Of Songs and Stories

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.