Even Their Misery Has a Life to Happen In & I Am Just Counting My Avocados

29th October, 2026. 11:37 PM. I had dinner, combed my hair over the dustbin, went to shit, cried over the commode, took a bath, and came to bed. I looked here and there on the internet while I was thinking of writing the next blog post. I read the last one. I am impressed. Wow. But not too much, because I am feeling like writing again. Which means the pangs of hideousness, anxiety, paranoia, sadness, loneliness, meltdowns, resentment, hatred, distrust, defeatism, misery, hopelessness, etc, etc, etc are back. So back. Should I pick up where I left from? Try and trace till this point of being cramped up underneath the blanket again? Breaking down again? I can't even remember most things. I think it started on 17th October, Saturday. I had to work that Saturday even though it was my off day. But, I had come to terms with that. The day before I had ordered groceries and with it, my second avocado. So, Saturday morning, before starting work, I made the same guacamole toast. This time, the fruit was ripe and soft, so I made the spread, and it creamed nicely. It was a soft morning. I woke up early, did household chores, dishes, put up curtains, made the avocado toast breakfast, and as I was finishing making my guac, my father suddenly asked me a question. He asked if the results or information about the next steps for the job he had asked me to apply for are out and I should check it. It was a job my mother kept pushing me to apply for despite me telling her that I don't want that kind of job. So, I didn't really apply for it. What do I say to him, if not, okay, I will check it. I said exactly that, took my guacamole and bread and went to my desk. I just couldn't stop thinking. Did he just ask that randomly? Did he just ask that to strike up a conversation? Did he ask that with some ulterior intention? Did my mother tell him to ask that? Did he ask my mother first and he didn't get an answer via her from me so he asked me directly? Why? Why is he talking to me? Why? Why are they doing this? What should I do? How can I get a job by myself? I know for a fact that the jobs they suggest are not a fit for me and I wouldn't even get them. And, I don't even want them. But. No. Not but. And. And, at the same time, I am flailing around trying to find a new one. I continued working. I have started properly loathing this workplace finally. Not the type of work. The clients, for sure, because they are mostly government bodies or shady organisations trying to get close to government bodies. And, the workplace colleagues except one or two are insidiously annoying. I imagine the entire organisation collapsing on them when I leave. It's my wistful thinking. And, it led to this rotting spiral of dissociation and daydreaming. Ever since, I have just been dissolving into MDDs and DPDRs. Just constantly engulfing time and days and nights with my daydreaming about different situations. Days and nights passed by. I kept daydreaming. About this and that. About people I came across on the internet. I kept reading about them and I kept imagining things. I made up worlds in my mind. A poem came out of it. Art direction. It's because the person I was diving deep into and the world he belonged to fed fodder to my daydreams. I kept digging and digging while my brain and my body kept flailing and flailing. My real existence, on the other hand, was paralysed because this addiction to my daydreams distracted me from my ongoing existence. Which is a comfortable stoppage point. But it's temporary. In these daydreams, I am just flowing in life. Flowing with life in me. Talking to people. Loving people. Going out. Creating things. I daydreamt about writing plays. Directing plays. The poem for dVerse’s Oct. 22 prompt, Art Direction, was bred out of such a daydream where I kept imagining myself sitting amongst people, some of those I kept diving deep into and some of my coworkers from my current workplace (but, they are all nice to me in these scenarios...) and we were talking about an event with many plays which had one of mine. The one I kept thinking about on the commode which I also mentioned in my last weblog post. I kept talking to them. Telling them about how I came to be there and I daydreamt a back story. I ran away at 18 or 19 (deliberately blurred the age) and I ran with a boy a little bit older than me. We lived together for a month. And then he left me. I went back. Six years or so passed. We bumped into each other again and we wanted to ask each other if we wanted to run away again but we were meeting after six or so years, so we maintained the superficial formality. And we arranged a second meeting where we started off with the same superficial formality but then we abruptly told each other at the same time that we would like to run away again. And the third meeting happened at the airport with our bags packed. I daydreamt about writing plays after he left me when we ran away for the first time. And, during this event with plays, I am bringing one or two of them back. A play about a sub whose partner dies after 20 or 22 years of their dom-sub marital relationship and she doesn't know where to put her devotion anymore. She processes her grief while undoing the labors of submission she carried and performed for him. Their dom-sub dynamic had a core aspect of her consuming leaves for him. It was set during the Sumerian period. The name I gave was “The Leaf”. Another play was based on the oldest known prison diary in the Western tradition and one of the earliest surviving first-person accounts written by a woman: The Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicity. Perpetua was arrested alongside her enslaved companion Felicity and others for refusing to perform sacrifices to the Roman gods. In my play, I attempted to show Felicity’s narration. I named it: “The Most Ancient Slave Diary”.  Anyway, such were the days and their dreams spiralling in my brain. All while, my real and actual life was passing by. And, I was also meagerly passing through it. The two courses were coming to an end. I had taken up another voluntary project while another voluntary project was lined up. All while overworking. I had to prepare two projects for my courses. I was doing fine until deadlines came too close and I just collapsed and started procrastination. Over the weekend (24-25th), I kept delaying and delaying. I crossed deadlines and then I begrudgingly picked them up. I did them over long periods of nights. Stayed up late and completed them. Although I missed a meeting on Monday that was set up by one of the course coordinators with an external advisor. I kept thinking of an excuse while haphazardly finishing the presentations and submissions. I completed it anyway and both of the presentations happened on the same day, yesterday, one in the morning and one in the evening. After that, I ate some leftover store-bought almost-stale snacks and cozied into my blanket and slipped into the daydreams while watching the videos of those people. I had moved to the next generation of those people actually and was deep into the lives of their kids who are, by the way, as old as me. And, they have had a thousand trips to Europe, they are married, have done and abandoned various projects, etc, etc, etc.  