S I X

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[ i wish too much ]

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19th August 2020

This entry is about my dreams. Things I wish to accomplish; I might or might not have courage for it. 

Number 1: Ice skating. I have been reading books and watching way too many movies on ice-skating. It seems like a death trap; especially for someone who is utterly afraid of falling down and hurting myself. And it hurts triple on hard ice. But there is something so alluring about it, the way skates glide on frozen water, the way bodies bend, and fly, and gracefully land. The way its cold everywhere, and yet your body seems on fire, that adrenaline rush, that beauty, that power—looks so exhilarating. I really, really want to once learn or do ice-skating. Too bad, I live in a tropical country. But one day, I will do that do. 

Number 2 : Be courageous and stand up for myself. I won't lie, I cannot just stand up for myself. Or for others. I rather be a mute spectator and beat myself later for not standing up, but I just can't say things to others. I am too sensitive. And maybe coward too.

I so wish that like my best friend I can talk others down, I can tell people off; but I just can't. When my parents tell me to do something, I do it. When my sister or my brother fights, I do fight; but I leave it in middle, because I just don't know what's the point of fighting.

Which is so ironical, because I want to fight for rights, especially women's and gays', when I grow up. I want to be an activist, a big one. But that seems so impossible, since I can't fight for myself. That day, a guy, my ex-crush to be specific, made fun of me. Truthfully speaking, I wasn't offended. I am never offended when someone makes fun of me, because that represents who they are, not me. But a part of me was angry, because I couldn't tell him off. I couldn't say, ha ha, it's not funny, or something cool. I just stood there, my cheeks flaming, and lips laughing, brushing the matter aside. Why am I like that? I wonder, why.

Added : 19th August 2020

It's been five months in lockdown. No, nothing good has happened. But nothing bad either. I am just okay. I started writing stories, but it just isn't as cool as writing this diary. I confide my deepest secrets, my desires, my wishes. The best part about it is no one knows. My mom thinks I jot down notes, my dad thinks I just use it for regular stuff, and I managed to trick my sister to stay away from it. 

I don't think I would be embarrassed if someone reads it, because I am not going to be sorry for being myself. Maybe I put a façade for the world to see, maybe not. Sometimes I think, we all hide our true selves, because we are complex. We want the world to see the true us, but we are afraid of it's harsh criticism. Or maybe, we have been living as someone else, that it has become a part of us now.

This is my third wish, to never judge someone. I don't know, but a part of me loves making stories out of people faces, their expressions, and how they behave. I love making assumptions. Creating stories from their way of representing themselves. Like, that aunty keeps throwing hateful glares at the another girls and keeps whispering to her husband; she must be gossiping about her. Then, my own relatives who smile at our faces, and taunt us from behind. My friends are loyal—but my sister's friends' aren't. They always tell her that she is looking good in that dress, or following that Instagrammer, or watching that series—but then they always complain about her choices behind her back. 

I think this is one of the major reasons why I am always afraid of being in spotlight. That people will judge me. I never want someone to feel inferior or do something that don't wish too, because people will judge. People will talk. But people will always judge, people will always talk, that shouldn't stop ourselves from doing things. Yet, it does. 

We never really talk about what inspires us, what makes us happy, what makes us feel alive—especially not in high school—because everyone says it makes us look lame. But how can following something that makes happy; be lame? 

But it's easier said than done. Even if I am guilty of this. 

Added : (12th June 2021)

Number 4 : I wish to be happy. It's more of a figure of speech, but yes, I wish to be happy. Not elated all the time, just not sad all the time either. Or numb. Or angry. Just at peace. Sometimes, it seems as if I am asking for too much.

Added : (18th September 2021)

I wish to see the old world. The one which is described in historical fiction books. Wearing satin gloves— stark white ones— wearing pale gowns, so tight that I won't be able to breathe; drinking wine, and dancing with men. Running under the night sky, seeing the stars twinkling, and moonlight gracing my skin. 

Of course, the world was tough then, is tough now, but one night, one gentlemen, and one dance sounds splendiferous. 

In this world, in this era, I wish to run away. A road trip. Singing under the sun, passing through corn, wheat, sunflower fields, visiting every tourist place, dancing under the pulchritude skies, eating junk food, sleeping late, waking up late— something straight from movies; pretending that there isn't a whole world out there waiting for us.

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15th August 2021

Wait.

I am still waiting for that day.

The day I am okay enough to breathe without thinking about you every nanosecond. The day I am okay enough to go down and meet my friends, without glancing at your house, hoping I would catch you doing something. The day, I walk down the memory lane without breaking down.

