Emotional Plagiarism

The fudge packer

2008-10-25T21:59:00.000-07:00

As I sat next to him, watching his life bleed out of him, thoughts of our first encounter came flooding back. That night, that smile is all I could think about. Even then I knew that this would be inevitable; the day when I would sit by his death bed and curse the gods for forsaking me with this affliction, his affliction; our affliction. Another broken heart, another chamber of my heart that has been filled with crumbs of another soul, of another possibility. Another person that I must bury: Not figuratively, but literally, this time around. So I sit here and wonder whether on June 11, 2008, about the mistake I made. Did I make a mistake getting drunk? Did I make a mistake in falling in love? Did I make a mistake in talking, even though I was terrified, even though I thought he was ok?

His CD4’s started to decline six years after he found out. And right about the same time, I found him dancing to a house track by Chris Morales, the one that infuses meringue to a 118 to 135 bmp. It was nice to watch, he danced without a care. His presence was felt and everyone around him, from what I could gather, could only notice the energy that vibrated from his soul, like the vibrations of a small tremor, you knew that you were watching a wonder. He was not that remarkable, only that his presence was there. There was something odd about him, his eyes and his facial hair made him mysterious, coupled with his slightly pudgy exterior made him lovable. Every Italian mother’s dream, to have their son turn into this delightful creature that managed to grab the hearts of all the girls and boys, not by his looks but by his presence. So I watched and wondered and eventually it came to be that we were sneaking out to Fran’s on King to catch the midnight breakfast. There we ate and told our stories and our secrets.
And he turned me on and made me think that I could be held the way I should be held, loved the way that it was not possible. That moment could not be forgotten as my heart began to break, before I even fell in love. I knew then that he would leave, he would leave me and go, way before his time. So I ask, can you really fall in love with someone who has already broken your heart?

Two days later, I could not work, could not think; I could only muse about was his smell and the memory of sleeping with him that night. So that’s where it began, five years ago on that suicide bridge between Broadview and Castle Frank. As the sweat poured down my back, infusing into my MCE backpack, thoughts of ending it began. I knew, I had the premonitions then, I knew what was to come. As I walked high above the DVP, the steal wires reflected the sun. They were put there I guess by the authorities, far too many tried to end it. The drop was not that high but if you did decide to take the plunge, the ground below was quite rough, undeveloped and obviously this would be the killer, compounded with the impact.

As I contemplated my fate; I could think only about was the possibility of being with someone that would make me feel special. The things that I have been looking for was about to be staring at me in the face in a few days. Could I let this go, because he was a carrier? One wrong move, one lustful mistake could be the end of my life. The life that I had constructed so delicately; with so much effort and hard work. Only to be decimated by a ludicrously menacing illness that would rob me of everything I hold dear. That same night, as I sat in front of my mother, eating her chicken curry with bitter gourd, I could not help but disclose my feelings. I recalled how I was heart broken the year before as Manon left me with those simple words, “I think we should take a break” and the break never ended. During those days, I would sit on the sofa and just stare at the television. She would be there, most of the time and she would ask, what’s the matter my child. One day I had enough courage to tell her: manamm knowuthu amma. Those words are so hard to translate, the closest words that allow the transmission of the right sentiment would be “my heart, my feelings and my emotions hurt mom”. It is strange, the limitation of language to express the simplest sentiments. Like that, this was similar too. As we sat there and talked, I just wanted to tell her: mom, I am a fudge packer, fucking faggot and guess what, my soon to be boyfriend will die of a disease that you think only afflicts the sinners. As I began to tell her, I could not muster the truth. So I made up a story about life being hard and how a friend of mine had just discovered that her boyfriend had the disease. Even before I could finish, she said, I worry about you my child. You go around with god knows who and I just worry. Right then and there I knew the totality of the love that she had in her heart. No matter whether we happened to be the whore, the homo, the alcoholic or the domestic, she would love us unconditionally.

Standing on the cliffs of the wondrous mountain, next to the plains of Cornwall, near Lizards Point and the Atlantic made me realize that the heart and soul that I have been searching for is one that has been looking back at me. The thought of the last time I saw him, sitting on that stoop near King Street seemed so far. The Fudge Packer and his dreams of grandiose love seem to be nothing but a façade for the mediocrity that exists within. It is an attempt at trying to hide the lack of essence, the true essence that is possible.

The Whore cont'd

2008-06-25T19:54:00.000-07:00

As she walked the streets of Manipai, she screamed at them; scolded them for their inability to see reality. The reality that she knew existed, a postmodern truth that could only be availed by looking at the binaries of existence. Reifying the truth, their unreal and her real, she would recast it to them, so that they would awake from their delirium.

The doctors had prescribed Prozac and Valium, but she was wiser. She knew that their concoctions would only limit Kali’s influence over her. So she dropped the pills as she walked out of the office- only to be cast out as the nutcase that would rain on and on about the fallacies of the world.

Have you ever imagined that the world we live in was a lie, that those that speak out of turn, those that would question, those that have been deemed as the radicals and the village idiots are the ones who in fact are sane? Well this was her reality. She thought us to be crazy, to be filled with delirious ideas of reality that were impossible to be reality. For her the truth lied in the heart, in the abstract and nuanced world that her mind and her subconscious delivered. The truth for her was cast in front of her, through her eyes and ears. Her world was one where the trees and birds spoke to her, where the grass whispered the conspiracies of the sky and the night; where the lone crow, through its cawing revealed the imminent dangers of the shells that were marked with death.

The crow’s message would save her that day in January when the Market was shelled out of existence by the Helicopters, built in the backalleys of a bombardier plan in Montreal Quebec. She knew to avoid that location thanks to the crow and his wisdom. But her neighbor, the one that made the stale rice with the chutney was not so fortunate. For him, she longed for, wishing that she could have taken him as her new beau, instead of the disheveled toddy tapper, that furnished her with his sweet elixir.

In her mind, the toddy-tapper was exquisite, representing the true Jaffna ideal- the hypocrite patriarchal delusions of grandeur. All the men in the village would frequent his hut to buy the sweet elixir that would taint their sights and hearts, make them behave like the blasphemous backyard peasants they hated so much, after having consumed enough of the fermented Palmyra blossoms. But none would allow the toddy tapper or his kin to enter their land, their homes or even so far as to gaze at their women. This would be the ultimate disgrace. To her, she knew the fragility of the argument that they had envisioned, based on years of oppression, propagated to sustain a societal structure that would be their demise. Thus, she allowed him to enter her and leave himself within her. She believed, as she was told by the myna bird, that the only way to reveal the façade created by the society was to take him on as her lover, then they would see that he was just like them, equal in parts and sum. With similar interests and emotions, with nothing less to loose than them.