Today passed by as well with work. It was a bit frustrating. But in the back of my mind. I was still soaking my brains and body and my existence in these daydreams. It all came down when my mother came to my room in the late evening. And kept poking me to get up and start preparing for dinner. We did a little bit of “you go first” and “no, you go first”. She got up after a while and I went up as well. She was reheating the food while I took out some plates and chopped some cucumbers and raw mangoes for salad to have with dinner. I had my dinner while diving deep into their life videos and after I was done, my mother was ready to have hers. I did some nightly chores of locking doors, checking windows, etc. before going to the bathroom. My mother told me the cyclone has had a major impact on our village. She smiled while she told me. You’d think it was a sad smile. But, I have always felt very uncomfortable with that smile. Because, I know the intention behind that smile. It's that peculiar, almost smug satisfaction of knowing something that I apparently don't. Or, at least, getting to make me feel like I don't. Like she's informing me of something and simultaneously reprimanding me for not already knowing it. And, somehow, I am supposed to feel guilty… guilty for not knowing, guilty for not asking, guilty for not being sufficiently concerned, guilty for sitting in my room, going about my life, while things are happening elsewhere that I am apparently expected to know everything about. It's not just her. My father does it. My sister does it. This strange, condescending way of talking to me as though I am perpetually unattached, uninformed, unaware, incapable of understanding things unless they explain them to me. And, even their explanations come with this underlying insinuation that I should have known better. If I ask questions, I don't know anything. If I don't ask, I don't care about anything. And, if I already know, there is always something else I apparently don't know. I don't know how much of this is deliberate. But, I feel it. That constant, almost imperceptible effort to make me feel smaller than I already do. 31st October, 01:33 AM. I paused writing last night and let my mdd chloroform me to sleep. I woke up in the morning. Got to work after making tea. Simultaneously, the rooms were getting cleaned. Everything was back to normal between me and my mother. By the way, my sister & I do not speak. I worked and worked and worked today. My mother and I chatted in between  throughout the day. She was telling me bits and pieces of what was going on. Whether father is going to visit the village. How much crops are lost. The water engulfed the whole district or two. And, there is possibly another cyclone coming. I feel like I have forgotten how to apply for jobs. I had a meeting with a co-worker I work with. We ranted about the vapidity and vainness of the project we are working on and how the client is an abuser-whitewasher and the government is piggybacking on it to beautify their name and even our organisation didn’t oppose it until they got snubbed. I finished work and did a major and desperately needed grocery haul with my mother after eating lunch at around 6:30 PM. Yes. I think I heard my mother tell someone, “She doesn’t know how harmful it is. Or, maybe. Actually, she knows.” I had been ruminating about making a paneer tikka wrap with these tortilla wraps I saw and this recipe I stumbled upon. So, I bought some items for that. Since I bought those, I didn't get an avocado... Fingers crossed if and when I make them. I probably have to make them over this weekend. Late evening, my mother and I put on a bedsheet. It’s always fresh to put clean bedsheets after rooms are cleaned. And, I asked her if she would oil my hair. I oiled my hair after a long, long period of time. I window-shopped some clothes [pants, particularly] and some basic skincare. I do not and cannot use skincare products the way people are using them these days. I cannot even buy that much. Because the ones I selected today are still in the cart. I don’t know if and when I will buy them. It has also been a long time since I have used moisturiser and face wash. I was a diligent body moisturiser-er as well. It stopped a good amount of time ago. Anyway, I didn’t have dinner. My mother had her dinner and went to sleep. And, I was scrolling through some more recipes of the wraps as midnight approached. Then, I had the urge to eat some puffed rice. So, I made that as my dinner. While chowing down, I watched those people again. After finishing that, keeping the actual dinner in the fridge, shutting off all the lights and closing all the doors, and spiralling quietly into MDD for a little while, I came to write. I wrote the three pending dVerse poems. Read, read, read if you want to. I have a working Saturday tomorrow. I am going to have a major withdrawal symptom as I have no classes, no quizzes, no tinkering around to build projects from next week.  By the way, the daydreaming still continues. It always snowballs. I have been rummaging deeper and deeper into the lives of those people. So “perfect”. Such “perfect” families. Such “perfect” education. Such “perfect” autonomous jobs. Such “perfect” creativity. Such “perfect” videos. Such “perfect” failures. Such “perfect” successes. Such “perfect” breakfasts. Such “perfect” proposals. Such “perfect”  partners. Such “perfect” friendships. Such “perfect” girlhoods. Such “perfect” trauma stories. Such “perfect”  fuck-ups. Such “perfect” uni lives. Such “perfect” gap years. Such “perfect” heartbreaks. Such “perfect” recoveries. Such “perfect” relocations. Such “perfect” apartments. Such “perfect” inconveniences. Such “perfect” existential crises. Such “perfect” rebellions. Such “perfect” mistakes. Such “perfect” second chances. Such “perfect” freedom to squander time, money, opportunities, relationships, and still have something to fall back on. Such “perfect” boredom. Such “perfect” uncertainty. Such “perfect” lives where even the wrong turns seem to lead somewhere. Even their failures have a narrative. Even their aimlessness has an aesthetic. Even their misery seems to have a life to happen in. Here I am. Counting my avocados. I have one, and then two avocados. A small, almost tender continuity. I have a soft Saturday morning. I make breakfast. My father asks one question. And suddenly, what was supposed to be an ordinary morning becomes a series of interrogations, suspicions, worries about employment, autonomy, agency, life, freedom, abandonment, and escape. Then the daydreaming takes over. Meanwhile, my actual life continues demanding labour, presentations, deadlines, domestic participation, and decisions. Constantly ricocheting between the life in which I am making things happen and the life in which things keep happening to me. After my mother and I put on the bedsheet, I saw a packet of gummies. I asked her, "Where did this come from?" She told me my sister's friend got it from Thailand, and gave it to my sister. My sister gave it to my mother. I asked her if I could try them. So, probably I am gonna go to bed, try some gummies, and drown myself in those videos, while my daydreams ruminate on the rock bottom of my mind [...] ~ Oizys.

