The ‘Girl’ Who Cried Helmet, Because It Was Thin.

a little less than kin, and far from kind

Roll Camera. Take 3. Action.


You who have come rolling all the way down my stairs, get a hold of yourself, rise up and into my apartment, onto the stage that’s my living room where that hoe’s enacting her play. Watch the play unfold as she acts like Romans, when in my little Indian-Rome. She is talking, all those sisters in law and whoever the heck they are to each other, my mum’s speaking, too. My father lets his words fall at intervals in this masquerade. They talk. We listen. Vice versa. Now I’m demonstrating one of the fake talks here. “Yes he’s opted biology,” this is my father’s infrequent voice answering a question, “and he is a bibliophile!” of course my mum’s tone is full of pride: literature flows in the maternal side of my family’s blood, and is passed down along with the eyebrows. Well, this tale, the brows, for another night perhaps. “Really! waah! (that’s one of the Indian exclamations) Ditto! I’m a bibliophile as well. I am soooo fond of reading,” she, the one who must not be named in front of me, spit. “He’s got himself a whole bunch of interesting books,” this was my beloved mum, stating out the genesis of ‘it all’. The progenitor of my never quenched hate. The serpentine-apple seed of my humanity’s infinite sorrow, in terms of quantity and time both. “Really! waah! (she pretends) please show me your collection, please.” Now, in India, a guest is never denied, no matter how wrong they are, no matter how first-classed-bitch they are, ever. Then how could a relatively newly-wedded bride-guest have been?

Moments later I walk toward my little home within home, with the villain of the story trailing right behind me. How could have I known? I was a kid back then! A kid who wished to flaunt his literate sack of dull pages decorated linearly on a wood piece on the wall. This trait, this act of being naive and inexperienced and trying to show over-excitement at times, when a more mature, intellectual person would have used his synchronized senses, is inherited down from my mother’s side along with literature love and brows. How was I to know it was inside me or even realize I was acting under the same self-inflicted hypnosis, or, for that matter, that it would be the death of me? Ignorant to all, a Narcissus, in love with his own shallow reflection, touches the thin arbitrary upper layer, moves the doorknob to the room of his infinite despair wherein he will always be captured, and got his beauty maligned unto a flower, for an eternity, trapped into a mere six petaled daffodil. I couldn’t do anything— I felt like a wallflower. be continued!