I am more a story writer than anything else, you know. Actually I am, like the wreck of a sunken ship, surrounded by wave of stories, which I have to write before I die. Lately I found these lines in my dream – and thought these would help in weaving a comedy for you, my readers…
I looked at the wedding invitation card – Joy and Riddhi are getting married! I opened Facebook – Joy uploaded their photos together – none of mine. In fact both of their Facebook pages are filled with their togetherness, in different postures – all showing how they are enjoying life together. My absence anywhere between them broke my heart. I the women at the wrong side of forties felt terrible seeing my love of life marrying his love of life. I opened the fridge, took some cold water. Even cold water failed to cool me down. I felt like shouting and crying and breaking things – but what to break? I looked around – a cane sofa and a glass center table, I bought it from an exhibition last year; breaking it would break my heart into irreparable pieces. I have an old television set at the corner, but that was once gifted by my brother, cannot break that at any cost. Then I saw the Bhutiya carpet on the floor. Breaking – oops, tearing that would be herculean job; impossible task for me. Then I looked at the kitchen, small one at one side of my tiny seating space – spotted some utensils and dishes and containers, breaking them would cost a lot – especially for a small-earning content writer like me. I found nothing that I could break. In the absence of anything breakable, how else could I exert my frustration but indulging myself into those soft and succulent rum cake pieces stored in my fridge? I finished them all and went to sleep. Fortunately it was Sunday.
In the evening I was sitting with my best friend – at least that’s what I perceived her at that time – in a roadside café. In fact we the homeless content writers working for multi-million dollar companies in the cyber city of the country could not afford any better sitting space than those discolored roadside eateries. I was sipping coffee; still fuming like a caged bison – regretting not having a pair of good horns rather than my ex-boyfriend’s forgetting his ex. My friend Avira was watching me. I hated her eyes – always seeking a chance to observe me. I was not lesbian, was not comfortable with an idea of a woman’s eye watching me; had to somehow allow her penetrating gazes not finding a man interested to watch me. Both were sipping coffee, I was fuming inside, she was observing me. I could not keep silence for long. ……..
It ain’t over till the fat lady sings – Wikimedia Commons