writing

Navigating the Path: Crafting and Publishing Writing about Death

~ Coren Farley

I’d not considered myself as a worthy candidate for publishing until this module, would people besides my university lecturers really want to read my work? With that in mind here’s my reflection of my experience of writing for publication. Specifically a short story, but this wasn’t just any story—this one’s gritty, raw, and packed with emotion. Join me as I share the highs, lows, and everything in between of bringing this piece to life, specifically for Blood and Bourbon.

Embracing the Challenge:

I decided after spending time thinking about this assignment and being conflicted to begin with that I needed to come to a decision about what format I would like my submission to take. I love writing poetry but I wasn’t sure I wanted to stick to my comfort zone and I’d attempted writing longer narratives before but had found it challenging to keep a reader consistently engaged. Friedman’s (Friedman, 2018) emphasis’ on short stories being simpler to write than books gave me the idea to craft a short story, this would all me to step out of my comfort zone of poetry and to practise my narrative skills without having to worry about such a slow burn.

Upon discovering an article listing places for submissions I read through and found that Blood and Bourbon were asking for various different submissions under the theme of death by August the 31st., I sensed an opportunity to push myself beyond my creative boundaries. Their appetite for hard-hitting, gritty work immediately caught my attention. It was a challenge I couldn’t resist—a chance to delve deep into the darkest corners of my imagination and experiences and produce something truly raw and unfiltered. This was a chance to create something entirely new for me, a short story that explored the complex feelings and emotions around death.

Initial Discomfort:

I’ll be honest—the notion of tackling the theme of death initially made me squirm. It’s not the most uplifting topic, after all and as a sensitive person I knew that it could even be triggering at times but as I mulled it over, I realised that discomfort often signals an opportunity for growth. I could take this opportunity to really think about my journey with understanding death so, I made the conscious decision to lean into the discomfort and see where it would lead. Hoping to create work that would be both emotionally charged and reflect personal growth.

Crafting and Editing:

With the theme of death firmly in mind, I set out to craft a story that would resonate on a deep level. Drawing upon personal experiences and weaving in exaggerated truths, I constructed a tale that explored the messy, complicated emotions that accompany loss

Within my first drafts I did find the writing especially hard, I leant more into a third person style which I found, after sharing my piece with a few close friends, did not read as well as I had hoped. The characters were two dimensional and the emotions seemed forced. I considered Baverstock (Baverstock 2006) and Heard’s (Heard, 2018) advice, I needed to consider my audience and keep my characters complex.

After much consideration I decided to ruthlessly edit (Craig 2015) my work and change it to first person leaning towards a balance between fiction and non-fiction, It was tough to make such a big change but I felt the piece would work better if it read like an exaggerated autobiographical recount of my experiences with death. I also found it a lot easier to really make use of  my emotions surrounding significant loss and how I had thought and felt to play into the way the piece read.

However, there was a challenge looming ahead: my initial draft was perfect for the 3000 word count for my assignment but Blood and Bourbon called for a piece that was at a maximum of 2500 words. I had to cut a large 250 word chunk from the beginning and end of the story to make it the correct size for submission, I do think this hindered the depth of the story slightly but not enough that it wouldn’t be suitable to submit.

Submitting the Final Draft:

After weeks of revisions and late-night writing sessions, I arrived at a final draft that I was proud to submit. Raw, gritty, and undeniably real, it encapsulated the essence of what I aimed to convey. I made the unfortunate discovery that Blood and Bourbons submission point on the article I had found was in fact an old submission and they were not seeking stories of death anymore. Determined to still submit my work I found another publisher Months to Years seeking creative nonfiction of 2500 words, I considered if my work would fall into this category and I believed it did, a majority of the experience I had written about was true, I had altered some parts but not enough that it could be considered entirely fictional. I reviewed the fine print of the submission guidelines to make sure my work would be suitable and with that I sent off my piece.

In the end

Although I haven’t heard yet whether my submission will be published I’ve found new confidence in my abilities and what I’m capable of. The journey of creating this piece provided a huge insight into the publishing world and opened my eyes to how many opportunities are waiting for us if we just take them. Don’t be afraid to lean into the discomfort. Embrace the challenge, push your boundaries, and let your words shine!

References:

Heard, W. 2018. Writing Passport: Characters. Scribbler.

Friedman, J. 2018. The Business of Being a Writer. The University of Chicago Press.

Baverstock, A. 2006. Is There a Book in You? A & C Publishers Limited.

