Will the tattered pages stay tattered forever? What good will these fragments be when the mind is too old to think for itself and the heart remains anchored to the past? Lying crumpled in a corner, when every touch hurts, do you think it’ll do good to dwell on dreams then? So get down from your high-horse man, it’s time you realized that your little world is not our little world.

Dad, I won’t be just another branch in your family tree, your benign insinuations and seemingly innocuous opinions have eaten at my every nerve and sinew like termite. My aspirations are shrouded by the guilt of having done something terrible; the ignominy of being a misfit. I’m not playing the blame game; I’m just laying out the signs of a society which is so obsessed with awards that it oversees the fact of the matter. Yet, I’m overcome with shame, because you have sacrificed your life for us, and I want to repay you with the very same sacrifice.

“You’re an all-rounder!” No, I’m not. I don’t intend to integrate everything that I do, just to be given this trite tag. I’m compelled to be an “all-rounder”, in an Indian house hold, where being just one thing, isn’t enough. Failure is an absolute feeling that persists as cancer to your confidence. So no, I’m not modest. I was made to be modest.

So clearly, I don’t want to be the good girl anymore. I don’t want to fall in line with millions others who live to earn and die. For getting a nice car, a nice house in the suburbs, travelling abroad once a year, a gym membership, honor and respect of being “important” in this society, is not happiness to me. And never will be. I shall perish before I have to “settle”, in some way or the other. But I shall. I shall be like a phoenix, rise from my own ashes. Die, before I have to live again. Shan’t I?

Oh happiness, how you live in fissures now that the bulwark of innocence has been broken. Afraid, of the fear that lingers over you, fear which exhilarates at every chance it gets to come close to you, constricting the throat and distracting the mind by erupting butterflies in the belly. But the heart is not a fool. It shall protect you, whenever it has to. And when it gets hard, it shall bleed in tears. And let me know, that I should try harder to keep the forces away from you.

Until I have to rise again, happiness, please stay .

Freedom

Feeble sunlight streamed through the windows as soon as she retired to bed. Murmuring the tasks she had set upon herself for the day, she snuggled down with her blanket; in the hopes that she falls asleep before her dog comes gamboling into her bedroom, or of course her mother. 

She fell asleep in minutes, entering a world entirely her own. And how bizarre a world she enters; just like a puzzle whose pieces are hastily put together. All of her thoughts during the day, misunderstood by her own conscience. You see, she's not a good Quidditch player. 

The strong smell of Jasmine and Rose agarbati woke her up. Shocked to see 11 am on the clock, she rolled out of her bed instantly, and fell down. Her mother who now stood in the doorway, laughed. 

"This smell gets up my nose." Kaya complained as she lay down on the cold floor, not bothering to pull herself up. 

"Here, have a Jasmine, fresh from the garden." And her mother dropped a bunch of Jasmines near Kaya's face. She got up, seeing her dog come running towards her to eat up all the Jasmine flowers. 

Kaya sat back down on her bed, and told her mother of her night's adventures.

"Get some sleep! Only warlocks work at 5 am!" Her mother billowed as she looked down at her daughter.

"I'd prefer witch." Kaya mumbled.

"Well, you do look like a witch. Look at you, you've become so gaunt!" Her mother said, frowning,

"Ma, I was reading a book on Mata Hari." Kaya said, her eyes now accustoming to the brightly lit room. 

"What about her?" She asked, sounding interested.

Kaya sat up straight on her bed, and recited the story of the lascivious Mata Hari, cogently. Her mother gasped as Kaya told the tales of Mata Haris' dances, her libidinousness, her freedom, and her unfair execution. 

"What freedom is there in being lascivious?" Kaya's mother asked disparagingly.

"Mother, it is more about our choices, and them being respected. People fear women who are free, in every sense of the word. People fear women who are just human, so much so that they retaliate with assault." Kaya replied tritely, fearing her mother won't understand otherwise. 

"What kind of freedom do you want?" Her mother asked, inquisitively. 

Remembering the dream she'd had just hours before, Kaya smiled her widest, and said, "Freedom to be whoever I want to be, Ma, without being put on a pedestal." 

"You want to be average at everything?" Her mother inquired.

Kaya knew her mother would say that, because that was the truth. We tend to move from one thing to the other, paving our way to what we believe is the much cleaner and greener pasture, because we see everything that's within our reach, forgoing happiness and satisfaction, as doable. But for Kaya, these weren't entirely her choices; rather they were handed down to her, in pity when she wasn't even drowning. Her choices weren’t respected.

Yet Kaya knew that it ill behooved her to drop the baggage of blame, which in actuality kept her afloat, it attested to her an important mission- to save herself.

"I'll be on the cusp of everything, until the day I decide to let go of the person I'm not. But you see then it will be my decision, since I'd have gained my freedom." Kaya articulated, feeling a sense of pride in living an ambiguous life, led by the dictum of the sun shining on the righteous.

"You have the freedom." Her mother said dismissively. 

Kaya laughed, almost derisively, and said, "Not yet, Ma. When I'll have it, you'll know. Because then, I'll glow, I'll laugh more, I'll love more, and I won't be gaunt anymore!" She threw her hands up in the air and fell back on the bed, closing her eyes to the upsurge of emotions that made her heart beat fast.

Her mother never understood. Maybe the subtle derision to her freedom was too subtle and recondite for her mother to understand. Or maybe, ignorance is bliss. Any which way, Kaya couldn’t help but respect Mata Hari, for her boldness and her pride.

"Be whoever you want to be" and with that, her mother left the room, chanting “Om” as she went to offer the few left Jasmines to the deity.

Kaya opened her eyes as soon as her mother left the room, and once again, she was dreaming. If only it was that simple, she thought. She wondered what price she will have to pay for her freedom. And soon, her thoughts were swimming, in the uncharted vastness of her mind. Whereas, dreams, real and unreal, danced upon the ship that remained painfully still.