Author: postcolonialmigrant

She walks in beauty like the
gaudy light bulb mirrors that brighten
dingy stalls of the Czech club.
Her eyes, now accustomed to the dark,
find abstraction in stained floors,
She loves her art studio, in ornate shanty-towns.

She met the hero, one tequila filled night,
mad, bad and dangerous to know.
a strange mélange of good and evil,
Augusta, Annabella, and Mary Duff
their bodies hanging down his tongue,
she added herself, tying her raven locks.

And on that cheek, just a few days now,
heals a scar of a drunken fight.
She goes back to her kingdom of
cruel poets and radiant oblivion,
hopes the next one will come by tomorrow.
No hearts are left to love.

Inspired by and dedicated to the “She Walks in Beauty” by Lord
Byron https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43844/she-walks-in-beauty

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I think I love Film because it’s the closest thing I have to religion- something to believe in.

Like when there is nothing else around and no one else around, I get to spend 2 to 3 hours with a group of people who have believed in something – however good or bad it is. it’s sort of like humanity cannot live alone and cannot be created alone. And it would cease to exist if you don’t keep believing in it.

I can love and hate and learn and unlearn in two hours. I can be angry and depressed in a way that is just for me, but also for every single person who is watching with me. Almost like a collective prayer.

You can fight about films, you can misunderstand films, you can get the wrong message from films, you can feel guilty for not watching too many films. That sounds pretty profound to me.

I can be both anything or nothing when I watch a film – it’s almost like being molded – like every single thing I have ever seen has found its way inside me even if it’s bad.

It takes 200 people to make a film feel like something – and then, at that moment, the only people who understand you are the 200 people who worked on the movie.
Their jobs are my awakenings, and I always wish I could do that. But I watch a movie. I know I don’t want to make one because the greatest films have been made or will be made, and my life would feel complete if I could absorb all of them.

So it’s sort of holy.

Last night I had the best time chatting away with two of my closest friends from school, 10 years after I last met them. And as brown girls of a certain age do, we talked about the constant companion of our lives- the questions we get asked that we do not want to be asked. Three brown women, one happily married to her childhood sweetheart, and two single women tasked with the same question- what in the world do they want from us?

My friends were thoroughly focused on one thing- happiness, but I was informed by my community that as a woman of a marriageable age, I have to focus on other things. Then I realized my friends are brilliant women who can stand up for what they believe in and ask for what they want, they are brilliant women who found the best life on their terms, and I am “not-so-ideal” (an uncle said that to my family once) so I cannot really do that. One thing was clear, they knew what the hell we wanted from themselves, and I really did not. It made me proud and melancholic- my dear friends have grown up and I am low-key still 21. Whether it was my abusive relationship at 22 that stunted my emotional growth or the excessive use of sleeping pills at 25 that lulled me for a while, I have no idea who I am but I am trying to figure out what I want. I made a list of words that I have heard most when it comes to marriage (aka the only thing that matters to Indians over 50) and decided to figure out what it means. And in that I made a guide- for me and you. For those of us who want to let the flow of the “family rox” whatsapp group guide us.

1. Compromise- They say that to find someone to love, you have to learn to lower your standards- because love and high standards are incompatible. The slightly depressed dude who hit you up in 2018- well you can change him! The internally misogynistic guy with abs for days- you can make him join a womens rights course online? The guy whose mom hates you- there are spells and shit for that right? Hates tattoos- USE CONCEALER. Hates women who drink- use a goddamn flask, how is this hard for you?. What if he wants me to earn less than him and not use my fancy ivy league education to intimidate him- have you considered learning to bake? Cakes can really replace ambition.

Turns out you won’t be loved the way you want to be if you want things. Hilariously if you feel like eating both chocolate and pizza, you can get a chocolate pizza that is everything you want. You want kung pao chicken and your partner wants some tacos- here’s some news for you- CHINESE TACO. You want to be ambitious and use your resources to get a salary that can ensure you and your partner can go to Greece every year, but your partner wants you to well- not do that so he can feel a little bit better about manhood? Sorry, the chefs have not come up with a way to fix that. You’re on your own. Maybe go to the zoo every year instead? Your neanderthal partner might find some company there.

