On a Sunday morning, as I was sharing the dining table with my father, I noticed him coughing & sneezing. Me : Mommy, arrange some Tulsi leaves before it's evening. (As per Odia tradition, we are not supposed to pluck leaves past evening) Mommy : But we just had our breakfast Me : So ? You can pick leaves only in morning on an empty stomach. Is that rule-2 in your dictionary of tradition ? (I was slightly irritated, because last time I asked her for my cold, she told me about evening, rule-1) Oh, how fool of you that you don't know this. No no, saying one can't pluck leaves after having non-veg would have made sense (considering odia culture), but the thing about empty stomach makes no sense. You think you know everything, but you don't. No mom, I know that I don't know many things. But sometimes you say things that's just plain stupidity. You REALLY think one can pluck leaves after having meal ? ( This time she was angry) No, one can't (I said whi
I knew it. I knew it then, when it was buried in my heart. An imperfect feeling in a perfect surrounding. Then it stayed there. Sometimes it would stare back at me. Teasing me. Mocking me. Talking to me in a condescending tone. Was I hurt ? Sure. It was torture. That constant attempt to talk myself out of that voice. Not letting it have it's hold on me. Not going down that rabbit hole only to be left stranded in a deeper underground. A part of me kept growing cold & lifeless. It forms a strange dipole where mind is in one end & heart is in other. The heart asks for freedom & the mind cherishing it's unrelenting clasp. This continues untill there is nothing that a heart could feel. What follows is a long bland void. It was better off when it was hurt. There was movement, there was pain, there was rebellion. It felt strangely alive to be burnt under the fire of doubt & agony. Now it's just cold. The water that used to flow in a river is now confined in a poo