I made a list of things I need to accomplish.
- Start a fully functional blog
- Write more
- Learn to cartwheel
- Whistle like Amir from Rangeela
- Bind a book
- Stitch something
I have slid, in the past few days, on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. Now I
- Don’t forget to drink water
- Eat, please
- Take medicines
- Breath…count till 10
I don’t ‘write more’ because all cognitive energy (and physical) is spent in ‘breath…count to 10’. But I write today, from somewhere in the middle of “don’t share personal details on social media” and “when was the last time you let them tell you what to do” from a dingy corner of the lowest level of Maslow’s hierarchy where aunties use body shaming for conversation starters, where deodorants smell of candy floss (in a bad way), where sad songs play when you leave and where people have no pet names. I write from there about these uncomfortable black sandals an 8-year-old wore that made too much noise. I write, to get out of my head, the walk she walked in the empty night hospital corridors, banging heel on the floor loud enough to drown the screams she did not want to hear; harder and harder till heels hurt and ears hurt and the floor hurt; but just not loud enough.
My therapist told me to not be stoic. But I am stoic around a father who is stoic. I cannot ‘learn to cartwheel’ because all my energy is spent in protecting the protector. My stoic protector has his way of failing when he hugs too tight, for 3 moments too long, and pats on the back which is just stoic for ‘I know this sucks’. We lean on TV to let virtual people help us get over the embarrassment of almost-tears. And we watch Amitabh climb a commode and my father laughs. A splurge of warmth rises from the pit of my stomach as I hear my second favorite sound in the universe; the first is the sound of his hums of an off-tune old Hindi song. I laugh with warmth in my stomach as Amitabh describes his bowel movements. Happiness, like a stealthy cat, creeps on us from the back and I jump in surprise as it brushes against my ankle and cowers in the corner in fright. I imagine Manu Joseph smirk as he ruffles my hair and says “told you, cannot escape happiness, can you?”