I am finally home.

And from my teenage perspective,
All those nice lines about staying connected to your roots seem to be a fucking joke.

For me,
Home is where you get free food, washed clothes, a little bit of bullshit
and a grandma.

For me,
Being home is a terrible privilege.
It’s cosy but it compromises my privacy.

Especially because I have a joint family.
Grandma, grandpa, uncle, aunty, mumma, papa and me.
All in the same house.

Oh let me add a few more members.
The washing machine,
Spicy fried food,
Hindi newspaper
And bhojpuri songs.
I missed them all so much.

And finally, I got to watch TV.
Those superheroes seem a lot more heroic when you watch them after such a long time.
I even watched the commercials with utmost sincerity.

Got to know some family secrets
And had a hard time believing them.

And a secretly stolen conversation with my boyfriend.
Nothing can match that feeling.

Things have changed.
New things are brought.
Old things are sold off.

Unlike my previous room,
There is enough space for skipping.
But no space for my rebellious thoughts.

The washroom is a lot more bigger than what I had earlier.
And I like to keep myself locked in rather than facing people sometimes.

My own room was way less scarier.
Because it was all mine.

Only the furniture has changed here.
People are still the same.
Some are loving and caring.
Some are always busy.
And some are all-time assholes.

I have just two enemies here.
Mosquitoes and mumma.

Both of them have nothing else to do than to always keep humming around and to suck my blood.
For the first one,
I can manage a vapouriser.
But for the later one,
There is no cure till date.

She, despite taking sleeping pills,
Still manages to get up at night to check if I am talking to someone.
Well, hats off to her persistent efforts.
But I know her way too well.
And she does not know me at all!!
(Hint: crimes happen when they are least likely to happen)

This place is beautiful.
But she is hell bent on making it horrible for me.

If I dare to say no to a single thing,
She reminds me of every single mistake I’ve ever made.
She actually starts reminding my exes names and starts calculating the amount of money spent on my education.

I admit that I am no saint.
But she is my mother
(both actually and notoriously)
in uttering crap.

And I know that if I don’t crawl my way out,
She is never gonn’a let me recover.

According to my writing schedule,
It’s completely impossible for me to sleep at night.
And it’s completely impossible for her to accept it.
And again it’s completely impossible for me to help it.
Basically, we are just impossible.

I strongly detest her ideals.
And sometimes, I feel fucked up.

Although, Grandma is fun.
I like being around her.
We love each other’s company,
Laugh(endlessly) at the same jokes,
And are both terrified of my mom.

I always feel this urge to run away and never come back.
And if I ever get a chance,
Grandma shall be the only reason why I won’t.

Keeping my phone at a public place still feels like planting dynamite.

My body itches a lot more than usual.
Because I am allergic to the tank water.
And I am sick of putting coconut oil all over my body.

But still,
I kinda like it here.
The good and the bad.
Whatever way they treat me.
(But only for a limited time span.)

I fear to stay.
Because this will only get bitter.
Some things never change.

No matter how much time passes by,
I’ll always have a weak spot for this place.

But for now,
I want to feel a little more alive.
And a little less afraid.

I want to escape.


12 thoughts on “Escape.

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