confessionsofabengali

Dear Gone,

You’re in the past, somewhere I don’t look to often; I’m sorry about that.

The thing is Gone, if I lived with you, Today would accuse me of not living at all – rightfully.

There was a lot of hurt and misunderstandings with you Gone, but many more amazing memories. With you, Gone – it’s always memories and memories can be selective. I chose to remember what I needed to live in my today.

Both you and I agreed that to me you were Gone and to you I was Gone. Gone we both were. No hard feelings, hurt feelings maybe, but no hard feelings. Or is that something I kept telling myself Gone? Was I in denial Gone? I hurt you, didn’t I Gone?

You were busy, Gone. I was in my own storm, Gone.

I did what I needed to do for my own mental health Gone, but I always thought I would be there for you if you needed me Gone.

And you needed me, but I became Gone.

You needed me as a friend and I became Gone.

You just needed a little support but I convinced myself I was better Gone.

I was better Gone because I now loved Today; and Today was hurt by what was Gone.

While I continued with Today, fell deeper and deeper, started the life that once you and I spoke about, my memories of you were Gone, or at least not as strong.

I realised that while I loved you, I was not in love with you; I was in love with my Today – and thankful to God I was/am for that.

Thankful and I looked forward to the day you would find your today so you could feel the happy I feel.

I secretly searched for clues Gone, to see if you were okay and had the wonderful Today I had. I prayed and prayed that my happiness and more would be with you Gone.

But Gone, I didn’t know – I really didn’t. Gone, you needed a friend – and Cancer became it. Sarcoma – another name, but the same friend indeed. She gave you company you didn’t want; you fought her with a smile – that goofy smile – but she made you suffer…

And then, you were …

Gone.

But because you are Gone, I feel I am not allowed to mourn.

Perhaps because you’ve always been Gone, and I’ve mourned before Today.

Surely though I am allowed to feel grief, for I carry a human heart and Gone

– this time, you’re not just Gone –

You’re forever, Gone.

RIP

 

[N:B: I recently found out that my ex passed away from Cancer in 2017. The above letter is something I wrote to help process the complex emotions I was going through at the time of this news]

 

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As a British Bengali Muslim Feminist daughter and now a married woman, you can imagine the different elements that push and pull to create the individual that I am. So I hope it won’t surprise you when I say that at times, I am at loss with what I want, who I am and who I want to be.

The British side says:

You can have it all and still choose not to have anything at all – and that’s fine. As long as you are working, paying your taxes and being a part of society in general – you’re good.

Bengali side says:

To have what you want is selfish. You must sacrifice and stay quiet as that is what represents respect towards your elderly.

Muslim side says:

I’m confused, I don’t really know what to say. The Bengali side is using being Muslim as a justification for all that, but I’m pretty sure that’s not how Islam rolls. So I’mma just stay in this confused sector.

Feminist side says:

You need to fight; fight all those battles – small and big. It’s exhausting, but you need to challenge all those stupid presumptions and judgments made against your kind because of their gender. You need to keep your career hat on to make sure you are self sufficient and able to provide.  Never get comfortable and or reliant.

Wife side says:

I just want to be a housewife. I love cooking and my kitchen. I love resting and taking care of my husband but at the same time I feel like he wants me to do all that and work full time. Even though it has been discussed and due to my anxiety issues, he has suggested me not working – but ultimately, I know that will really stress him out.

Daughter side says:

I must keep working and make more money; I need to help my parents as no one but me will help them. I must pay off my loans taken to pay of my parent’s debts. I must keep going for their sake.

Human side says:

I am tired.

 

Maat kar mujeh dosti
Maat pooch mujhe iss nakli hassi ki saach
Hasteh hasteh aab meri hassi bhi mujpeh hasta hain
Wafa toh koi nahi, meri ansoon bhi bewafa nikla
Itna usko bahaya meneh, keh woh bhi mujko chorkeh chala gaya
Jis larki ka dil makmal ka tha, iss dunya walo neh usko jala diya

Maat kar mujeh dosti
Kahi tu bhi iss aag meh na jaal jayeh
Maat kar mujeh dosti
Is dosti ka kimaat mein na chukaneh pawanga

Maat kar mujhe dosti

*I do not speak, read or write hindi. However, from watching bollywood movies I have picked it up a little. So if my hindi comes across as broken, it’s because it is. Please feel free to correct me (nicely 🙂 )*

Translation:

Don’t be my friend
Don’t ask the truth behind my fake smile
I’ve laughed so much that now my laughter laughs at me
No one is loyal, even my tears have betrayed me
I cried them out so much, that even they have left me
The girl whose heart was of velvet, the people of this world set on fire

Don’t be my friend
What if you get burnt in this same fire
Don’t be my friend
I won’t be able to pay the price of this friendship

Don’t be my friend

Sounds better in hindi to be honest; the feelings get lost in translation.