Craig. J, 2015. ‘How to win a Creative Writing Competition – Top Tips’, The Guardian. https://www.theguardian.com/childrens-books-site/2015/nov/16/how-to-win-a-creative-writing-competition-joe-craig-tips

Submissions websites:

http://6 Great Places For Themed Submissions – International Writers’ Collective

https://blood-and-bourbon.com/

http://monthstoyears.org/

In Death’s Shadow

~ Coren Farley

From the moment I was born, death surrounded me. The umbilical cord was wrapped around my neck like a natural noose, trying to lull me back into an endless slumber. The frantic movements of the doctors, the bright lights of the delivery room, and the sterile smell of antiseptics were my first introductions to the world. Even then, I seemed to be caught in a dance with death.

As a child, my family took me to church every week, hoping it would provide me with a sense of belonging. Instead, the bright lights hurt my eyes, the hymns pierced my ears, and the incense made me cough. The vastness of the church’s ceiling felt oppressive, pressing down on me like an invisible weight. I began to believe these discomforts were signs that I did not belong, that heaven and hell weren’t for me. I started to think about the prospect of no longer being, fearing the idea of nothingness.

Every Sunday, we’d file into the same pew, the worn wood smooth under my fingers. My mother would straighten my collar and remind me to sit up straight, her voice a soft whisper against the backdrop of organ music. The church was always cold, the kind of chill that seeped into your bones. I’d watch the stained glass windows, the colors muted and dull in the weak morning light, and imagine the saints depicted there coming to life, stepping down to offer some grand revelation. But they never did.

During the sermons, my mind would wander. The vicar’s voice was a distant hum, words blurring together into a monotonous drone. I’d try to focus on the flickering candles at the altar, their flames dancing and casting long shadows but they’d lick at my eyes causing them to water. The scent of melting wax mixed with the sharp tang of incense, created an almost suffocating atmosphere. The congregation’s responses were always ritualistic and synchronised as if everyone was part of a play, I did not know my lines.

I sat with this uncomfortable feeling for years, wondering if my watery eyes were actually in some way the church expelling the devil. Was I a bad person because I struggled to believe? At times I would squeeze my eyes closed so tight they would hurt, hoping that when they opened suddenly God would make sense to me and death wouldn’t scare me every time it crossed my mind.

When I was 10, my mother took me to the doctor, concerned something was wrong. They tried to explain that my anxiety was a response to my dad leaving, a phase that would end. She had caught me crying in the back seat while collecting fish and chips for our tea. The paper bags crackled as she brought them into the car, the smell of vinegar and salt mingling with my tears. It was my first panic attack. “I don’t want to die,” I screamed, my chest heaving. My mother smiled at me, her eyes full of sorrow, and reassured me that I didn’t need to worry about that—it was far off, I was only young. But her words offered no comfort. I wanted her to tell me it was all a lie, that people didn’t die, that it wouldn’t happen to me, that I would be okay. But she didn’t.

As I aged, the fear did not subside. Instead, it grew within me, festering at the back of my mind until it found a moment to emerge. Night after night, I would lie awake, the shadows in my room turning into specters of my fears. My breath would become shallow, my heart racing as if trying to escape my chest. Were the panic attacks causing the fear, or was the fear causing the panic attacks? I still don’t know the answer.

I remember one particularly harrowing night when I was around 12. The darkness felt alive, pulsating with my anxiety. Every creak of the house, every rustle of the wind outside my window was amplified, becoming monstrous sounds that sent shivers down my spine. I could hear my heartbeat in my ears, each thump a reminder of my fragile existence. I tried to focus on the texture of my blankets, the coolness of my pillow, anything to ground myself, but the sinking feeling in my chest wouldn’t go away. I could not comprehend not being alive, the possibility of nothingness.

Desperate for relief, I would count backwards from a hundred, hoping the mental exercise would tire me out. I kept my gameboy under my pillow, using its faint glow to reassure myself that the world was still there, that I was still here. Sometimes, I would sneak into my mother’s room and sit by her bed, drawing comfort from her presence. Hoping for some solace.

By 14, I began to get over these episodes. I almost forgot the true feeling of powerlessness, how scared I’d felt. The fear of losing people or the ending of relationships seemed distant. Perhaps the doctors were right; it was connected to my father leaving. Or maybe I was truly scared of losing people. I just knew that for a time, I felt okay. I felt like I could breathe again, enjoy my time with friends, and focus on school without the constant shadow of anxiety looming over me. The world seemed brighter, and I even started to believe that the worst was behind me but nothing is ever so simple.