2. Intimacy- My friend told me a story about a mother finding her daughter’s sex toy and said “If you have so much lust just get married?”. I then thought about the last time a plastic dildo had a stupid opinion, and I was lost. My plastic dildo has never asked me to text him every hour… am I doing this wrong?

I mean if you want to engage in intimacy and definitely want to involve your first cousin’s mother-in-law in that decision- I cannot help you. Chastity is a virtue until it isn’t. Sex is unholy until it isn’t. Going to a park and kissing your partner is a crime until it becomes the topic of discussion at the dinner table focused on your fertility… why aren’t you going to more parks?

If you care about female desire, you’re fucked- or rather not fucked? I have provided free sex ed counseling to at least 4 of my female friends- I mean, my qualification is that I am literally getting a Ph.D. in it. But back to the guide! Female desire- you cannot have it anymore. Why? Go back to point 1.

3. Managing sadness in relationships- Post engagement photos on social media? I mean why are you sad- you have a ring, a man, and at least 2 dresses that cost more than your monthly salary. If you look at the very posed engagement and wedding photos, the sadness will dissipate. If you post those on instagram, with every like coming in, you will fall more in love. If your single friend from summer camp who you last spoke to in 2008 says “couple goals”, that will save you from the divorce lawyer fees.

Still hate your partner? Have you considered point 1. You hate your partner, lets compromise- do not hate him. If you figured this one out, ding ding ding, you got it! I think you are ready.

4. Spinsterhood- some of us not-ideal women love being “alone”. We like traveling the world alone, going to movies alone, or going to cafes waiting for the right guy to walk in and ask about the pretentious book we are reading. Some of us love seeing our friends sometimes, talking about our exes, and complicating our lives with all the dumb things non-ideal women do. Some of us fall in love but like letting that not be tied to a piece of paper. Some of us fall in love but your government has decided that it is not really valid under the values they made up. Turns out we are wrong.

Cancel that weeklong trip to Berlin to see contemporary art and visit “clubs” that are open all day, you will find that you will be happier sitting opposite your compromise-based lover talking about the next compromise you might have to make. And you will have fun. You might not- but go to point 3- POST THE PICTURE.

Anyway… this guide is a work in progress, but I have given you a lot already. And I have taught myself a lot already.

If you want the “wrong” answer though- ask my friends. They will sort you out and you might be happier. If you care about that.

Two of my favorite authors are Haruki Murakami and Salman Rushdie- and I am certain they hate women. Actually, it seems to me that most male writers hate women. Let me be more nuanced, they love what women do and represent. They love making women metaphors and mysteries to solve. But, goddamn they hate us after that.

Recently, I have been reading a book called The Sluts by Dennis Cooper. It is a modern epistolary novel in the form of blog posts reviewing a male sex worker. It is violent, vile, and degrading, but it is self-aware. The book makes you hate the violence and sadness. It reminds you that it exists. It says sex is tender and murderous (really.. in this book it is).

Then I think of women in books that are not about violence and sex. I think of women in books about the male journey, about the passing of time and memory, and books about love. And I see it crystal clear…the only options for them are being infantilized or being crushed under the journeys of those they surround.

Desdemona in Othello dies as Othello learns about envy, Juliet dies as Romeo learns of patience, Ophelia dies as Hamlet learns of hubris, and Portia dies as Brutus learns of guilt. And I fucking love Shakespeare but dude sure loved killing the girls.

But now to what I write about, and what I study, and basically what I at this point have an academic pass on- sex. Brutalism and physical intimacy are deeply interlinked in what I read and what I see, and in its core there is nothing wrong with that. Where the problem lies is that my women in literature and media have nothing to do with the decision of brutalism. As May Kashara is sexualized in my literal favorite novel A Windup bird chronicle, I wonder why this 16-year-old is destroyed in the wake of the lost man. As Veronica is cast aside as a man understands the blurring of memories in The Sense of an Ending- you think of her as a pen on a stand that will be thrown away soon enough- present only for a sexual encounter that begins a journey. Do not even get me started on film- the mecca of brutality.

