New things.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

They opened her sister’s tummy and took out a thing that looked like a red chili. Their mother was very worried, but the doctor said ‘all went well’. She was so relieved, she brought her a blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. She had managed to buy a nearly new one for pennies at the village market from a heap of random goods piled up on the roadside.

New things never happened to Amita. She was the fifth of six kids. One girl. 3 boys. Her. One more boy. Most of her childhood was spent in boy’s clothes. When she was seven, she could finally wear her sister’s tattered old frocks. All she wanted was something new.

Amita started complaining of tummy aches that were so strong she had to miss school. She hardly ate anything and became scrawnier every week. She looked sallow. Her parents took her from one doctor to the next. They were exasperated. Finally, the fifth doctor said they would have to open her tummy and look inside. Amita’s dream was coming true. She smiled inwardly. Her operation was scheduled for Monday.

On Sunday night, in her hospital bed she remembered when her aunt had come to visit from Bangalore, she had brought one plastic doll for the girls to share. Its golden hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. Her head was round with two very round brown eyes. When you lay her on her back, her eyelids closed over. Thick long black lashes touched her pink cheeks. On standing her up, the lids mechanically snapped open. Her elder sister claimed the doll all for herself. When no one was looking, Amita would hold the doll like a baby, rock it from side to side and stroke its cheeks.

On Monday morning, she was super-excited. As she was going off to sleep, the blue silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins danced in front of her eyes.

When she woke up, Amita had a huge red gash right down the middle of her tummy. It was so painful that she could hardly breathe but Amita didn’t care. She waited for her mum. When the visiting hour arrived, her mum brought her a gift – a red silk purse embroidered with beads and sequins. It was even more beautiful than the blue one. Amita felt victorious. She had a new thing, all for herself. She could hardly wait to show it to the smiley nurse who routinely looked after her.

That night, Amita slept peacefully in her hospital bed, clutching on to her silk purse.

The next morning, the smiley nurse came in with a thermometer and placed the tip of it under Amita’s tongue with a smile. She then started writing her notes. Just then, Amita pulled out the purse from under her pillow and held it up for her to see, her eyes popping out but unable to speak.

“Oh! For me? How kind! Thank you.” said the nurse and received the purse with both her lovely hands.

**** **** ****

Resource: This story is inspired by an anecdote from the book “Nonviolent Communication. A language of Life.‘ by Marshall B. Rosenberg. PhD. In Chapter 4, he addresses the heavy cost of unexpressed feelings about unmet needs.

Why do you write?

Posted by kidsaregifts20

Before Day 0, I hardly ever wrote, except for work. Then, this blog became a lifeline.

A friend. A vent.

A hook to hang my days on.

A thing that helped me stay on.

A messenger. A mouthpiece.

A repository of memories.

An unencumbered voice.

A determined choice.

“Have you published anything?” a writer friend asked me recently.

‘No. I am a writer. I write.’

“Don’t you want to be published?”

‘Yes. It would be nice. But for me, writing is an end in itself.’

“Why else do you write?”

‘Because I am fascinated by the terror of a blank page.

Because I have something to say.

Because I want to reach others, especially those who feel very alone.

Because I love the scratchy sound of pen moving on paper.

Because it helps me connect with myself in a tender manner.

Because I can trust the words that come out. I can mess with them. Play.

Because I need to write what I’m thinking in order to understand what I’m thinking.

Because writing wants to happen through me. It can be a wooo-hooo surprise!

No reason. Simply.’

After nearly ten years of writing, in March this year I made my first submission and thankfully it was accepted. A short story, “The Order” was published earlier this month on an online literary magazine, Kitaab.org:

Short Story: The Order by Sangeeta Mahajan

This story made its debut in an unrefined form on this blog and my brother commented that I should try to get it published. That was in July 2018. Six years ago! Gosh! I must be slow.

Coffee by the sea.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

After many weeks of sitting by myself, writing quietly in a quiet house, thirsty for some newness, I made my way to a local café by the sea. I found a nice sofa with no one around and opened my note book to a blank page. Took the cap off my pen and leant back into the softness of the cushion on my seat, appreciating the salt in the breeze and the gentle lapping of the sea. Just then a trendy young couple sauntered in and settled on the lounge chairs in front of me, exactly between the sea and me. Frilly bikini top and fake eye-lashes, beach bod and all. Tall hunk of a guy next to her, who seemingly spoke only in murmurs. They ordered their brunch and as soon as the waiter left, a sharp feminine ‘you can be so rude. Sha’aap’ erupted out of a largely hush-hush conversation.

The air in my corner of the café tightened as multiple furrows appeared on her lovely forehead. Just as I was about to cover my ears with head-phones, she stood up and stomped out.