When I was 15, my Nan died of cancer. We hadn’t seen her for a while, she didn’t want us to see her frailty. I think this is because she had always been a pillar of strength within our family, she was also an incredible cook. I remember the last Christmas we spent together vividly. The smell of her famous roast filled the air as we gathered around the table, her face glowing with joy as she served each dish. The berries I’m her Eaton mess seemed even sweeter that year. Then, as if overnight, she was gone. The emptiness in the house was  like a void that swallowed the warmth and light, leaving us all unsteady and unsure. We didn’t go back to my grandparents house at Christmas after that.

Not even a year later my Granddad passed away too. We visited him at the hospice before he died. The sterile smell of antiseptic clung to the air, mixing with the faint scent of flowers by his bedside. The hospice was a quiet, solemn place, filled with the soft murmurs of visitors and the hum of medical equipment. I looked at him, trying to keep my tears at bay. I had so many questions, so much more I wanted to say. My parents would escort me out when I couldn’t hold back my sobs, thinking it would make it easier for both of us. It did not. Leaving him felt like abandoning him in his final moments, like I had failed him somehow.

At his funeral, I watched as those who never wept cried floods of tears. The song “Fields of Gold” was chosen for both of my grandparents’ funerals, connecting them even after death. The music seemed to wrap around my heart, squeezing until I couldn’t contain my tears. I felt the crushing presence of death standing in that room, an uninvited guest that none of us could ignore.

At 18, I had a peculiar run-in with death. The weight of my depression had become unbearable, the darkness so consuming that my urge to die surpassed my fear and uncertainty towards it. I felt trapped in an abyss, unable to see any light or hope for the future. In a moment of utter despair, I attempted suicide for the first time. The act itself felt surreal, as if I were watching someone else carry it out. I felt death watching me, taunting me, a cold and relentless presence that seemed almost comforting in my darkest moments.

My family saw the change in me, the lifelessness in my eyes, the emptiness in my actions. They moved all sharp objects to places I did not know, and the medicine cabinet was emptied of anything that could be used to harm myself. My mother held me and cried, her tears soaking my hair as I barely registered anything happening around me. Her pain was a raw wound that mirrored my own internal suffering.

During this period, time seemed to stretch and blur. Days merged into nights, and I drifted in and out of a numb state. Friends reached out, their voices filled with concern, but I felt disconnected from everything and everyone. It was as if I was existing in a different dimension, separated from the living world by an invisible barrier. The love and care surrounding me felt distant, like a faint echo I could barely hear.

When I finally felt better, after what felt like decades, I began to see the full impact of what I meant to the people around me. In a strange way, I had seen what it could have been like if I had passed away. You do not consider how others may feel when you are that ill, but when I felt better, I was profoundly glad that I did not succeed.

When I was 21, my Auntie became very sick. Just the year before, she had inspired me to take charge of my life during a trip to Spain. We wandered through cobblestone streets, visited vibrant markets, and shared endless conversations under the Spanish sun. Her confidence and contentment were infectious. She was beautiful, with a radiant smile and the same curly hair we both cherished. She made me feel like I was enough, encouraging me to pursue my dreams without fear. That trip was transformative, and her words stayed with me long after.

The last time I saw her, we went out for dinner. She barely ate. Her complexion now pale and thin and the lively spark in her eyes that once shone so brightly was dimmed, replaced by a weary sadness. I felt a strange unease seeing her this way, it felt like she was hollow. I meant to see her again over Christmas before my next term at university began but I was so caught up in my own life that I forgot to solidify any plans. I sent a short text, promising I’d see her soon and hoping that she was feeling okay, she told me not to worry about her. I never saw her again.

For days after I found out she had passed, I felt the heavy weight of guilt. Processing the finality of death was overwhelming. The realisation that I would never see her again, that I didn’t make enough time for her, gnawed at me. You can’t go back and say sorry or I love you one more time. You can’t hug them, hear their laugh, or see their smile ever again. I cried as my flatmates comforted me, and we listened to her favorite album. The music was a bittersweet reminder of her, each song a testament to the memories we shared. Before bed, I would look in the mirror at my blotchy red face, skinny little arms, and straightened hair, not recognising myself. It felt like by straightening my hair, I had forgotten how much it had meant to me that we had shared our curls. The guilt in me grew, and my nightly panic attacks came back with a vengeance.

At my Auntie’s funeral, everyone aimed to celebrate her life. The room was filled with stories of her kindness, her humour, and the countless lives she touched. The loss was too much for me and I turned to getting really high. So high that I thought my chest might burst before my heart could beat again. I was the last person awake, unable to sleep. I thought maybe if I got high enough I’d see her one last time or maybe forget that she was really gone, but I’m reality I found myself deeper in thought and alone. The weight of her absence pressed down on me, suffocating in its intensity. The reality of her death settled in, an inescapable truth that left me grappling with profound sorrow and regret.

