#WHY do we have three NEARLY IDENTICAL large plates! what is the logic! does a salad really fit that much better on one than on another??

[ioannemos]

spent my whole shift on the line and Not Liking It At All. this is why i only wanted to work in the back. my fingertips hurt from hot food and my hands got So Dry from washing my hands a million times and there were tons of little things that annoy me. like. we have three kinds of bowls and three kinds of large plates. WHY

[jaylightning]

Chapter 12 - Fishy situation

Muttering a little as he slept in a chair, eyes would slowly open and blue orbs would glance around an empty room.  A bed beyond a mess, a cup of water spilled over, and not a single soul in the room but him.  It was peaceful.  It was very quiet, and Raven could relax and just go back to sleep.  Everything was just perfect.  No one was there to bother him, and even Ria wasn’t there to harass-

“RIA!?”

A sudden panic ensued as the realization came in.  Everything had the appearance that the woman had bolted out of the room and possibly out of the diner and out of their lives.  He was out of that chair in a flash, a gust of wind could almost be felt as he ran out the room and soon out the door screaming the name of his friend that was gone.  Standing outside after nearly busting down the doors, he was in full-on panic mode.  Heavy breathing, widened eyes, and a look of horror about his features.  Where was she?!  What happened!?

“No, no!  Not again...!” he muttered, teeth soon grinding a bit.  What was he to do?  He had to book it.  He had to see if he could find her even if logically there was no way he could catch up to one of the fastest he knew.  He had to try, he had to-  Did he hear snickering?

His head turned upward to the roof of the diner to see three heads peering down at him, all three having hands covering their mouths.  Lotus, Matthew, and Ria were staring down at him suppressing their laughter for the moment.  The look on their faces showed there was a big secret on this, and Raven’s face quickly went from horror to absolute disgust.

“O-oh, did we f-forget something?” Lotus managed to speak out inbetween some snickers.

“Y-you were right.  That would wake him up real quick...” Matthew responded back.

“I feel so bad... but I guess Lotus wins the bet.  Was it ten or fifteen?” Ria would ask as the three would begin laughing.  Three laughing for a brief moment, but one would be silenced with a rock pelting the head of Lotus, causing the chef to fall back in agony.  The two looked at the fallen male, but they didn’t do much about it.  Raven stood in place still fuming as Ria would eventually leap down from the roof to land next to Raven.

“I’m so sorry! but Lotus insisted we do that as a small prank.  It should teach you a lesson to stay up so late, you know!” she lectured and gave the other a flick to the forehead.  “You really suck at taking care of yourself, but...” getting into a pocket, she would pull out a new blue handkerchief and tie it around Raven’s head.  “There!  All new and no blood on this one.  That’s disgusting, you know!”

Standing in silence, Raven was just staring at Ria as if not really believing what he was seeing still.  Even after finding her and seeming to have convinced her, he was still at a loss.  Glancing upward, a hand would move up to touch the fabric before looking back to the other.  “Well, maybe this is just more encouragement for you to stay put.  Don’t run off so recklessly,” he responded with the inability to keep his anger at the moment.  “Also, don’t scare me like that!”  Okay, most of his anger.

“Guys!  Lotus is twitching!  Is he okay?” Matthew called out.

“He’ll be fine!  He’s just wanting attention.  Treat him like a dog and just ignore his whimpers,” Raven called back before moving to return to the diner.

“You should be nicer to him, by the way!  He was a big help in all of this!” Ria would say with Raven just giving a small shrug. 

“I’ll be nice to him when he deserves it,” his only response.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Misure Samil,” a soft voice spoke as a brunette woman stepped foot into a rather large office.  A man with jet-black hair was sitting back in his chair with white hues staring off into the city that his officer basically towered over.  Approaching the desk, the woman would set down several documents before giving a small bow.

“A couple of your business partners would like to send their regards to your support, and they have offered a donation to your cause.  They were in complete awe of your team’s research and wish to expand more on this medicine,” she had spoken once more with the male finally turning in his chair to face his desk and the papers laid out before him.  Going through a couple of them, he would eventually take a whole folder and give himself quite the spin in his chair, legs shooting up to cross over one another as he spun.

