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My Mother, My Teacher

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During summer holidays, I’d go play football with the boys and come back a muddy goblin with dirt rings around my neck. But one day, somewhere between passes and shoving each other on the field, I told a fellow footballer I had a crush on him. He knocked me down and told me to stay away from him. Everyone laughed. I ran home crying. When I got there, Mom was home, having her evening cup of chai, as always. I hugged her tightly around the waist and buried my face in her stomach. She asked me what happened, and I managed to get a few words out between sobs. Then she said, “You go tell that boy that if he doesn’t want to be looked at, he should wear a burkha .” I stopped crying and looked up at her in astonishment. Political incorrectness aside, I couldn’t comprehend how she had managed to pull that analogy out so quickly. For her to listen to my trifling problems and have that sharp, witty comeback ready at once was astounding to my pre-teen brain. That was my mother: full of witty comeb...
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Of mothers I admire

I didn’t get a chance to get to know my mother-in-law. From all the stories I have heard about her, I know she was a force to be reckoned with. Sifting through drawers and hundreds of scribbled notes and diaries after her passing gave me a glimpse into the woman she was—a way of spending some additional time with her, perhaps. The second eldest of all her siblings, Fatima Rodricks was fondly thought of as “small mama” in her Mazgaon neighbourhood. She is survived by her elder sister, a younger brother and twin sisters. If you ask them, they always turned to her for advice, gossip and general commentary on how to live their lives, which shouldn’t be surprising considering what she did for a living. A secretary at first, she was promoted to office administrator soon enough. And although she never really liked her boss—a truth she told me on multiple occasions—she didn’t let it affect her work ethic. I remember the first time my husband—then boyfriend—brought me home to meet his mom. She ...
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The Push

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It was a strange feeling, not being able to recall anything a few seconds later… or maybe it had been a few minutes or hours. I set my phone aside, knowing I had to do something but what? Look up a recipe in my saved folder? Message an old friend? Was there an event I was missing? I could feel the cogs of my mind turn slowly, almost arriving at a definitive conclusion. Then, the dopamine rush-inducing ‘ting’ sound buzzed again and all was lost. *** I’ve always found Instagram to be a window into the world of others. A glimpse of their lives shines through and then it’s gone as you scroll away. But there is a morbidity that comes as you lie on your back and flip from one reel to the next till your hand aches. It’s almost as if we are trying to find the end or go back to the beginning so that all that doom scrolling would mean something. I think I found it one night when I scrolled myself into oblivion.  It was 3 am when I found myself in a lucid dream. My phone buzzed and I awoke, r...
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Reflections unseen

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  “I don’t like looking in the mirror… because that’s when she looks back…”  When my four-year-old nephew said these words to me I replied with the standard: “Eric, there’s no such thing as ghosts.” Though the thought was eerie, never did I imagine there was any truth to it. As psychiatrists, we are trained to understand the logic behind every fear but something about my nephew's phobia wasn't irrational. Over the next few days, I went about my business, trying to put this egregious thought to rest. What I noticed was that I grew fearful of my own reflection. For some unexplained reason, I was hesitant to look at car windows, shopping displays or even the notice board outside my office. I couldn't escape the foretelling of something demonic when approaching a looking glass. The hairs on the back of my neck would stand and I’d get a bone-chilling feeling like something was watching me. I was completely powerless against the fear that a four-year-old had planted in me. So, th...
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Enid

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As I sip yet another hot brew of lemongrass tea with honey, I sit contemplating my next move. My trembling, sweaty hands, which even the tea doesn’t seem to steady, make it difficult for me to type. For being a storyteller comes with its own boundaries of wariness — especially, a story like this one that leaves you shaking to your very core, as I am right now. I still remember that cold, crisp December morning when mom and I were looking for a new apartment to rent. Tired of our leaky roof, damp walls and noisy neighbours, we craved a wholesome change. That morning, I was the happiest I had ever been after an aleatory phone call from our hardworking broker left me beaming. Our house had been on the market for six months before we closed on a decent offer that left us with some savings, despite the damage the roof repairs had done to our pockets.  “The house sold!” — her voice had the same excitement, I imagine, of someone who had just won the lottery. I remember thinking, ‘This ol...
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Short poems

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Ode to my anxiety There’s something small that lives inside a hollow tree. It might be small but I’m not sure it’d be friends with me. So I soldier on in hopes that the creature might one day be... A tiny voice, not frightening or menacing, that's just a little less scary. Left on read I find myself waiting by the phone Every minute of every day I feel alone. The loneliness it grips me like the cold, raspy hands of death. So many times I've tried to be; something other than me Just to please you so you wouldn't leave. Now every time I wait by the phone... I glance into the mirror so I won't feel alone.  But what I see is not me. The me that I see is begging to break free. First published on @Bombay_Bards on Instagram. Almost Alice The world's unrelenting words have hardened the soft palate. Inured to violations, the eyes have lost their sparkle. The blood running through the coarse hands has thickened. Suddenly, life feels different. They say she is more powerful, ...
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The proposal - A short story

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As the music grew to a dull roar I could see that he had changed his mind. Our family and friends had gathered round and were excited to witness a climactic moment, but I knew their wait would be in vain. My eyes searched on for a growing sense of recognition in his, but found none. He was far gone. His one knee proposal felt like he was imploring me to read his mind, and so I did. Finally, standing up, he hugged me. The crowd cheered on as I put my arms around his neck and kissed him gently on his cheek. He wrapped his arms around my waist, nestled his head in my shoulders' nook and whispered softly in my ear, "I can't do this." To everyone else we were heading toward a new chapter in our lives but it was actually the end of an unexpected and beautiful journey. It wouldn't end in 'Till death do us part', it ended right there on the dance floor, where the music died.
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