Physical intimacy and sex in media is a triumph for the straight male but the usually an awful experience for women. Think of every film you’ve seen or book you have read- how many of those involve a woman’s sexual degradation as a device for either her salvation or that of the world around her. Now think of the men- celebrated for achieving the goal or in some way, learning from a vacant space in the shape of a woman. And how many times is it explicit that there is this power difference, or how many times is it even implicit?

So dear male writers, if you cannot give a woman a positive sexual experience in your book… just address it? I’d like to read without spending each minute going… do you fucking hate women?

they stop me all the time,

they get together early and whisper to each other ways to make me stop

anticipating you.

They have begged me to

end you

end my constant stream of pain when

I cannot find you.

end my singular high when you

exist.

They have created human chains

Soon, I may not break through them, they may get me.

Soon, these ropes will break down,

they will win.

Silence.

They don’t know that the mystics have never written

about

love requited.

The Sufi poem is about giving.

The Sufi poem is about wanting.

The Sufi poem is about desire.

Kabir said the kings die the healers die the paupers die the sick die

Rumi said to be in pain to find life, drown in open-mouthed

I whisper and ask how far it is.

The Sufi poem is about longing.

The Sufi poem is about dead ends

dead ends.

the mystics whisper louder now

plugging my ears, begging me to

bury your aura. invisible burials.

more silence more burials.

The Sufi poet said he was here from the beginning of the earth

so was I.

I was made by its mud. He said his eyes do not seek any love.

It is inside it is outside it is all around

the mystics wail. pluck out those eyes bleed away your mouth it is all around.

Does the Sufi poet know the quest? One that has eluded me.

The Sufi poet said- there is no quest. just air.

I have travelled the world

This time I did not collect postcards

I have travelled the world,

This time I collected every tale of being a woman

I collected every story of my brownness

I collected every injury every word every glance,

Every unwanted feeling

Every vulnerability

Every fucking hurt

That happens to a woman that has the audacity to travel the world

Alone

Every catcall, every unfamiliar hand groping the back of my body like it’s a no mans land of warring nations.

Every man who followed me home fearlessly soldiering on, attempting to conquer unconquered streets.

No. I am not brave

Bravery is not a constant state

That is complacency.

Familiarity

Routine

daily “bravery” is not commendable, its myopic. Its unnecessary

It isn’t laudable, its warning sign.

I am not here to be a constant signpost of bravery, I am here to be

Sane.

I am used to it

I am familiar with the

Constant

Possibility

That my womanhood

Means less to him

That my breasts are a plaything

And my clitoris does not have

More nerve endings than he can comprehend

I am familiar with the faces

of every person in a room that looks like they can help

Every exit in a streetcorner of thirty different nations

So to the man who will have me next

If I flinch when you touch me

If I stay unmoved when we make love

If I analyze your every word with the precision of a surgeon.

Its not you.

Its because it is hard to know

When my body deserves pleasure

And my skin is soft again.

I turn 27 in 2 days on February 4th. An age I have both been terrified and excited about. As a teen, I was obsessed with the 27-club- the art greats that passed at the age of 27 for unfortunate reasons. Like going in a blaze of glory, I thought as a teen. Now that I am older, it’s a story of tragedy, not glory. But somehow I worried I would not make it past 27 too, not because of any musical or artistic talent (which I do not have), or adulation from the masses (which I will not have)- but because it was something to think about. I can build deep rabbit holes with something to think about.

I have one year to see how 27 goes. I wanted to remind myself of 27 things I can remember as I go into the most fatal year yet.