“Ah, how wonderful how wonderful ~ I figured that they would see things my way before too long, but I suppose a victory comes when the opponents become terrified.  So yes, let’s see.  Need these filed away and the money stored away properly as well,” the man spoke with a toss of the folder as he spun.  They would land on the desk with a light thud and feet would hit the ground to stop his spinning.  Eyes relaxed on the woman with the man standing up and walking his way over to this woman.  “Tell me, my dearest Angel, has the team I sent off managed to return with a full shipment?” a hand would move to touch underneath Angel’s chin which would cause a rise in color in the woman’s cheeks.

“The team did r-report in, yes.  They had a... full shipment, but there had been a report of difficulty, Misure.  There was an explosion an-”

“Oooooh?  Now that is a surprise!  Competition?  No, no.  That wouldn’t be it.  This was just a random act?” he would ask with the woman eventually nodding.  The man’s hand would move away from her as he moved to stand behind the assistant, arms draping around her shoulders.  “My research does require enough specimens, you know?  They are quite the key to what will eventually earn a large sum of cash not to mention how much stronger I’ll become in this world.”

“O-of course, Misure Samil.  This is completely out of our power, but they managed to keep a strong hold on the shipment.  However, they did say one managed to get away during the confusion.  I’ve already sent one of your scouting teams along with one of your most trustworthy to investigate and find leads.”

Words that caused a smile to grow on this boss’ face, it seemed the woman knew exactly what she was doing which was all the reason why he kept her around.  Very much his most trustworthy, Angel was this man’s finest pieces to his empire.  Which did bring up another question.

“Right, right and I must know now what had happened to that throwaway team meant to chase after that speedy bloodsucker.  I figure a team of wolves to catch her scent rather quick.”

“We’ve ... received no word from them.  Last calling we had heard was they had indeed found and managed to wound her.  A final message mentioned a diner and no word has come since then.”

A moment of silence that began to stir some worry into Angel.  Slowly, her head turned to look at the man that seemed to be a little lost for words.  A diner then silence?  He wondered why that was.  “This isn’t much of a loss as I have plenty of bloodsuckers I can catch.  Why does a diner sound so familiar, though?” he asked aloud before hearing a buzz coming from his phone on the desk.  Arms left the woman as he moved over to the desk to press a red, flashing button on the phone.

“What is it?”

“The shipment entitled ‘Sea Life’ will arrive in five minutes.” the voice on the speaker phone would state.

“I’ll be there in a moment.  Hold all cargo in place until I arrive, and do make sure that the area is secure along with all the preparations for our new aquarium to be .... very welcoming for our new guests,” he spoke out before pressing the button to hang up.  Eyes drifted to Angel as the woman stood up straight in attention.

“My dear, I believe we will worry about the ones that got away on a later note.  Right now, we need to entertain the guests that have arrived.”

“Right, Misure...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As evening falls in the city of Tasogare, the diner would be lit up with several empty plates scattered across tables.  It was a small celebration to welcome back Ria and it was safe to say that all of this was a little too much for the woman.  She was quick to try and push away the idea, but Lotus wasn’t about to back down.  Matthew laid in a booth in what appeared to be a food coma, Raven was sitting up with a glass of soda next to him, and Ria was staring at a rather large cake that no one had even had a chance to touch.

“R-really?  Was this even necessary?”

“But Blue, it was very much necessary!  I had to put in as much effort into this festivities as Raven had putting in time of trying to find you.  Now I feel less lazy ~”

“... Was that an insult?”

“Of course not, Mister Detective! Full-on compliment!”

“So does that mean you put no effort into finding me?”

“Of course I did!  Just not as much as our local bird hero ~”

“Do you hate me?!”

“Never!”

Ria would begin to laugh a little before looking back to the cake that was decorated in quite the fascinating designs of blue and white.  Lotus knew the shade of blue she liked, and it was identical to the blue she had admired for so long.  She may not feel like she deserved any of this, and the feeling of wanting to run away was still there.  It was hard to run away from any of this, though.  It was like nothing had changed at all.  It was truly a blessing.

“Raven...?” Ria asked.

“Hm?” a generic response ...

“Are you sure you’re not angry? not upset?”  turning to face him, her hands were held out in front of her, eyes unable to look at the other, “It just feels so weird.  To get away with this without anyt-”

“You’re an idiot that claims that I’m the one with the bird brain.  I think that’s punishment enough in itself.”

“Did you just--”

“Yes, I did.  I called you stu-” Raven now had a face filled with cake with Lotus standing in the back with a hand over his mouth.  The urge to fire a comment was so strong, but he wasn’t about to be involved in a cake mess.

