oi widow, i'm dead!

we all wanted to be the cool single aunt growing up. the mother? not exactly. and that's partly informed by resentment, and partly because a lot of our mothers are also visibly, viscerally wives. and that's scary.

the aunt, though. oh god, she comes like a welcome breeze, and goes off again. she lends you a grace to keep you going another week. and when it's gone, it's hard to remember that it's something she gave you. you're simply, suddenly, unable.

the ego is modelled through roles. and the family, in her revered economic unity, is the greatest show on earth. roles rolling abound. to be per-form-ative though is not lacking in substance. a per-form-(d)ance gets things done. it's a call to action, a play wearing the mask of a script. you choose the mask, i choose the play.

maybe it was me who made you the mother. and i’ve been trying to apologise. for colonising your uterus and sucking on your umbical cord. for blaming my misery on my singularity.

but maybe it was the world that made you a wife. not simply the husband. there is only a certain way you were allowed your misery. as clothes. as breaking bangles. as goth. as art. as performance.

you never tell me what you are afraid of. sure, there is no possibility in the world you are unaware of, but what use is pretending to have it all in control? you wouldn't need to twist what you need out of me, if you could simply show me where it hurts.

but perhaps that was the wager you signed when you decided to have me, to plant me. that was the hope- my inescapable understanding of your love for me. and all the good faith that follows.

i have wondered how it builds up to the moment i snap. what is the last most pathetic thing you can say that will make me take off the mask and show you how un-a-mused i am, or crash out on a substack. but honestly, this is the last. i’m tired of saying things you can't bear to listen to. cuz it honestly just rots. my time is all i have.

every woman, every man, and every cool person who has ever been kind to me has made me. not their vision for me, but their kindness itself, the space they held. all they thought was human. all i became. and i often wonder the girl you were, the boy you were, the nakhre, the masti, that your mother decided was too much for them to finance anymore before marrying you off to a man who had no idea what he wanted from life.

everyone is single bhai, such is life, skin can only touch. i want a house where animals and friends come & go as they please. and i want to sit in the balcony & watch the world talk to me.