That was my first laugh of the day.

It was loud enough that other guests might have heard it but it happened without a notice or warning. I was simply the observer. Not judging. Not making snide remarks. Being present. Documenting. Smiling.

Five minutes later she returned with a big plastic bottle of water, hiding her red eyes behind her Victoria Beckham’esque sun-glasses. The red tip of her nose and deep pink peaks of her cheeks gave her story away. Her pumped up lips had lost every curve and had become a pale pink ‘equal to’ sign. She sat down and pulled her knees up into her chest, her feet resting on the edge of the seat. Her head buried deep inside the latest slab of I-phone held in her right hand, a tender-leafy-twig-tattoo snaking across the back of it.

Her pancakes arrived. She angrily poured all the maple syrup on them and started shoving bits stuck on the end of a fork into her mouth. The plate was cleaned out in one minute.

Her chilled bottle of water was forming a little pool at its base. The green smoothie was executed next. The silence around that table was stunning. Not the type I had hoped for but definitely good for writing.

He stared straight at the sea between mouthfuls of his three-egg-omelette and orange juice. When he finished, out came his slab and his head turned down by ninety degrees. She rolled tobacco in a white skin with a white filter as her fingers negotiated the movement of the sea-breeze. Her nail-beds were tiny, as if bitten off by shiny young teeth before they had a chance to grow. Her lighter struggled to light the cigarette. She smoked as she studied the sea. Her right hand still holding the moving images on her slab. For the next half an hour, they both were engrossed in their own respective distant worlds with no need for any exchange of any kind. The silence around them relaxed over that time. They paid the bill and walked out hand in hand, everything alright with the world again.

That was my second laugh of the day.

She.

Posted by kidsaregifts20

(Pen Vogler by John Burke. BP portrait awards 2017)

With all her worldly wealth, she could not purchase belonging. Especially to herself. Her eyes thirsty for tenderness. Her muscles tense with want, her skin hungry for touch, her lips a straight line of dissatisfaction.

She hoped a painter might find her in his brush strokes and capture her on his canvas. She paid him a mountain, so he could help her find out who she might be … find out if she could meet her real self. After many hours of sitting still, with her hands clasped together in her lap, she was tired. She was tired of perfectly painting her fingernails bright red, for the painter. She couldn’t wait to see what he saw.

The day came and the painting was ready to be seen by her. Her eyes bulged out of her head, eager to find the joy she so wanted to find in herself. All she saw in the fore-ground, was a golden dress sitting beside a golden yellow lamp shade. All she saw in the back-ground, was the austerity of dark brown walls and furniture. That was the gist of it. The thing she was dying to find was not there. It was yet to be born. Those clasped hands held the secret. She knew what she had to do – unlock the door with those lovely hands and leave … for some place, white, blue and green.

What are the chances . .?

Posted by kidsaregifts20

It was Tuesday, not my usual day to be working at St Thomas’ Hospital.
It was lunch-time and there was time enough for a proper break, which was extremely rare.
I was able to physically leave the Theatre complex for fifteen minutes, which was usually impossible.
I wanted to clear my head, so I went to the cafe, looking for a seat by a window. I was in my raspberry scrubs, wearing my most expensive necklace which is a green lanyard with my ID batch. The round table by the french doors had three chairs, of which one was occupied. I asked the older gentleman if I could share his table and he didn’t mind. As I sat down I noticed that his left arm was heavily bandaged. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked, ‘What brings you here?’
He looked straight at me and replied, “I tried to die.”
‘I am sorry you found yourself in that impossible place. Must have been terrible. Are you getting the support you need?’
“Yes. They’ve been very good here.”
‘I am glad.’ I paused to wonder if I should tell him but the words left without my permission.
‘You know, I lost my son to suicide a few years ago.’
His gaze connected with mine like a laser beam and his eyes moistened.
Softly, almost apologetically, he stated “When you are in that place, you can’t think about other people.”

Pause.

“Here comes my wife.”
Holding two paper-glasses and a brown paper bag, she joined us and placed one of the glasses in front of him. She took out a Jubilee cupcake from the bag to share.
“Have you traveled a long way today? I asked, shifting gear.
‘Sussex. Straight train. Not too bad.’
“Beautiful part of the world!”
‘Yes. But we lived in Australia for eighteen years which was really pretty. We came back to be with the children.’
“Nice. I wish you all the very best. I must get going now.”

‘Us too. Our appointment is in fifteen minutes.’ she said.
‘You take care’. He said, making that eye-connection with me again.
“You too.” I looked straight at him, nodded, smiled a polite smile and walked away.

(Resources for attempt survivors, their families and friends:

https://www.sprc.org/livedexperience/tool/resources-suicide-attempt-survivors-their-families-friends)