The Tiles Break, Then the Ball Falls.

9 October, 01:38 AM

I am writing here from underneath my blanket while my mother sleeps next to me. I am writing after having a full and a half breakdown under this same blanket in silent-scream mode. But just because it was silent doesn't mean it was just mental. It was all ... mental, psychological, physical, too too physical, emotional, too many tears and sobs. What happened? Well I could start from the inception of my league and lineage but that would be a long story and I really don't know or remember a lot of details. I could start from my time when the streak of bad luck started in my life but you can read the thousand versions of that closet theatre play here in any post on this weblog. I will start with where I last left. Things were becoming cool between me and my mother. We were talking, working, cooking, etc… discussing what went wrong with my sister towards me because I didn't even say anything during that conversation. Anyway…

Last night I saw an email that was sent to me in the late evening post-work hours. HR had sent me my new contract with no salary upgrade, so I frantically started job search, thinking of ways to respond and/or send questions. I spent a really long time applying for a lot of jobs, late into the night. I had the dinner that my mother and I prepared pretty half-heartedly and my mind was occupied with too much anxiety. I slept really late. I wrote a draft email that I thought I would send HR with some questions.

This morning, Oct 8th, I was chatting with my mother. She was supposed to go to the doctor. And conversations went by. I brought my tea to my room, to my table and started working. Then I heard some noises. I saw my sister was ranting to my mother and crying. I couldn't make much of what she was saying but I figured it out. She was talking about the last time my mother had gone on a vacation. Was it last year? Or the year before? And our father's behaviour during that time. She might have said something about me but I didn't hear directly. Since the environment was tight and breathless. And her attitude towards me. And how she was increasing her voice to make me listen. And then..

My brain just slipped like a ball into the mud and rolled away. I started having a breakdown. Which kept breaking and breaking. You know like those tile breaking games. You keep breaking them. And they keep falling. You think there is an end. But there is no end. It's a pitless rock bottom. What an oxymoron? That’s the right literary device, right? I don’t know and I'm too tired and cramped up to check… In the abyss-like breakdown, I ended up sending that mail to HR that I had drafted. As the day passed by, I had locked myself in the room to break down into pieces perpetually while working. Not eating. Not responding to anyone. And I didn't want my mother to enter and see me and ask me any questions. Although, she doesn’t really ask much when she sees me cry. We don’t have that culture in our family. We turn our face and leave. The only time we understand concepts like privacy and space. Anyway… I was still in the breakdown mode when the HR replied. It was a bit late in the afternoon. It was after a meeting with my teammates for a presentation where I kept suggesting a solution but they didn't hear. Sometimes, I wonder why I even try? Anyway, the HR response was okay. More of a saving-their-own-ass-in-a-shady-contract kinda response than actually answering-our-queries-while-we-non-consentingly-and-obliviously-meander-in-their-murky-waters-of-shady-contract response. But, I responded by thanking them for their response “clarifying” everything and said that based on this understanding, I will be sending the signed contract. Great, now I have to go out, take a printout of this, sign it, scan it, and send it to them. I was breaking down again and again. The familial violence and the stagnant, shitty, shady workplace with toxic and abusive coworkers who have become “department heads” / “managers” and managers who have suddenly become “associate directors”. Pair them with a vapid job market and a vile society out there. It all constrained me and closed in on me at once. I felt as if someone was holding me down in a small, small room. Technically, physically I was safe. But, my whole body has been feeling unsafe and insecure. Shivering and panicking. For what? Nothing. I don't know. There is no reason. Or maybe there are too many reasons. Just waiting for something to happen. Just that crawling feeling. Like something is going to happen. Like something bad is going to happen. Like how you violently tap the screen of your phone anticipating something will happen in that tile breaking game but it just keeps breaking perpetually. You kind of wish you literally ‘burst’ into tears and flow away forever. Like if you break down as hard as possible, something will happen and it will all come to a sudden end. Just collapse forever. But it doesn't. Rather, the day, the evil, devil day just passes by. 

I didn't eat much. In the middle of the day, I bathed and ate some puffed rice and took medicine for the empty gaseous stomach and riling headache after the HR responded. I thought the bath and some meagre food and medicines will help me keep a sane mind while I continue to break down and apply for jobs and work. I didn't drink evening tea. Just some peach fizz and water. Water was important. 

Finally, at night, my mother came and told me to check her phone and her bank statement to verify if the money she was trying to send to someone did go or not as the app said the payment failed. During that time, thank god(?), my face was okay and I wasn't actively breaking down. I fixed it and she asked if I was going to have dinner. I think my body couldn't say no. I had dinner and while eating dinner, I found this show on YouTube that occupied my mind throughout the dinner and after that I could eat at the dinner table and was able to just… be without falling down crying. It only kept me occupied till my mother came to bed and fell asleep. After I finished it, and tried watching some suggested shows of the same person, I couldn't. I kept my phone away as it was at 2%. Then, my body vomited out the rest of my anxiety, worries, sadness, depression, and other psychological waste by way of making me break down again and again. So, that's why… a full and a half violent breakdown under the blanket in silent mode. Then I went to the bathroom, cleaned up. Changed and had some water. Then I went to bed and wrote this.

I feel so… alone. And, I feel so… responsible for this loneliness. I know I made this, I mothered this, I raised this. It's mine. My burden to carry. Never did I think it would cause me this pain when I was sculpting it. Never did my thoughts about this loneliness crystallise into a proper understanding of what shape it would take in my life and how it would mould my life. But, I feel so urgently unsafe and insecure. All the taunts, jibes, mockeries, shames, humiliation, degradation, hurtful behaviours, their unapologetic and intentional hypocrisies, their mean voices, their abusive actions just seep into my intrusive thoughts and keep amalgamizing into something vitriolic and monstrous inside my head and force me into that small, small room where someone was holding me down.

