On Death.

Alternate titles include: On things that will make you question the existence of God; On things that don’t hit you until they hit you, or someone you love; On being guilty for being alive.

It’s never fair – ever. No matter which way you slice it, death is death is death, and the dark logic always amounts to zero. And unless you add a 30 to that zero, dark, logic, you never ever want to watch it happen.

I’ve witnessed death twice in my lifetime. The first time, I was young. Not young enough to misunderstand what was going on, but young enough to feel suffocated, like he was. A crowded hospital room. An air that changed - from stories and laughter to wails and screams in the blink of an eye that couldn’t blink; it was glued shut. The Moment was preceded by repetitive breaths. His head laid to the side, profile facing us. It moved up and down on the pillow, in rhythm with each inhale, exhale. The Last Breath was slow, like a graceful release of the poisonous cells that ruined him. There was silence.

The second time, I was older. It was cold and it was Christmas. I knew the ropes. I was expectant and ready. I wore red and green. But The Moments Before threw me, and screwed me. It was different this time. More people, more chaos. Red eyes, shaky fingers, sweaty foreheads circled around her. Tongues flapped incessantly and heat stuck to the air. I was older. I was guilty. I leaned into her ear and whispered I’m sorry. The Last Breath was quick, like a hasty escape from the dreadful caroling surrounding her. The screams continued.

This is death. Memories that can only be seen with the haze of an eye filled to the brim. Two stories tied together with this one, hideous black ribbon. I wrap them up, and tuck them away. They stay there, side by side, in a nook of my memory that collects dust until summoned.

“The doctors say there are only 24 hours left.”

I say nothing.

I blow off the dust.

I slowly untie the grainy black ribbon.

I see them, waiting to greet me with their pointed faces and maniacal grins.

Hello, I say.

I wait.

Stranger Danger

I knew a place once.

I met a lady there - on a bus that she gracefully helped me find. She had a squinty smile with a pure heart,  always looking to talk to people. I mean, really talk to people and get to know what makes them tick. She was small, she was adorably uncomfortable, but her curiosity is what stuck. It's what made her tick. Como se llama? "Chakti" she'd say, "Shakti," I'd smile.

I met a man there - on a train that I'd not so gracefully found. He had tall limbs and wise eyes that were rested on this new place he called home. He started life fresh with an optimism that made me question how a former lawyer could become so zen. His empathy was overwhelming, his calming aura infective.

I met people who weren't afraid to talk to people they didn't know. They were open, and free, and loving. They were funny, funky, and fresh. It was a place that was theirs, now is mine, because they let me learn it. They let me say, I know that place.

I want this place, right here, to be a place I know, surrounded with people I don't.

RIP Harsha Maddula

People tell me things that shouldn't effect me, shouldn't effect me. I'm so disconnected, why does it matter and why am I upset and calm down!

But I can't. Because how dare I go through the motions of life, being unaffected by every joy, every tragedy, every commonplace thing that happens to everyone outside of me?

How dare I live, oblivious to the way a mother feels when she holds that cooing baby in her arms, the first time their fingers meet and the first time those wide eyes smile?

How dare I live, oblivious to the possibility that it could have been ME goddamit who got killed for no reason who got thrown into that river who got no explanations for why my brother is DEAD.

How dare I live, in any way other than to the fullest? How dare I assume I'll have time to do something great tomorrow? How dare I make myself feel better with these lies, make excuses for my faults, find ways out of doing the hardest thing but the only thing to do which is LIVE.

How dare I see these joys, these tragedies, over and over and over again and not once put myself in those shoes. Not once pretend it's happening to me. Not once think - shit, that can still be me.

No. Don't tell me it's distant. Don't tell me it's unlikely. Don't feed me the shit I already feed myself to feel less crazy because it's here. It's close and it's breathing down my neck. It's death whispering warnings in my ear - how dare I refuse to listen.

My One True Love: Thought Catalog

http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/youre-alone-all-the-time/

Just Me & the Girls

People struggle with their body image everyday. Too fat, too thin, too this too that. But my sympathy goes out to ma people - the big boobed - and our specific struggle with this so-called "gift."

When I was younger, I was told to do weird arm exercises in attempts to reduce my bra size. Mind you, I am by no means enormous - but I remember my chest being compared to a curse that I'd be damned with for all of eternity, unless I got the Girls under control.