1. Not everything is personal. In fact, most things are not personal at all. People arent out to hurt you, they sometimes just do something that do. And you do the same.
2. Rejection is not a personal failing. It is okay for someone to not like you. Go back to point 1- not everything is personal.
3. A romantic relationship is not a guarantee of happiness. Do not expect it to be, do not be dissapointed if it isnt.
4. Focus on your friendships. Hold on to them, give them the grace you wish to receive. Tell them you love them as much as you want.
5. Staying in and ordering in, is a perfect way to spend a weekend. You have nothing to prove.
6. Take yourself on more dates. Go to the damn museum- seriously- who are you waiting for.
7. Food guilt is stupid. Food guilt can be an illness. Stop.
8. There is nothing brave about hiding your weaknesses. If you are depressed and dealing with horrible cramps- then you are depressed and dealing with horrible cramps. What’s the point of hiding it?
9. Read more. Not in a cutesy, in a cafe way, but in a crying at 2am because art is overwhelming way.
10. Some people are going to dislike you all of the times, and most people are going to dislike you some of the times. Deal with it.
11. Don’t let ideas of “cool” bother you. If you want to post 10 stories on instagram- do it. If you never want to post again- do that. The ideas of what is and isnt ideal is made up.
12. Be patient with people. Friendships take time. Relationships take time. time.
13. Plans get cancelled. In fact, the point of a plan is that it can get cancelled. Make plans! Do all the fun things about planning. But, know, they get cancelled. Remember that.
14. It is okay to not feel ready to “settle down”. Some people your age are, some people younger than you are. What is worse that not settling down’? Settling down with the wrong person at the wrong place.
15. Jealousy is a normal emotion. Guilt about jealousy isn’t. You can be jealous and supportive. You can be jealous and ecstatic.
16. You like watching banal youtube videos, and terrible films- own it. You also like the pretentious artsy shit, but nothing makes you happier than a commentary video about a terrible tiktoker you do not watch. There is no limit to how much you listen to your “hindi meme music” playlist. who cares if spotify makes “ganpat” your top song. it should not matter.
17. Even if writing research papers and teaching frustrates you sometimes, remember how much you love it. There is nothing you would rather be doing anyway.
18. Taking time off from work for your mental health is not just recommended- it is necessary.
19. Taking time off your day to focus on your physical health is not just necessary- it is life-saving.
20. You are not behind in life. Not in school, not socially, not in any way. Mostly because this shit is not a race.
21. Your academic advisors care about you. Sometimes you might feel alone in academia, and it is a hilariously lonely place- but there are people. Find them. And if you can’t find them now, know that you will later. Academia will make place for you- do not obssess over it now.
22. Do not miss therapy. Even if you are too “okay” or you feel it wont help or you do not want to talk about anything (especially then) or you are ashamed of your feelings. Do not miss therapy.
23. If the first date is not fun, you do not need to go on the second one. No one will be upset- in fact stretching things till they become unpleasant is unfair. If you do not like the second date- then don’t do a third! You are old enough to know what you want. The person you are with are also old enough to know what they want.
24. Do not ever let anyone make you feel bad for your sex-positivity. Ever. No one gets to dictate who/how many times/where/how you decide to express your sexuality. It is no ones business.
25. Your impulsivity is not all bad. Trips, tattoos, last-minute flights are fun- there are ways you can make your impulsivity your friend.
26. Liking celebrity gossip, buzzfeed quizzes, and general internet-ing does not reflect on your intelligence. The people who think it does are the ones who need to be more interesting. Being interesting is a lot more than being pretentious. There is nothing more interesting than caring about things! And oh geez you care about things!!
27. Make it through. You will somehow. Be more intentional in making it through.

Every year it feels like I am wading through a thick river of lava that keeps rising- and this year will also feel the same. The best we can do is to make the journey slightly more comfortable, slightly more exciting, and maybe… just maybe happier.

And to Morrison, Joplin, Cobain, Winehouse, Hendrix, and Basquiat- sorry for romanticizing your lives, for joining the millions of voices that have made your tragedies a fairytale, for making you beyond human- when I have learnt far too much from your human-ness. And thank you for the art! Thank you for ALL that art- for all that you could give.