In his eyes, he was doing her a favour by fulfilling her human needs. In some bizarre way, this was his revenge on this elitist nomenclature that had tormented him. Ever since he was a child, he was not allowed to play with his neighbours children even though he lived behind their house and was about the same age. Once he even heard the neighbours wife call him and his sister, those ‘parayas’ and she continued to say that he was only fit to become a cadre in their self-determination struggle. The frontline force that would enter the battlefield, to loose their lives for the cause that they will soon forget, once the infighting begins.

Similarly, She knew that on July 23rd, the trains would be filled with bodies, tainted with corruption as they bleed their way home. It was the gecko, her nightly suitor that had revealed this to her. As his songs infiltrated her heart and her mind, visions of the blood stained trains rolling into the Jaffna station was what she encountered as she closed her eyes to sleep. These bastards had robbed them of their so-called gift once the colonizers had left. Little did they know that this was the actual intent of the colonizers, to create a fragile space that could be re-colonized under a new rubric of democratic ideals and rights based rhetoric. So the peasants, not knowing any better attacked those that were privileged by their former master. For them, the lack of food was a sufficient reason to attack the northerners- could you really blame them? And the merchants and well to do elites, those that had managed to make a living off the backs of their brothers were now the target of racial and ethnic hatred. As the night fuelled the darkness, the evil in the eyes of the peasants became more and more apparent. They looked for all of the demalu in their neighborhood, so that they could rob them and kill them as their leaders had asked. As the leaders of the patriotic state sat sipping tea in the leftover tea cups of the colonial master, their new servants carried out their orders- kill the demalu, kill the demalu at all cost.

And then she awoke, shaking and crying in her bed in her room that she shared with her sister- the domestic. She could not help the tears, it fell out of her without warning and she then finally let go. She had managed to subdue her anger, her tremors and her nightmares; but this was fierce, like nothing she had experienced. She actually felt the fear and pain as if it actually happened. As she stared at her sisters homely face, she knew that something was wrong. Kali had never ever given her a vision of such clarity. She had experienced these truths previously but not this extent. She could not forget the bodies that the gecko had visualized- as if they were in front of her. At that moment, she called out to her mother- AMMMMAAAA, Ammma, where is Appa?

The Whore:

2008-05-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

She dreamt of Kali and her offspring, the hybrid beast that would chase her away from her slumber and into a fit of panic most nights. She could see and feel the beast’s teeth and the hiss of its tongue; a half snake half hyena hybrid. Kali’s image would haunt her too, like her pet, but to varying degrees. Sometimes she would relish in the knowledge that Kali would visit her when she slept. Relish because it was a true escape from the hell that was her life. The mediocrity and tediousness of her life, from birth to now seems unbearable.

She was born into a civil servants household in Vellan, the eldest daughter of four children. Yet her fate was decided before she even got there. Someone had cracked open a white pumpkin in the front garden of her grandmother’s home, which she would later inherit through the dowry scheme, while her mom was in delivery. The perpetrators must have prayed for a whole night, they must have slaughtered a rooster, whose blood they used to wash the pumpkin in with cumin and saffron to create the evil spell. And this would be the precise moment in which Kali entered her life: as she left her mothers womb, Kali waited for her at the foot of her crib to bring her into her world of darkness and magic. She would later think herself to be special, someone blessed with the dark lord’s presence to which she had attributed her beauty and intelligence.

When she was nine, she realized that she was her grandmother’s favorite. The old woman had taken to her from birth, her sister was cast aside as the domestic whose role was relegated to the outlier of the family circle; forever destined to be the keeper of the broom even into her old age. The old woman was the talk of her village when she was young. Her beauty unparalleled, her hazel eyes and her long black hair, topped with her fair brown milky skin only made the men desire her even more. She was the true radiant beauty, whose linage is somewhat dubious. The back corridors of her house would whisper the dark secret, her mixed blood heritage that was hidden from all, to persevere the air of superiority that is passed down from generation to generation. By watching her grandmother, she knew how to use her charms and she quickly learned how to use her powers to her advantage, like the red hibiscus. Her beauty resembled the flower, alluring to the eye but shrivels and dissipates as the night approaches. Her true self revealed when the night falls, her true embodiment of darkness and its utter cruelty. To her, the night was the time she could be herself, like her true master.

The older boys in her school used to tease her, but she could tell what was in their eyes. Her popularity was becoming noticeable and she too would become enthralled and entangled by its web. She had this way of playing with people, even at that young age. The way her eyes moved displayed the most mischievous and malevolent parts of her and she did not use them sparingly.

The first man whose knees she made quiver was her father’s. From the moment he held her in his arms for the first time, he knew that she would make his life fruitful. That moment was a joyous one, one which could never be replaced. She was his star and she proved herself to be worthy of a son. Yet he was disappointed that god had decided to give him a man-child in a female body. He had hoped that his first boy would be like her, as boisterous and cleaver; but he was docile and moody. From this moment onwards, the whore was molded, relying only on her inherent ability to sense the fallacies that people create, to use these fallacies to her advantage to get to some unknown destination.

The Fudge Packer

2008-04-10T20:49:00.000-07:00

Hundred years of solitude was my favorite book. It spoke to me, its rhythm and its lyrical proses elevated the characters vitality to an impossible level, so I thought. And through this story my story came to be; many years of solitude lived in isolation away from anyone that could harm me. Strange to think that words on a page could signal the revival of a spirit cast away for its sheer existence. A true post-structural existence: The binaries of assimilation and subjugation colluded to create an atmosphere of tolerance and affection. In other words, the self was forced to exile itself to the detriment of its true self, for the sake of the other. The words of Marquez, in his brilliant story of the search for self awoke a sentiment of agency. Fuck the structurlists and their assimilatory ideas, the self needed to be liberated and emancipated like the shackled wolf left to die, in an attempt to placate the world filled with bunnies. Hapless and motionless twits and their inability to think for themselves: a true Orwellian reverie.

Accidental logic is the only way that I can explain my ways and even my thinking. The term itself is contradictory and means nothing for the reasonable man. Its meaning as conceived in my mind however is the quintessential raison d’etre of yours truly. So it all began at the age of nine; I used to dream of floods and murder, of mutiny and sex; in my isolated world filled with imaginary wars and epic battles between the gods.

