little woman.

 i had my birthday yesterday. 

when i was younger, it was a ritual to look forward to. some part of me still does, now that i am older. it's a lot like waiting for one of the only things that belong to you. something that stays, through people, through years, through the different lives and deaths.

or maybe i am just selfish.

it took me a good amount of time to know that the concept of belonging is vague in its foundations itself. sometimes i wish i didn't know these things. ever. sometimes, i think i would enjoy living in oblivion. not half-swimming in an extra-existential knowing.

the day, although named mine,

has always birthed other people.

those who wisp back on stale salutations.

those who have nothing to give anymore. 
those who sit beside me in a hasty quiet. 
speaking tongues of silence only i have ever known.

i don't feel so great. the entire point of the day was to feel good. i feel indifferent. and angry. and jealous. and sad. 

yet i do not say a word of what i mean. 

to the world, i am a new kind of white noise.

and my anger dissipates in the background of paintings.

this is the price to pay, when i chose this separation.

when i chose to play god.

my pride is a poison i swallow.

it gets worse, 

        when i know i will not be remembered.

all the castles i make for people

          will have forgotten the fingers that sculpted them.

it is a pathetic thing. to be wanted.
i have convinced myself to be above it. 

yet, when i am alone i ask her, how long do i have before my humanity kills me ? 

how far do i have to run ?

-

my self reflection has dipped into an obsession. and i do not understand why i call myself a martyr. 

there's this song by fiona apple called i know. if i could, i would paste entire song here, but i refuse to make this my diary on display. 

and you can use my skin 

to bury secrets in 

and i will settle you down.

and at my suggestion

i will ask no questions

while i do my thing in the background.

even if it don't make sense

all the time

give it time.

and when the crowd becomes your burden

and you've early-closed your curtains,

i'll wait by the backstage door.

while you try to find the lines to speak your mind,

and pry it open, hoping for an encore.

and if it gets too late for me to wait,

to find you love me and tell me so.

it's okay. don't need to say it.

to have you is to have the stars.

the storms.

the hail.

the droughts.

the hurricanes.

to have me is to have a goldfish bowl.

a suffocated compromise pet because the puppy is too much work. and very out of budget.

-

i bought those almost-extinct probably-very-bad-for-you aam digestives from the store near the bus stand. i always wait for the bus to leave before making my way towards the shop. i'm not sure why. i just don't want them to know. 

who i truly am is very frail. it is easier to manipulate a deception than to be beat up.

i know i am supposed to be above the complexities i understand. but i'm not immune to it, which can be a hard truth to swallow.

i know i am not supposed to help others just because nobody helped me.

i need to stop believing i am better than everybody else just because i can read between lines. read the corners of the pages. and the dedications. and the prologue. 

a year has passed. i am still the same. the rot has not healed.

-

i look at him pretending we are past the things i have done. i am nonchalant-er now. cooler. "remember how i used to be?" i say. god, the hypocrisy in the air is suffocating. he laughs. i am hungry, but i am not cool enough. i toss the food out. "heeya !" he says, upset. ah, concern. i am pathetic, at best.

dressed in something that only looked worthwhile on the mannequin, i am visibly uncomfortable. there's too much eyeliner, and the earrings are hurting me. these people around me are strangers. sweet, but strangers. i do not accept it. the girl beside me is dressed in a soft pink. she glows. like a baby's laugh. she hands me a wrapped gift that i can tell is a book. i am disappointed at the lack of effort. i do not say anything. i pull out a book that i had wanted to read. an ugly genre. plus, the book is expensive. but i am cooler now. "oh my god this is so sweet of you !" i say in a tone i have lost now. 

the only gifts i have ever liked are the ones dadan gives me. 

when i go to them and they give me makhon diye bhaat and the tiny chingris with butter and lemon

and he takes me to the secondhand book stores and we scour for books.

he will be gone soon.

i will like nothing then.

she sees through the cool. she gets angry. she does not understand why i need this. i look in her eyes asking her to play along. she gets angry. very easily. she does not like strangers. she gets up and leaves.

sometimes she does not like me either.

when i stand in the same room a year later, i do not recognize the girl who was there that day. i have killed too much to be cool now. i take a not-so-deep-breath.

she looks different now. still angry of course, just lesser at me now. 

happy birthday, she says at 12:37. i smile. this is the 8th year in a row that she wishes me.

-heeya shon, ami lawyer hobo ar tui doctor thikache. tarpor amra ekshathe thakbo tahole rent share korbo bujhli. ar tor crime e kintu ami kichu defense ekdom debo na tai kauke murder kore dishne 

-accha mithai, done done :).

-

once the day ends, you can feel the void in your bones. you can feel your age in your blood. the world seems to have shifted. yet you are still in the clothes from last night. 

the city looks ghastly in the early mornings. like a deserted limbo. 

without its people, the it shows its skeleton.

we are a lot alike, this city and i. 

both, existing in multitudes. 

                      A still of Jo March with her pages, from Greta Gerwig's 'Little Women'  (2019)