Doors busted open with Mia carrying someone wrapped in a blanket on her back.

“Don’t ask any questions!  Lotus, I need y’ t’ make a room o’ water fast!” Mia shouted.  Suddenly, the room they stood in was just as she asked.  For a brief moment, Mia just stared with a blanket expression on her face before shouting something that was too incoherent due to being in water.  As if understanding, the water would instantly vanish with the whole crew coughing minus Lotus and whoever Mia had with her.

“Y’ IDIOT!  WHA’ THE HELL WAS THA’!?”

“You didn’t specify, Bloodbait ~”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A room was eventually made to Mia’s specification. A single guest room similar to the one Ria stayed in was made with water that only stayed within that very room.  All for a woman with vibrant light purple hair that faded into teal.  The hair alone...

“Mia ... Ya do know the stories about what they say with these guys, don’tcha?” Lotus asked.

“O’course.  S’why I brought ‘er here under the request of my Idol.  He also wanted me t’ give Raven this lil’ piece,” lifting a hand from her pocket, a symbol had been drawn on it as Lotus reached to take the paper.  Eyes stared at the paper for a little moment before eyes closed and a smile forming.

“Let me guess.  He broke into something and managed to save one from captivity? and this was one of the symbols either on the truck or whatever storage he took out.”

“Y’ recognize it?”

“An emblem of a beautiful angel over the world?  I recognize it from my juvenile days.  Aaaah, good memories ~” Good memories as his smile faded with eyes opening to show an odd seriousness.

“He’s been fishing for mermaids far away from his home.  I wonder what has the ol’ boss so desperate these days.”

[omgjovialrpgsblr]

Four Souls, Two Crowns, One Knife

I am deciding to put chapter one here because I no longer feel like using deviantart or wattpad(i haven’t used it in like years lmao)

It’s not perfect and it’s a first draft, but I just feel like putting it on here and seeing if anyone likes it. 

A New End, And A New Beginning

The 31st of Clurons

“Tourmaline!”

Loud knocking woke her up, and it took her a minute to realize that no one was actually in her room. If someone had gotten into her room, she would have been concerned.

“What is it?” Toumaline yelled. “That wall isn’t a door for a reason. You can’t just ring me up when you need me.”

“It’s Lady Harriet!”

Tourmaline scared the dignitary as she burst out of the room. “Take me to her.”

When they had reached Harriet’s room, she was in front of the window, looking outside.

Tourmaline snapped her fingers and the window shut. Harriet jumps backwards and notices that the two ran in. Harriet said nothing as she looked at them. Her eyes were large, and her pupils had shrunk.

“What is the issue,” Tourmaline looked at  Dignitary Clarimond. “She seems fine.”

Harriet switched her glances between the two, still not speaking.

Clarimond shook her head. “She woke up, clutching her chest, and in a lot of pain. Then she hastened to begin writing a bunch of stuff down, completely oblivious to what I was saying to her.”

Harriet blinked, still switching between looking at the both of them. Her lips briefly parted before shutting again.

“May I see what you wrote?” Tourmaline asked.

“… It’s’ on the bed.” Harriet opened the window back up and leaned onto the windowsill.

The fairy scanned the pages as Clarimond hovered behind Harriet.

“Pain. Throbbing. I was stabbed. It seems as if it was a dream, but it seemed so real. I can’t remember anything about where I am now, but I can remember an entirely different life.

“I blinked and found myself facing a nearly identical reflection. It wasn’t a reflection, there was another me beyond the mirror. Not a mirror. I could partially see my own reflection in it. Blood. She looked pretty. Inquisitive. Quiet. Clone??

“Pain. Warmth. Cold. Dead. Living again.”

The rest of the entries seem to describe some sort of dream Harriet had. Next to the entries was a book titled Grimoire of the Universe.

“Harriet, where did you get this book?”

She looked back, her face lacking emotion. “I don’t remember how I got that book.”

“I see. So this writing of yours, was it a dream you had?”

“Logically, it would be a dream. But it feels more like this is the dream. Did you read the page I was on?”

“Um, what page was it, dear?” Tourmaline regretted closing the book immediately.

“It was about Twin Souls. I don’t remember the page number.”

Tourmaline reopened the book and scrolled until she found something resembling this. She read as much as she could in the few seconds she had the page open.

