuding the scent of eternity.
i imagine a husband. clothed in white. leading me around this fire. there is no priest with his textual authority. no caste. no sexist elite, learned man telling me that "pati parmeshwar hai" or my husband is god. because he is not.
yet he says to me, in the tradition of the vows that my parents have taken, "You are my Lakshmi. my goddess of wealth and earthly fortune. without you I am nothing. Imy soul is nothing. i will worship you above all other women, be faithful to you and you alone."
And as we walk around this fire, i say to him, "You are Narayan, my only consort and love. i will follow you seven times around the earth. you are my friend, my lover, my only soul. i can belong to no other."
the roof. uncluttered. unceremonious. a window into the clouds, into dreams.
how i miss my calcutta.
how i hope to return and stay. forever.
my mother says to me: i am never wrong. i believe her. there is always an iota of truth to what she says, even if i disagree. i wonder why. i am going to be an incapable mother. i could never say that to my child. not because of the lack of a confidence. i could never believe myself. do i believe her because she is my mother? or because i cannot remember a single incident where she was truly wrong.
i miss my grandmother. she is sick, and unwilling to cure herself. i am not patient with people who don't trust doctors to the point where they won't take prescribed medication. or go out on the roof and walk, as she is supposed to.
the roof.
the roof is where i dream of falling in love. perhaps that's why i tend to look down. in calcutta i stand under the clouds that seem so close, a different girl. perhaps even a different woman. between the lines of clothes that are drying in the sunlight and the thousand colors of saris that hang down the buildings, never to be repeated again. this is where i dream, inhaling the smell of a city as ancient as history. a city that is living history. aren't we all?
here i imagine a wedding. not in a fancy hotel with chandeliers and mini samosa hor d'vours. i imagine a husband. a fire. a red silk sari, simple in its pattern, soft to touch, bordered only gold. no swarvoski crystals or gemstones. no jewelry. none. only a ring. golden. round. no stone.no makeup. vermillion powder. in my hair. only flowers, white tuberoses in my hair. it is the only thing that is fancy, this braided hair, exuding the scent of eternity.
i imagine a husband. clothed in white. leading me around this fire. there is no priest with his textual authority. no caste. no sexist elite, learned man telling me that "pati parmeshwar hai" or my husband is god. because he is not.
yet he says to me, in the tradition of the vows that my parents have taken, "You are my Lakshmi. my goddess of wealth and earthly fortune. without you I am nothing. Imy soul is nothing. i will worship you above all other women, be faithful to you and you alone."
And as we walk around this fire, i say to him, "You are Narayan, my only consort and love. i will follow you seven times around the earth. you are my friend, my lover, my only soul. i can belong to no other."
the roof. uncluttered. unceremonious. a window into the clouds, into dreams.
how i miss my calcutta.
how i hope to return and stay. forever.