“It takes a lot of time, focus and energy to realize the enormity of being the ocean with your very own tide every month. However, by honoring the demands of bleeding, our blood gives something in return. The crazed bitch from irritation hell recedes. In her place arises a side of ourselves with whom we may not—at first—be comfortable. She is a vulnerable, highly perceptive genius who can ponder a given issue and take her world by storm. When we’re quiet and bleeding, we stumble upon the solutions to dilemmas that’ve been bugging us all month. Inspiration hits and moments of epiphany rumba ‘across de tundra of our senses. In this mode of existence one does not feel antipathy towards a bodily ritual so profoundly and routinely reinforces our cuntpower.”
― Inga Muscio, Cunt: A Declaration of Independence
Standing on the edge of precipice, I look at the normal and natural truth with horror. In the morning, when the cycle rings my bell, I curl up in a ball and decide whether to die or die. It gets worse in the day. The jarring pain shoots down a river of tears that won’t stop flowing. I am kind of glad I am home with stack of pads, painkillers and a hot water bag. The beginning is the worst. It resonates with me on so many levels when the period cycle begins. And the worst really happens when I am not home. When I am sitting in a class room or standing in a lab, I feel a gnawing feeling in my uterus. The irritating presence of soreness and the awkwardness when I want to cry in front of faces staring at me. It feels like a war-zone where I have already lost. It feels like I am Prometheus and the vultures are eating me away. Piece by piece. Blood by blood. Pain by pain.
The facts that it is natural and happens to every soul that is born a woman and this is how “creation” begins make no sense to me on these days. And the walk back home is the most difficult part. It takes me hours to maneuver my steps. I cannot decide whether to walk normally or act normally. Because I want to either scream and run or cry internally and walk the normal walk. There is no in between. And how hard it is to talk about it as it is! Yes it pains. Yes it feels horrible when every toilet break is a blood bath. I am sorry if I am being too graphic. But this is how it is. The blue liquid they pour in the sanitary pad advertisements is not blue. It is red. It is blood. The ultimate truth that began the human existence and that will most probably end it.
via Daily Prompt: Precipice
Here’s something from Sylvia Plath.
Spread the joy! Spread the happiness! I love you people. And I love this website. Everybody is so kind and helpful. I am glad I decided to join.
Good day & Good night!
It’s been a while since we talked. And I miss you because we used to talk every single day about every single thing in the world. I used to call you when I needed to vent about thunder or sun or creepy people or anything minute that happened in the day and you used to do the same. We used to laugh so much. About everything and nothing. Do you remember all the places we wanted to go to try out the food? We haven’t gone to any of them. The chips place and the matka kulfi place in Patan. We haven’t even gone swimming this summer. And believe me, I can live without eating banana chips and kulfi or swimming but it breaks my heart a little when I don’t get to talk about stuffs with you like I used to. I know you are busy. Life is probably throwing lemons at you and you are busy making lemonade out of it. I am so very proud of you for the works you are doing and for everything you are achieving. I know you will do great in life. You will make all your dreams come true. And I know that things change. They will always change. I just cannot believe that they changed so suddenly.
In a few days, I will be heading out to god knows where with so many different people. It will be a whole new world for me. When I got the news today, I was very excited. Do you know I read the letter ten times? I don’t know if I should be this happy. But I wanted to do this forever. In the interview, they asked me about my weaknesses. I told them that I was too emotional. And as I am writing this letter, I know that this weakness is going to be the death of me. I mean, you call a person if you miss them, not write a letter! It doesn’t even make sense. Nothing really makes sense.
I try to write a lot these days. There are words and words and words that get crowded in my head. I feel so grateful for being able to write and read. I am also grateful for being able to hope. The part of my brain where “existential crisis” keeps blinking with a red light, hopes mercilessly about everything there is to hope for. It hopes that you and I will talk like we used to again. I understand that you probably need a lot of space right now. And you probably don’t need a whining presence in your life to talk about all the superficial details. It’s just that I miss you a lot. And it’s okay to not miss me as much. I know there are probably a thousand things to worry about right now. I want to say that I’ll be there for you but I don’t know how to be there. I don’t even know where you are. You’ll probably say that you are right here. And then proceed to tell me that I am over thinking and there’s nothing to worry about. You’ll probably say that you are just tired and you’ll talk to me when things get normal. Maybe I am. I always over think and over react.
