Stories that demand to be told | #3
Marie Kondo would have fainted in my house. But aren’t objects fantastic for a child with imagination? Use your mother’s bangle to draw the earth, and you see a metaphor.
“I write because I do not know how to ask for help. Words open doors I am otherwise too inhibited to knock on. Solutions appear, people reach out, a conflict spelt out is one step closer to resolution.”
This is the third edition of Stories that demand to be told, a curated spread of the most evocative, resonant, real stories. Welcome to Ochre Sky Stories, a home for writers from the Ochre Sky Workshops, facilitated by
1. A Kitchen Made of Beetroot by
In fact, cleaning the house and washing dishes have become my go-to escapism tactics every time I face a wall I can’t move. I picked up this habit from Abhi, who would start cleaning the house when he didn’t get his fix of heroin for long. Once when he had ran out of things to clean, he opened the mixer grinder down to its smallest bits and cleaned it properly with a toothbrush.
It was perhaps the first time I had thought of Abhi in a long time. I wished he was there, so he could tell me how to open up the mixie and clean out what remained of my beetroot drink.
2. Five Things I Learned From My Son by
“Ladiye mat. Main sirf Khudahafiz karne aaya hun.”(don’t fight with me, I have only come to say goodnight.)
Sometimes it takes an entire life to learn how to love someone the way they need to be loved and not how we think they should be loved. My son teaches me how to love him little by little. In his opinion producing spicy food at the most inappropriate times is a good start.
I learn that hugs are necessary for life. “Eight hugs a day, Amma, no matter how much we fight. That is our quota.” I learn that quotas must be met.
3. Madras Summers by
During Madras Summers,
Cricket was played, windows were broken.
Six of twelve cousins formed Mass Mosquito Murderers for two days for enhanced mosquito vigilance and protection.
I arrived with Punjabi-accented Tamil and left with Tamil-accented Hindi.
We met people we were related to but didn’t quite understand how, including ones we became close to but insisted on calling them “unknown cousins”.
4. No one knows my name by
My name is Farah Naaz, and people have been slotting me in my partner's name for ages. It was International Women's Day on 8 March. Yet, a petition was filed in the Delhi High Court of India in the same month against a government notification that said a married woman needs her husband’s permission to use her maiden name.
Most invitation cards from friends and family are for Mrs and Mr Nabi; my resentment rises like the stink of the sewage pipe. Most days, I let these invitations slide into the dustbins. I know who is worth holding on to by just that line. It is like the Bechdel test, not for movies and books but for family and friends.
5. Above & Beyond: A journey with my fears by
The ochre sun peeked at me from behind the cliffs of Halong bay, there were birds that greeted me in parks of Saigon. I let the tears roll down my cheeks, at the overwhelmingly fantastic AO show at its opera house. I walked some more. When the waves of grief and joy splashed on my feet, simultaneously, I let them wash me over. On the last day of the trip, as I treated myself to one final massage, face down, I was glowing in a sated calm, fully present in the moment.
I finally believed, even as experiences are more joyous when shared, it was not impossible to do life in your own company. I wasn’t scared of myself anymore.
In the emphatic words, immortalised unfortunately by the tagline of a sugary-good-for-nothing beverage: Darr ke aagey jeet hai.
6. For Shakuntala Mohile, who was more than a grandmother by
She would sit there for quite a while, often lost in thought, her elbow resting on the balcony ledge as she watched the world go by. A quiet, thoughtful pause in her day before evening kitchen duties beckoned.
I loved to watch Aaji go about her routine when I stayed over at my grandparents’ place. She had a slow, meditative manner about her, in the way that she took on any task. Nothing could rush her. Whether she was buying something at the market, pounding fresh herbs to marinate fish with, or working her sewing machine in the afternoons, she seemed to be fully present in the moment, and on her own time.
7. Toasted Bread by
The only anomaly days would be when she had to go to the army canteen to get groceries or to the bank for administrative work. Or when any of her grandchildren visited during vacations. It was during one of those holidays that I learned to ride the scooter—her scooter. She would sit behind me, and we would go to McDonald’s. She liked the McAloo tikki. The happy meal cost 99 rupees then.
I wonder how living like that feels. The same day every day. Like fragments of time fused into a single stream, without a way of discerning one from the other. Like living the past, the present and the future all at once.
8. Freedom to hope, speak and write what we want to by
In May this year, I travelled from Pune to Mumbai and cast my vote. On a sweltering summer morning, I stood with the young and old citizens of a constituency that is an RSS stronghold. I looked around at the crowd of people forming queues and fanning themselves for some respite from the heat. We were all there, united in this quest to fulfill our democratic duty. We were there because that one vote was the only thing in our hands. The queue snaked forward slowly and an hour and a half later I could vote.
9. It is time the silent amongst us, speak up by
When we speak up, we might feel that we are speaking into a hollow, because that was the reality growing up, but as adults we have the power to walk in the direction of like-minded people. Those whose spirits feel harmonious to ours. Their voices strengthen ours. Their love keeps us warm. The only way to survive in this colonised world is to find spaces where we do not feel alone. If our families, existing friend circles, offices fail to offer that, then we have a chance to forge new ties. That is resistance to all forms of colonisation.
“The ideological project of hate thrives in hearts and minds. It is only in hearts and minds that it can be defeated. This is the most important battle of our age.” - Harsh Mander
10. Hopes from a homebody by
I go to the covered EVM corner before anyone can change their mind, press the button and watch the paper fall in, ink on my finger ... I am done!
I am full of joy now, with all the energy of my 19-year self. I video call R, then send him a sleepy selfie since he doesn’t pick up. I take photos of every flower in my garden, giddy with happiness and keen to relay it like only flowers can. ‘Voted successfully’ I message mum and sis, with the precision of a well-executed mission. I am home, I have voted.
11. Don't be stingy with love, for God's sake by
Love is teachers reaching out to speak to our essential self, beyond the subject they teach. Doctors and healers validating our pain and bearing witness even if they cannot do much to mitigate it. Writers and artists sharing their stories of struggle, loss and triumph, despite their inhibitions.
Love is friends returning to seek forgiveness. Messaging each other to let the other know we think of them much more than we manage to connect. They are not alone. They are loved. Love means validating each other’s remnants of childhood trauma.
12. The Right to Waste our Childhood by
Marie Kondo would have fainted in my house. But aren’t objects fantastic for a child with imagination?
Put two characters around an object, and you get an instant storyline. Use your mother’s bangle to draw the earth, and you see a metaphor. Objects are props around which kids and adults gather to make meaning or a story. It can be silly or profound. There is delight in unplanned, unboxed, unpredictable activity. There is beautiful influence of colours, shapes, and sounds.
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