There are so many such days.

The worse thing is that I hope too much. I know that there is literally no chance in hell that our lives would collide, but I still hope.

I hope that today might be the day that I will plucker enough courage to talk to you, without demanding answers for questions you aren't responsible for. I hope that today (by saturnalia's miracle) you might talk to me. Our paths might cross. We might finally cross the boundaries of awkwardness. That some way, I can finally get over what you did (accidently).

I hope too much and for all wrong things.

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We grow up so fast. One day we are joking about our careers, and the next thing we know, we are surfing internet, looking for colleges. One day, we are nudging each other, giggling about crushes, next thing we know, we are nursing a heartbreak. One day, we are questioning why things are the way they are, and the next thing we know, we are confirming or rebelling against the same rules and boundaries.

Why do my all entries sound so wistful?

I was going through the beginning ones--they were like ray of sunshine. So bright and cheerful. I felt a little better. I actually smiled you know!

And as I grew up, my entries became darker. Sadder. The ones in ninth grade are weirdly powerful, the ones in tenth are too hopeful, eleventh is just me being at mad at and everyone and society (i still am), and twelfth is just--ugh!

Is this what is like to be an adult. So sad, so unhappy, and regretting your choices and decisions?

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10th December 2021

I met you today. My heart flipped, I cried. Or I tried crying.

The weird thing is that I think I might be slowly falling out of love with you. I care, I still care a lot. So much that it fucking hurts.

But I don't love you as madly I did before.

I mean, I think so.

Today, I felt a little weird when you were down. The overwhelming urge to talk to you was still there, the urge to grace you with my presence, to make a conversation was still there—just not that much.

I didn't even feel that bad when you moved past me, without looking at me. Sure, I was hurt, but then again, not that much.

I am not making any sense, am I? I don't know, but this seems like a sign.

A sign to move on.

I don't believe in universal signs, or zodiac signs or stars or shit like that. But lately, with everything what's happening— with Kritika turning into a new leaf, with Anjali finally getting better, and my mom and dad listening to me, I think I CAN move on too. Anyways, by this time, next time I will be in college— somewhere far, far away from this place. 

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She curses, as her dupatta slips down her bony shoulders once again. Fisting it tightly in her hands, she pushes it towards her neck, hoping it doesn't fall again. Wearing a beautiful dress, filled with marigold flowers and small butterflies— sounds amazing, but isn't practical. 

This is the ninth time, someone has stepped onto her dress. She swears loudly, not caring for social ethics any more. 

 The guy mutters a quick sorry, and then stops seeing her. She stops breathing too, forgetting the melting ice-cream in her hand. Her heart flies right out her chest, as Siddharth stares at her. It's him. Wearing a simple brown kurta, he runs his hand through his stark black hair— a gesture so nostalgically familiar, that Amara's heart clenches. She slowly breathes out, hoping she doesn't faint. Clutching the ends of her dress so so tightly, she stares at him painfully. 

Movies lie— time does not stop. They both stare at each other, too befuddled with seeing each other at the wedding. People still rush past them, the priest shouting chants, the ladies gossiping around, the old uncles chewing the food too loudly—it seems as if the world is moving too fast for her to comprehend. Suddenly, Amara is glad she wore this dress. Her food turns into ash, her stomach feels queasy, as the music changes. It's worse now. The air seems colder, sharper, biting her suddenly. The chattering seems too loud; the clinking of spoons and forks; everything seems to suffocate her. 

He sees her face, something must have scared him, because he opens his mouth to say something and then closes it. Heaviness surrounds them both; so melancholic that even stars weep about it. They stand awkwardly, one having too much to say, another wishing to forget it all. One keeps fidgeting with his hands, other with her dress. 

Siddharth finally smiles awkwardly and leaves, muttering about soiled flowers. Amara watches him leaving— wanting him to stop, but having no idea how to do so. Her cheeks are flaming red, her heartbeat faster than a bullet train, she watches him disappear between the crowd. 

She forgets whatever she wanted to say. All these nights, she had been practising what she would say if she finds him, if she gets a chance to talk, so many ifs. And now, when the time is finally there, she forgets.

 Before she call him out, answer, her mom comes through the crowd, shouting her name. Amara doesn't remember what happened next. All she remembers is her mom dragging her away for some work— her mom being aware of her history with him, doesn't want her daughter within his five meter radius—as Amara stares helplessly, tears brimming her eyes.

She had one chance. She blew it away. 

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thoughts?