Precious Time Wasted - If Only We Knew -_Frank_The Fate of a Little Sprout_ Ten for you, Twenty-six
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Precious Time Wasted - If Only We Knew -
I wanted everyone to like me, to take me into their groups, invite me home, be my friend, but they didn’t. I learnt to put on a brave face, and act. So, I hated school. I was extremely bright so it wasn’t the work; it was the kids. I went to a school where I didn’t fit in and I felt it, from day one. I hated the teasing, being the butt of jokes and worst of all the talking behind hands, whispers and giggles that I could hear as I sat in my seat, watching. There were a few of ‘alright’ girls at St. John’s Convent but it was difficult for them too. They didn’t want to be seen with the likes o...
Frank
During my four years at college, I was in a fraternity. Delta Chi. Best group of goofballs I’ve ever known. We didn’t just party and watch sports. We actually had a somewhat positive impact on the community. There were comwww.onedoor.ccmittees made up of a few guys who oversaw whatever focus that particular committee had. Mine was Philanthropy. When I ran the Philanthropy committee, I got in touch with the community public library, which just happened to be right across the street from our small campus. One afternoon a week, and sometimes on Saturday mornings, some of the guys would volunteer an hour to re...
The Fate of a Little Sprout
I. Laura“You two are meant to fail”, I swear, those are the words I hear from my mother. She doesn’t get to say them out loud. There is no need for that either. Her refusal to take a plane to be at our wedding is enough. She can blame the economy all that she wants; she can put the pandemic as a poor excuse, or even claim a sudden fear of flying. But when you get right down to it, I know she won’t attend the ceremony because deep down, she feels the words “as long as you both shall live” are meaningless when it comes to me, her only daughter. Once again, she is certain that Jaime and I will br...
Ten for you, Twenty-six for me
The metro I take to work, the polluted air of Mumbai, the faces I smile at and the faces that don’t smile back— they are stained a coffee-brown. The same color as old pages and medieval fables. The lives lived in abandoned childhood homes. Memories turned cinder. The air inside the all-women compartment threatens to asphyxiate me; smoke whisks into oxygen as cigarettes burn against already scorched fingers of these strangely familiar women surrounding me. The word crowded has no meaning here. An open seat is rare and silence a chimera. The two women across from me wear saris— which were once b...