I guess to understand, I need to take you through my years of solitude and therefore it did truly begin at the age of three. I have vague recollections of this. Crawling towards my father on the veranda, the jasmine blossoms intoxicating aroma pulling me to reach for his big toe. My father however was too engrossed in the Sunday Times, which he had had delivered from the Capital, which in turn was brought in from London I presume. My mother was busy in the kitchen or she was probably looking for one of them. I had no other choice, he was it, there was no one else that I could play with. So I crawled as fast as I could towards him and pulled on his big toe. He did not notice and after many attempts, I was distracted by the golden cat my sister was so fond off. Its claws had already left a few marks on my face but I was not to be defeated. So I started to crawl after it, its tail awkwardly teasing me. As I went after it, through the living room and the dinning room, then through the back veranda, he did not notice that the last addition to the household whose birth signaled a shift in the aligned stars, was about to leave his care and enter a world that was unprotected, filled with land mines. He was too caught up in the real life drama of the six Americans posing as Canadians to escape the Ayatollah to realize that his toddler was no longer with him on that Sunday afternoon. He had completely failed his wife and this story would haunt him to his deathbed.

There I was, in search of that bloody golden cat whose presence I could intuitively sense. Once I had managed to get myself from the back veranda steps to the garden, I was sure that I would be able to be with my prized pet. So I followed it to the jack fruit tree, from there to the lime tree, past the chicken coop. From that point on, once I saw the silver flashes emanating past the Palmyra groves, I could not resist. It was haunting me even more than the cat, it was beckoning me to enter its realm to live its reality. So like true solider, I made my way to the edge of the garden just by the patty fields. From that point on it all happened so fast, but rest assured, it was the beginning of the 100 years. As I reached the edge of the small namesake fence, it was no obstacle. I easily moved past it and within three seconds, I was in the water. Before I knew it, the sliver flashes were from the large body of water situated just behind my room that I saw everyone night as my mother lulled me to sleep. Its history is as old as the house; its where the sand that was used to build the house came from or some of it. The pit was quite large and for a toddler, it was an ocean. During the hot Jaffna summers, it was empty but during the monsoon season, the continuous downpour filled its belly full. For me, it was an experience that I could not pass up or so I must have thought and the idea to jump in did not seem so unreal. But little did I know that I could not swim and in 5 minutes, probably after a few attempts at keeping afloat my body weight must have given in. I started to sink and finally my tiny little arm pointing up to the heavens, slowly returned to the years of the known solitude.

Before I knew it, I was being prodded and poked, my mother’s hysterical sobs falling on my face as she pushed at my chest to breathe life back into my motionless body. I could feel the water coming out of my lungs and along with the water, the tadpoles, hundreds of them that I must have swallowed. As I began to cough up the liquid left in my stomach, I could hear the fear and love in my mother’s breaths. But I could not sense him he was just standing there with his paper folded neatly, so as not to crumple it. He just stood there, not saying a word and I knew then that this was the beginning of my many years of solitude. I was the precarious and boisterous offspring that came to them ten years too late. And now it became even more evident that he could not physically be there and it became evident to both, the father and me the son that he was not there mentally either.

From this moment on, I built my castles in my mind and played with my imaginary knights and dragons. The foundations of walls were being instituted, in preparation for the big opening, the true one hundred years of solitude that I imposed on myself, so that he would not feel sad and bitter about his abnormal seed.

The Domestic

2008-03-31T18:10:00.000-07:00

She had been sitting on that particular bench, dubbed the lovers seat by the locals for the last four hours, over looking the pacific ocean. She did not know why or how she got there; but she does recall dropping her son off at school that morning. Like every Tuesday morning, she awoke to find him fast asleep, hugging his bear that her brother brought him when he was here last year. The thing was so cute when they brought it home, a demented version of Yogi bear covered in black spots. It has a red ribbon around its fat neck. And did he love it, that dirty looking thing. She had tried to wash it so many times, but he would start to scream the minute it went into the hamper, he would throw one of his tantrums and she like the good dotty mother, would then retrieve it out of the hamper and place it back in its position next to his bed.

Now she sits here like a vagabond with nowhere to go, waiting for her watch to tell her its time so that she could go and pick him up from school, then her life would be hers again. A week ago, she was happy. Her husbands erratic behavior did not unnerve her, rather it consoled her and made her feel normal. Then it happened, she awoke with the horrible memory of what had happened to her when she was nine. All she could think about was the blood soaked sheets that she lay in and the dark voice telling her to go to bed. It was like a dream and the dream now seems like a reality. She had no clue before that this was an intricate part of her life. She had left the village when she was 16 along with her sister to go study in the land of the billions. Her father’s promise of betterment never came, only failures and mediocrity. The nuns used to tell her that if she tried hard enough and prayed enough, then she would pass her O levels.

But these days, all she has are those memories that haunt her beyond belief. Never in a million years did she think it were possible that she was the subject of such a brutal act, of such violence. Now it all makes sense, her rage that she used to unleash on him, the child’s father for leaving the dishes in the sink. For not filling the hamper with the dirty clothes and leaving it for her to pick up off the closet floor. She used to think that he was doing it on purpose but now in hindsight, the two jobs and all the bills must in some way distract the poor guy. She could not understand herself and slowly the anger creeps its way back into her heart: like the way it used when she was young. She would go and hide in the Palmyra groves from her sister and her endless chatter about school, how the nuns loved her so and her pathetic little brother whose existence was in itself a sham. Her mother had him when she was nine and when she was delivering her pathetic little brother, she was soaked in blood.

She despised that little fucker and his cuteness, his very existence disturbed her to the core. He epitomized everything that she hated in the world, from her father to her no good uncles and she prayed that one day, that little fucker would end up like them her uncles, on the street with the stench of toody oozing out of his pours for all to see. This hatred fueled her need to escape, throw up everything she had consumed and jump right out of her skin. For this sole reason, she would run and hide in the groves where none would find her. Here she would create her mystical realm in which she ruled as the gentile but firm Princess of Vlan. From the day she had started this foray into the groves, she had instituted a very nuanced ritual of sorts, which may shed light on her current neurosis; the incessant need to clean and keep up the façade that everything is clean as a sanitized hospital.

