christmastime.

 tis the season of giving. alas, i have nothing left to give. i pick the flesh from my palms and string them with ribbon. merry christmas dear.

sometimes i wonder if i am simply a product of all that happened to me. that seems like a bad marketing strategy. 
sometimes i fear that there is no story to me without the pain. the tapestry of my misfortunes has started to look exaggerated. 
sometimes i think it would be easier to live if i could explain better. if my words did not melt in tears.

anxious attachment. disorganized attachment. a distorted caregiver relationship. 
these diagnoses have started to feel like a sad justification. a pathetic attempt at an excuse.
-

kolkatan streets have been furnished for the christmas month. on the bus ride home i pass by peddlers on the street, their counters full of santas. all plastic. all orange. all jolly. the plastic is very off putting. very neon to the eye.

it is strange to see the natives feeding off of a holiday that does not even belong here. 

reminds me of my younger sister.
her crackling brown skin.
how she peels her golden off for a detergent sort of white.
i disagree with how she adapts to the ways of the shapeshifting.
ones that beg for blood to colour their skin with.

it may sound crude.

but it felt like a betrayal, when the daughter brought up on the fertile lands, on coconut water, idolised a flag which which did not belong to her.

or maybe i am the fox. unhappy that i did not get the grapes.

the grapes must be sour anyways.

how hypocritical of me.

-

an orange peel shell sits on the window sill of the bus. it seems so unbothered with the ticky tacky that makes up this life. 
the girl seated next to me smiles at it.
i ask, " what ?"
"ah, nothing. it sounds silly when i say it out loud."
tsk. 
"tell me anyways."
she gazes at the shell with a sort of a tired longing.
" the peel just sitting there tells a story. a story that someone has lived here. lived another day to peel the orange, to eat it and leave it there. i don't know, but that seems so special. another souvenir that tells you that life is just happening, you know? without the orange peel, this would just be a bus. life can be so beautiful."

in that moment
in that silence 
for the first time
i saw the girl 
through all her layers.

"hah, i told you it's silly. anyways did you-"

-

sometimes i refuse to get off the seat. whether it is a swing seat with a cranky child leaning against the swing poles, or a bus seat. i liked the feeling when someone asked me. begged me. it gave me a miniscule amount of power over them.
i hated when people got bored and left me swinging on my own.
if only they had asked and asked and begged me for my seat.

i have started to butcher that ego now. slowly separating its guts and its head and its feet.
as one does, of course.

it felt different waiting for the seat. asking for the seat.
i've always just gotten it. one way or the other.
asking for it seemed so
low. 

my ego screams from the slaughterhouse as i walk and resolve my fears. 
i stand in front
and apologise.

at that moment none of my words looked pretty.
they ooze out looking revolting. repulsive. half eaten.
but then there is rain.

it rains for a long time and i sit on the road without an umbrella.
both my tears and the rain watered the earth that day.

-

she says she cannot paint.
yet her palette holds a brown that holds all the secrets nobody tells.
a tan that houses an eternal cold.
a rose that hides. that gives. that heals.
a white that floats in the background when we talk.
a black that marks the burnt edges of smoked days.

in contrast, i have always been an artist.
yet with my palette
that holds a soft burgundy like sea waves that hit against feet.
a pink that has lived so many lives.
a brown that catches the sleepy afternoon sun.
a dirty white collected from all the letters i receive.
a gentle yellow that sits in the air when my head rests.

i cannot paint well. i paint haphazardly. impulsively.

if she would paint, it would be planned. organized. within the lines.

-

heeya eikhane abar colour beriye geche border theke.

o toh dekhe aankte chae na. ar ki kora jae. 

jodi dekhe na ankish tahole kikore shikhbi ? mon theke aankle kintu hobena. 


little did she know, i watched how she drew. my eyes tracing her burnt hand adorned with a gold coloured ring. 

i simply had too much in mind to put on paper
than the gazillion riversides she drew.
apologies, teacher.

                                      Jeanna Bauck -  The Danish Artist Painting A Portrait (late 1870s)