I wish I could tell a story, one about anything, one with a narrative and flow to take you from the first word to the last. I don’t tell stories, I serve them chopped, diced and stir fried – it doesn’t taste very good because it’s a confused mess of everything that I don’t want you to understand but of everything I want you to know.
The first airplane thunders over our heads-no. It is sonic over our heads and in our ears but the planes shimmer and vanish in the pink dirt fog.
You smell of moringa, the kind that comes from 800 bucks in a tube.
You worship a goddess with an undercut and a nose ring in place, and half lidded eyes under spectacles with a new black frame. I worship a god whose blouse has a zip on the back and whose hair is let down to fall straight by the shoulders which move in sync when she turns to greet board members.
To be a god must be to have eyes which seem unable to crinkle while smiling forcibly at you and giving the same words in answer, same words in the same tone to the congratulations of everyone else. You envy this divinity, because you have those eyes and answers anyway.
You thought it was just you but it seems like crying while leaving the house is regular for a lot of people you find yourself among. You thought it was just you, but its just as hard for everyone else sit in their own skin on green grass and in blue sarees.
It wouldn’t hurt this much if the gods didn’t find you so hard to talk to and if you stripped them of the pedestal you want them on. In this land, gods come in blue and with ears jeweled and eyes outlined with kohl, the men somewhere else with shades and tuxedos.
Tight skin around your sisters eyes in the morning is cruel reminder that last night is not forgotten. Arrange your face in the only way you know how. What could not be forgotten in a night spent in four familiar walls is lost in the three minutes it takes to reach the bus.
There’s a skirt over your skin and bag hanging from your shoulders. It’s cold. That guy at the other end of the seat catches your eye. Nod and smirk. Settle yourself down on your throne in the corner of the back seat. You are someone else entirely.
The planes shimmer and the windows rattle. There’s sonic over our heads and roaring in our ears in the afternoon on the terrace. The talking over the phone is the screeching of the wind through plastic partitions is the crunch of plastic and cellophane in the vegetable box of the refrigerator is noise and fuck, make it stop.