Writers Jam

It’s us in every: 

• piece of confetti trashed on the terrace (New Year),

• half-eaten sugarcane in the balcony (Pongal),

• used Konnapoo drying out in the garden (Onam),

• fizzled-out sparkler at the front gate (Deepavali).

I tried:

• selling you for a pack of Tiger biscuits because you cried all night,

• letting go of your hand in railway stations just to see if you’d find your way back, 

• new insults to make you feel smaller than you already were,

• to one-up you by proving myself smarter since mature wasn’t an option.

I would have:

• wailed if anyone but me held you, so I rocked your cradle at two;

• trusted no one else with my pain, so I let you pull my wobbly tooth out at six;

• died than let you feel so derided, so I fought for you in family functions at ten;

• never let myself be pretty, so I let you experiment with your shaky eyeliner on me at fourteen.

I should have told you when:

• you were hiding your sobs in bed, thinking I wouldn’t notice in the dark;

• you walked off that stage, beaming, peering into the lights to find us;

• I left for that trip, both of your good jeans magically stuffed away in my suitcase;

• I came back home, weeks spent wishing you were there with me, collecting memories and souvenirs to spill to you.

If I had current-me’s: 

• judgement, I would’ve been patient with you even in your anger and your defiance;

• emotions, I would’ve caved in to all your innocent requests to just run around and play;

• memory, I would’ve seared our first meeting into my eyelids to remember all my life;

• vocabulary, I would’ve said those words when I first held tiny, little you in my tiny, little arms.