The following year, after enduring immense pain and grief which had brought on a drug addiction I was finally starting to feel better. I had met a partner who brought new light into my life, I had stopped frequenting drugs and things seemed to be on the up. I had made peace with my Auntie’s passing, finding solace in the memories we shared and the lessons she imparted. I had begun to heal when death struck again, this time more suddenly and swiftly than u could have ever predicted.

I was in my room, listening to music, when my phone buzzed with a message from my cousin’s girlfriend on Facebook. We had never really spoken much before, so I found it odd that she had reached out. I assumed at first maybe my cousins phone was broken or something of the sort and this is what had prompted her to reach out.  When I opened the message, a chill ran down my spine. I thought perhaps I had misread it initially, the time was so casual, as if some minor bad news was being share “Can you get hold of your Dad, Your cousin has found his brother dead this morning :(“

The words didn’t register immediately. I sat there, frozen in disbelief, staring at the sad face emoji at the end of the message. The shock was so profound that I couldn’t even cry. It felt surreal, like a bad dream I was about to wake up from. I simply text back “fuck fuck fuck” which was met with an explanation that my Dad had now been contacted, i didn’t respond again. Autopilot took over, and I went next door to tell my brother. How do you tell someone that someone they love has died? The words felt foreign and heavy in my mouth. He was just playing his Xbox like normal, like it was a normal day, so blissfully unaware of what I was about to tell him. I think he didn’t know what to say, I didn’t even know what to say and it had spilled out of me in a big tangle of words. “Oh really?” Was all he managed before he went back to his game

Next, I called my mum at work. I remember her answering the phone in such a cheerful mood, her voice light and full of energy. Knowing I was going to ruin her day with devastating news was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. When I told her, she burst into tears. I hadn’t even thought to wait until she got home. I was so consumed by shock and grief that I felt an urgent need to say it out loud to the people close to me, as if doing so might somehow make it less real, less final. As if them sharing the grief might help in some way. Like if I got it out quickly, it would go away, and we could all go back to being fine. But it didn’t, and we couldn’t.

We never had a funeral for my cousin. We never got to say goodbye. He wasn’t even 30. The lack of closure left a gaping wound that refused to heal. I knew it was drugs that had killed him and I vowed to never tough drugs again. For the first time since I was a child, I prayed. I prayed that my Auntie and my cousin were together, that they could look after each other wherever they were.
That moment of prayer was a turning point. In my desperate plea for their peace, I realized that I believed in an afterlife. For the first time, I didn’t question that they would be somewhere safe, I knew they were. This belief offered a strange comfort, a sense of continuity beyond the veil of death. I felt connected to them, as if their spirits lingered around me, offering silent support and guidance.

Over the years leading up to today, I have often felt the presence of those I’ve lost at various moments in my life. Sometimes, in quiet, reflective instances, I sense them with me, cheering me on, and proudly watching the person I am becoming. Their invisible support has become a source of strength, helping me navigate both the challenges and joys of life. When I accomplish something significant or face a difficult decision, I imagine their approving smiles and words of encouragement, which bolster my resolve and fill me with a sense of purpose.

Despite the persistent feeling that death surrounds me, I am working on not fearing it. The weight of past losses no longer feels as suffocating. Instead, I am learning to cherish the time I have and the memories of those I’ve lost. Their absence has taught me the value of presence, of living in the moment and appreciating the people around me.
Death is still a shadow that looms large, it still panics me at times but it no longer paralyses me. Instead, each day becomes an opportunity to leave a positive impact. I strive to live in a way that would make them proud, carrying forward the love and lessons they imparted. I live for them.

After all the terrible things I have felt surrounding death,  the uncertainty, discomfort and sorrow it brings it has also taught me about life. With every loss I have learnt to be stronger, death is inevitable but the love we share with others transcends it. The relationships and experiences we build through life become part of our legacy, continuing to influence and shape those who remain. I am beginning to find peace amidst the pain, I realise I am not alone; death surrounds everyone, but it’s how we choose to live in the face of it that defines us.

My words and where do they belong

~ Dhanusha Ranapurwala

A black typewriter set on a white background with a view from it's top and a paper inserted in the typerwriter.

 

On paper and on screens. …Duh!

To leave this blog at this point would be hilarious but the grades wouldn’t be so here is my attempt to break it down.

What type of genre does my writing fall under?

I was raised with Indian mythology, which was often served to me with food, in return Indian mythology ended up serving as a major source of inspiration for most of my short stories and poetry. Typically, the story’s female protagonist provides the perspective for these pieces.

