At the cost of sounding supremely mushy, let me get it this
clear: I am going to sound extremely mushy.
Writers, apparently, perform under pressure. Since I do
fancy myself a teensy-weensy bit as a writer (ahem, *cough*), less than 36
hours for mid-sems to start and I sit here typing on the laptop.
My intentions were completely pure. I decided to sit down with
books, notepad, pen and my very colourful marker and was merely scrolling
through my playlist, deciding on the mood for the evening. And BAM! Out of
nowhere, this unquenchable thirst for Michelle Branch!
One hour ten minutes later, Hotel Paper has been on the
loop.
One hour ten minutes later, thirteen year old me is back.
It is a generally accepted fact that a song can release all
the floodgates and can transport you to a different time. And I, in all my
twenty-three year old wisdom, put the entire album on play. Uh-uh.
Thirteen year old me, I have realized, was an infinitely
cooler person than I usually gave her credit for. Michelle Branch, Alanis Morissette,
Natalie Imbruglia, Suzanne Vega were on her morning playlist. And by morning, I
mean the crack of dawn. Although I never admitted it to most people, for the
risk of sounding uncool, I remember a time when I used to wake up at around
four in the AM. Since I slept on the only bedroom on the first floor and had
all the floor to myself, my morning consisted of throwing wide open my bedroom
window and letting the cool crisp morning air wash all over my teenage self as
I stood by the window clutching my first tea of the day and yes, you guessed it
right, music flowing from the silver tape recorder that my sister got as a
present when she passed her boards with flying colours.
I don’t know what feels worse. The fact that I have no idea
where my cassettes are, or that Boomon Ba and I no longer fight over the silver
tape recorder or that we all live in different houses now. At that time, I did
everything I could to be alone, for a variety of reasons. I spent so much time
alone, in my books and music. But even in that bedroom alone for hours, I was
not lonely.
Thirteen year old me had so much shit to deal with. Parents
were busy in fighting out the battle in court for the hospital, family feud,
menstruation hell, first boyfriend, what not. And all throughout, these ladies
kept me company like a clichéd blanket on a cold wet morning.
And that’s exactly the feeling coursing through me right
now.
I can feel exactly the misplaced anger against my parents
for not spending enough time with us and of course the question that haunted me
through most of my teenage years, “how could you not see?” what was going wrong
in your child’s life. A decade later I got my answer. Because I never told
them. I never told them my problems, never discussed my anger because in my own
way, I wanted to shield them. I convinced myself they had enough problems so
they needn’t listen to mine. And then I got majorly pissed when they didn’t see
through my apparent glassy eyes and half-hearted smile. Classic double-edged sword, anyone?
Of course menstruation is a different story altogether. I
think for the first five years of my menstruating cycle, every bedsheet, skirt,
trouser, blanket cover has been marked with my blood. Yeah, it was that bad.
And yeah, I was that bad in dealing with it. Most of the time, my period
appeared like the surprise test after the holidays. Least expected, least
prepared. I gave my parents major PCOS scare and till this day ma-deta keep on
asking about my period in that weird voice you employ for a thirteen year old.
And I maintain in my very grown up voice that, umm….uh, I still haven’t
maintained that period diary which I honestly have been trying to maintain for
the past decade. Sheeeesh.
First boyfriend. On and off for the next four years. Bad
breakup. Made my peace in the last few years. Now we talk occasionally. Still
can be a MAJOR jerk. If you’re reading this, sorry for not returning your call
that day!
Thirteen year old me also dealt with her own unique set of
problems in her own unique way. A little clumsily, a little drama on the side
and a lot of unspoken commitment and caring from her two absolute gem of
siblings.
Of all the times I have berated myself for making the wrong
decision, dealing badly with a situation and what not, I can always go back to
2004 and think of how I decided to change the course of my life. To stop being
an object of pity and helplessness in my own eyes to someone who took control.
And who has never let go.
Except maybe a few times.
