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crookedmind
read the real
Blanketed in my cozy brown sheets, wrapped in the warmth of my little haven, sleep held me close, its comfort deep and unbroken. The gentle rhythm of my snores filled the room, a melody of pure peace. But suddenly, a cold breeze sneaked through, brushing past my ears like an uninvited guest. My eyes fluttered open to an irritating chill that stole away my calm.
There he was, perched casually, wearing his black shorts, his head nodding along to something on the Redmi Pad 6 he’d recently bought. The glow from the screen lit up his face stealing my smile. That unexpected gust of cold air had robbed me of my usual sunny morning mood.
He noticed my stirring and came closer, his smile widening, ready for our usual good morning hug. But I held back, not because I didn’t want it, but because I needed him to see the storm brewing inside me. My silent protest, my pouted lips, and narrowed eyes told him everything, I was angry because of the air conditioner’s temperature.
His warmth was so close, and yet I resisted because I wished to let him know he’d disrupted my perfect morning cocoon. My emotions swirled. But beneath it all, I knew that even in my sulky silence, his presence was the thing that truly warmed my heart.
Watching the clock tick 9 a.m., a wave of unease washed over me. Sleep was impossible now; my in-laws were downstairs. If I didn’t get up soon, I knew the whispers of laziness might circle. Dragging myself out of bed, I rushed to the restroom, grabbing my regular clothes along the way. Sitting on the toilet tub, I exhaled deeply, hoping for relief to start my day on a lighter note. But as fate would have it- nothing. Frustrated, I yanked my pants up and trudged to the sink, my mind already racing with guilt and worry.
Opening the toothpaste, I brushed my teeth with robotic precision, the minty taste lingering longer than usual as I spent a solid 15 minutes- longer than most (according to me)- brushing away the sense of unease. A quick gulp of water later, I found myself heading downstairs, each step tinged with a nervous energy. I straightened myself up, knowing every eye in the house would be on me. The thought of waking up at 9 a.m. sent a pang of guilt through me. “This is not how a daughter-in-law should be,” I thought for the hundredth time. No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn’t break the cycle.
Reaching the living room, my eyes caught the scene. A man in an orange t-shirt (my father-in-law) sat on the sofa aisle, calm and unbothered. On the floor sat a little boy, my brother-in-law’s son, who was biologically five but with the charm and mischief of a seven-year-old. Nearby, a tiny baby, BIL’s daughter, who toddled around, her tiny front teeth on display as she flashed a grin so pure it almost melted my self-consciousness.
My father-in-law was the first to notice me. I managed a polite “hi,” and he responded in kind, though I couldn’t help but sense the unspoken question in his gaze: “What time do you think it is?” That silent reproach made my stomach tighten. As I moved further in, I greeted the little boy with a quick smile and reached down to play briefly with the little one, whose innocence gave me a momentary reprieve. But guilt lingered like a shadow.
Walking into the kitchen, I saw my mother-in-law in her night suit, busy with the morning chores. Her mild smile met my tentative “hi,” and though she didn’t say a word, I felt the weight of her thoughts. My chest felt heavy with self-reproach as I thought about her quiet perseverance. I silently cursed myself for not waking earlier, for not being more like the ideal I imagined she expected.
Grinding and gulping down the dry fruit juice and sweet Pongal my father-in-law had prepared, I let the sweetness try to settle my conflicted emotions. The cozy sofa beckoned, and I sank into it, my mind racing with thoughts. “Another ordinary day,” I sighed. I knew, deep down, that no one was taking me out today. But that’s just how things were. The house buzzed with life, but in moments like this, I felt like a quiet observer, lost in my own mix of guilt, resignation, and longing.Playing with the kids and feeling the day roll on as usual, I couldn’t help but think how boring my life had become.
Only two months into marriage, and yet, I felt like we hadn’t truly gone anywhere together. The only place we had frequented was ‘Amutha Stores,’ the departmental store that seemed to sell everything under the sun. Honestly, I thought, if Amutha Stores just vanished, maybe he’d take me somewhere different, even if it was just for groceries. But my thoughts were interrupted when my mother-in-law approached me with a suggestion.
"How about we visit Karamadai Aranganathar Temple? It's just 30 minutes away," she said, her smile warm as always. I looked at her, surprised. We’d been talking about it the night before, but my husband had resisted, citing the need to take care of the kids. But with my mother-in-law offering to look after them, he finally agreed, and told me to get ready.