10 October, 21:23 PM

What happened yesterday, Oct 9th? My memory is a bit fuzzy but let me jog my memory? I woke up. Um, how did I wake up? I don’t remember. I cannot remember. I remember breaking down in bits and pieces here and there. I think my mother came to wake me up but I was a bit awake. But, I didn’t respond to her. Then, I woke up. I remember making my own breakfast too late while keeping an eye on work if something came up. I think I didn’t have much work. I did complete my timesheets which took some time. But, I was deliberating whether to go out and finish that contract thing. I didn’t. I still haven’t. All I remember is a memory of an old web series that hit me from the show I was watching last night. So, I looked it up. It was taken into some app. Previously, it was available for free on YouTube. I started watching. I didn’t mention this yesterday but the evening before yesterday, while I was helping my mother in cooking dinner, I noticed my laptop’s hinge is broken because of which the keyboard deck keeps moving up when I lift the lid. So, this particular bit became a device in my recurring MDD-driven intrusive thoughts that have been fueling my breakdowns since yesterday. I fell asleep, I think, by completing that show. The first season was a bomb of nostalgia. The last season was a bore. In the beginning of last season, my free tier came to an end, so I paid for the first level of the subscription tier for a month which came with ads but allowed you to watch for unlimited minutes. Cheap with lots of ads. Late capitalism with enshittification. I felt like a baby. You know, how a baby cries and then you distract it with some toy or a trick.

Anyway, today, I did not do much work. There is an event tomorrow towards which many people are working. So, the whole day was quite lazy. I am working on completing my project for one of the two courses I am doing. My mother and I got some choice groceries. The day went by. My breakdowns were a bit wobbly. The tears leaked here and there. Eventually, I came to my desk to continue writing this entry. 

I have been researching buying a laptop. I don't know what I am going to do about it. I don’t know what will happen. How is it that there is always something that needs fixing? Something that needs money? Something that needs doing? I rewatched the YouTube show a couple of times. It was a book reviewer I love. So…

11th October, 14:35 PM

I couldn’t continue writing. I had to stop at 22:00 PM. I woke my mother up to inquire whether she and my father will eat or not. She told me if I can go and give my father the food as everything was ready. I asked him and he said he was going to come upstairs so I started arranging plates and bowls for him. And, I asked my sleepy mother whether my sister is going to come home and when because when I called out my father to ask about dinner, he was locking the gates for the night. I told my father that my sister was on her way back home. Meanwhile, my mother, who was refusing to wake up, sat up and came out of the bedroom. She started reheating the food and putting it out on the plate for my father. She asked me to take it downstairs for him. I did and he asked me again when my sister was going to arrive. I said, she is on her way. I had zero idea. She had called my mother to say that she was on her way. Anyway, I convinced my mother to eat and just go to sleep rather than continuing her nap for a little more and delaying dinner. We started bringing out our dinner. I had informed my mother when I woke her up that I would not be having dinner. I did some other chores like putting the dishes in the washer. While that was happening, my sister came home. Nobody really asked her anything. She came back from her first ever swimming class. I did end up having some assortment of side dishes as dinner next to my mother. We both shared the complaints that the vegetables were absolutely raw. My mother finished her dinner and went to sleep. I finished my half-assed raw-y dinner and completed some other chores like putting the remaining food in the fridge, hanging up the washed clothes here and there, locking doors, etc. Then, at 23:35 PM, I came back to bed and was scrolling the phone and I came across a poem by Emily Dickinson: It struck me—every Day

It struck me—every Day—

The Lightning was as new

As if the Cloud that instant slit

And let the Fire through—

It burned Me—in the Night—

It Blistered to My Dream—

It sickened fresh upon my sight—

With every Morn that came—

I thought that Storm—was brief—

The Maddest—quickest by—

But Nature lost the Date of This—

And left it in the Sky—

It made me feel like writing, but my tired body prevailed. I was too tired to do anything with that feeling. So, I didn't write. I switched between surfing the internet, trying to sleep by throwing the phone away, reaching out for it again, having mild breakdowns, MDD-driven nightmarish intrusive daydreams just creeping around, watching gibberish here and there. And, in no time, it was almost 3:00 AM. I felt like shitting so I went to the bathroom. I had a weird idea. The story that had mesmerised and disarmed me some days or weeks ago came back to me while I was in bed. Because a phrase used there was also the name of the book that was mentioned in the YouTube podcast. I looked into that phrase a little bit and it was a phrase with a historical origin, series of adaptations here and there. This made my pull towards the story even stronger. So, I started visualising it. And then, bam! On the commode, I went on yet another MDD-trip imagining myself writing the screen script for that story and co-directing it with the author… Anyway. That helped me relax, the shitting. and also the fact that my period was finally over so I didn’t have to wear a pad anymore. 

11th October, 15:35 PM

Sorry. I had to take an hour of break. [I think I will explain it further as I narrate. Haha. Unless I go away again.] Continuing where I left off. So, I came back to bed, all light and more tired at around 15:30 PM. Drowsy and on the verge of sleep, I was holding my phone all cramped up underneath my blanket, when my mother hit my head and asked me to sleep. After which I put my phone away and slept off. This morning, I woke up around 11:30 AM and went to my mother and she told me she tried waking me up so many times but alas, of course I slept at 4 AM. The day went by. I had some tea and some sugar-sprinkled coffee flavoured biscuits I had brought yesterday. My mother had her late or second breakfast. Then, we went to our bedroom. We were sitting and eating some Longans that I also got the other day. And, I was researching laptops to buy. My mother instructed me to go and check on the grandmother of the upstairs family. To check what she was up to as the family had gone out for a lunch feast function. I went and she was sleeping. A small, old lady. Her shrivelled up and wrinkled hands on her belly. I looked at her for a bit. Small white strands of hair flailing around over her small, sleeping face under the speedy ceiling fan. I went upstairs further to the terrace and looked around at the plants and the house where another couple lived, which was locked. I don’t know if they still do. Next to the locked door, a bamboo ladder to go up further to the cistern terrace. I didn’t even dare to. Anyway, I came back, and while going downstairs, I took another peek at the grandmother and she was taking a turn so I quickly ran away. I came back to my room and my mother was sleeping. So, I sat at my desk and opened my un-hinged laptop and started writing again at 14:35 PM.