Obviously that never worked. And I was okay with this, because despite the ominous warning, at that blissful time in my life boobs were not all the rage for girls and guys alike. I'd wear tank tops and dresses and the only decision I had to make before buying a shirt was which shade of blue to buy it in. (My wardrobe was very diverse).

And then I grew up, and something changed. My body, the most consistent part of my life, had suddenly been redefined. Everything I wore was scandalous, promiscuous, indecent. If I bent over and my shirt shifted, I was yelled at. If a picture was taken and my cleavage was visible, I was teased. It was like an obsession over this one part of my body, and the unwanted attention was stifling. I became accustomed to slyly erasing any trace of sensuality - "for the sake" of everyone around me.

But you know what? I'm done feeling guilty, or dirty, or whatever else these comments are meant to make me feel. Fuck. All. Of Y'all. We teach girls to be comfortable with their bodies, and to love the skin they're in. We fight the shame that women shouldn't feel for showing their curves, because it is not their responsibility to control the urges of a leering man. We chant these apparently empty mottos, and I'm tired of the hollow sound. This is not the 1800's, people, it's time for a damned shift in perspective.

The hypocrisy echoes to the beaches - where it's acceptable to dress in the equivalent of a bra and panties. It echoes to the Indian weddings - where the norm is to show an entirely bare stomach. Hello, moral relativism, how do you do?

So please, if you are not going to be consistent, then kindly leave me and my body alone. And if you still don't understand, then I hope that one day you are blessed with a big-boobed daughter. And I hope that she fights just as hard as I do. And I hope that maybe, just maybe, she will get the privilege to walk down the street in a tank top and flip-fops, feeling like nothing but a regular pedestrian.

Stay Beautiful

Hey you. Skinny girl with the middle part and the long black ponytail. I see you walking there, arm-in-arm with your cutie little grandmother. She looks like most Indian grandmas - rockin' a tiny, yet perfectly formed white bun and a soft, soft sari draped around her effortlessly. I see the way you look at her, like you have so much to learn but so little time. You like having her around because hey, she's your grandma.

Please do me a favor. Will you please stay that way? And by you, I don't mean the collective you, I mean YOU. Remember this moment - when you're walking down Oak Tree Road as one of the five thousand people who inhabit this one street, and you pay no attention to that fact. Remember that your awkward little hunch does nothing but bring you a little bit closer to the top of your grandma's slicked back hair. In a weird way, you like that smell. Keep the skip in your step in your old navy shoes - loving the weather and the sunshine on your face.

Remember all of it, because before you know it, you'll grow into your lanky form and straighten out that posture, straighten out that hair. After 8:00 PM, you'll want to do things that involve no one over the age of 16. You'll be angsty and weird and because of it, your grandma will be old and weird.

A couple years later, you'll try to fool me. You'll take pictures with her because it's cool and you'll thrive on these moments where you feel so genuine and so real, even though your skinny arm is dominating the picture - your 90-degree head-tilt a close second. You'll help her through a crowded room and glow when you feel the eyes of a million aunties praising you.

What you don't know is that I will see right through you. I will remember the nights when you yelled at her to hurry up so you could go to the mall with your friends, even though once upon a time, she was your friend. I will remember when you made fun of the oil in her hair - the same kind she would massage into your scalp. And I will never forget when you gave your biggest performance, the greatest atrocity of them all: pretending that you cared about her as anything more than a stage prop to this pathetic little monologue.

So please, skinny girl, PLEASE. Just stay the way you are, because the world needs more people like you. And I know that because after I saw you, I felt things, and I rushed home to blog about it. It seemed exciting, as inspiration usually is, until a rock hit the pit of my stomach. Because it was only when I realized the rarity of these inherently beautiful things - like a girl strolling with her grandma - that I was reminded of how unbeautiful our world has become.

Real eyes Realize

Look into the mirror. Put your palms to your face and wipe it. Rub the tops of your eyelids in circles to steady the swirling happening beneath them.

Now look at your pupils, one by one.

In the left one, see the newly-formed wrinkles on your father's neck. The veins popping from your mother's forehead.

Blink.

In the right one, watch the twinkle slowly fade. See your life slowly morphing to match the army that surrounds you.

Blink twice.

Now breathe on the mirror. Draw an S in the fog.

S for the Strength your dreams once had. For the Simple formula each day used to come with. For the Singing you would hear in every place your eardrums landed.

When you find yourself wondering how these once indestructible, curvy S's got slashed, draw it. Humanize that straight path that leads vertically through the S, and you'll have your answer.

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Blink.