“I’m so happy, ’cause today I found my friends, they’re in my head
I’m so ugly, that’s okay, ’cause so are you, broke our mirrors
Sunday mornin’ is every day for all I care, and I’m not scared
Light my candles in a daze, ’cause I’ve found God“

the first time I was told I might be depressed was when I was 16. I thought it was because I hated the grind of classes for standardized tests, or that I was just tired. I believed me, my parents believed me too. It will tide over- like everything is supposed to when you are 16.

then it happened again. I was on the phone calling home from a tiny shoebox room in Sydney begging to come back home. This time I was 19. Maybe it was because I was far away from home, maybe I was just home-sick? that can happen, right? This time it was difficult to reason myself out of the truth.

when you are standing on wet sand, your feet press into it a little. then they disappear into it. then it takes over your calf, your knee. Finally, its your head and wet sand below. Wouldn’t it be easier if the sand just consumed you whole, rather than leaving the little head up to see its own destruction? Looking back, it was not the 9 hour school days or being away from home that bothered me at all. It was something more pervasive, building inside for years.

When I was young, I would call my mother as soon as I thought it was time for her to return home from work. I would panic if she did not respond-I would be left alone in this world if she did not respond. I would cry until she came back home. I would try watching television but all I wanted to do was cry.

When I was slightly older, I started watching aircraft investigations on National Geographic. It became a pastime for my father and me. Well less pastime, more dread. I only dreamt of crashing. No one could fix that plane, my dreams said, it was going to go down.

I thought middle school was terrible because there were bullies everywhere, but in reality, it was just me. Silent, in the corner, thinking of the next dreadful thing to take over. It took a while and a lot of drama lessons to become a “person”. I remember being told that if I read fewer books and played more sports, I would have more fun. I think I would hate playing sports even then, there is less sadness in sport than in Jane Eyre. Since I was 6, I loved nothing more than sadness. Don’t get me wrong, it was awful but how else can I explain my proclivity to sadness.

Why could I not stop watching air crash investigations? Why could I not stop reading classic tragedies when it became too much? Why did I only connect to films where melancholy won over harmony? It is, thus, hard to believe that I did not love sadness.

When I was first told I might have depression I was 16, when I was first diagnosed with depression I was 19. As every Indian family, mine too was ashamed of it. Do not say the d-word! What will they all say? How can I ever explain this? I bought into that for a long time. Like this depression was a mud stain on my family’s white rug, and why should I have it anyway? I do not blame them for this or myself, besides, I cannot imagine a reaction to them saying “Shikha is just sad. Yes, she is in a private college in Boston. Yes, she travels the world and has a lovely group of friends. She is just incredibly sad. Yeah, we don’t know either?”

When I turned 21, I decided to befriend this diagnosis. My pills were not hidden from view anymore, and my therapy appointments were not blocked off on my calendar with an alternate name. It is what it is. For a long time that year, I tried to analyze what caused this- you can make yourself believe and blame anything in the world if you just try hard enough. You can erase your sabotage and flaws if you just wish hard enough. At 21, I realized- I was always just a sad child. I had a truly wonderful childhood, but somewhere unknowingly and unsuspectingly my brain broke.

Isn’t it funny how things choose us before we know we are chosen? I wonder every day why depression chose me. I do not even know myself without it though, would I have read less sad books, been more secure, less anxious, less impulsive? But if I were, then who would I even be. Not myself.

I am supposed to hate this feeling, and I do. Every few days that wet sand ditch I am stuck in grows a little deeper while I claw myself up for some more time saying I win. But the wet sand will always be touching my body too. Both of us do not know where else we can go. And we will keep fighting each other, and I will always win. I have been almost winning for years.

I’m telling my own fortune
Something I cannot escape
I can see where this is going
But I can’t find the brake

I am half-Sikh. I will not ever hide that, because there is not anything to hide about it. But for a very long time, I did not think of it. It is very easy to erase yourself when you can silently join the throngs of young bombay women walking down a street- all seemingly the same. It is even easier to erase yourself when you can go home and see no trinket of your identity other than the ghee infused in your mother’s rotis, and the loud phone conversations in punjabi.

