The Unbearable Lightness of Being

She remembers the weight. The sheer weight of insecurity. Walking down the corridor alone and a group of people bursting into peals of laughter right as she passes by them. Of course they were laughing at her. Weren't they? Insistently telling herself, "You are as tall as you think you, as beautiful as you think you are, as smart as you think you are, as cool…"
Bullshit.
You are only as much as they want you too be. YOU need to be validated by someone else. Beauty lies in the eye of the beholder, remember??
She tries anyway, and strides swiftly past the snickering, giggling gaggle.

ARROGANT



A way with words. That didn't help her much. Writing as a means of cathartic release is overrated. Pages and pages of lucid, lyrical diary-entries are rendered irrelevant when you wake up in the middle of the night during a slumber party and overhear your 'best friends' trashing the way you dress. "Her bra-straps show when she wears those spaghettis!" When you pretend to still be asleep. When it takes a colossal effort to reign in the sobs that threaten to wrack your body. When you wake up and have breakfast together the next day- sausages and eggs and toast. When you never talk about it. Never. When u hesitate the next time you have to decide what to wear to a party. When, for reasons you do not know and cannot fathom, you choose to wear defiance and black straps.

S--L--U--T



An afternoon in the school canteen. Dosas and idlis. A Frooti squirted in your face by the harbinger of your doom- the boy who used to be a pillar of support. Whatever happened to that?? Rushing to the bathroom to wash your face, and collapsing on the floor. Your 'best friends' follow and calm you down. A ludicrous sense of gratitude. At least they still care a little bit- or pretend to. Who cares? The pretence of friendship is better than complete solitude. The truth is not all that it's made out to be. Illusions sustain her. Illusions sustain you. ‘The Matrix’ be damned.

hysterical



A party. Terrace-top. The advent of slow, romantic songs. Pairing up. "May I have a dance?" An awkward teenage attempt to align herself to the rhythm, though she can feel people staring-staring-staring. The moonlight reveals far too much. The morning after- rumours.
"She accused him of trying to kiss her!"
"No she did not!"
"Yes, she did."
Bewilderment. Kiss? What kiss?? Just a dance. Realization. No such thing as 'just a dance'. Hearsay.
"I'm sure she led him on."
"He would never have done that!"
"Well, she’s quite a bitch anyway. Maybe she just made it up to get attention."
"Where there's smoke, there's fire!"
Is there always? Really? The memory of that night... A ruin in the landscape of your life.
You are only what they say about you. The grapevine is your identity.
Gossip is The Gospel Truth.

*TEASE*



Academic excellence. Voices. Insinuations of competetiveness, the need to be better than anyone else. She stopped attending Chemistry. Would invariably walk in late with a 'friend' so that they would get thrown out of class.
Going home and picking up ‘The Fountainhead’. Howard Roark’s voice in your head. "Second-rater" Ringing, ringing, ringing till you hurl the book in rage. Angry at them and angry with yourself. Because you’re just-not-strong-enough.

pridepridepride



Thank god she has her family. Loving, caring, laughing, supportive, regular. Oblivious. How could they know? You are Dr.Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and a hundred others besides. Because you are secure where you are free. A different person at home, she builds walls and towers and fences. Your home is your fortress. Her own world-the one that matters. But her fortress collapses in the fraction of a second when her eyelids flutter opening the morning. Another day has begun. She cannot escape the sunlight that streams in through her window. The same shards of light that will invade the school bus, the field, the classroom.
Family is simply. not. enough.
And you sidle into the classroom. Feeling small but not small enough. The battle has started. You want to go home because every evening is a temporary reprieve, a period of relief. Keyword- temporary.

l.o.s.e.r



‘Life-changing moment’. The phrase is the oxymoron of her life. People say their lives changed when they saw/read/heard/thought something. A defining moment. She is unable to pinpoint that instant. She is almost jealous of the fact that she is unable to recall the moment of transition.
It would have made a good story.

ATLAS SHRUGGED



The sunlight is rich and mellow.
A million friends- including the spaghetti-trashers. Real friendship. Undiluted by the past.
Gossip is inevitable and irrelevant.
Love.
She is part of the laughter.
Breaking other people’s hearts.
Joy.
The boy-who-tried-to-kiss-her is a close buddy; they go out for dinner and drinks.
Home is more of an open-house. People dropping by all the time.
Walls? Security from the awful crime rate. That’s all.
Knowledge.
Academic brilliance- again.
The world is her fantasyland.
High.
Lay down your arms. And surrender to me.
The truth does set you free. She is free.
She still loves illusions though.
Does not try to carve up the universe into black and white anymore.
Binaries are pointless.
Enjoy the chaos.

Forgiven.
Not forgotten.