festivals are a hoax for me. people say it's good to celebrate festivals alone. come and see it, it's spine rattling.
people write to each other wishes and cards. while I wake up to whatsapp mass forwards. I crave some sweet letters or poems for me. I wish I was lucky enough to get them. those people who I never even saw myself in my life. it's painful to breathe in silent air and cry in loneliness. I am talking to ghosts, Duh! At least they care about me.
my aangan is hollow.
it's sad when I burn my hand while cooking in a home. then I make 2 mins popcorn. popcorn takes 2 mins but what about my poping pain. every year someone salts and puts masala on it. while the whole world enjoys mouth-watering food. I make burnt rotis just to fill my stomach.
sweet. I love them. but I can't make them. all festivals, I spent trying to make a new dish. it ends in vain and I eat it swallowing a spoon of pain and gulping down the loneliness. bitterness is like my shadow. I am falling in love with bitter groud.
people people people
at every festival, they discriminate me for my background. why I don't learn about mythology or religion? because I was always kicked out of any religious class. no one wanted to teach me. then people hate my aura. when they see me their looks change like I am the sin walking on earth. I don't like to socialize because when you can't accept my opinions then I wouldn't accept you. oh! candles bring some enlightenment to the human mind, when will they stop every discrimination. we are all born from the same dust that we shall return to.
I don't believe in pollution. it’s slowly grasping out lungs, we choke by the society that’s more than enough for me. crackers remind me of Delhi, Delhi reminds me of someone…
all festivals I fall sick. sipping the boiled soup I feel like I am stirring some more loneliness in my blood. pomegranate sucking through a straw. I am allergic to the aroma of happiness. still, I pull myself out of bed and dress up myself. cover my wounds, scars, smile the injury, broken but taped.
I loved cleaning. I wipe the blades of my fan. not hoping to use them for some other purpose. dusting my empty photo frames. clearing some space for fitting my lacrimal drops.
the best memories of festivals are when I sat on the door locking myself and crying crying till I felt better and then I wrote a line in my diary. " festival sucks!" well, the little Samina hasn't changed much. the little kid inside me sees the sky full of lights and anticipates a day when I get to light these candles. till then does nobody understand?
BUY TUSHAR MANDHAN'S BOOK ' DOES NOBODY UNDERSTAND' soon on Amazon!