She sits next to me, staring vexedly at the purple sea. An expression more complex and perplexed than it was meant to be. For the first half an hour, no one talks; the only sounds we hear are the hollow murmurs of evening walks and waves crashing against the rocks under our feet. Then, after an eternity, she turns to me, breathes, and says “You’re the worst friend I’ve ever seen”. This hurts twice as much because deep inside, I agreed.
Soon, she gets to her feet with a swoon. Tears running free, glistening in the light of the moon. Like the salt in the sea breeze was singeing her wounds, she screams– Stop suffering alone. Stop hiding behind closed doors to trick me into leaving or believing that no one’s home, not when I can see you and your mess grieving through the fucking window. Stop telling me you want to make it on your own because you don’t need to. This isn’t the pact of friendship I agreed to, stop defending the pain it takes to keep you because this suffocation is unending and I need to breathe too. Stop leaving me at every turn because by now, I’m lost and blind. I’m tired of the million times you’ve said “everything’s fine” when I can clearly see I’m being lied to. For the sake of three long years of friendship that we’ve both been tied to, tonight, just tonight, I ask for truth.”
An overwhelming urge to purge all my regret is up till here now, but I don’t. I want to justify every action, reaction, every fear now; but I won’t. With a sharpened blade of quiet restraint, I slay every word in my throat as that little voice in my head goes – We don’t speak about our problems at home.
When I was a seven-year-old, my father was fighting a war when he crashed his plane. He jumped out in time, but the forces of nature weren’t kind on the day as he fell to the ground in the most excruciating way imaginable, as bleeding on a shattered spine. Lying and dying in abominable pain, his surgeon told him he’d be lucky if he ever learnt to walk again.
But even when consigned to a wheelchair bereft of the ability to stand, my father would hold take a ball in his hand, repeatedly pick it as his 8-year-old son knocked it back to him in a game of cricket. Come to think of it, 15 years on, I can’t write on a feeling as crippling as staring at the bedroom ceiling or the walls knowing your dreams were reeling and reduced to thoughts no one else would ever know. My father taught me this- we don’t talk about our problems at home.
When I turned 18, my father asked my cancer-stricken mother to choose between a house near the hospital and one near my sister’s school. Despite her weakened defences, the impending pain, the consequences, my mother chose the latter because she could deal with her demons at hand but not with the inconvenience her daughter would feel if we moved during her board exams.
I remember on hour long cab rides back from the hospital after rounds of chemotherapy, I could hear the muffled screams of her agony shake her, on every swerve, every turn, every speed breaker on the road. But for two years, the only sounds I ever heard were those of silent suffering that torched her, but never a single word to describe the torture or the strain. Never a single complaint about a choice she consciously made on her own. My mother taught me this- we don’t talk about our problems at home.
I want to tell her this, the reason she can’t break my walls. Why every secret is a secret, and why I don’t believe I suffer at all because I have no problems. I’ve been raised by two people who’ve been cursed to go through a whole lot worse through fate’s decisions and they never let me understand what it felt like to nurse such grave incisions.
I want to tell her about the time I broke my shoulder, as I sat on my bed groaning and moaning in pain, my father took one look at me and said “That’s cute; but I fell out of a plane”.
I want to tell her about the mother who never cried because of a terminal disease, but broke down because being in a wheelchair wouldn’t let her cook for her family every eve. My parents taught me this- pain is a very subjective entity when you put the grievances of your loved ones before your own. My parents taught me this- we don’t talk about our problems at home.
But instead of the million words inside my head that I could have said to my friend, I offer her my first line of defence – an apologetic smile. I look at her, hold her hand and say
“Everything’s fine.”
September 25th, 2016 at 9:20 pm
This hurt. Sigh. So beautiful.
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September 25th, 2016 at 10:46 pm
You have always made me read your work over and over again. I can never get enough of it. It’s new every time i read it. Your words made me fall in love with your mother and I’ve started loving and respecting my mother more than i ever did. You’re my positivity provider. Keep writing!
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September 26th, 2016 at 1:24 am
[…] via Everything’s Fine. — The Devastated Dreamer […]
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September 26th, 2016 at 9:11 am
You’re a surprisingly good orator, Shamir. Every word you speak seems to have come right from your core and communicates so well with the audience. This piece is the best one from you. It’s so, so relatable and it makes me feel a little better to know that confining problems to my own self is not really a bad thing at all. Thank you for writing and performing this!
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September 26th, 2016 at 7:25 pm
This probably should be on another post but one just has to know what their posts mean to some people… Every morning, a Superman wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and bleeds what he cannot say. Every morning, a Superman wakes up on the wrong side of the bed and yet he writes to save yet another’s day.
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September 26th, 2016 at 8:40 pm
I recently found your blog and i must say, I am absolutely smitten by it. Your words make readers feel your pain as well address their own. You must hear this a lot, still I believe appreciation goes a long way- your writings transported me to aa different place and I thank you for that.
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October 3rd, 2016 at 1:54 pm
This means a lot to me. Thank you so much for your lovely words!
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October 5th, 2016 at 6:42 pm
You are welcome.
-S
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September 30th, 2016 at 11:02 am
Can’t get enough of it. Have been reading it since 3 days again and again and again..
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October 3rd, 2016 at 1:53 pm
I’m so glad, thank you 🙂
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January 28th, 2017 at 9:56 pm
Hey hi.
I was at Social today for the blind poetry edition.
I missed the beginning of your poem coz I was grabbing some grub up.
And I was too shy to come and say “hi” as u always tell to do if we r around. M glad to finally have seen you. I was sitting right behind you in the second half. I hope to someday walk up to u n say u r good.
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October 1st, 2016 at 7:02 pm
so so beautiful.
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October 3rd, 2016 at 1:53 pm
Thank you so much!
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October 1st, 2016 at 9:02 pm
[…] via Everything’s Fine. — The Devastated Dreamer […]
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October 10th, 2016 at 9:36 pm
Your words, feelings, and oratory skills have rendered me speechless, Shamir. Yet again. Beautiful in every way there is.
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October 31st, 2016 at 6:01 pm
beautifully spoken……!
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November 10th, 2016 at 12:54 pm
Thank you so much
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November 10th, 2016 at 6:19 pm
I juss love ur blogs
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November 1st, 2016 at 12:27 pm
Ouch. That was on point. Who knew a line as frequently used as this could be so lethal. ‘everything is fine’
Fantastic writing!
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November 10th, 2016 at 12:54 pm
Thank you 🙂
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November 6th, 2016 at 9:59 pm
Read this again after a while. Sigh, this is beautiful.
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