I had to break away because I was having yet another quiet MDD-driven episode while writing and my mother asked me what I would be having for lunch. She informed me she would not be having any and that our father must not have even finished the breakfast-lunch she had given him. She kept pushing me for the fruits I had gotten yesterday. There was only an avocado left! By the way, my first avocado. So, to get her off my back I had to tell her I would be having that avocado and I had to get up and get going to show her I was going to make it. So, I did! After so many years of fantasising about how I would eat an avocado or guac or guac toast. It was a bit messy. It wasn’t ripe. But, my mother had given me the vegetables and put the pan to toast the bread, so there was no going back. I chopped a quick onion, half a tomato, and two chillies. After generously sprinkling two kinds of salt, I checked on the internet and some had posted that lime juice might help break it down. So, I squeezed half a lemon. I do not know if it helped or not. I kept mashing it with the back of the fork, sometimes stabbing it while toasting the bread. Then, I came back to my table and saw my mother, who was half-asleep, woke up a little bit. I informed her about the avocado situation and told her that’s why I wasn’t eating it. Anyway, it wasn’t bad! If we had let it ripen, the guac would have come out creamy. But, I put it on and between toasts and ate it. I think the onions, tomatoes, chillies with salt and lemon did the trick, which is also my favourite mix. So, I continued writing. Meanwhile, I also had a discussion with my mother about how sick she was feeling. A small quick flash of that old grandmother came to my mind and I turned back to see my mother’s face and it went away.

And, here we are. As I completed writing, I finished the toast, there was some guac left and I had kept two pieces of bread aside thinking whether I would like it or not. I brought it from the fridge while my mother got up to eat some puffed rice and milk, so I asked her if she wanted me to join her at the dining table. She said yes. And, we had a quick discussion about dinner and about my father going to leave at around 18:00 PM. Ending this narration at 16:05 PM and going to join my mother at the dining table to finish my half-assed, messy guac toast while she eats as well.

11th October, 18:10 PM

I am back to writing some more. I ate the rest of the guac with two pieces of bread while my mother nibbled on some biscuits with water waiting for her milk to get warm. Then, I got up to make some tea for myself. The water evaporated as my mother asked me to sit with her and wait for the leaves to boil a bit more. So, I showed it to her. I added some more water and got it done. My mother also got her hot milk to eat with puffed rice. We talked about things here and there. She randomly mentioned an actor who died two-three days ago. A well-known actor. And, he had an NGO. Etc, etc, etc. From some corner of my mind, a question popped up, didn’t he murder someone? By pushing her off the balcony? She said, no! She said, you must be thinking of some plot of a movie he must’ve been in. We looked him up. Then, I realised, after reading his wiki page, he had sexually harassed someone. Oh. Yes. But, then who was that who died by falling off the balcony. My mother started rummaging through her memory coming up with film names that the dead actress was in. I started searching. And, bam! There it was, that actress from the film that my mother came across. We started reading and discussing what had happened to her. She was sitting by the balcony and when she turned to get up, she fell off and died. She was 19. By the age of 19, she was a very successful and well-known actress. There was a huge controversy around her death being a murder. I saw another actress and remembered I had read about her as well who committed suicide after her partner had sexually assaulted her. I shared that story with my mother as well. That actress too had become a bit famous because of the last movie she did before she passed away. So, my conversation with my mother meandered towards that region: death, suicide, mental health etc… Oof! Sometimes we do talk about those things and more often than not, we are almost always on different sides but I don’t think we have ever been disgusting to each other. I think partly because we self-censor a lot. But we try to discuss. Like in this current topic at hand, my mother was constantly saying how people should just talk to each other or just try to find a solution or just find someone to talk to rather than giving in to utter despair and committing suicide. I tried explaining to her my stance that we can never, ever speak from the outside of someone’s life and judge or nitpick or question them. We don’t know what kind of people they might be surrounded with. There’s shame, stigma, denial, silence, misunderstanding, fear, threats, sadness, etc… that shapes everyone’s situations and circumstances. I also explained to her: those questions of why didn’t they tell anyone or how is it that they couldn't find one single person who listened to them or etc… don’t work anymore. People have asked those questions since time immemorial and they haven’t and do not help at all! We meandered into students committing suicide (given the current situation in our country!), people not getting jobs or people dying because of stress or toxic workplace. I tried telling her it is a deeply systemic issue to which she agreed. But, there were some things that I said she didn’t agree to. We both softly held our stances. It eventually came to a natural impasse where we both agreed to leave it unresolved. Then, we moved on to other work. She, to figure out what my father will eat and me, to put yet another shift of dishes in the washer. Then, I came to my room and surfed the internet a little bit. I reflected (but did not ruminate) about my conversation with my mother. Did that talk have any colours of our own interconnected and separate experiences with sadness, depression, suicide attempts? Were we trying to communicate our own issues with each other and/or commenting on each other’s issues by low-key referring to others’ examples? The thought fizzled out. 

And, as I came here and sat to write at 18:10 PM. I first checked the word count before resuming. It was 3260-something. I wow-ed at myself. Haha. Of course, it was written in the span of a couple of days. But, such a consistent stream of consciousness with writing and chronicling? Who am I? Should I stop? Should I continue? Should I push myself further? Write more and more. Like, as I sat and wrote this, my mother gave me a call from downstairs. She went downstairs with some food for my father to have before leaving. She called and informed me that my sister would be having her dinner outside. She went out for a work team weekend outing in the morning before I woke up. And, so the plans my mother and I had made for dinner in the late afternoon changed. We revised our dinner plan and ended the call. And then, I resumed writing this. It’s physically strenuous sometimes. It’s a privileged form of physical labour. Writing. At your desk. And your back hurts. Your neck and your shoulder hurt. Your epigastrium against the desk, slouching over the laptop. Constantly leaning the upper stomach tightly against the rigid desk edge which folds the skin of the upper abdomen. I recently got a blister/boil right on that spot because I sat like that for a couple of days, non-stop, working, writing, and researching. I need to make sure I don't repeat this. What more do I write? I just want to type, type, type. Ahaaa. I have a major task of completing my project and I need to submit it tomorrow! And, I have that contract to get printed and signed and scanned and sent! Uh. 

