The Visitors

I comb and pull back my hairs

As I adjust my clothes once again

"Its a sin to look so unkempt 

when visitors come by your house"

Mother's voice still ringing in my head

I feel weak and want nothing but sleep

Yet as I catch my reflection in the mirror

I look as hale and hearty as always

My skin's smooth and supple 

And my smile still as bright 

Its no wonder I fool everyone so easily

Of how I really hurt inside

I am trained to be a perfect host

Equipped with enough anecdotes, jokes & stories

And so one by one they come

Each with their quirks and comments

All playing expert doctors and healing shamans

On pains they've never experienced before

Some blame my poor old Buddha statute 

That welcomes them to my home

As harbinger of my poor fate

And some prays so loud for my recovery

I secretly believe that their gods must be deaf 

I nod, smile and pretend to agree

Just so they leave quicker and I sleep

Although 'sleep' means more of myself

Curl up in a ball and wishing for the pain 

To stop and the medicines to work.

Imprisoned

In my mind, I'm free.

I can see myself run as the wind kisses my skin, laugh until I cry and dance the night away. I walk with my usual light step, always half-hopping and half dancing as I listen to the peppy music with a wide smile on my face.

And then I open my eyes.

I find myself imprisoned inside my own, hurt body, barely able to move a muscle without wincing or screaming in pain. I need someone to help me up, someone to sit me down. Each time I move, my hands automatically hold my lower abdomen, for each step burns my insides as like hundred knives cutting me all over again.

I can't laugh. I can't eat. I can't sneeze. Or cough. Or go to loo without tearing up in pain.

For someone who has always been proudly independent and strong, do you know how that feels?

I've lost 4 kgs in 2 weeks. My hairs fall so much I expect to be bald soon at this rate. I still can't breathe in fully because of the air trapped inside me burns my lungs. And I walk like those old people, breathing heavily with each step.

I've never had a major operation before. So, save for my fear of death, I didn't know what to expect. I find out now, recovery sucks.

My brain is fogged easily. I lost quite some blood and my medications are just too strong. I hate it.

Today is the first time I get out of my home in 2 weeks. Its a fairly quick visit to the hospital. A car waits for me downstairs and its a straight 20 minutes drive, get out of the car, meet a doctor and come back.

I never knew that getting down and climbing up 2 flight of stairs could hurt as much. By the time we came home, I couldn't even reach the bedroom. Instead, I laid down on the couch and stayed in the same curled-up position for 5 straight hours. I just couldn't do it.

The doctor told me that I need to at least 1 month to be at home and recover. I can work should I choose to, but I can't get out of the house. And she removed my bandage to reveal a 10 inch horizontal healing scar on my stomach. Hours later, I ran my hand on it.

I cried quietly.

In place of a smooth skin, there was now an ugly cut line. It looked angry, red and bumpy.

My stomach still feels bloated. The doctor says that its normal, I'm still healing and that its because of my high-dosed antibiotics. I feel useless, just staying here. Mom's doing everything for me. It sucks.

I've been living independently since I was 15 years old. I've been used to doing things my way. Now I can't even wear my own underwear!!I absolutely hate it.

My friends have been coming to visit. Honestly, its such a drain. I feel obliged to entertain and talk. But, I'm just so tired afterwards.

I have way too many flower bouquets in the house, I feel like this is some sort of a funeral house. Diwali is approaching and I absolutely hate Delhi during that time. For years on end, I always travel away because I hate the sounds and pollution. That's my time for either a mountain or a seaside.

This year, am just going to sit and bear it out like the street dogs. No escape.

I detest that I can't even laugh. Or sing. Or dance. Or walk.

All the things I've loved to do, I can't do any of them now. This sucks.

I hate how weak my body has become. And I hate that I have no energy. 

Combating Fear

I fear death. Or even the remote possibility of it. I don't know if I want to live forever, but I am darn sure that I don't want to die right now. And a few days from now, I will be under anaesthesia, on the operation table. My brain hasn't been functioning normally for the past few days.

Fear. Its amazing how this little emotion can affect me so much. I guess one reason why I am so afraid to die is because I feel like I haven't lived enough, taken enough risks, tried, failed, hurt, laughed enough.

I've been looking at everything around me with this sense of temporariness. And to feel that moment. Live in that moment. Not dwell on it. Not hanging on to it. Just live in that moment.

I've became more open to risks. I've allowed myself to look at things outside of my normal, really safe box. So, in a sense, I've got that risks streak running through me again.

The last time I had that risk streak, I found me a husband.

Walking out of a long-term relationship was scary, especially when your then partner was a genuinely good man. I'd been used to the comfort that long-term, stable relationship provided. By the time I was out, I hadn't dated a man in a long time. I had been out of the scene for years. I didn't want to get hurt, I didn't want to be used. I didn't want a hell lot of things. And I was scared as hell.

There were so many 'what ifs' in my head. Like what if I never find anyone? What if I just have bad relationships one after another, blah, blah, blah.

I got so scared I actually acted fearless, crazy. I had nothing to lose. So, I took risks. I did what ever I wanted to do, said whatever I wanted to say. It worked.

And now, I have that same fear. What is it that I want to do if tomorrow never comes? What is that I want to be if there are no consequences?