“I see. It would fit your symptoms. Confusion. More apathetic. A disconnection with reality. Does your chest still hurt?”

“Not as much as when I woke up.”

Chapter 1

Harriet and Clarimond sat on her bed, with a plate of cookies next to them. The woman instructed the young girl to keep her in here for the time being. Something was definitely wrong, but she couldn’t remember what.

“What is that twin soul page about?” the girl asked. “She took that book out with her.”

“It said something about a condition that is best described as when one has two bodies, but in different realms. When one of the bodies die, the portion of the soul in the other body takes a toll. It begins losing functionality for a very long time. It’s common for those with the condition to have amnesia for several years, at the most. One case lasted only a week. This is only one symptom, among several. Some symptoms include lacking the ability to express emotion, being confused, being unreasonably calm. All related to trauma in general.”

The girl hadn’t blinked during that whole time. “So you had another body you lived in?”

Harriet wondered who this girl is that keeps talking to her. Judging by her armour, she is some sort of knight. But why is she guarding her?

Harriet nodded. “What’s… What’s your name? Why are you wearing all this?”

“Clarimond. I am the dignitary to the princess of Delacruz Castle. I am here for you, Harriet Delacruz.”

Princess? Is this real? Harriet’s heartbeat quickened as she pondered how logical any of this was.

Well I am here. This doesn’t even feel like where I normally live. Oh!

“Can you do me a favor, Clarimond?”

“Yes?”

Harriet closed her eyes. “Slap me. Do it without warning.”

“I am not slapping you. The last time I slapped you, you got an actual bruise and we had to cover it up with makeup.”

“How hard were you slapping me?!”

Clarimond shrugged, and held her hands in the air as she spoke. “I don’t know? I’ve slapped people harder, so it makes me wonder about what would happen if I actually tried slapping someone to death.”

“Jeez,” Harriet slapped herself and felt sharp pain. “Okay yep I’m awake.”

“That is the worst way to test if you are awake, but I’ll let that slide… Any other questions for now?”

Was it worth asking more questions? The current information was already a little overwhelming Harriet.

“What country is this?”

“Otror. You were meant to be the next in line, until you became ill.” Clarimond looked out the window and her lips curled up. ”Your father was wanting you to… Nevermind that. You’ll understand later.”

Next in line? That is the most logical thing Harriet could come up with.

“Sorry. Anyways, your father is also in the middle of meeting with several ambassadors from other kingdoms. It would be best if we kept this news about you under the covers until he has more free time.“

“What news, exactly?”

Clarimond grips her hands together. “For the past three months you’ve been acting out of sorts. On numerous occasions you acted as if you were another person entirely. You switched who you were so often that everyone was just convinced you were faking an illness. For the past month you’ve been in a coma. You being awake again will startle him and would likely distract him from his duties. Harriet, what’s wrong?“

“…”

“Harriet?”

“I can’t leave this room then, can I?”

“Well, anyone who happened to see you would certainly make a scene, and then word would reach everyone in this castle. If you want to come out, it’d have to be at night.” Clarimond sighed. “I can’t decide what you do, but part of my job is to keep you safe. So technically you can go out at any time, I would just advise against it.”

There likely isn’t any television in this world, and possibly even mass-produced books. “I can’t sit still in here for days on end. I would go mad. Are there books or anything?”

“Your teacher has all of your books stored in his room. I am pretty sure he will end up speaking to your father at some point if I go see him to get the books. However, if you want me to risk it. I can do that. There is a chance he’ll listen to what I say.”

Harriet nodded. “Please do that for me. If me going out would cause that much trouble, then at least that would keep me entertained.”

“I will do that then.” Clarimond gets off the bed and heads to the door. “Is there anything else I can get for you? If I make any more trips it would get suspicious.”

“I’m fine, thanks. I appreciate it.”

Clarimond brought back multiple textbooks, and no novels. After studying a history textbook for an hour, Harriet learned more about her situation. Her country, Otror, was often at war with other countries. Only one country had remained its ally over the centuries. In fact, “ally” was stretching it. This kingdom had dense forests, which contributed to their country’s prime exports being wood, meat, and medicine. Her father, King Jamir, had been ruling the country for the past 20 years. He is nearly 60 years old.

“Clarimond, how old am I?”

“Oh, you’re 17. Why?”

“Oh,” she laughed. “I was just making sure I wasn’t thirty or something.”

“Ah. By the way, you normally call me Clary when we are in private.”