Something that’s been in my head for many months that I thought of after watching a video about Dostoevsky and Chekhov’s writing about sadness. How the sadness in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s work is grandiose, existential, and explosive with massive spiritual crises, moral guilt, madness, and extreme psychological torment. Dostoevskian abyss, like the symphony of the scream, is where sadness is an active, violent, and theatrical force and his characters wrestle with it like a physical demon. His characters scream, confess, suffer grand downfalls, and wrestle with God, sin, and the dark absurdity of human free will. It is cosmic and vertical in nature where characters are either reaching for the divine or plunging headfirst into damnation. Sadness is tied to monumental suffering that carries a redemptive or terrifying weight. Like, you are stuck in the moment where you are perpetually giving in to utter, utter despair and scratching the rock bottom with your bare nails. When Raskolnikov or Ivan Karamazov suffer, their internal guilt fractures their reality. Sadness becomes madness, fever dreams, and public confessions. It is a heavy, bruising weight, but it carries a grand purpose: through total spiritual annihilation, there is at least the possibility of resurrection. It is a scream into the void, demanding that God answer.

And, the sadness in Anton Chekhov’s work is quiet, everyday, and understated because it focuses on ordinary people experiencing quiet disappointments, unfulfilled potential, and chronic loneliness. Chekhovian sadness seeps in through small, mundane moments… Like Iona Potapov, a grieving father, trying to tell strangers about his dead son in the story Misery (The Lament) and ending up talking to his horse. Oh, the deep grief, loneliness, and human indifference. Or, Uncle Vanya where each and every character under one household’s roof carried a distinct form of sadness and life still went on which was also a materialised form of yet another kind of sadness. Or, The Three Sisters, the tragedy is that the clock keeps ticking. Chekhovian twilight which is like the ache of the unsaid and inside that ache, sadness is a passive, atmospheric fog which evaporates into the room and settles on the furniture. It is a horizontal and devastatingly ordinary streak in life and there are no grand downfalls, only the slow, crushing realization that tomorrow will look exactly like today.

I have been realising this contrast and have been trying to capture the exact frequency of both writers. It took me a bit to get to this point to be able to describe the difference between existential terror and existential weariness. I feel like I do experience both of them. I feel like my life operates on both the frequencies. You know the constant and perpetual breakdowns where you get the feeling of a shattering panic attack in the middle of a thunderstorm, where you feel the weight of every moral choice you’ve ever made. That’s the Dostoevsky frequency. Once that moment has inevitably passed, you have the Chekhov frequency. You know the feeling of staring at a beige wall on a rainy Sunday afternoon, realising you missed an opportunity five years ago, and quietly going back to doing the dishes. It is the representation of the two halves of human sorrow: the explosive crises that define us, and the quiet loneliness that wears us away. And, after this realisation has crystallised in my mind, I feel I only exist in these two halves. The tiles break sometimes vigorously and then the ball freefalls for a while until the next phase of tile breaking starts. I feel like this is a good ending to this long-winded entry. Don’t you think? We are at 4880-something words.

~ Oizys.

A dream, a Hindi poem, some roadblocks, negative bank balance & a heart full of melancholic rebellion

April 9th - 10th, 2025.

This afternoon, as the soft rays of sunlight filtered through my makeshift curtains (made from my mother’s old clothes) I couldn’t help but write down the strange and vivid dream I had last night. It felt so real like I had walked through an ancient city full of lively history. I had run away from home, travelling aimlessly. With just one bag and my laptop. The streets were yellow, and the air was thick with the scent of old wood and spices. I wandered through narrow alleys, searching for a shop to buy some food, feeling completely lost. I found a shop and I saw a man buying some sweet food, I asked if he could relay my message to the shopkeeper to give me some vanilla ice cream and the shopkeeper was a bit disappointed. And then, suddenly, I bumped into someone familiar.

It was A—my school friend, the one I hadn’t seen in years. She looked just like I remembered: laughing, carefree, strikingly plum and beautiful, a bright spark of joy amid that ancient, bustling city. I ran to her, telling her how I ended up there with no plan, no itinerary. She offered to help me, consoling me in a way I didn’t expect. It felt so different from how we were when we were kids. Back then, she was always the centre of our friendship, and I was the one who loved being her rock. There was also someone else in the dream, someone who felt like a very close friend but I can’t quite remember who they were. It’s like they slipped through my fingers, like sand running through my hands. Now, just a stick figure in my blurry dream. Still, I can feel the warmth of that dream, like a gentle whisper of night that stays with you even after you wake up.

Before I could process it all, I found myself in the newly renovated, cramped kitchen with my mother, making tea. We started talking about my recent work on child marriage and the challenges that come with it. As I shared my thoughts, she looked at me with that quiet understanding in her eyes, both wisdom and concern. Then she told me a story I hadn’t heard before, one that stuck with me. It was about a girl from a village I know, a teenager who had just been married off by her parents and was already pregnant. My mother described her voice as so young, barely having begun her life, yet already carrying this heavy burden. I could see the worry in my mother’s eyes, the weight of knowing how many young girls are still trapped in these cycles of early marriage.

That conversation stayed with me as I worked today. It gave me a weirdly renewed sense of urgency to keep going. But then, just as I was about to look up some cases for my research work, I found out that my access to the research databases I’ve been relying on was suddenly cut off. The user doesn't exist, it said. No warning, no explanation! It felt like such a big setback, a roadblock in the middle of everything I’ve been building like a bunch of coins wrapped in socks hitting you right across your face. It’s frustrating, and I don’t know exactly what to do next, but I’ll have to figure it out. I’ve sent some emails and am hoping for replies. Still, it’s disheartening. Amidst all of this, working in a social work sector and relying on funders' timeline of giving our organization, I have to decide when to pay my utility bills which is not exactly in my hands though.

So, I sat down to proofread and publish something with this entry I’d been meaning to finish: a poem that had been brewing in my mind for weeks. I finally wrote it all down last night, top to bottom. I’m not sure why, but writing it last night felt like a release, a way to process everything I’ve been feeling lately. Maybe it’s the dream, the conversation with my mother, or the frustration with the database issue. But when I read the words today, they felt like my emotional safety net today:

Main, Beti — Ek Virasat Ki Saza

(Ek Roohani Safar Ek Aurat Ki Awaaz Mein)

(Zakhm ko chamak nahi chahiye, sirf samajh chahiye)

Baap ke tamachon ne,

Rishtedaar ke tamashon ne,

Maa ki tamanna ne,

Meri tanhaayi ko maroda hai.