The ritual started with something quite simple: she would move the rocks into position and sweep away the debris with her make shift broom. She would then, remove all the Palmyra leaves and the bird droppings, one by one. Then she would polish the rocks that she had named until her little fingers would turn red, almost to the point of breaking the skin. Then she would create her realm, where she felt fortified. Deep down inside, she knew that she had about an hour until she head that voice beckoning her back to reality where she would have to face another miserable day.

the alcoholic from The domestic, the alcoholic, the whore and the homo- ‘in no particular order’

2008-03-24T18:11:00.000-07:00

The day he got on that plane, Bangkok bound, his life changed forever.

Those sleepy days, underneath the mango grove staring at the Palmyra ridden horizon, are a distant memory now as he sat in that uncomfortable economy class seat. He was promised a good aisle seat; he went to the best travel agent in those days near what is now liberty plaza. His uncles (the annoying bastard husband of his fathers sister) best friends brother’s neighbor sold him apparently what were discounted tickets on Singapore Airlines. In those days, the plane would do a few landings before getting its passengers to their destination. For him, it was Kentucky, in the land of the free. So he forked out fifty thousand rupees for that seat and the hotel in Bangkok and Seoul.

During the take off, he reflected back on his journey all the way from Pandatheripu, on that bloody bus, stocked like sardines in that Jaffna heat. He remembered saying goodbye to his mother as she stood at the gate with his sisters and his brother clutching his mother’s housecoat. Those words, her last words to him still rang in his ears: “be safe and come back to us soon my son”. Even 30 years later, those words would still ring true and denote the bittersweet irony of the plight that was bestowed on him. Maybe she should not have pawned her Thali, maybe she should not have pawned her rings and her land to send her eldest to the land of the free only to be treated as a ‘sandnigger’, only worthy of cleaning toilets. He knew that she had no clue about the stark reality that awaited him, the ghastly and lonely nights, wanting to see a familiar face in that bitter Kentucky cold.

As he sat there, little did he know what awaited him in the next few hours, few days, few months and few years. At the moment, his bitterness and sadness at the long goodbye at the airport to his father was being slowly replaced by the idea that he was the first Tamil from Jaffna to be given this prestigious prize; the only one from St. Josephs to have been chosen to take part in this elitist competition. Yet he managed to win the prestigious ASF scholarship, created for the colonized as a way to placate their ultimate and secret desire of become like their white masters.

He studied day and night, memorized every term, every equation and he got it. All those nights, that he had to put up with his pervert of an uncle trying to have sex with his aunty while they thought everyone was sleeping. They seemed so oblivious of him as he sat at the dinner table right next to their bedroom, which they shared with their oldest. He could hear her whispers and his demands for more.

He was so proud at that moment and he could sense the envy from all his peers, as they nodded in that colonized manner while listening to how he managed to complete the impossible test with record time.

And his mind raced, as he thought about all those that have failed him, especially his father and how he managed to neglect his sickly eldest. He recalled every wound that he had, even when he was five, from Atopic eczema. He remembered his father callous attempts at placating his sickly child. The only thing that would calm him at nights, as he itched, was his mother soothing songs, all taken from the latest Tamil mega hits, shown at the local theaters.

And now, he sits in that dark dingy tavern some where in the outskirts of Lexington, Kentucky waiting for his foster brother to pick him up for the countless time. As he stares in to that scotch on the rocks, he can see the reflection of his barely open eyes. The bartender is keeping a close eye on that sandnigger he heard him say, he was known for his short temper and his rowdy cloured friends. He can barely look up and see the row of glasses in front of him; the wine glasses, the pint glasses and the plastic shot glasses.

As he drinks himself to death, he remembered, the day he got on that fucking plane, that changed his life and wished that things were different. He wished that he was not so fortunate to have witnessed the dead carcass of his child or rather the fetus. He just wishes that he would have never won that scholarship.

The domestic, the alcoholic, the whore and the homo- ‘in no particular order’

2008-03-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

Confessions; Day 1

Confessions are the fallacies that we hide; they are the wrinkles that we disappear; they are the little wounds that we remember; they are the little rocks that we accumulate and we store in our deepest closets; confessions are the image that we see when we look in the mirror. But for some, it needs to be exposed so that we can move on with our lives. So today, I have had an epiphany and I have decided to disclose my secret in a confessional that I may one day regret.

Before I start sounding like an usher melody, I am confident in saying that I am in the truest sense, ready. Ready for all that is there for me and for all that is not. I am not sure what I am doing at the moment; but I know that someday this will be what I leave behind, for those that may care to pursue the complexities that have been my so-called life.

This for you my sister and I am telling this story for your son. So that he may get to know who his relative was and why he was the way he was. There is no secret, everyone has a story and every story is worth telling, but it depends on the way it was told.

Tomorrow is another day, filed with the elixir that I deny myself, deny because its not
something I want to be controlled by in the future.

Confessions; Day 2

The future is what I am looking forward to but this future is the Holy Grail that I cannot find. I am sure one day I will make it there, but that day at this juncture is not within the mists that have been conjured by the Delphic oracle that has cast the story of my present. So what is the story and what is the catch? Why I am running, why am I more interested in Friends and Fraiser than what I have to say?

Confessions are those things that I have been hiding from myself. Like the moment when she told me that she was raped. While we sat on the bed in that lonely apartment, overlooking the largest concentration of people in North America, she dropped the bombshell that has shaped my ethos and my life to this point. It has made me make certain decisions, out of fear of becoming like them, out of sheer determination not to end up like them. I have sought for so long to make my own name and I have chosen the path none amogst us has ever attempted, because of the lie that began that day. At the moment it was told, I was never really sure of its veracity nor its validity, but because of my upbringing and what had been ingrained, I accepted it as the holy truth told from the chosen one- one that can never lie, the one that never falters, the one that can never be wrong. Based on those falsities, my hatred began and now it has brought me to a point where I am at a crossroads, one path leading to my future and another leading to hidden denials and a life filed with confined shackles that will hold me forever.

Confessions are all that I have, are all that I want for and all that I am able to give at this point.

I want to tell you something, I am tired…I am really tired of lying and pretending to be something that I am not. I just want you to understand where I am at this point- I really want you to understand. As the person who knew me for me, who the person who I am about to become. You are the only one that understands, perhaps because of your fallings and your attempted history. Mine is just taking root and I want to share it with you and yours.

The crossroads that I spoke of before has another path, a path that I am about to choose, at the expense of you and your kin, my kin and all that has made me. Please understand that I must take this road, this is the trail for me; revealed through the my senses and my intuition that is my guides. I am afraid and I do not know whether you will understand or ever speak to me. For that matter, I am not sure if anyone will ever speak to me after this is over.