 

According to Ritu Menon, in a Robert Fraser interview, the traditional understanding of feminist writing in the West differs slightly from what feminist writing is. It is the location of the majority of creative pieces’ genres. (Fraser, October 2007)

‘It’s been around for the last twenty years or so. By ‘feminist’ I mean something distinctively so — with a feminist gender perspective, not just a focus on gender studies or women’s studies, which is often the case with mainstream publishing.’[1]

(Menon R. 2007, pg. 11)

 

To find my audience I ended up doing some research:

Types of Publishing Houses and Which one is the best for me?

Perr Henningsgaard {Hennningsgaard, 2020} proposes three models for surveying the many types of publishing firms and determining which mix of houses will allow your writing to flourish. Based on the explanations of each type of publishing firm, I concluded that the ‘Traditional type of publishing house’ was the best fit for my writing and for me to reach t

 

he intended audience. This requires the least amount of financial input from the author, and there are already several well-known authors who have published in the same genre as my writing, but in the form of a novel, which is exactly what I aim to achieve. Authors like Amish with his Shiva Trilogy, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni’s Palace of Illusions, Forest of Enchantments, and the Last Queen.

The best place for me to begin with the form of an engagement is to submit my work to some competitions and anthologies, either in a physical book or in digital form. For example, The Flight of the Dragonflies accepts submissions for their bi-monthly e-journal, but only for poet

 

ry, flash, and short fiction, and Short Fiction Journal accepts short fiction. Aside from these and many other competition sources.

My writing with challenges and solutions:

Since a lot of my work is emotionally charged, I had to learn to show rather than explain. My creative piece was far less interesting than I had anticipated because of this problem. Even while the plot and the story piqued the interest of my readers, it wasn’t sufficient. That’s when my professor saved the day! They lent me a book called How to Write: How to Write and What to Write if You Don’t Have Any Ideas, which helped

 

me with my telling and showing problems (Tondeur, 2017). This provides a step-by-step writing tutorial whether you are just starting, stuck at a certain point, or just need an outline since everything seems overwhelming. It was helpful to me in dealing with the latter.

The characters I created for my work also presented a challenge. In addition,, a lot of writers wind up making their characters two-dimensional due to an abundance of ideas or a lack of ideas for character development. Writing Passport: Characters was the piece that saved my bacon in this situation (Heard, 2018). One of the clearest ideas for developing your characters that I have ever seen was included in this essay.

“It’s important to remember that no one is all good or all bad. When planning a character, we have to keep them complex.”[2]

(Heard, 2018)

 

To Assess the Assessment:

Speaking of highly emotive content, I grew up seeing both Bollywood and Hollywood productions; the latter had a significant impact on me. By influence, I mean that I began to look for the kind of closeness that they displayed, whether it was between a teenage boy and girl or a mother and her daughter. Its one flaw was that it was implausible to ever exist at that level, not to mention that I lived in a place where depictions of closeness and love like that were never found on the gloomiest street or around the corner. In Ziyad Marar’s book, Intimacy:

Ordinary people (at least in Western cultures) do seem to hold a

 

common prototype of what creates intimacy, and we can recognize common themes in researchers’ definitions that are not unlike laypersons’ understandings. Yet, we do not by any means have a common definition.[3]                                                                                   (Mashek & Aron 2004: 417)[i]

As I got older, my idea of intimacy shifted, and I began to see intimacy in the tiniest, most ordinary things. My publishing module’s final work serves as an example of the same. the items I associate with my hometown. Something that will always bring me back to my hometown is the unique connection I have with even the slightest things. The uniqueness and the emotions I have associated with the objects, rather than the objects themselves, are what make my creative piece relatable, even though the objects I have chosen to use aren’t particularly common or even found in every household. Despite this, the piece is still powerful and emotionally moving.

 

‘… close-up scrutiny (with perhaps a voyeuristic edge), connection, privacy, depth of knowledge, the smallest scale of daily life, heightened emotion, something personal or customized (rather than standardized), friendship and ambivalence, as well as, of course, eroticism and sexuality.’ [4]

 

 

(Marar, 2014, pg.24)

 

And to leave on the note of…

Three published novels that are either related to my writing style or sometimes serve as sources of inspiration are On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous, 40 Rules of Love, and Five Feet Apart. These are the books I turn to when I’m lacking creative inspiration, even though they don’t resemble the article I submitted for my assessment.  Creating a poetic rendition of a commonplace idea is where it most benefits me, as I have mentioned in my work. As a reader, these works have succeeded in evoking strong emotions in me regarding everything that is connected to the characters, even when the authors have written about the most unrelatable topics.