“I see…” The idea felt uncomfortable. Clary sounded too informal. “I’ll try remembering that.”

Harriet felt something from outside the room. Clarimond’s head turned toward the door as well. “It’s just Tourmaline. Probably just checking up on you.”

Tourmaline came in through the door, as if she wasn’t made of physical matter.

“Harriet, how much do you remember?” The fairy asked.

“None.”

“What about your other life?” she asked quickly, stuttering on the word ‘life’.

“I have only vague memories of it. I only remember obvious differences between our worlds. Like the technological differences for example.”

“I see. Well then.” The fairy pulls a book out of her jacket. “I have a present for you to celebrate your awakening.”

Harriet moved to open it when Tourmaline shook her head.

“No no no, do not open it here. Open it at the country house.” She smiled as sweat moved down her cheek. “As your fairy godmother, I will make sure no one knows you left your room. Just make sure you are inconspicuous on your way there. As soon as night falls, you should leave out the front door. Not the secret one, understand?”

Her face moved from an innocent smile into a frown.

“Promise me, Harriet.”

The princess shook her head. “Tell me why first.”

“If I told you,” their faces moved closer to each other. “You might panic. And that wouldn’t be becoming of the next in line for the throne, now would it?”

Clarimond put a hand on Harriet’s shoulder and nodded.

The frown softened slightly. “Thank you. I know I told you that you might be next in line, and I’m sure you know this already. But I want you to assist her in the arts however you can. Your job has become more than a simple companion, my dear.”

“I understand completely.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Tourmaline kissed Harriet’s forehead. “And you, be careful and trust her. Trust me who trusts in the both of you, if you have to.”

“Is something wrong?”

The fairy paused before she answered. “Not yet.”

Chapter 2: The Lord of the Dark

It was mostly isolated. No one in the castle, and no one on the streets, disturbed the two as they traveled.

“She mentioned for us to not get noticed, but there’s no one to even be noticed by.”

Clarimond nodded. “It should have occurred to us. No one is going to be outside at night on this day of the week. Tomorrow everyone’s getting back to work. We lucked out. But this also means if we see anyone…”

“Let’s keep an eye out then.”

After a half hour’s walk, they reached a country house to the side of the town they had entered. Harriet stopped and Clarimond put a hand on her sword.

“Something wrong?”

“I feel as if I’m being watched.”

Clarimond looked toward the nearby woods and motioned for Harriet to go inside. After Harriet entered, Clarimond locked the door.

“Something wrong?” a boy near the corner of the room asked. “Oh.” He stood up and looked at Harriet. “Someone’s finally woken up.”

Clarimond drew the sword out. “Luca, how did you know that?”

“You’ve made it easy.”

A girl about the same age as Harriet descended the stairs leading to the second floor. Something about her seemed familiar.

She rested her hand on the handrail and continued. “You’ve been gone for over two months. I doubt your father would let you go outside the country… So the best assumption one would make is you were sick, right?”

Then why did he specify “woken up”? Harriet noticed.

“You’re not that smart,” Clarimond said. “I am keeping an eye on both of you. And telling Lesley to keep a better eye on you two.”

“That would be smart,” the girl walked closer to the two, holding a finger on her lips. “So where were you, if not sick?”

Something about her face seemed familiar.

“Well I hope you have the book you borrowed,” the girl said.

“No,” Clarimond shook her head. “You can get your damn book later. We’re too busy for that mediocre garbage.”

“I suppose then, just make sure to bring back my grimoire back when you are finished with it.”

Something sparked in Harriet’s brain.

“Where did you put the book?” the girl asked. The grimoire.

“I don’t recall,” the other Harriet said.

The girl shook her head. She gripped the knife, and after a moment’s hesitation plunged it into Harriet.

Harriet opened her eyes to find herself kneeling, clutching her chest again. Clarimond had her sword pointed at the girl.

“I’m fine. Just a flashback, is all.” Harriet stood back up. “Let’s just get to our room for the night.”

When Harriet shut the door behind them, she opened the window. “Who was she?”

Clarimond stopped in the middle of unpacking her bag, which contained several knives. “That woman was Princess Arianna. Half a year ago we captured her and made this her prison. She is incapable of leaving, but it seems she’s found some people to do the scouting inside out castle for her. She’s from the kingdom of Floile. It’s to our northern border.”