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There are those who always come first;
and then there’s me.
There are those whose tears are off value;
and then there’s me.
What wretched thing must I have done;
to be born as me.

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I should be working on my essay on whether a nuclear Iran would stabilize or de-stabilize the region; however, my heart is here.

It is a beautiful day today, where I am; however, like most students I am locked away with deadlines.

To get away from the realities of what I am studying, instead of ordering course related books, I spent my money ordering poems that talk about love, grief, loss and how to heal.

I find myself these days looking not for answers per say, but words that can explain how I feel. In that, there are many things I experience; one is that when someone has already put in words something I cannot explain, I feel relieved. As if this is a confirmation that I am not crazy. I also feel relieved that I am not alone; sometimes, in the darkness of pain you lose perspective and feel you are the only one who is being given this pain. Though religion dictates to me that Allah does not give anyone anything more than what they can bear, when the pain is upon me I disagree; i disagree to such an extent I think very long and hard on how to end this life and join the embrace of God. However, when i read those words, and they sing to me, i feel at one with all those is pain and still here. I feel obliged to stay so that I do not betray them.

Not only English poems though, I’ve managed to rumble through the internet and get myself hooked to old hindi poems and songs from my grandparent’s eras. Again, finding the perfect words written decades before I was born brings me the solace of knowing that this ugly world has always been ugly. It did not turn this way specifically for me. In this falling in love, I discovered how beautiful the lyrics to the songs, the meaning behind each word is.

http://https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Z6Lr0JYAro

Now listening to hindi songs from 1940 is beginning to annoy even my dad. I guess they wish I would be a little more modern, and find my old soul to much to bear. Having said that, they love me precisely for my wisdom and random crazy moments. I do feel I have aged far quicker than the average person. For my 22nd birthday, my best friend told me – it feels as if we are 30, and soon we will surpass our parents age. My back aches with pain, and the knowledge that though I have the ability to take revenge, I shall always chose not to. Though I have the ability to inflict a similar level of pain to those who almost killed me, I spend my time thinking of how to protect them,

My brother, on the other hand, feels reading these quotes and poems only hinders my progress. To him, he feels reading these only cement my pain further. He gets very annoyed if I try to recite anything I find very meaningful. I have realized however, that I cannot force him to understand. In fact, we cannot force anyone to understand if their perception is so strong that they’re not willing to look at any other view. This argument is used by the family to explain why they do not bother speaking to me – because I am to stubborn to understand anything but the truth that I have declared.

In some things, being stubborn is required; standing up for your childhood self against your pedo uncle is right. That is not something that you need to change your perception on; I shall write an entry specifically on this matter later, but for now I must return to my Iran essay. Wish me well.

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*For those who once called themselves my sisters*

In their prettiest aesthetic vials

They sat and tête-à-tête’d.

Deriving pleasure from lost trials

Of others whose wounds they spread.

With their backs arched

And covered heads held high,

Knowing they’re beautifully cultured

Their purebred senses spy.

Aching to hear the next cry,

So they can lend their pretend hand

And aid with their perplexed “why”

For their entertainment, not to understand

Shrieking when it’s painfully comical,

Preaching silence when it’s morally topical,

Yet impersonating embodiment of the noble.

LIES! LIES! LIES! Scream – I shall!

If beauty is in this

In the face of humanity I hiss,

Far away from those “Perfect little Miss”

In my ugliness I am bliss’d.

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In my previous post, I concluded that I was struggling with the fight between the new found me and the old culture bounded me. I felt I should share in a small post my big achievement. Though it pains greatly to let go of what I thought could have been, what was – was not right. I am free now; the new me has won.

The cliche of “love doesn’t hurt, loving the wrong person does” is correct and no longer shall I believe that love is when it hurts. Here’s hoping I have the strength to carry on on the path I have chosen.

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