Confessions take you through the unforgiven path, it is never redeeming but self-assuring. Confessions are the token coloured that need to be brought into the fold to give legitimacy to the whole endeavor. They are the unspoken truths that no one ever wants to know about, but without which the whole farcical event would have never taken place. I want legitimacy for me, for my life and my future.

Confessions are those nasty little things that you have to put aside abruptly and try not think about them when they appear. They are the things that cause disgust and the things that taboos are made of. As Kinsey noted in his study of the human male, sexuality is nothing but a continuum and this continuum starts with your father.

Veranda

2008-03-12T19:35:00.000-07:00

AS I stood on the VERANDA of my home
Looking at the bougainvillea
Smelling the Jasmine

ALL those memories of my home
That is NO longer
ANGER then rage
As I face the truth of no return
Like Saturn
Seems so far away from me

As I stood on the Veranda
The scent of the cooking on the wood stove
Fills me those smells
That I shall never encounter

Looking out the Window near my Veranda
Saw the snakes dancing in their ritual
Pitiful to think that I shall never see again
ALL I can remember is the sense of home
That I can never have

AS I stood on my Veranda
Shells fell from the sky
AFRAID to go into the bunker
The dark, Cobras, Pythons and AK’s

As I STOOD on my Veranda
Made me ASK why are we the targets
Of such barbarity
Silence is ALL I could muster
About the master that has us on his leash
WITH his claws

As I stood on my Veranda
I saw the bullet holes being filled
Doors being replaced, fences being mended
Bricks being laid on top of those scattered ashes
Of THOSE that have departed

Then I awoke on my veranda….
(Mtl, Quebec, 1992)

True Blackmail made clear

2007-08-02T08:55:00.002-07:00

The end that came was not what I had expected nor would wish on anyone. Hindsight may be twenty-twenty, but when it comes to the blackmail that I create and recast, there is something that must be said about hindsight. After the first bout with the boyhood innocence, I should have known better, that when you cast the net so wide and deep, you are bound to catch something that may not be suitable or inherently good for you. Yet I tried again.

So I forced myself to walk the streets to find it, I looked everywhere- under every rock (literally)… and everything that I found I took for face value without judgment and or second thought. God, I thought, maybe, let it be the one that I want. So that I don’t have to be like Scott T, my worst nightmare and his concocted character sitting on the Secondcup steps on Church. He talked about every weekly encounter, every nightly trade, like it meant nothing. I could not imagine that; my life would not be that and I would not allow it to be that. I have to have something better, better than this loneliness. So that is the root of it all, the real depth of the blackmail stems from that sole point. So I created you in my head, from the day we met to the last day I saw you, I thought you were the one, the one that would be for me- forever. But Ben Harper had it right, nothing is forever when you talk about forever and I should have known better. Well I did, my subconscious did, but my heart would not allow it. So I fell or rather forced myself to fall for your fake and insincere smile because I thought you had to love me. I could not imagine the possibility of rejection from someone like you but when that possibility seemed real, I could not conceive it. I thought I had spun the web along with my blackmail so well that it would not happen- it could not. No no it would not be possible at all. But in the end, it is I who stands with the broken something or other, coming to the hard and fast realization that the forced and imagined realities are nothing more than illusions. These will not be of comfort when you are alone at night.

I was alone at night and so I thought these words would bring you back; make you into my imagined reality. But in the end, you chose the path that was right for you and I am glad you did, as this is the right path for me. These words at that moment of weakness signaled a departure from the norm, a shift from the status quo and I thought that this would be enough. So I said Words are all I have left:

I miss your smile
I miss your smell
And I miss the way your mouth curls up when you sleep

I miss the way you drool
I miss the way you curl into my arms
And I miss the way you recoil at the thought of my tongue running down your spine

I miss us
I miss you
And worst of all, I miss the man I was when I was with you

So baby tell me please
That you are mine; that I am yours
And that we will get past this

What do you say my sweet gentile man
Or is that man nothing but a figment of my imagination
Concocted to fulfill those dreams of love and wanting

You say you want love
Love is all I have given you
But is that not enough for you to try and work through this

If not for you, I need not be here
And if I don’t have you, then I will not be here
So tell me baby, will you be mine now and maybe a bit more
Till the day we grow grey and cant stand no more?

And now that I read these words, I realize the falsities of the emotions that I once felt- false because it was heightened by my sense of not wanting to be alone, by my need to be loved and now all that seems so insignificant right now. As I reconnect with my family and realize the roots of my history; it all becomes apparent and insignificant- whether you loved me or not. At that time, I thought you would complete me to use the age old cliché, that your love was enough. But now, you are nothing but a sad projection of what I can have and what I deserve. So take your love, take your pathetic bisous and your TQM, please and leave me be. Leave my heart, leave my soul and disappear like the sand in the southern wind or so she thought me to say.

Keep your words, keep your love and take back your letters.

Take these words, take your sentiments of un-originality, take your smile and vanish as I am burying you in the depths of my heart and mind. And I realize that you are nothing but a projection of what I want and what I need, you were not able to give me what I need or what I want. Almost making you love me is not enough. And that is how it ended. You came with smiles and hugs, and then you told me that you did not want me. Then the true realization of the blackmail became so apparent as we eat those burgers. The life that I spent with you, the year and something seems so insignificant and almost worthless. But I must be true to myself and my feelings. When I think of you and us, I realize that you were looking for a friend, a friend that would give you comfort and strength, but not expect anything from you in return. But that is not reality and not being true to what we had. So reality kicked in, you pushed me away and took what was easy, like before. You had to protect yourself and decided to leave me in the cold. Yet the cold is what I needed to realize the reality of what I had done to myself and allowed you to do- blackmail. The truth of our blackmail is that we were not willing to tell the truth. I want what I want- my choices are way more important than you and your choices are way more important than me. So what we had was nothing but a façade that we both concocted to allow each other to flourish under the auspice of love. I can’t blame you and I don’t want to- but the reality is more and more apparent. You used me and I allowed it because I conceived you as someone who could not hurt me again, as someone who is true and faithful. But in the end, this was my own creation and my sentiments of love and affection were rejected in a tragic way, where you kissed me goodbye in the subway while it stopped at Dundas station and I thought I would see you again like before. But these are all my projections and I realize that you don’t love me and maybe, in my mind, you never loved me. And this is where it begins and ought to end. Where I realize the truth about my ability to create the blackmail and let you think that you can do whatever you want to… but in fact you cant. You knew it and I know it now, that you were not the one. But I thought I could make you into the one, that I could mould you into what I want- but that was not fair. So now I write, tell my woes and realize that my blackmail is defeatist and only self-deprecating.

