wedding invitations in my letterbox

 i was sitting in the balcony the other day, after i finished talking to a friend and there was a recurring thought in my head.

would i be ready to forgive someone if their crime was unconscious ?

i rephrase it again.

would i be ready to punish someone if their crime was conscious ?

here i fantasize about playing god. my exams start in a week.

***

winters are unpredictable here. but i think i like it either way. my favourite season has always been winter. 

my favourite fruit has always been the custard apple. i never eat too much of it.

i rock my knees to and fro on the chair and i sleeve my hands around the warm cup noodles. 

every once in a while my head cranks up unused memories before it tosses them into the offload bin. every once in a while i feel my breath refusing to leave my body. i do not panic. i do not hurry. i give it a moment insie my chest somewhat close to my left lung, i hold it very closely and i set it free.

it does not come back.

***

i saw this tumblr post which said-

I know that I have died 

before - once in November.

It is the first day of November and so, today, someone will die. 

november feels like waking up from a deep slumber. like waking up at 1 on a cold day. it feels wrong, on a certain level.

two novembers ago, i was crumbling like sandcastles knocked down in contempt. last november i tried eloping.

this november i wished my father a happy birthday. 

all in consistent temperature. 

november always brings about change. 

it is almost always the beginning. a first chapter.

***

earlier, only my mother would give me books. it used to be an intimate sort of gift giving, where she knew what to tell me in the words i'd want to hear it in.

as i grew up though, book-giving became blatantly impersonal. something people got me when they had no idea of what else i'd like. they'd say

send me a list of books you want to read

and for only a second i'd think - 

don't you have anything you want to tell me ?

i'd shrug it off. i spared them the pain of such incomprehension.

this year, my aunt picked out the book my dark vanessa from the long list of names i had sent her.

personally i had underestimated the book and assumed it was an easy, digestible read. 

this book however scared me. holy cow.

it's about this girl (it's always about a girl)

and about a man.

and this girl is 15 when she falls in love with her 42 year old english teacher. i make a point to mention their ages because even at 15, vanessa is older than the man will ever be.

(here i realise that i now stand at par with vanessa like she found herself at par with lolita)

reading this book felt like reliving a criminal part of girlhood. the relentless convincing of the self, and refusing to give up. the long withstanding conflict between the mind and the body. 

i watch as this girl narrates, understanding everything, yet denying her potential in the face of mercy.

she says-

i assume ill be the one he turns to in ten or fifteen years, whenever his body begins to break down. that seems the likely ending to this love story; me dropping everything and doing anything devoted as a dog, as he takes and takes and takes.

how can you be conscious and still let it happen ?

(i'm not sure if i ask her this or i ask myself)

even as vanessa grows up, her words come crawling out; unborn, unkempt.

im not going to call myself a victim. women like taylor find comfort in that label and that's great for them, but i'm the one he called when he was on the brink. he said it himself - with me, it was different. he loved me, he loved me.

i paused at this- begging to be believed.

she was 32 when she realized he never loved her.

by that time, she had let her body rot to keep her heart satisfied.

at 15 you do not understand desire. at 15 you believe you are loved. as you are. whoever you are. 

love with all its complications, is easier to swallow than whatever ugly thing desire comes out as.

at 15 she says-

"would i be here if i didn't want this?" i ask, as though the answer were obvious. i ignore what hangs in the air above us, my anger, my humiliation and hurt. they seem like the real monsters, all those unspeakable things.

i pause. 

there must be something very wrong with vanessa, because even after all of it, she never spoke ill of him. maybe because at one point, even thinking ill of him felt corrupt. she keeps telling herself 

he said it himself ! with me, it was different. he loved me. he loved me. the agony you can hear in that is deafening.

for those of you who do not care for spoilers as much, 

the man jumps off a bridge when accused.

i feel almost nothing when i read it. i see how vanessa too feels close to nothing. the grief in this is convoluted. 

all i think of in that moment is

what a small coward.

there is even more hurt in discovering that it was in fact not different. that you were simply another little girl. it is angering to accept that whenever you'll think of being 17, you'll think of this.

but your anger doesn't like sitting quiet in rooms anymore.

and it no longer understands the horror of watching your body star in something your mind didn't agree to.

i had this not so nice dream about a round table conference and the only question i have to ask is 

how did you not feel guilty trying to convince me what you were doing was right ?

in the dream, i didn't have the guts to say they took advantage of me. the conference room was silent and the only sound audible was of pepsi fizz.

i stare at the pink ceiling black carseat printed walls ugly expressions orange eyelids bathroom sink wooden door glass ashtray rough cemented floor aluminum cupboard ply table printed shirt 

until you are over. 

i wait. 

until i can go wash myself.

i wait.

because if i do not. you leave. you get angry. confused.

i wait and i wait. to be loved occasionally. to be loved with the eyes instead of the hands.

i wait to have the courage to speak out. to say what you do is not love.

to understand that

i let you because that is the closest i have felt to love.

but

i know love is vast.

and i know you have tricked me.

***

a few days ago i found a wedding invitation on the dining table. it is the season of fresh love and we usually get a lot of invitations to weddings and engagements and other celebrations of said love.

i spot the names on the card and i laugh. on it is a name that used to mean something to me a year ago. (the name very obviously belongs to someone else but it just rang a rusty bell) 

with time, i stand the furthest away now. 

and i can't help but think of a time i could not be closer.

my desire, once disgustingly enormous, wriggling in my mouth like a live goldfish, is now molecular. 

it is full of shame and restraint. of awareness and acceptance. 

of ethical understanding.

i am a little older now, and my kiddish fear of death is subsiding slowly.

***

the story of laika always tears me up. i've always been so kind to animals. i couldn't bear anything living getting hurt.

sentience is so precious. so artistic.

how could that ever be treated recklessly ?

i am the kindest before i am not.

it is horrifying the way i care for people.

because i could love someone to my grave but never speak to them again.

in the winters i am the epitome of femininity. i am full of kindness, and gentleness and hope.

it is usually during this time that i recall a certain boy. the only person i could never really hate.

and it is always the memory of him washing my trembling hands under cold water. 

the only memory of him stripped of his greatness and his vanity.

in front of a girl who is finally frail.

he always thought of me as the smallest creature on earth.

but in that moment,

he looked into me with a certain love 

that i never found again.

i do not speak of him much.

but god knows i've loved him to death.

god knows he's loved me deep within.

***

there are so many college essays that ask what i have learnt from life. and with all my words i cannot figure out what to say.

i can't tell them that i've learnt to shed every skin that doesn't fit. to unhinge my jaw and go for the throat if they try to stop me growing. 

that's way too graphic.

i can't tell them that i speak against war but i am always in armor. that all my what would i do s turn to what will i do s which turn to what have i done s. 

that's not very nice to hear.

i also cannot tell them that my affection for wolves comes from the benefit of the doubt, and i have learnt that wolves are wolves even in cages, even in silk. that those who choose to become wolvish grow into their masks. that i wish i didn't teach them to be themselves.

that is gory.

maybe i'll tell them a story about all the english teachers i have befriended. all of these, nice old ladies.

***

                                 Judith at the Gates of Bethulia - Jules-Claude Ziegler (1847)