humko kiske gham ne maara

journal

I am at my parents’ place, for one night. In less than ten hours my father will drop me to the airport, and I will be off. I am wearing my lavender pajamas with white spots on them – the ones I have had since school days, and a bright pink kurta that is fading on the back due to exposure to Delhi summer. I have a sandalwood face mask lathered on, and I am using the vape my brother generously left me here so that it is easier to get around in the house. My parents are almost asleep, and I am almost done packing. I will make myself one good cup of tea before going to bed. 

I use the Dove shampoo that they have been using for years, I lather bright green Cinthol soap all over me even though it dries my skin. The smell takes me back to our old house, when I could still sleep next to my father in the nook of his shoulder, and smell Axe talcum powder and Cinthol all over him. 

I use up all their lotion, I get into my mother’s collection of bindis, only to choose the most plain-looking one. We have one fight at the interval of three hours and then everybody is extra sweet because they realize time is limited, and I will be away for who knows how long. It riddles me with guilt, and I don’t know what to do. I want to tear my clothes off. 

Whenever I am in their bathroom, I cannot help but inspect my naked body. There is a permanent bug bite on me now, a new burn mark on my thigh and my face. My hair is shorter, darker, a little better. My nails are painted brown. My eyes are getting smaller I think. This body has gone through so much, so many nights, so many cities, yet when it comes back here, it shrivels and feels inexperienced. 

There’s sweets in the fridge, and some leftover rice. My father ironed my clothes, and my mother kept some of my books on the table, in case I wanted to carry them with me. I am not sure whether I want to.

Attachment has loosened its grip on me. I feel no sense of connection to anything or anybody. I do not want to get out of this house and meet people. Maybe because I am now accustomed to living alone in the city that I live in, away from practically everybody I know. I keep thinking of my bed there, and how I want to crash on it. I think of my friends there who cleaned the whole house, who helped me with my work, who sent me photos of documents I really needed. I think of everything at once which makes it really hard and now I want to cry. Today in the kitchen I caught myself thinking that it would be nice to come back to this rotten place and live for a month. Nothing to do, nowhere to go. I just want a blanket over me. I just want to hide away. 

 I think of how the whole world feels depressing these days, and I try so hard to theorize it to be the “being in your early 20s syndrome” but it never works. Sometimes I am too smart for my own good. 

I was with a friend drinking chai on a busy road yesterday, and all we could say was how depressing everything was. Nothing is bringing me joy, and I am almost done wishing for it. I am scared mostly. I am also tired. I do not know what to do. I want to pick a fight with everybody I know. I want to know nobody. I wish to change everything about me so that I can start afresh and feel the weight of mistakes lift off of me. 

To be honest, all I want is a house full of care. I want a blanket and a lamp and a couch and books and tea and a window. Do you know what? I have this. Except the couch, which I am not too keen on right now anyway, but I do have all of this in my house that I share with a housemate. I have a nice little balcony that overlooks the dam.

What has gone wrong then? Why do I always end up on the wrong street? 

The sandalwood is fragrant and flaky on my skin now. I will wash it off, use my phone until my eyes hurt. Then I will roll over and touch my mother ever so slightly once, and go to sleep. 

Maybe I will text you.