Raato ki khamoshi ne,

Andar ke toofanon ko chhoda hai,

Har hansne wali tasveer ke peeche

Ek roya hua chehra chhupa hua hai.

Doston ki chhupi hui hansi ne

Mere jazbaat ka mazaak uda diya,

Aur dil ke har tukde ne

Kisi yaad ka kafan odh liya.

Ab to khud se bhi dar lagta hai,

Aaina bhi aankhon mein jhaankta nahi,

Zindagi ne itna giraaya hai

Ke maut bhi mujhse sharmata nahi.

Baap ke gusse ka dar,

Maa ke aansuon ka dukh,

Chaar logon ki baaton ne

Ginwa diye hain aakhri din...

Sapne jo kabhi aankhon mein palte the,

Aaj woh sirf aankhon ke kone mein jalte hain.

Jin rishtey ko rab ka roop kaha tha,

Wahi ab seene mein shool sa chubhte hain.

Har narmi ek toheen ban gayi,

Har khushi ek saza lagti hai.

Zindagi ke is sheher mein,

Tanhai meri sabse wafadar saathi hai.

Na koi poochhne wala,

Na koi sunne wala hai yahan.

Bas ek khud se sawaal hai:

“Main ab bhi zinda hoon... kyun?”

Baap ka bhaari ghamand,

Maa ki halki si hansi,

Behen ki yaad,

Parchhaayi ko satati hai.

Khaali kamre ki deewar par

Uske gel pen se likhe naam ab bhi hain,

Aur uski chhoti-chhoti baatein

Raat ke sannate mein cheekh ban jaati hain.

Ek pal ko lagta hai sab kuch theek ho jaayega,

Magar doosre hi pal,

Zehar sa lagta hai har tasalli ka lafz:

“Sab theek ho jaayega…”

Dil to ab bhi dhadakta hai,

Magar kisi intezaar mein nahi,

Bas aadat hai...

Saans lene ki, jeene ki,

Kuch mehsoos kiye bina.

Intezaar hai us din ka,

Jab jalega baap ka ahankar,

Aur amar hogi maa ki azadi.

Us umeed ne rakha hai mujhe

Is kaali raat mein garam.

Jab behen ke sapno ko pankh milenge,

Aur nafrat ke dariya sookh jaayenge.

Jab sirf naam ka nahi,

Asliyat ka pyaar har chhat ke neeche rahega.

Main nahi chahti badla,

Bas khula aasmaan chahti hoon,

Jahan saans lene par

Kisi ke gusse ka bojh na ho.

Woh subah aayegi,

Jab maa muskaraayegi,

Aur main, ek baar phir,

Khud ko gale laga paungi...

Baap ka chillana,

Maa ka rona,

Waqt ka guzarna,

Rishtedaron ki tipanni,

Behan ke safarnaame,

Dosti ki yaadein,

Pyaar ka: na koi naam-o-nishaan.

Har kona, har chehra,

Ek chhoti si kahani ke tukde hain,

Jise main roz jodti hoon,

Aur raat tak phir se bikhar jaati hoon.

Na kabhi kisi ne poocha

Ke chhup rehna bhi cheekh sakta hai,

Na hi samjha

Ke muskurana, kabhi-kabhi, maut jaisa lagta hai.

Ab to khushi bhi ajeeb lagti hai,

Jaise kisi aur ki zindagi chura rahi hoon,

Aur dard...

Woh to meri apni milkiyat hai,

Jaise virasat mein mila ho koi zakhm ka makaan.

Bachpan ke sapne,

Jawani ki maaya,

Budaape ka dar,

Karm ka na koi phal,

Aur na hi badan ka khayal.

Zindagi ke har mod par

Bas ek sawaal rehta hai:

"Main yeh sab kyun jhel rahi hoon?"

Aur har baar jawab mein

Ek khaali khamoshi milti hai.

Peechhe mudh ke dekho to

Bas adhoore iraade,

Aage dekho to

Bas dhundhla sa andhera.

Jo tha, woh chala gaya,

Jo hai, woh jhooth lagta hai,

Aur jo aayega...

Usse milne ka hausla hi nahi bacha.

Par ab bhi...

Kahin dil ke kisi kone mein

Ek chingari si bachi hai

Shayad kisi savere ki,

Shayad ek khud ke gale lag jaane ki...

Is zindagi ke chakravyuh mein,

Jitni koshish kar loon bhaagne ki,

Wahi khalwat mein,

Usi bistar par,

Ek hi kamre mein band,

Mere sapne sadhte hain,

Aur uski buu se rooh

Roz thoda aur murjha jaati hai.

Deewaron ne sun liya hai

Jo duniya sun nahi paayi,

Aur takiye ne pi liya hai

Woh har aansu

Jo aankhon se bhi chhupa tha.

Hawa tak sawal karti hai ab:

"Ab bhi zinda ho?"

Aur main bas ek muskaan pehne

Keh deti hoon, "haan... kuch had tak."

Na roshni se dosti hai,

Na andheron se dushmani,

Bas aadat si ho gayi hai

Har raat ke khaali paanon mein

Apne hone ko talashne ki.

Chahe jitni bhi koshish kar lu main lekin,

Baap ka gussa: apne khoon se,

Maa ka doodh: apni niyat se,

Kabhi alag nahi hota.

Chahe jitni takkar laga lu main lekin,

Baap ka magn,

Maa ki chuppi,

Ke mishrit pehchaan ke daldal mein

Joojhne ka taqkar koi nahi hara sakta.

Main nafaqat insaan hoon,

Main ek silsila hoon,

Us virasat ka, jo kabhi chaha hi nahi gaya.

Har baras,

Mujhe jise dho kar naya banna tha,

Wahi baras mujhe aur gehra doobta gaya.

Aaj bhi apne aap se ladti hoon,

Kya sach mein main “main” hoon?

Ya sirf unke jhoothe khwab

Aur adhoore iraadon ka

Ek zinda saboot?

Kyonki na baap ki dambhi,

Na maa ke insaaf,

Beti ko kabhi bacha paaya hai

Is samaj ke chaar logon ki katcheri se.