And maybe, I will over miss just this once. You are my person. And I get to miss my person.
Once upon a time, in a world where nothing was complete and nothing was perfect, walked a person who was both complete and perfect. However, since the world around her was so broken, she felt like she was supposed to be broken too. Hence, everyday she started breaking pieces of herself to fix things around her. She never realized that the things she wanted to repair were so far gone that nothing and no-one could ever fix them. Each day, she became smaller and smaller. Each day, she was wrecked a little bit more. On a chilly December morning, she was walking by a road full of fallen stars. She felt lost, alone and hollow. She did not even notice that the sky and the earth had somehow changed their positions. The earth was as clear and blue as the perfect night sky and the sky was green that smelled of mud. She had no idea where she was going. Each step she took, it felt lighter as if she was flying. Suddenly, her feet were not in the sky looking earth anymore. She was floating somewhere in between. The world she tried to repair with pieces of herself looked so unfamiliar and distant. Nobody tried to stop her and nobody held her hands to make her stay. She floated for what seemed like hours and at a point where oceans became rolling balloons and clouds became mountains, she stopped. There was a low hum of music and its waves were thrashing the Cloud Mountains. Everything else was perfectly still except the rolling ocean that was moving very swiftly towards her. At any minute, it could crash into her and it did. She was now inside the blue water but the thing was she did not feel alone, lost and hollow anymore. Somehow, she felt complete again even though she was far from it. The parts of her were still missing. A wreck she was but a happy one because she knew where she belonged now. All she needed to do was swim and everything would fix itself. In case it did not, things would still be okay. She enjoyed the low hum of waves crashing the mountains made up of clouds while her ocean rolled away.
Moral of the story: We might be floating in this undeniable mess of things and waiting for our rolling oceans to crash into. I desperately want to stop floating and start rolling.
Other moral: I am good at making things up. hahaha
I have been nominated for the Mystery Blogger Award. This is my first ever nomination! And I am excited!! I am not sure what the rules are, so I am just sneaking into Nel’s blog. Her blog is AWESOME!! She is honest to the core and her thoughts flow so beautifully in the words she writes. Thank you so much for nominating me Nel!!!
Okay, the rules are to tell three things about yourself, answer the questions asked and nominating more people.
Here we go!!
Three things about me:
- I have never seen the Ocean or Sea. I live in a land-locked country and I haven’t traveled that far. I really want to travel and I hope I will.
- I am a dreamer. I basically dream all the time. I draw my inspirations for stories and poems from the vivid dreams I see.
- I do not like speaking on the phone. I feel really awkward. Sometimes, I don’t know any appropriate things to say. So I mostly prefer texting.
My Questions and Answers:
What’s your favorite book or series of all time?
Oh boy!! This might take an eternity to answer. I read voraciously! Choosing only one would be very difficult. I am going to list out 5 of my favorite books and series:
- HARRY POTTER SERIES by JK Rowling: You know what they say, “Once a Potterhead always a Potterhead.” I fell in love with this series relatively late than other people do. I discovered it only in my late teens. But I am glad I did. I am a Hufflepuff!
- THE DIARY OF A YOUNG GIRL by Anne Frank: Find out why!
- A THOUSAND SPLENDID SUNS by Khaled Hosseini: For Laila and Mariam and millions of women who quietly endure all that falls upon them. It drove me to tears and rage.
- THE INVENTION OF WINGS by Sue Monk Kidd: I read this book in one of the most difficult times of my life. It gave me so much strength.
- THE GUERNSEY LITERARY AND POTATO PEEL PIE SOCIETY by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows: Purely because of the name and simple piercing story line!
If you could write for a TV show or movie, which one would it be and why?
I think I would write for Grey’s Anatomy. I mean Shonda Rhymes is great and all but I’d stop Derek, Mark and Lexie from dying. I would add more musicals. I would never let Cristina leave. I would end the show at season 12 with an epilogue where Meredith has Alzheimer’s and Zola finds the cure!
If you could sum up your personality in 3 words, which words would you choose?
