One day horror story.

I did not run today, second day in a row.  Half asleep, I look at the time. It was high time. I still, always find time to check face book, like it’s the first sapling I ever planted, I have to keep checking on it, every hour, having full knowledge that it takes a week for the first signs of growth to be visible. But, knowledge and expectations get compartmentalised with an ocean to cross in between.

Face book was, as always. Only, today was Rakshabandhan, the festival where sisters and brothers are for once, honest about how much they mean to each other.

I switched to messenger, as soon as I could.

The curtains closed around me, thick and drawn and it felt good. More the insulation, lesser cries get out of the room.  I remember at least twelve rakshabandhans where I found it difficult to go through the day. The ones before that, I don’t remember.

Of the ones I do remember, my viewpoint evolved from hiding behind my mother, to hiding behind a screen. Mother served the dual purpose of a hideout and a tissue; screens don’t, so I further evolved to hiding behind “It’s not a big deal”, although from time to time, its a big deal. Big enough to ruin my breakfast.

I have no siblings but, I have many cousins, owing to my great grandfather’s insatiable lust. But, there have been times I had to rummage through a long index of names, while talking to the cousin, just so I could end the conversation with“ Goodbye, Shabana” , while sincerely hoping it was Shabana I was speaking to and not her younger sister, Roshan. So, cousins for me are like an email address ending with “”.

That leaves me with one alternative on Rakshabandhan; I sit down and listen to stories streaked with turmeric, vermilion, rice, camphor.

Hear the sound of thread on thread as the rakhi is tightened, the sound of unwrapping of presents, the sound crisp 500 rupee notes make.

See wrists crowded with rakhis typing away, shaking my hand, waving at me. I wave back and go home. This day will end soon.


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