 

[1] FRASER, R. October 2007. ‘Half the World is Not so Narrow’: Feminist Publishing in India. Wasafiri, 22, 7.

[2] HEARD, W. 2018. Writing Passport: Characters, Scribbler.

[3] MASHEK, D. J., ARON, ARTHUR 20004. Handbook of Closeness and Intimacy.

[4] MARAR, Z. 2014. Intimacy, Routledge.

Bibliography:

FRASER, R. October 2007. ‘Half the World is Not so Narrow’: Feminist Publishing in India. Wasafiri, 22, 7.

HEARD, W. 2018. Writing Passport: Characters, Scribbler.

HENNNINGSGAARD, P. 2020. Types of Publishing Houses. In: ALISON BAVERSTOCK, R. B., MADELENA GONZALEZ (ed.) Contemporary Publishing and the Culture of Books. London, UK: Routledge.

MARAR, Z. 2014. Intimacy, Routledge.

MASHEK, D. J., ARON, ARTHUR 20004. Handbook of Closeness and Intimacy.

PHILLIPS, A. 2020. The Modern Literary Agent. Contemporary Publishing and the Culture of Books. st Edition ed.: Routledge.

TONDEUR, L. 2017. How to Write: How to write and what to write if you don’t have any ideas, Self-published.

DIVAKARUNI, CHITRA BANERJEE. 2008. Palace of Illusions (Pan Macmillan: India).

DIVAKARUNI, CHITRA BANERJEE. 2019. Forest of Enchantments (Pan Macmillan: India).

TRIPATHI, AMISH. 2013. The Immortals of Meluha (HarperCollins India).

Lippincott, Rachael. 2018. Five Feet Apart (Simon and Schuster).

Shafak, Elif. 2010. 40 Rules of Love (Penguin Press).

VUONG, OCEAN. 2019. On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous (Penguin Press).

 

 

Connections

~ Dhanusha Ranapurwala

Outlet

Picture of a charger from India being used in the UK only with the help of an adapter.

     

My charger doesn’t fit so well in the outlets here. They are more rounded than the outlet allows them to be. I could very well buy a new one, exactly according to the standards of this new world.

But then what will I do with the connector that my father had me pack when I was leaving? The connector my mom was paranoid I would forget, so she asked me almost 10 times when set on an hour journey to the airport.

When leaving, she asked if it was in the right pocket so that I could access it before the battery runs out. The shape of the socket doesn’t match, and that is the only highlight. I mean, the color sure is a little off, but it’s a little old now.

I always carry it with me in my bag everywhere I go.

I was never this paranoid about batteries; what if my father, who rarely calls, didn’t go through? What if my worried mother calls and I turn the internet off to save the charge as I’d be getting off late from work? What if the guy I left thousands of kilometers away calls me, but my phone allows no calls that require internet with a charge below 5% to save up for emergencies?

While we are on that topic, can someone show me how to let my phone know that a call from your long-distance boyfriend is just as important as an emergency situation? ‘I cannot do this anymore’ one more missed call could knock the breath out of me; it terrifies me just as much as being hit by a bus while I jaywalk.

I breathe every day in this world that isn’t alien anymore but not quite home either, so that one day I could return to the world where I wouldn’t look at my phone screen to see the face of the man I love, where running out of battery would mean I am heading home sooner than I told my dad I would, where my mom won’t be paranoid when the calls don’t get through, and where my charger won’t need a connector anymore to fit the outlets on the wall.

 

 

The red chair

A office space with a red cushioned office chair by the desk.

The red chair in the corner of the room used to bring me comfort. My dad, when I was 7, brought that chair home. It was a gift from his office. I agree that it’s a weird thing to give as a gift to the employees, but I was too young to notice that. It was the first chair with wheels and the one that roams around the whole room without having to walk. Pushing it while sitting on it was more effort, but I enjoyed it.

While my family sat on the dining table chairs, I sat on them during dinner. The red was a little dark to make the stains from the oily food that I clumsily dropped visible. Thank God for that, or else I would have lost the seat way earlier than I did. I lost the seat to him. With his baby face and havoc-wreaking tantrums. The chair, just by rolling, could calm the devil in the form of my brother. He loved sleeping in it. To prevent him from falling off, the chair was given walls and a gate made from the coziest pillows I owned.

It took me a solid couple of months to build a bridge between us, but after I did, the chair suffered. Now it bore the weight of two souls. We slept on it, ate on it, and played games with it. One too many afternoons pretending that the chair is a trolly and pushing ourselves while on it with all the strength I got in me across the room, which resulted in 14 vases and 2 mirrors in shreds, the chair was our very own adventure park.