Finally, I thought, This is the perfect chance to get out. I rushed to my bedroom, flicked the geyser on, and stood in front of my wardrobe. My eyes scanned the endless options, and after a moment of hesitation, I picked a chudidhar. But as I looked at it, I realized it was neither too elegant nor simple enough- just somewhere in between that didn’t satisfy me. So I discarded it and chose a black chudidhar with a pink pant and dupatta instead. It seemed a little too much for a casual outing, but I figured if our travels were so rare, why not go all out?
Rushing to the bathroom, I sat on the toilet tub, feeling a sense of relief as my body finally cooperated. A small smile tugged at my lips, thinking even this simple motion felt like a win. In just 20 minutes, I was ready. My husband, as expected, took his usual 15 minutes. Just as I was about to relax, I heard a knock at the door.
And there he was- our little man, 5-year-old in his old clothes, excitement twinkling in his eyes, but a hint of worry too. He looked up at us, as if questioning where we were off to. My heart softened, and I asked my husband, “Shall we take him along?” With a wide smile, the little man made a duck-like expression with his lips and nodded, his joy contagious.
I rushed to his room, helped him pick his clothes, and dressed him in his white shirt and blue jeans. But of course, he wasn’t done. “Let’s take another pair, in case I sweat,” he declared, his concern for possible wardrobe mishaps already apparent. I convinced him we were only going for a short drive, and he reluctantly agreed.
With my mother-in-law settling the little girl for a nap, we bid our goodbyes and walked out. I found my husband by the car, but the little man was still shouting, "I need black pantttt! I need blackkk panttt!" I couldn't help but laugh, telling him if he really wanted a black pant, he could stay home. Eventually, he climbed into the car, his demands fading, though not completely gone.
As the car rolled down the street, we thought the worst was over, but then came the real kicker. “I need blackkk panttt... I need blackkk panttt… black panttt!” his voice echoed through the car. I tried to calm him, but the chant of “black pant” only got louder. By the time we arrived at the temple, he fell silent for a moment, but only because he was distracted by the shops outside.
Taking a deep breath, I thought this was it—we were here. But no, before I could even inhale fully, the chant started again, but this time it was “I need toyyss!! I need toyyss!! I won’t come to temple! I neeeeed tooooyyysss!!”. ‘Ayyayo!’, I thought. The sun was beating down on us, and his voice felt hard on our eardrums.
We pulled him inside the temple, holding on tight as he jerked away, trying to play with every pillar in sight. “I neeed toyysss” was his constant refrain. The people around us glanced at us, some with amusement, others on silence. I whispered, “Pray, and ask God to help you pass LKG,” to which he loudly shouted, “Keeeethaana, I don’t want to pray, I want toyyss!” At that moment, I just wanted to disappear into the ground.
We finished our prayer as quickly as we could, and my husband placed the holy mark on his forehead. But that wasn’t enough. “I want red mark, yellow mark, orange mark!” he demanded, each request more outrageous than the last. I almost wished I had packed a set of sketch pens to make our lives easier.
Finally, we stepped out of the temple, and the little man’s toy chant resumed. “Toyyss, toyyys!” we heard as we entered the shop. He pointed to a toy he already had, but of course, we insisted on a new one. After a few minutes of bargaining and negotiating with the shopkeeper, who, by the way, clearly saw us as easy targets, we bought the same toy for 160 Rs.
The little man finally quieted down, clutching his new toy like a prize. As we left the shop, we felt a wave of relief. It wasn’t the peaceful day I had envisioned, but at least it was over. Sitting inside the car, the little man suddenly pointed at something inside his toy and shouted, “Keeeetana, lookuuu!” His finger directed at the whistle, and with pure excitement, he demanded, “Whistleee!” Before I could process what was happening, he blew into it, whistling loud and slow, a strange combination of sounds that came out as “fuuuu, preeeeee, feeeee”—each one more dramatic than the last.
My husband, visibly frustrated, shouted from the front seat, “Paapu, dai paapu, noooo! Paapu, I told ‘no!’” I couldn't help but wonder, Does chanting ‘paapu, nooo!’ actually make any difference in this scenario? It felt more like a chant of helplessness.
As we pulled up to the chicken stall, my husband left us in the car, probably in hopes of a peaceful moment, but that was quickly shattered by the relentless whistling. The little man continued, each note louder than the last—“fuuu, preeee, pee.” I couldn’t take it anymore, so I grabbed the whistle to join in, thinking I might calm him down. But of course, that backfired. With a wicked grin, he started smiling and shouting, “Aeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!” with his voice.
I handed the whistle back to him, silently promising myself that I’d never touch it again. By the time my husband returned with the chicken, the little man was still in full whistle mode.
