Image credit – Pexels.com

JANMASHTAMI
 

Ninth-grade hormones and a boy with a lazy eye,
incisors stained with chewing tobacco and Which knife
do you think would slice the deepest? Bhupen Hazarika’s
Moi Eti Jajabor and the Happy Birthday song for Lord
Krishna. Sheet cake and prasad. Face paint and mother’s
too-large-for-adolescent-fingers gold jewellery. I remember
2012 as the year of enmeshment. Being groped by the
water tank and mother giggling at 2 am. Heart-shaped cards
hidden in her closet. Knives as respite, as prize. Thursdays
for fasting. Communal meal on weekends, teens in line for
chicken drumsticks. Legs, as our mothers called them. So
much happened in hiding. Girl touched boy’s spiky hair.
Boy handed her a pack of half-eaten Rajnigandha. She
valued her teeth, their pristineness. They never held hands
but he touched her breasts every afternoon. Clotheslines
dropped when she ran through them. My mother found out
about us, then my father. Leftovers for lunch. B-side of the
cassette. My father found out about my mother. Then I did.
Not that it mattered who knew first. We wanted to blow our
heads off. I said, punish me. Mother said, you should be
punished. Lesson on where to put my mouth. Where
not to. Which gods were mine to pray to. Which were his.
Why they were never placed on the same altar.

(Notes: Moi Eti Jojabor – Song by Assamese singer Bhupen Hazarika
meaning ‘I am a wanderer’; Rajnigandha - tuberose.)
 

THE YEAR I TRIED TO KILL MYSELF
 

I listened to Greta Van Fleet’s Anthem every single morning. I couldn’t get out of bed. I took auto rides from Shakti Nagar to Moolchand. I paid the fare and forgot to get the change. I walked through the college gates and waited outside the classroom. I couldn’t go in. I waited outside the green room for music practice. I couldn’t go in. That year, nothing much happened. My best friend hung from his bedroom ceiling. His father broke down his door at eight in the morning. I had to take an Econometrics test that day. I failed. I ate three breakfast subs. I couldn’t walk for fifteen minutes without crying from the sound of truck horns. I wouldn’t stop having nightmares. I woke up panting, my abuser’s face haunting me in my sleep. I saw him in the morning. I laughed at his jokes. The year I tried to kill myself, my mother yelled at me on the phone every evening. I went to bed at 6 am and woke up at 4 pm. She thought I was on drugs. My parents hated each other. My parents hated you. I couldn’t look at your face without breaking down. You took me on walks, we sat in Mirabai Park for hours. You let me nap afterwards. I bled for weeks straight. I didn’t brush my hair for twenty-one days. You bathed me with my favourite Mandarin-scented body wash. You scrubbed my back clean. You fed me French Toast with the only brand of ketchup I tolerated. You made me Wai Wai with the exact ratio of soup to noodles, a runny egg on top. You ordered me extra plates of Jhuri Aloo Bhaja for dinner on days I skipped both breakfast and lunch. You let me have the last chicken nugget, the last Beguni. You did the dishes. You folded the laundry. I fought you. I ran away. You followed me to the street. You brought me home. When I asked you to leave, you sang Rock-a-bye Baby, cradling me to sleep.

(Notes - Jhuri Aloo Bhaja – crisp fried potato juliennes; Beguni – eggplant fritters.)