Jahan na aawaaz ka mol hai,

Na khamoshi ki izzat,

Jahan beti ka sapna

Sirf parchaiyon mein likha jaata hai,

Aur uske iraade

Sharm ke naam pe jala diye jaate hain.

Usne khud se poocha hai aksar:

“Kya galti thi meri?

Kya paida hone ka faisla mera tha?”

Magar jawab har baar

Ek aur dard ban kar laut aata hai.

Kapdon ki lambai,

Chaal ki sidhaai,

Zubaan ki theek line,

Yeh sab likh diye gaye hain

Uske hone ke niyam ke taur pe,

Jabki uski har saans

Kisi azaadi ke geet ki talaash mein hai.

Woh roti hai toh kehte hain:

“Naazuk hai”,

Woh ladti hai toh bolte hain:

“Badtameez hai”,

Aur agar chup reh jaaye

Toh samaj ke kaanon mein

Zyada sukoon bajta hai.

Beti hone ka bojh

Kandhon pe nahi,

Rooh mein utar jaata hai.

Aur har baar jab koi

Uske hone pe sawal uthata hai,

Woh sirf zinda nahi rehti,

Woh pal-pal mar jaati hai.

Aur jab yehi beti ban jaati hai

Ek aurat,

Wahi baap ban jaata hai

Ek mard,

Aur maa kho jaati hai

Julmi samaj ke itihaas mein.

Beti ki galti

Uske sanmaan ke saath baandh di jaati hai,

Woh sanmaan

Jo uss mard ka katputli hota hai,

Wahi mard

Jo kabhi beti ko gale lagane par

Hichkichata nahi tha,

Magar duniya ke dar se

Uski zindagi ko hi jhukane laga.

Aur jab beti apni zubaan kholti hai,

Toh use "tez" kaha jaata hai,

Jab woh khud ke liye khadi hoti hai,

Toh use "besharam" samjha jaata hai.

Uski har saans

Ek faisla ban jaati hai

Jis par poori duniya

Judge ki kursi par baith jaati hai.

Aur tab samajhta hai koi bhi nahi,

Ke jis aurat ko woh chhoti soch mein tol rahe hain,

Woh pehle ek beti thi

Jo sirf pyaar chaahti thi,

Na ki sirf bardasht karne ki taleem.

Aur tab,

Us aurat ka sab kuch,

Uski bolti zubaan,

Uski chalti soch,

Uski jeeti-jagti rooh

Ek saza ban jaati hai.

{Yeh meri kahani nahi,

Yeh har us beti ki kahani hai

Jisne apni pehchaan virasat mein pai thi,

Aur apna wajood...

Khud banana pada.

Main, beti banke paida hui thi,

Aurat bankar likhi gayi hoon.

Magar kahaani ab bhi adhoori hai...

Kyunki kal ek aur beti paida hogi.}

[It is in Hindi language, someday I will translate to English, someday I promise.]

It’s strange how writing can be such a release. I’ve been carrying so many feelings lately, so many that sometimes it feels like there’s no room left to breathe. But when I wrote that poem last night, it was like I let out everything I’ve been holding inside. The words came almost on their own like they were waiting to be said. I still don’t entirely understand it, but maybe I don’t need to. Maybe some things are meant to be felt and then shared, without always needing to be explained. Yesterday afternoon, while doing some research on child marriage, I sat down to read (again!) about the very inspiring Bhanwari Devi. Her story continues to haunt me and push me forward in my work. The strength she showed in her fight, despite the world turning its back on her, reminds me of the work I’m doing and the women I’m working for. Some of her words which I could also feel in the recent words of Gisèle Pelicot: 

‘it’s not for us to have shame – it’s for them’

The poem, "Main, Beti — Ek Virasat Ki Saza," is my way of giving voice to a story I know all too well. And I know, if you are a girl or a woman reading, you know it too well too. I know you can feel it in your bones, in your blood, as do I. It’s about a girl, a woman, whose fate has already been written for her long before she gets a chance to choose. It’s about the generational curse of silence, suffering, and enduring an inheritance that no one would wish for. Yet, at the same time, it's a journey of resilience, of reclaiming one’s voice and challenging that very fate.

As I reread the my poem, I was also haunted by the thoughts of the young girl my mother spoke of. I think of her as I write this, and I know that even though my voice is just one of many, it has to keep speaking. It has to keep pushing for change, no matter how many obstacles or roadblocks appear. Even if no one or even one person is reading this, I have to keep writing. So, tomorrow when someone is somewhere in this spiderweb seeking some reassurance, some affirmation, some understanding, my words will be providing them.

And so, I’ll keep writing, keep fighting, keep speaking. Even when I feel lost, like I did in that ancient city in my dream, I know that the work I’m doing matters. Even though bills are pending, even though money is yet to come through, even though my shopping list is rotting in the waiting cart, even though I am unable to move out, go away from this familial swamp, even though I have zero support system, almost no safety net right now. Because, despite all of that, in some strange way, I feel like I’m not alone in it. Maybe A was in my dream for a reason. Maybe she represents the support, the comfort, and the unexpected help that comes when you least expect it. And, if I can be that to someone, anyone, then my work has achieved Nirvana! And the other figure, the one I can’t quite remember, maybe that’s a part of me that hasn’t fully come to the surface yet. Who is still figuring it all out? Either way, I’ll keep walking forward, guided by the voices of the girls and women I’m working for, and the dream that still lingers in my heart.

It’s a strange thing, how life sometimes feels like a combination of the personal, the political, and the emotional all intertwining. In my dream, I wandered lost until I found someone who reminded me of who I used to be. In my waking life, I see the same theme: finding pieces of myself in the faces of others, like the girl my mother spoke of, like the women I work with, like A, and even the figure I can’t fully place from my dream. It’s as if all of it is one long, winding journey where I’m constantly discovering and rediscovering what I care about, who I am, and how far I’m willing to go to make sure their voices are heard. Today was a reminder that even when things feel chaotic or uncertain or chronically bad, there’s a thread that runs through it all, one that I must keep following. Even when I can’t see the whole path, I trust that, like in my dream, I’ll find my way forward.

- Oizys.