And with these words, the true blackmail has been exposed and I realize If I am not for myself, who am I? And if I am only for myself, what would I be? And if not now, then when?

True Blackmail cont'd

2007-07-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

I remember the first time that I saw him, standing there in the background, never really materializing. Strange though, we were all standing in a circle by the secondhand bookshop shooting the shit, and I remember someone saying hello to him. He was not really in the circle, he was standing behind someone, like he was watching us or waiting for someone or even expecting someone to acknowledge him so that he can re-materialize and this would in fact reorder things and make him normal. He was totally uncomfortable in social situations, not knowing what to do, half wanting to run away and the other half wanting to hug everyone. The boyhood innocence was remarkably strong that I felt this strange sense of love immediately. He was standing there, moving nervously while holding a can of coke. The black hat and the black jacket went well with his persona, the little boy lost in the world of adults. Not knowing how to talk to us and how to share all the weird and revolutionary ideas.

And then it begins, the blackmail, like all other instances of desire and longing, my lies take over, converting every sweet and innocent gesture into something despicable and grotesque. Turning that sweet innocence into what I know, what most of us know- that the world is mad and we are madder for trying to fit in. Trying to break the mold and think ourselves normal, only to realize at some point that this is nothing but a façade. True human nature can only be exposed at those moments of weakness and vulnerability. His vulnerability, to some extent has its roots in rejection and abandonment, which all too well help create the boy that stood before us by the secondhand bookshop.

On the 8th of July 1982, she woke up next to him. After 2 years of knowing him and participating in all the riots and demonstrations, he still seemed like a stranger. She always had to remind herself that this was her boyfriend. The man that she had always envisioned was not lying next to her, but rather the epitome of every average English fathers fears. He was there on a student visa (and as an athlete). That’s how they met, she the innocent virgin from the midlands and he the star swimmer from the orient. They were the talk of the university when they first got together, all the pretentious English girls could not get enough. The snickering and the dirty looks that she got everywhere she went. But she passed it off as being jealousy. What would these chavs know about what he had to offer? His knowledge of the world, a completely different culture and the way he made love. God they were such fools for not realizing it. But then she had nothing to compare him too, but all she could think about though, day in and day out, was when their next encounter would be. She had orchestrated so many rendez-vous where their emotions had taken over- it was becoming dangerous. If her father found out, she knew she would be pulled out of university and she would have been forced to get a job in the local factory like her mother. The irony of it was that she was only child and that alone would have made them realize that she deserved something better. But no, they were stuck in their old ways. She knew what the reaction would be at home, if she ever dared to bring him home. She only knew full well that the house would be filled with tension when they would initially enter. Then they would start drinking and their tongues would loosen into saying what their hearts were thinking. Then she would feel utterly ashamed and disgraced, not only in front of him but also in front of them. They had always managed to do it to her, always forced her into silence, into submission. Like a good old English girl, she had to behave as if she lived in the 18th century. Their pride and joy, the only reason, her father would say, during moments of intense happiness, why he was put on this earth: To look after his little princess. But little did he realize that his princess has now grown up and is about be someone’s white queen to taken back to Baghdad.

She knew that THAT day would arrive when he would ask her, but she secretly, in a very demented way, longed for that day and yet wished it would never happen. She knew that if it did, then she would have to make a choice, between them and him. At this point in her life, gosh she was only 19 she would not and could not think about loosing any of them. She needed her family, financially, emotionally and most of importantly she would be lost without them. They made her into what she is and what she will be. No matter how she might wish that they would change and give her more freedom, she relished in their security. The thoughts of being on the train back home, knowing that they will be waiting for her, knowing that her dad would have come to the station 20 minutes earlier just in case the train was early only gave comfort and strength. Ironically for all the things she loved in her parents, she saw something different in his eyes. He was hungry, hungry for something that she could not clearly see. The sheer ambition and drive was similar to what she used to watch on TV, the American dream. They would struggle and starve to make something better of themselves and their motto: reach for the stars. Make themselves more happier, smarter and off course richer.

With him, he took it a step further and that’s what scared her the most. But she knew, the minute he opened his mouth she was like putty. His words and the way he spoke to her only made her tingle. His accent, the smell of his body, his smooth, small body that he had perfected all these years served its purpose well. Like that she knew that the day would come and she knew that she would be forced to make a decision, a rash and sudden decision. Little did she realize that it would be so soon.

When she woke up next to him in their horrible London flat, she had this strange feeling in her stomach, like she was going to throw up. She had not had anything to eat yet, but she was feeling more and more nauseous. She was starting to get worried maybe it’s one of those super bugs that Raj always goes on about. Maybe she had been hanging out with the Pakis too often. Maybe he was right, those guys are into weird shit, and maybe she got a third world virus. Only god would know…She could not bring her self to vomit anywhere in the room. Even though they have shared so many intimate moments, she could not do this in front of him. So she slowly climbed out of that old bed and made her way to the bathroom. She knew she had to get in there quick, any other movement and she would spew everything that was inside of her on the floor. It should not have mattered; the floor would have looked better spotted with vomit. Those old flats in Nottinghill were renowned for their decay and he had managed to find the perfect one too. The toilet never flushes, you have to pour water into the commode and hold the valve open so that the water pushes everything down. Even the kitchen was the same.

As she entered the bathroom, she could no longer contain herself. She knelt down, next to the bowl and retched till she woke the neighbors. She could feel her stomach turning and she could feel everything she had for lunch the day before come out in a such a vengeful way. She could not image what could be causing this. She had not fallen ill in this way since she was a child. Oh how she longed to have her mother and her grandmother around her now. The presence of strong women always made her feel alive and sturdy, they would be able to diagnose her quickly and prescribe a remedy just as quickly. After throwing up everything she had consumed for the past two weeks, she just sat there, unable to move or even to call for him. She then realized the amount of noise she made, Saeed could not have slept though it. Slowly she realized that he had been standing there pacing up and down, she could see his shadow through that little space between the floor and the door. God, she thought what I am going to tell him, that I am ill and that I need to go home. That she had to go home straight away. She could not stand the thought of lying to him but she had no choice. What else could she do, she needed the help of her flatmates, they would know. So she slowly washed herself and put on his robe. As she slowly opened the door, he quickly turned around to face her; the sheer look of worry on his face, like something terrible had happened was all she could see. She just began to cry, not knowing what to do, she was so frightened and she just wanted to be in his arms. She could not stand the thought of leaving him, but she knew she had to. She needed to figure out what was happening to her. Then it suddenly dawned on her, all her mothers premonitions, all her mothers advice before she left for university. “Whatever you do hon, do not get PREGANAT, like those loose women in the City. You know what you father and I think about those kinds of girls. But just in case that you do meet a nice Christian, oh please honey, just make sure he is a practicing Christian and if things get out of hand make sure you use something”. “MAAAA” is the only thing that she would say. But now all the predictions and warning have come to face her like a ton of bricks. God she wished he could not see the expression on her face…