On days when he would miss mom when she was off at work, I would wear the scarf the same way mom does, with nothing visible except for the bridge of the nose and eyes, only for that bridge to be hidden by the glasses. I would pretend to be her, and he fell asleep on the very same chair, knowing that Mummy was here and she’ll be here when I wake up. I became his sister through the chair; I became his best friend because of it; and I learned to be his part-time mother on this very same cushioned chair.

With time, numerous oily food stains and races from one end of the common room to the other, and an unhealthy number of naps that resulted in aching backs, we grew old. It looked like it had aged and been exhausted. It was us who were not letting Mummy throw the chair wheezing out of the house on the curb for someone to pick it up with damages on it beyond repair. It cannot bear our weight anymore; all of us have aged. The hardback became soft, the cushion was worn out, and the handles on the side had become loose.

Now he sits on it alone. He is too big for us to sit on it together. We have come a full circle. We again fight for the seat, though this time I don’t have to hold my power back. The cushions have returned, and the backrest has served its purpose to the fullest extent. The bond has only grown stronger with time: endless hair pulling, fist fights, and ‘mummy’ screams when I am losing. I’ve always won.

I left home, but the chair still resides by the study table that used to be mine. Now, every time he sits, it leaves him with an unsettling feeling. There is no one to fight with before sitting on it. Mom still wants to throw it out, but he won’t let her. The thing that strikes me: on the day upon my arrival, I found a desk sitting outside the room, still for me to make it mine, with a chair in deep red sitting next to it. It now resides in the corner of my room, with some clothes resting on the backrest because this one lacks the softness that home provided. Once, a room full of people sitting on the truth-revealing chairs migrated here. It doesn’t matter if you left years ago, so young that your home is merely a faint painting amongst the foggy memories of running around in the corridors, or if you left just months before this truth-promising session had asked us to ponder, ‘What is your home?’

Home is the red chair. Home is fighting with your brother, not to win (I win every time though), but just for the sake of it. Home is racing across the room in the most unsafe way possible. Home is spinning on the chair till your world starts spinning even after the chair has gone still. Home is taking naps that hurt your back and extremities. Home is the red chair.

 

To the Trinket that isn’t so small

 

A keychain that looks like Baymax hung on a day to ay useage bag

 

 

Triggers: epilepsy, hospital, seizure.

It is white in color. It’s a little dirty now as it hangs on the chain of the bag, which I use the most. I think of washing it, but every time I do the laundry, it’s in such a rush that I forget to do so. It looks so much like Baymax, the one in the movie Big Hero 6. My Masi had gifted it to me, so there is no way she knew who that was, but she had gotten some or the other small trinkets for each one of us. Three for each of her offspring, and then one for two of the other Masi’s offspring, and then the other two for me and my brother, who is annoyingly the most loved by every single person existing in that room.

Baymax goes with me everywhere I go.

It was with me when I spent a whole 20 days in the hospital after having my first epileptic seizure, and no one knew what had happened. Mom had packed a change of clothes in that bag, and the trinket stayed with me until I left the house with an epilepsy diagnosis. The triggers remained unknown, and the treatments were still experimental. All I knew was that Baymax was the thing that brought me comfort. It stayed with me all the time, just like the narcotic-level drug that was supposed to cure me or keep me from turning into a self-destructive ball.

The first day of university after the coronavirus outbreak. I was nervous. I had been to the university campus before but this was the first time being there as a student and I was scared. Just like a kid is on the first day of school so was I scared of the unknown people. Scared that I would get to call even one of them my friend today itself. the bag and Baymax had tagged along with me. My very own support group. Not that I would sit in the corner not talking to anyone but Baymax but it was comforting knowing that Baymax was on my bag and if Baymax is here I’ll be fine.

As I nervously walked in there was a smiling face looking at me. I smiled back. Thinking, ‘Oh so I made a friend already?’

“That is Baymax isn’t it? On your bag?” said the girl in a striped dress and rounded glasses.

“No, but it looks extremely similar doesn’t it?”

“Yeah. It totally does.” She extends her hand “Afsha.”

“Dhanu”

Baymax with that reassuring smile gave me confidence and a friend I today far far away call very frequently. The reminiscing makes us laugh about how it was one small trinket that ignited this friendship. Baymax is a little old now, from white to the journey till off-white has been completed but washing it feels like a sin. A sin only I will bear the weight of. The memories it holds and the loving hands that have touched it would seem lost if the color changed to white again. Feels a little too unhygienic but the thought of it not smelling like Afsh’a perfume anymore doesn’t sit right.

