Driving lessons have finally started. I am clueless about gear-shifting. Also, have realised the extent of my laziness. One cannot take off on flights of fancy while behind the wheel. And yet there are people who find driving relaxing!! press clutch, release accelerator...no NO gently madam gently. Why are you racing...? Unfortunately it's not about owning a fancy car(a 2nd-hand maruti 800!!) or the thrill of having your own mode of transport. It's simple need and independence. I was so disheartened after my class today that I didn't even argue with the auto-driver who conscientiously raised the fare by 15 rupees...which I just as conscientiously handed over :/

Here's what I wrote for my creative writing workshop yesterday:


The Journal.

What a mistake! What a cold, artful , mistake. I shifted and I was lost. Gave out and learnt to recoil. All of this for freedom. Freedom to kiss, to intimidate. To be late and to learn. I know to write. Not how to write, but to write.

I can almost taste salt and spice…I want it so badly. I suddenly see myself whirling. There are walls all around with iridescent, flamboyant spikes and I am whirling. I feel the spikes with mellow pleasure….hear my screaming flesh. From my wounds drop a flow of words. No blood, just words.

I am wet. Tears and semen stain my incomplete purity. White and clear liquid. I touch my self. Just where my neck joins my shoulder. Downy hair, much-scrubbed , needy skin.
My collar lies quietly against it. Fragranced with oriental-smelling chemicals.

Smells!! Calcutta stirs. Perspiration, incense, jasmine, slowness….how they oozed and rose and fled. Why do my shirts no longer stick to me? Where are the anaemic, spidery fingers that moistened and plundered?

There was unanimous positive feedback from the others. So...unknowingly, I have conformed to an alien standard.