As they stood there and spoke silently without words, he could not bear it anymore. He just blurted it out… “are you pregnant, please tell me that you are not pregnant”. This is something that he would come to regret, years later. As he said those word, tears came rolling down and she could not control herself. As she heard his words, she just began to sob, slowly at first and then violently. She knew the consequence of this. She could not go home but where could she going go? She would have to leave school but she was to graduate the following year with degree in Philosophy and Middle Eastern History. As her sobs began to get louder, she could not hear him anymore. All she knew is that this was end! The predicted end where she has managed to fail everyone she loved and everyone that loved her.

From there, all she can remember is the true blackmail that she had concocted like the child in her womb. She knew that he was not the one, she knew that he would treat her bad and she knew that THAT day would come. And it eventually did, after eight years of abuse and the pain compounded by pressures to convert and to leave him because he is a fundamentalist. Yet she struck it out until he beat her so bad that she could not hide the bruises any more. Her son was the true product of the blackmail that she had conceived and it hurt her so bad to take him away from his father. She could not do it but she had to force herself. The strange thing is that he knew and she knew that he knew- she could already sense his anger but again the blackmail was the only last resource. So she took him and ran, ran to Scarborough away from Leeds to her parents; got a job in fish factory like her mom and tried to bring up her son. Her half-breed Arab, as her mother’s neighbours had called him once. Then their true blackmail started too… and then one day, he convinced himself that he was a true believer and said yes to Saeed and his new wife, freshly imported from the outskirts of Baghdad. Little did he realize that this would cost him dearly (the loss of his foreskin at the age of 17) but then he believed his blackmail to be true and thought it was the right thing to do. So the little boy and the innocent boy that I meet for the first time in front of the second hand bookshop really did need to materialise; his trauma and pain comparable to mine deserved to be recognized.

So there begins my true blackmail where I conceived of him as someone who wants me, as someone who needs me and as someone who could not live without me.

True Blackmail cont'd

2007-05-14T07:32:00.001-07:00

The pain feels like something is being burnt inside me, like something that is clawing away at me from within and I am powerless to stop it or even reduce it. True blackmail is akin to those small white lies I tell myself when I feel that pain. I blackmail myself into thinking it will be alright, that if I get through this- the next goal, the next achievement- then the pain will be forgotten, obliterated and extinguished. But those are all falsities, concocted as a means to an end, as a way forward, but to where I don’t know.

As I stood there waiting at Heathrow, a group of girls went by with their luggage. Some could not even control their trolleys, much less their luggage I guess. They were looking desperate. Some managed, but she could not. She had four huge suite cases fully stuffed with Barcelonaian shoes I suppose (those sexy, tight brown leather boots that made her look so alluring) and she was not able to control it. If I did not help her, her luggage would have ended up in the gutter. So like the perfect gentleman I was brought up to be, I helped.

It was not a ploy; that was the farthest thing from my mind, I was just trying to help someone in need. Little did I know that she would be in two of my courses and that I would end up sleeping with her. Falling in love with her for those brief months and as quickly as I feel in, falling out, leaving behind a ravaged emotional devastation similar to Hiroshima. It was fantastic, the end. All over in a split second because I could not tolerate what people thought of her. Yes, her appearance was not status quo for my “friends”. She looked like a man beast or that’s what they called her. Yes she was not white and there was something sexy about her. But for these inbreed imbeciles, they could not see that. For what I had liked, they had thought disgusting. And like the good henchman, I complied, being influenced by their idiotic notions of beauty. I should have just ignored it but I did not; instead, I finished with her. The pretense used is rather clumsy. I claimed that I had told her many times about the non-existent factory that was used by Nike to produce its famous Air Jordan’s.

“My cleaning lady’s children worked there you know, how could you buy me a Nike bag? Do you not understand how important my principles are to me?” Ironic, that the last thing that would have propelled me to do this is some abstract philosophical concept. Yet that was what I told her. And she, the fool, believed my ludicrous claims of superiority. How shameful to allow someone to think of you as something that you are not –and that’s my second best vice, I guess. God if they only knew. The half-truths, the complete utter lies and the white lies; these are the little skeletons in my little closet, literally. And it is strange to watch it all disintegrate, like those sandcastles near Clacton. What possessed me is the question that I would ask myself after being found out, or the fact that the lie caught up with me. For all those times, I wish I had a digital camcorder planted in my head, so that I can watch myself, get it caught on tape. I really wish it was there, then I can watch what an idiot I look like when I do all those weird things. You know, when in the privacy of your own personal space, you allow yourself to have those little pleasures. How strange it is to be discussing these things here, these are the things that make us human. For all those follies and antics, we have hearts and souls that apparently have deeper meaning, I suppose. It is like a fucking biscuit (tesco value preferred) in your tesco value tea. It will never be mentioned because you will never discuss it because its tesco value.

Strange thing though, when we broke up it did not even seem like we were together. I did not answer her calls for 2 days, and then I ran into her in the “underground” in the middle of the dance floor. She asked me why I had not returned her calls, accused me of being immature and silly. That I was acting like a child. Granted I was but the audacity. So we went upstairs, and I cannot remember what I said, but it was bad. I can imagine, the things I must have said. She left looking so distraught and hurt. Like I had taken something from her, like I had stolen a piece of her heart. My god, I have the ability to let people be themselves with me, but when I get bored, I toss them aside like used dental floss, with a tint of disgust. That is what I did to them all. That makes three, I guess it must be the case. She did not speak to me for a while and then she got all her friends to snicker at me and give me dirty looks. I guess that was acceptable, it seemed like I was being unreasonable. Like I had hurt her in a horrendous way. Well it may be true that the Spanish wear their hearts on their sleeves, but come on now! The call to reason and rationality is my only excuse for my heartless and unforgiving behavior. I do not blame her for hating me. The only other explanation that I have for my behavior is that I had found someone else, someone who I had longed for all my life, someone that needed to be saved. At first I did not realize that their presence. They had a way of blending into the background as the little shy kid that no one likes, that everyone thought to be strange.

