Apologies and such.

[Excerpt from my series, Whispers To My Shadows]

We all say words that we do not mean every day. We say it because it is expected of us. We say it because we live in a world that can barely survive lengthy, winding talks without feeling judged. We say it because when minutes turn to seconds and the idyllic shades of dusk paint the skies black in swift brush strokes, the emptiness starts bursting against the corner of the room, leaving you with an impossible choice. To divulge or to hide?

How many 'I am fine' rolled between your tongue despite the heaviness you feel in your chest? Despite the emptiness slowly spreading out to your throat, the pit of your stomach, the edge of your shoulder blades? How many 'It’s okay' spoken between gritted teeth when you really just felt like a tangled heap of messy hair and dirty muck caught in the drain?

An epiphany hit me the other day as I said 'Sorry' for what felt like an eternity of apologies. I apologise profusely. I apologise for the mistakes that are sometimes not even mine. For a long time I even apologised for my existence, for not being your version of me. I apologise for the tragedies and exhilaration. For eccentricities and imperfection, vulnerabilities and silences. Hell, even for my state of mind. I apologise for the what-ifs and the could-bes with regrets creeping into my system like a slow poison. I apologise even when there is no need for words.

Maybe, we need to stop saying things we no longer mean. Maybe the rare words that engulf the recesses of our hearts and minds are more precious than those that we say daily. So when we apologise and mean it, it is no longer just an apology. And when I say, "I am fine". I finally am.

My Blue Paradise

Written for Almaarii, a collaborative storytelling project that collects all kinds of narratives surrounding what closets mean for people in South Asia. Artwork by Mrinalini.

As a kid, whenever I felt out of sorts, I'd retreat to the terrace of my building and lay down on the hard cement floor, put on my Walkman, look up at the stars, take a deep breath, close my eyes so I could truly see, and disappear into my ‘almaarii, my sanctuary; away from the noise of the world around me, the numbness I always felt but couldn’t quite explain and wake up to my world. One that I could form and manifest by my own will. One where I could wander freely in my skin, just my skin and not feel the piercing eyes of the world left behind.

This place is wide as the infinite night sky. It is radiant and thriving as an ancient forest. A realm where I can sleep with the dust, eat it and revel in it; where I am a tempest, a storm, unyielding and untamed! Where I disrobe, disintegrate and deteriorate my soul and rebuild myself again. Here, the outside world retreats to the underground, and the cold and hard surface of the cement is replaced by a soft moss-covered ground of the forest floor. Here, the howls of the outside world are silenced by the cacophony of wild sounds accompanied by the trickling sound of the gentle stream of a river, resonating through the air, forming a magical orchestra. Beside the river is a tree. Always a willow tree, but with sparkling silver leaves that shine under the 7 silver moons, painted against the glorious black sky. In the distance, a brilliant turquoise twilight. Look! There's a unicorn flying by.

Here, I am not me. I am many. I can exist; not as a man, not as a woman, but just me. Sometimes, even as vapour. I am not alone here. This world is thriving with all kinds of beings and creatures that myths and legends are made of. Life here looks nothing like you’re used to. Different colours, different scents, but all very pleasing. Everyone is in harmony and they are all my friends. Everyone is in pairs of all kinds because no one should have to be alone.

I live in Mumbai now, and it doesn’t have too many terraces. A window view of the moon is rather rare, and the sky is never that clear. Not too many escape routes out of the oppression! So I just lay down on my bed and stare at the ceiling, and follow the trajectory of the fan blades as they revolve, until my eyes drop, until I slowly slip back into my almaari, through the portal inside my mind.

Away from the expectations and the judgements of the human world, from the callous, indifferent and savage laws that govern that world, and far from the haunting shadows of my past, the present. Here, there is congruence, there is a certain peace. Here I am not defined by my physicality, my anatomy, my language, my birth. Here, there is no malice, no pain, no bullies, no evil, no nasty stares by strangers, telling me my 'different' isn't welcomed.

Here I can breathe. This is the one place I truly feel free, where I've always felt free. This is my almaarii, and it may change in form and space, but it is open for all who need it, and in its tender embrace even you can feel whole again.

Varsha Panikar,

Pansexual, Gender Fluid

Dream Diary III

There’s an ancient sort of darkness that can be witnessed when you wake up when you aren’t supposed to. Within its benevolence resides a cooing wind that brushes against your wings. Within that, a sunset horizon stuck between wake and slumber where the body and mind are separate entities. They murmur to each other like broken & old friends from childhood that contemplates sex. Execution, though, is an entirely different continent. Instead, there exists the sensation of a cold blade that yields you. So when you open your eyes, it feels like they’re still closed and slowly seeps in an unpleasant awareness that you’ll never be as happy as you are in your memory.