As I sit here on a wooden bench with nothing but the sea in sight, the initials of love-stricken people carved on the bench remind me of him, who very well did, in fact, call me last time to say, ‘I can’t do this anymore’. On land that is completely strange to me, thousands of miles away from Masi, the annoying cousins, and my mom and dad, I keep Baymax with me. He still rides the bus with me when going home from a late night at work or in the morning from the night outs, and I am still unsure if the things said and done are real or something made up. The water in the ocean ebbs and flows as I sit here to decide if I am sad, homesick, depressed, or about to get my period. Though I could squeeze Baymax in my fist, it holds my heart and health more carefully than life ever has.

A trinket that isn’t so small.

 

A cooker that whistles

A picture of a typical Indian lower-middle class kitchen. There is a cooker set on the stove on the left hand side of the picture.

This was one of the first times I had entered the kitchen to learn how to cook. Mom was worried I wouldn’t be able to survive if I were left alone because all I knew how to make was a very irregular-shaped roti and Maggie (instant noodles; its packet said it was cooked in 2 minutes, but it took me a solid 15 minutes to make them). Both things were enough for me to survive for a month at least, but to my mom, it was a close death call. I didn’t know how to make edible curries out of vegetables, which we ate every day. So I started the journey of my cooking lessons.

The first few lessons just included me making rotis and attempting to make them perfect in the shape of a circle. The easiest part, might I add? Then we started the chemistry lessons. Aka cooking vegetable curries, where the right quantity of spices is needed to be added at the right moment. Or else they would be overcooked and burnt or undercooked and would not release enough taste, resulting in the most sinful taste to exist in Indian cuisine: bland food.

The adding of spices was fun and games when I was just acting as a medium to put them in the cooker, and it was mom like a devil and an angel on each of my shoulders telling me when to add them in what quantity. Then, on the very second day, I was asked to do it all by memory. The curry was not the same, but the method was the same. I was scared not because everyone would have to eat imperfect food for dinner, but because when she tasted it, she would be disappointed in me, and I would have to bid my dreams of living alone goodbye once and for all. After heavy sweating and stressful cooking sessions, it was finally time to sit and eat.

It was Sunday, and everyone was already seated at the table and waiting for the hot food to be served. Mom had already tasted the uncooked curry and was happy with the taste. I can dare say she was proud of teaching me. I set the table and was left with the hot cooker without her supervision, and then came the blast. Blast that colored everyone a burning yellow. There were some on the ceiling, too. The sound was like the bursting of a firecracker on Diwali. The ingredients were completely different, I can assure you based on first-hand experience. I was scared, not because of the sound but because Mom had a confused look on her face, which I knew would turn boiling red. To my surprise, she cracked, laughed, and queued my father and grandma. I turned red.

To this day, after 10 months of living alone, I leave the cooker alone after 3 whistles, and then I turn the stove off. Let it cool down. Double-check, making sure there is no air left in it that could cause the yellow blast again. It was the first thing she had packed in my 20-kg bag. I was to fly 8000 km away from her, her kitchen, and her supervision. She was sure I would survive alone, make the curries, and not have any repetitions of blasts from the infamous Sunday dinner. A story she told Nani, Masi, and Kaku in extreme detail. Probably a better job than I am doing right now. This fear of Mom where I wasn’t able to cook and wouldn’t be able to live alone that too this far away got me to learn how to make curries. these curries have turned out to be the only remainder of my home that I can still have with me. As the days pass the taste of home, the taste of food made from the hands of Mom makes me homesick. Bit by bit.

The cooker’s bottom is black now. The insides are a little burnt and the rice I am not prone to burning while making the laziest food of all time is still stuck, refusing to be removed from the cooker. How wonderful it is that a cooker was more important to a mother while packing than a jacket that till now has saved me from one too many possibilities of hypothermia. As days pass the day when I receive a parcel from home comes closer. The day when I will have a lot of spices hand wrapped by mom so that my food would taste somewhat like what it does like when mom makes it.

The mental note of how many whistles it has been if  3 then it is time to turn the stove off for the rice put on, if 3 for the daal then wait for one more, but if there is one that you missed the food goes south. With countless afternoons spent in the kitchen waiting for the whistles while mom goes and starts with the laundry because she is late for work, my brother and I had a pile of games in the corner to play while we waited. For the cooker to do the dirty dance and whistle.

Later, I learned from Nani that when she was learning to cook, she did the exact same thing. The only difference is that she did it after her marriage.

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