And the pain is there burning inside, I can feel it and it won’t go away. Every dream like moment that I can remember, it assaults me and leaves me with total despair. So I blackmail myself, tell myself that I like this, I like that, that I ought to be celibate, that I should be a virgin- the fictitious sentiments of actually believing your own lies. The true blackmail is the reality that I have made for myself, because I can, I should and I want to have it as my reality. The reason for the blackmail is unknowing and totally incomprehensible, but at the same time, there is the flicker of understanding; the subconscious as the true holder of truth and reality.

Now I stand here and wonder if those words that I uttered outside the entrance to the underground into her ears are the true expressions of the blackmail that I have inflicted upon myself. To what extent is this the reality of my whole experience?

2007-05-07T19:07:00.000-07:00

True Blackmail cont’d

That feeling of gnawing anxiousness- only smokers know that feeling- is the defining sentiment of these past few months. It is anxiousness because we are lost and it is gnawing because the lost-ness is persistent. So you must be wondering what does this all mean, what the fuck is this all about, what the fucking hell is (s)he going on about?

Well the truth of the matter is that there are far too many fucking dreams and aspirations; like a kid in candy store, the many options are touched, tasted and repudiated. However that has not been the case lately, the drug and the elixir, the obsession and wanting have all merged to create a sense of fog that permeates the cranial lobe to cause confusion and deep despair. The only way to severe any addictive relationship is through a leap of faith and to get the fuck out of doge. But getting the fuck out of doge is rather difficult and so there I stand- lost- with a sense of gnawing anxiousness.

People may be complex but surely situations cannot be?

I thought that I was the one; the one that did not seem normal, the one with something. I thought she was the looser with nothing. But as I sit here, it dawned on me that it’s the opposite. The feeble, small and shrivelled asian kid that has managed to fuck up their life and as they predicted. I guess they were right and it is only me that knows the truth. Behind all these years of what seems like misery and pain, I know and only I know what lies beneath.

What is the purpose behind it all? I know that the sounds of these words seem somewhat melodramatic and grandiose (akin to how the titanic drowned itself in its own self pity), but those are the sentiments that are present when those feelings are felt. I cannot just accept life for what it is and be content with it. That is not the point of life. It not a fucking bus that you get on and get off when told to do so. I refuse to accept that type of accommodating and conforming bullshit. Those are the words that have lead many to live their lives in unhappy marriages, with people they can’t stand and have children that they despise. So, what the fuck am I saying and what does this have to do with the gnawing anxiousness?

Yes the shrivelled little Paki may be staring at you, but when I look in the mirror I see something different. I see the six year old riding a bike and falling; breaking the chin. I see the eight year old falling from a tree. I see the nine year old that goes to buy a poster and coming home in the backseat of a police car, because the Police did not know what to do. They had to be told to go to the hospital. I see the 14 year old, after having taken some dodgy white pill (or half of it) that was supposedly acid and crossing the street without realizing that the street was full of incoming cars. And I wonder how the 30 year old is going to be able stare into a mirror be able to live another day? The gnawing anxiousness takes over, its depth undetermined and uncontrolled. Its end only foreseeable at the end of that bus ride and what we call eventual retirement.

The plane landed in Heathrow around 10 am on that Sunday, I think. As it landed, all I could feel were butterflies. A new adventure I told myself (indeed! A fucking new adventure!). As it touched down, I had this feeling of gnawing anxiousness, like I always do. It hit me; I am alone, in a strange place with strange people. No one to help, except those peasant like cousins with bad teeth and proposals waiting at their doors, waiting for me to fuck up so that they can blame my mother and her kind. I have to fend for myself for sure or give my soul to the vultures of culture.

As the stewardess started to get the passengers ready for disembarking, I just sat there. Unable to decided what to. Did I make the right choice, did I take the right path. Or I am just fooling myself into thinking that I am capable of surviving. Like the last time. I had hoped that I would have been able to offer them something a bit more substantive. “Yes I passed, but only with a B. I hope that’s ok. Yeah I know I just proved you right, huh? “Fuck, fuck, I am not a fucking failure, you will see, I will get a good job and be able to get some where. And for fuck sakes, I am not going to be an alcoholic.” Well I guess I was right, I am not an alcoholic yet… One more year and may more pints to consume. Yes the ideal student life, twice experienced and ha, the system cheated. So fuck the bus and fuck this bullshit.

I came through immigration with ease. The guy, a bald Englishman, in his mid thirties welcomed me into her majesties bosom, with why and what questions, only fitted for the lowly palmera tree climbers found in the northern part of their former colony. The experience was not memorable though. Shame, I would have liked to remember his face, perhaps...

True Blackmail

2007-05-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

It seemed so senseless to conceptualize something in terms of these concocted concepts that my mother held so very dear- tradition and culture. But now I am starting to realize the eventual truth that lays within them. Honour and duty, love and loyalty- all those things that my mother would talk about. All the things that my father would scoff at seems like the holy grail that I have been seeking. To find my roots, I did not have to return to my homeland, land of my great grand mother; rather it was here next to me. Standing on my veranda watching the jasmine blossoms, where the poetic ideals that I once professed were born. But the poems were created to fill the gaps and the holes that exited before this day.

I never really understood why I always wanted to cry when I saw those movies. Especially when people’s circumstances were beyond their control. Especially when those people reminded me of my mother and what she has been through. The chains of circumstances are the reasons why I am sitting here creating what I think to be a master piece. Yet if the tides of fate had decided other wise, I would have been on the streets of Chennai begging for my next meal. But the class and caste that I was born into were decided by entities that were beyond my control and thus here I am.

THEY all have notions of some form of superiority, whether it be class or caste or just plain and simple beauty or colour. Yes there are times when I espouse such unruly thoughts, but those are far and few in-between. The other and the marginalized, I know quite well; even amongst my own, I stand outside the bosom of comforts, because I belong to the other. Never really being able to acknowledge the realities of belonging and participating. But those are restrictions and chains that I have used to tie myself, through self-deprecating antiquated thoughts of unworthiness. These thoughts are the reason why I am so bound within my concocted dreams of utopia. To fall madly in love and have the life that I deserve with the person that I choose are things that I deserve but will never go for, since I am unworthy and unequipped.