My questions are:
What are your strengths and weaknesses?
If you could go back in time and meet a historical figure, who would you choose to meet and what would you say?
Why do you write?
Do you remember what your first memory was?
When I was 5, I greeted her every Saturday morning. I played with her in the old palaces of ancient Kings and Queens, where she was named. She greeted me back with smiles and lots of pigeons. She made me run with joy, chasing the pigeons and feeding them. She gave me wings on otherwise boring Saturdays where all I could hear were songs that weren’t in her mother tongue. When I was 5, she was my best friend. I learned her smell in spice shops of Ason and Kilagal. I learned her voice from my Grandmother’s stories. The ways she sang while making rice wines in a small terrace from which I could see the towers of Dharahara and Ghantaghar. Standing in their grandeur, rejoicing the beauty she was. She was my city.
When I was 10, I greeted her from the silent micro-buses where the polite conductors refused to take the 5 rupees I offered them. I sat on the last seat with the windows open. Taking in the air around the Keshar Mahal. She was the place where my school and my house were equidistant from each other. She was the place where bats hung upside down the witchy looking trees. She was the place where my friend and I conspired against all the odds to run to the pani-puri stall and grab a few pieces of extras. She was the place I used to sneak off to without telling my grandmother. She was the place that lead to my favorite library. She was my city.
When I was 15, she moved with me under the Swayambhunath Temple. I greeted her with anger and fear of losing my faith and my voice. I refused to look at her as I closed my doors and wrote letters to people who did not exist. I refused to notice her broken limbs. I walked on her, carrying with me, her parts. She stopped smiling and so did I. It was a difficult year for both of us. We lost our parts in dramas of daily lives. We lost our friends in all those complicated story lines.
When I was 18, I hated her. I cursed her from the crowded 5 AM micro bus rides. I hated her for sheltering the old dirty men who stared and probed. I hated her for her bumps and bruises. The ways she was so difficult to understand. The ways she was just like me. Confused and crowded with thoughts like people and people like thoughts. But she was still my city.
When I was 21, she shook me with all her strength. She cried for help as the rocks beneath her broke and slipped into hell. She screamed in pain as her children broke their bones and took off with their souls. And I cried with her. She looked like an old broken woman begging for a quiet life. Her skin patched up in pieces of old tents, she looked sad and frail. Almost suffocated with the dust that blew over her, the rain that violated her and the ground that cheated on her. I hugged myself and pieces of her that were attached to me. I tried to calm us down as I waited for a familiar face. She shook all night in terrible silences. I could not understand her still but she was still my city.
Today, I greet her with smiles and hugs. My legs love running along her difficult roads. She is still broken but broken still she stands. She still sends me pigeons from her wounded palaces. She has purple clothes draped over her and she has asthma attacks. But she still lives. She still loves me like she loved me when I was 5 years old. And I cannot hate her even when I try. She is my city. She will always be my city.
Pink always reminds me of Pratikshya. Pratikshya means to wait. Pratikshya means patience. Pratikshya also means hope. Pratikshya means to be strong enough to hope and wait. And Pratikshya likes pink colors. She loves pink bags, pink dresses, pink scarf and pink sweaters. Pratikshya loves her grandmother more than anything in the world. She loves her brother and her cousins. Her love is so pure and simple. And limitless. Pratikshya is limitless. But she doesn’t know it. I hope she will someday.
The best thing about Pratikshya is that she listens. She listens to my stupid questions. She listens to my woes and silliness. I love annoying her. Because she always laughs when she gets annoyed. She says, “Hyaaaa Pallu!” and bursts out into one of her addictive laughs. Pink Pratikshya is the cutest Pratikshya when she laughs at my stories. I love telling her stories.
Pratikshya makes me Noodle Pizza when I am sad. She brings it in our morning walk expeditions. She carries it while running. She wakes up early to make food to kick out my sadness. She is that good!! I don’t know what I ever did to get a friend like her. Pratikshya also knows how to love herself. She is her favorite person. And that’s why she knows how to love other people. She knows how to be kind. She knows how to hug. She knows how to be there.
Pratikshya is so much more than Pink. I hope she knows about it. I hope she knows how glad I am that she exists in my world.
via Daily Prompt: Pink