“Amu! You won’t know. You have it all sorted.”
Every time I hear those lines leaving the vocal cords of people
In different styles, dialects, languages, sounds, contexts
I wonder, if they indeed are right.
If I am so bloody sorted in life that I haven’t worn dirty sneakers.
I look down
And come across my own pair of worn out ones.
Whiteness long gone, right one’s lace untied with
A blotch of navy blue on the top right corner
Where my ex had accidentally dropped his ink pen.
Do you want to know the story?
Well, it is just another Ekta Kapoor direction, really.
Girl meets boy
Boy meets girl (obviously)
Stolen glances, social media exchanges, late night phone calls
And love. Or was it?
Because I always imagined love to come in all his glamour
Imaginary violin in the background, roses and
It turned out to be, one of the next few repetitive mistakes
Broken hearts, mended in a fortnight.
No, I did not even need ice cream, rebounds, bandages
To fix it.
To fix me.
Ah! Is that why she called me that?
Sorted. Because its been 2 years and she still can’t stop crying over her scars every time
Our conversations stretch too long
And I muffle my screams with a ball made out of my blanket so that 2 am remains silent.
I have always wanted to be a doctor.
I have fleeting images of running around
Carrying the doctor set and treating mom of her tears that she sometimes shed behind closed doors.
I used to grab on to the head mirror, fixing it like a crown
Covering the right eye with the silver plate that let me look at the site of complain.
It was a tiny little hole but
The three year old girl peered through the opening trying to decipher the cause of wet cheeks.
She took a tissue and tried drying the surface, first the right side then the left.
Seven attempts later, she succeeded.
She meticulously took a generous amount of Johnson baby cream
And applied it evenly all over the cheeks till
The smile returned. I remember being proud of myself.
I’d cured maa. I sure could cure other people too.
Today, I am an intern.
I am showered with awe, respect, raised eye brows and a thump at the back.
‘Beta, tumhaari to life set hai.’
YOU HAVE IT ALL SORTED.
Well, have I?
Every alternate day, I wonder if I would have been a better writer.
Some mornings, I get up to the remnants
Of my dreams where I was teaching 4th graders.
But I still don the stethoscope with a smile and take my vehicle to the hospital everyday.
Trust me, Sharma Aunty, Gupta uncle. I don’t know what I am doing.
“Amu is the mom of our gang.
She knows exactly what to do and what to say.”
Sometimes, I almost become comfortable with adopting those words.
Remember when you were a kid? You cheated that one question and scored a 50 out of 50.
But you never really were happy because deep down
You knew you deserved a 49?
What? Don’t give me that poker face. Come on !
We have all done it once.
I feel I am a 49 when they call me that.
When they call me SORTED.
I wouldn’t mind it, really.
Somedays I want my coffee to be heated to a perfect temperature
On a day where clouds have obscured the sky
Just enough to scatter drizzle to let the petrichor through my window.
And I snuggle up to The Deathly Hallows and pink blanket
No interruptions. Not even pee breaks.
Well. Perfect right? Too perfect to be true.
That is what I am.
Just standing here, draped in an invisible cloak.
You don’t know about the demons I silence to maintain the facade.
I have so many skeletons of all kinds in my closet that the door won’t close.
I am disarrayed every moment when loneliness hits me hard and knocks me out
And i wake up to the smell of burnt cigarettes between my middle and the index finger.
I have had heart breaks. Yeah probably not from twenty two tinder dates. But from one true love.
I hate, I am jealous too. Inferiority complex creeps up every other day.
Even I change ten tops before choosing one, it’s just that I do it in 5 instead of 30 minutes you take.
And to beat it all, I am not even sure about being a doctor.
I am not sorted.
Stop calling me that.