My grandfather wears a turban, my mother’s brothers used to wear a turban, my very young cousins wear a turban, and my slightly older cousins wear on their heads a spiraling debate on who they want to be, a debate which on one side has guilt, and the other stigma. I am glad I do not have to pick which side wins. I do not have to be anything at first sight, but they all do. At first sight, even before they are human, they are Sikh. I could conveniently forget this until I left the confines of Bombay to visit them all. The first sight, even before looking at my Nana walking over to hug me, was his turban perched with pride.

Yet, our culture made me forget this pride. Remember all those Santa-Banta jokes in our news comics? the dim-witted turbanned friend in every 2000s movie? the loud sikh aunty in the tv ads? I do, and I remember laughing with them, not wondering what I was laughing about. Who I was laughing at?

Before 1984, the Sikh identity and visibility were not debated, but on October 31 st 1984 following the assassination of then Indian Prime Minister Indira Gandhi, a Sikh genocide was sparked. As one of the members of the assassination team was a man with a turban, his ethnic identity was clear and the deaths of over 10,000 Sikhs paid the price. The pride I saw in my Nana’s turban was used at one time as a mark of a human deserving of violence.

I never wanted to talk about this identity, I did not even consider that my mother was 16 at the time of the riots, and that my uncles cut their hair and gave up their turbans in exchange for safety- their hair still grows the way it did when it was adorned, like a weed that will not let them forget. I did not want to remember that my grandfather and his brothers were hidden by their Hindu neighbors for days to prevent harm, and my great-grandfather had seen this happen to his people twice now. That farmlands of Punjab were burned. That my family wondered if they might hear back from our relatives in the north ever again. That we had accepted misery into our pores, just like last time, and the time before.

My mother refuses to talk to me about 1984. We have tried a few times and it ends with her in tears fairly quickly. Sometimes she says she does not remember, and I say it is because it is too recent. I tried to talk about it to my grandfather once, but he asked me if I wanted any oranges from the shop instead. I have started to wonder if my Sikh family is focused on the joys of music, food, festivals, and stories from the neighborhood, because the depths of 1984, 1947, 1919 are too heartbreaking for our dhol songs.

We have mixed grief, loss, and pain into our beloved butter that we overuse in our curry- in that way we can get rid of it. Or pass it on. I am thinking about how my Nani would sometimes remove a vegetable I did not like from my plate so that my meal could be as perfect as she dreamed it to be.

I think we have removed our anger from the plate we have presented. I think we have removed history from the plate we have presented. But as you see the world around you, history catches up with you, even if lovingly excised.

I am half-Sikh, I am not sure what it means to me yet. But I am sure as hell, it means something!

“No fear No hate Omnipresent”

.

.

It’s a Monday afternoon, my entire body hurts, and I have a stinging pain in my left forearm. I am not sure why that is?

google search: does depression cause actual physical pain

I am trying to trace back the steps I took this weekend- you can explain the present by studying history right? or avoid the present by studying history? It is one of the two. It is not like I had a wild weekend at all, quite the contrary. I stayed home, went to a museum, walked wading through snow, and came back home.

google search: can snow make you sad

And I was mostly alone like I wanted to be. I have started to think the reason I like being alone is not the pandemic anymore, I think it is just more comforting. As the world loses its sense of smell, I cure my disease of extroversion. I have stopped turning on my music, or watching TV in the background- the only sound I am hearing right now is the loud tap tap taping of my fingers on this keyboard. When I stop tapping, the room is silent. Maybe a very distant whir of an airplane passing over a nondescript town, but mostly silent. I could sit like this for ages, between taps and voids.

google search: losing interest in everything meaning?

normally I would find a crude reality show to wash over my surroundings, providing vapid company, but company nonetheless. Or I would look at my long list of films to watch and close the document undecided. Or stare at page 237 of the Robert Bolano book I am reading for over 15 minutes while each word turns from english to dust. normally I would do all this to push away the silence, not leave an iota of space for silence. The mind does dangerous things when silent, but not today. I am here, on a snowy day, silently feeling my body hurt and my left forearm sting- with misplaced serenity. like checking into the only cozy motel in a burning city.

google search: symptoms of severe existential crisis

“And watched the whole world go up in flames
And when it was all over I said to myself
Is that all there is to a fire? Is that all there is, is that all there is?“