(Image credit: Unsplash.com)
Opening the word document, the cursor stumbled at a point running out of words. In every blink of the cursor, the mind gets stuffed with thoughts that are blank and dumb. The thoughts that are unreal, the thoughts about the incidents that should have never occurred and the thoughts which are just merely thoughts. With my fingers on the keypad, backspacing again and again, I always felt that I was lacking in something that I couldn’t figure.
Though I’m the luckiest one who always gets my tummy filled and a comfortable place to play and sleep, and the basic needs perfectly fulfilled, deep inside I feel myself missed. I’m tired of the life where fake judgements take the crown, and success is being measured by the salaries in the pocket and where happiness is a finite calculation.
Complaining? Nah. Sharing is caring.
With lack of ears, and the internet scrolling the world, scars are adequate and the trust stands as a question. Having tonnes piled up in my heart, I’m in love with the modern world, where anybody is free to live instead of being a slave at a place in the name of sacredly knotted. I could realise that I’m being judged now for the above words as being hurt emotionally. A bit of!
I bring to the world, tolerance is commendable, but surpassing the threshold of tolerance can be as toxic as a Monkshood. Have courage to walk out and live a life that soothes your soul and sprinkles colors to your heart.
Let people be people, and you be you!
Good night!!
(Image credit: Google)
The air was still, and the quiet of the night wrapped around me like a comforting shroud. It had been a fine Saturday, a day filled with small pleasures- a brief nap, a modest dinner, and a few pages read from a well-worn book. The clock's hands had conspired to bring us to the late hour of 11:30 pm.
Amidst the peaceful ambiance, my mother, like a diligent taskmaster, hastily retreated under the warm embrace of her blanket. With the bathroom's visit completed, I extinguished the soft glow of my bedside lamp, plunging my room into darkness. As the room surrendered to the night, I reached for my trusted companion, the smartphone.
Tired of aimless scrolling through the digital labyrinth, I found myself at a crossroads, contemplating what to indulge in next. It was then that a distant memory stirred within me- a cousin's recommendation to watch a thought-provoking documentary titled 'The Social Dilemma.' Intrigued by the suggestion, I decided to delve into this intriguing digital journey.
(Image credit: Google)
And I'm here to share a tale, a story of self-discovery prompted by a documentary recommendation: 'The Social Dilemma.' In our world of constant connection, I must confess, my phone often holds my attention more than anything or anyone else. I wake up each morning, like so many of us, with a gravitational pull towards my digital companion. WhatsApp, Facebook, Instagram, LinkedIn, Naukri, and Gmail- my routine unfolds as I succumb to the temptation of these apps. I know it's not the healthiest habit, but are we truly helpless against the algorithm’s subtle siren call?
My workday stretches ahead, an eight-hour journey filled with tasks and responsibilities. Yet, I can't help but steal moments to scroll through my apps, even when it serves no real purpose. Some days, choices made in these fleeting moments are like forgotten dreams, resting idly in my digital realm. Is this what marketing has become- crafting desires through subtle manipulation? Are we all trapped, and is there a way out?
(Image credit: Google)
After the day's toil, a walk beckons- a brief respite to clear the mental clutter. But returning home, I'm lured back into the scrolling trance. It's a cycle I never intend to embrace for the entire day, yet time slips away unnoticed. It's only when I reflect on my past that I realize how much productive time I've squandered. My passions, once dormant, could have flourished.
Are we puppets manipulated by algorithms? The digital era compels us to buy, to consume, and to watch content that often leaves us empty. It's a stark reminder of the new generation, the mothers who feed their babies while glued to their screens, inadvertently increasing their children's screen time. Is it a cycle worth perpetuating?
As I continue scrolling, I lose track of time. Hours pass without my knowledge. The reels and images on social media depict lives brimming with happiness, but beneath those smiles, there's often hidden sadness. We act to impress, to paint a picture of perfection, but do we deceive ourselves in the process?
(Image credit: Google)
The digital era has brought both advantages and emptiness into our lives. Comparisons are rampant, and uniqueness seems to fade away. Being a child of the mid-'90s, I remember a world before the internet's widespread influence. The big question I ask myself is whether I can ever escape the grip of these digital algorithms or if I'll continue to be under their sway.
In this age, a notification's chime can overpower even a newborn's cry. The Fear of Missing Out (FOMO) haunts us all, even though missing out often means nothing at all. I've decided to mute my notifications, create a to-do list, and work with purpose. I hope others will realize our collective situation and seek strategies to break free from this digital spell.
Let's remember that life's simple pleasures are often the most precious, and that we have the power to regain control over our digital lives.
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