Skip to main content

Varuthaayi.

"വരാം," ഞാൻ പറയുമ്പോൾ, "പോകാം" എന്ന് പറയാനുള്ള ആ പേടി.

My legs prickle like the seeds of a strawberry, and I feel like tearing myself apart today. I keep picking at the wound that heals every two days, only for it to break open again; blood and flesh. I feel trapped in my own skin, my body will never be what I want it to be. There are things I’m supposed to become, but time is slipping away. I applied for many things. I have sent my name into the void, eight, ten, how many more? They have to call me today. If not, I won’t be who I need to be. Tomorrow, I’ll be hopeless again. I can’t hold on to who I am, so how will time hold on to me?

I eat the yellow as if it might bring some joy. One piece is thin and crispy, the bite sounds, and I feel it. The next is thick and bland, someone like me must have cut it. One is unexpectedly sweet, even though it isn’t brown like I expected. How it lies to me. I look in the mirror, I look away.

Another is too salty. I eat 250 grams of it, but joy never comes. I eat like I want him back, like at the end of this, I’ll find togetherness again. I keep eating it, toil at my tongue, heaviness in my heart. Its not the taste that I chase. I imagine my grandfather next to me, nothing to worry about, his trimmed mustache brushing against my cheek. I can almost feel him graze my cheek, rough. Real. I say goodbye in Arabic, and I feel the love in it. We never say goodbye like it’s forever. “I’ll come,” I tell him, afraid to say “I’ll leave,” because it might come true. 

Goodbye tastes like grief, so I do not say it. Writing this feels sinful. It's an admittance, not one of relief. 

My grandmother kisses me, and I lean down because she’s so short now. Her arm is in a cast and the others is pricked every once in a while from the sweetness in her blood. The yellow is almost gone. I think if I leave to buy more, I will break. I eat nothing else, no lunch, no supper, just the yellow.

I’ll never get tired of this, but I know I should share. They told me to, but I’m selfish. I can’t let it go, even if God tells me you won’t stay, not in your wrinkled skin, not in your ailing health. I still hear your words: “I can’t pick you up anymore.”

These tears escape me, and I feel like I’m crawling on the floor, now and forever. But I stand, so you can have peace, knowing that I can if you leave. But the sadness, I can’t bear. I don’t want to mourn you before you become a memory, but it feels so close now that I can’t hold you the way I used to.


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Fading Glory.

It's getting worse each time. A stabbing pain pierces the right side of my body. Is it real or fake? I can't tell, but it feels real enough. The pain is undeniable. It's like the cry of an athlete dislocating their knee, or the off-pitch note of a singer losing their voice. Years of honing a craft, developing a skill, and with one accident, one minor moment, it all slips away. It's harrowing to face the prospect of dying on the field you played to stay alive for. The sheer exertion and endurance of these athletes—it's a testament to their dedication. The sweat on their faces is more than just a sheen. Wipe it away, and it reappears. Bruised and darkened knees, common slides on any type of ground—their bodies are used to being used. They throw themselves into their sport until it consumes them entirely. It's both their beauty and their burden. Do the expectations and reports weigh on their shoulders? Aren't we supposed to lift them up on our shoulders? My mat...
Post a Comment
Read more

Loss.

It's done. In a weird way, I feel nothing. I never feel it when I—when we—win. I feel immense joy and pride, but inside, I feel dead. It's not something I can attribute to anything around me, but rather a hollow void that gnaws at me from within.  It’s more like the crippling pain of loss is the only thing that truly makes me feel, a sharp contrast to success that leaves me questioning everything.  Winning brings a dull ache, a disbelief so deep that it borders on denial, as if the reality of the moment hasn’t quite sunk in yet. It’s as though victory is plastered over by emptiness, a numbness that lingers long after the cheers have died down.  And in that quiet, when the adrenaline fades, I'm left wondering why success feels so lifeless, so devoid of the depth and intensity that failure forces upon me. It’s as if, without the sharp edge of loss, I’m left drifting, unable to truly grasp the meaning of what I’ve achieved.
Post a Comment
Read more

The Old Vase.

We remember so we don't forget. Of the pain, of the love, of resistance, of liberation. They will forget, their children will not remember. But our flesh has the memory stored in our bones, as we are born, it is born with us. In us.  Forget about it. Forget about yesterday. Time that's to come is made by time that's gone by. The bones remember, the flesh clings to what was, and with every breath, we resist. The past slips away with parts of us, we must hold it gently without letting its arms turn into binds.  Can we live without leaving scars when we were all made of wounds? Can we make choices that feel like they reach beyond ourselves?  We remember as if by instinct because we were forced to forget once.  I hold the cracked vase gently. I wait for the glue to arrive. I can buy a new one now, but something tells me the old one will last longer. Once we trace our fingers over the scars, let them heal and fill them for all the space it has created.  Maybe then, t...
Post a Comment
Read more