Borrowing words

I have been trying to write.

I have been staring at this sentence for the last 15 minutes. I have been typing slower. Lingering a little longer on each key. T-r-y-i-n-g-t-o——w—-





20 minutes.

Words don’t come to me. Remember how you feel when you drink milk, 5 sips too many of it? You feel like you are going to puke but you just walk around trying to keep in, make more comfortable, something that refuses to come out. You give in to the adamant-ness of the milk. That is what words are doing to me. But I am no quitter, I want to make mockery of these stubborn words and use them to suffer the lack of them.

They told me “look at this photo and write what it says to you” I am to borrow words from this photo. I am not friends with the photo yet but I think it wants to be talked about as love. About companionship, its forms. Marriage, maybe. Or just this teen-agey fiercefully passionate and hopeful to the end of anger kind of love. Or that one, the one which feels like a tight jacket: keeps you warm but suffocates you just enough to make you wonder if you need air or warmth more. Have you ever felt like blaming your parents for loving you a certain way or do you blame yourself for seeking what they could not provide for in a human outside. Do you feel like accepting more than the love you think you deserve?

Actually, I don’t want to write about love. I want to write about this new found sense of smell I have discovered. I want to tell you about the Raatranis on the way home from the parking of my building that I smell every night.

“But your photos and text never make sense together. Why don’t you just post the photos? The writing ruins them.”


I think I will talk about the super-special people I met at office and how our low self-esteems tie us together. Maybe the photo wants me to talk more about this girl that uses Instagram to love me. She knows I am not okay if I behave weirdly on Instagram. She sends me books that I carry everywhere and which I sleep next to every night. How she virtually holds my hand silently. On Instagram. Oh! And about this boy I saw, a little boy who smells his Rohal Dhal book before he begins to read it. I wanted to make friends with him but shied away because of his parents. I think the photo wants me to write something which uses the phrase ‘Aristocratically hyphenated’ in it. Pillows. It definitely wants to talk about my favorite pillow. It’s a very light shade of grey or cream, I don’t know. It is a grandmother pillow. Father’s-mother-grandmother, not mother’s mother. It’s tearing a little little.

I think this photo has run out of words.


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