“Yes, I know that part. I read it earlier. It’s exports are mainly teachers, and a lot of minerals. Over fifty percent of it is just water, and they have to excavate caves using convoluted magic that lets them dig underground. We kidnapped her from a country like that, and why?”

“She is the next in line for the throne. If her parents die, then there will be a power struggle for whom is the next in line.”

Harriet leaned further out the window. “And Luca, who is he?”

“Oh he’s her brother. But no one cares enough for him to be next in line. Everyone has their eyes on ‘Lady Arian’. She’s the one who convinced her father to invest more in local resources below the ocean. And now the country’s economy has been in boom since.”

Arianna stepped into the room and leaned back against the door.

Clarimond put her hand near her sword. “You are getting to be annoying.”

“You can’t forgive me for being curious? You’re both gone for months and then the second I make plans you both show up again.”

She puts her sword tip near Arianna’s neck. “What are you talking about?”

Something loud resembling an explosion turns everyone back to the window.

Clarimond flied past Harriet out the window from the opposite direction. Harriet looked back again to see Arianna in her face. Pain sparks out in her stomach and she falls to the ground.

“You’ve lost your touch. Do yourself a favor and stay here.”

The pain felt familiar…

[ilakumar-blog1]

A New Style of Immigrant Story

When my grandmother, my father’s mother, died in January of 2014, in Bihar, I was here in New York. My father was on the next plane to India. I remember the night, he walked down the stairs that evening, slower than usual. He told us that he was going to India because she was unwell. And he felt he should be there. And that night, I was ten years old, barefoot on the kitchen floor completely uninterested in commiserating with my father. A child’s first exposure to death is a tragically hopeless and confusing time. And in the case of my grandmother, she wasn’t dead yet. It was a matter of jet fuel which determined whether my father would be with his mother, his hand in hers, when she died. He knew this, and I did too.

By the time my father had packed his shaving kit, clothes and notebook, I should have been asleep. I was brushing the curls, which I get from my dad, out of my hair. From my bedroom window I saw him climb into the taxi. Needing somewhere else to focus my energies, I then, baked a cake. I labored over it, for like three hours. Carefully, I piped small pink flowers placing one of those pearly sprinkles in the middles. This cake served as my nagging problem through the night. It was this perfectly vanilla cake, a simple or impossible task, to which my mind insanely clinged to avoid its real trouble. As I tried to move it from the counter to the plate, it crumbled in my hands like clay that’s been under pressure for too long. I began to cry, between the sorrow and guilt the jack-in-the-box inside my skull finally escaped my control and flooded the entire house with tears.

I could not bear to imagine my father, alone in that dark plane. You see, his sisters who were already in India, knew their mother had died. To save their brother from the most uncomfortable and saddest plane ride of his life, they didn’t tell him. It was a cousin, on FaceBook, offering condolences right before he was boarding the plane that really screwed the whole operation. Sixteen hours of torture and despair all suppressed in an illusion of composure for the flight attendants and the man sitting next to him. He might have been flying above the world, his heavy heart must have been the only thing tethering him to the world.

When my grandmother died I realized that I had hardly ever spoken to her. I am realizing, now, if her husband, my grandfather, was to die today, I would still be writing the same sentence. I haven’t learned from my mistakes, I have made no effort to know my grandfather. Nevermind that, my mother, who stayed with us--didn’t tell me or my brother what happened. The idea was that when my father returned, we would all talk. That night, I lay down to sleep. My mother didn’t tell me my grandmother had died, so was it even true? Had it even happened? Maybe she really was alive, breathing the same air as me. My grieving heart did not care for logic.

And my dad and I didn’t talk. When he finally came back home his head was shaved. Curls gone. He brought gifts- toys for my brother, dresses and jewelry, silver coins, a gold statue of a young girl reading a book from his mother’s bedroom. I remember the night he came back, he was jetlagged and I just couldn’t sleep. He came into my bed and I lay in his arms, trying to sync my breathing to his. We lay there, for hours in the dark, neither one of us falling asleep. He spoke once, he asked me if I had any questions, about anything. Of course I did. But I would never ask them.

My father and I didn’t spend evenings in a treehouse talking about boys, he was never my lacrosse coach or whatever most dads are for their daughters. The mornings we share together are silent. I wake up disturbingly early, but he wakes up earlier. The heat is on, the house is warm. Breakfast and tea is waiting for me to finish my mascara. He waits for me. And we leave our warm grey house to stand outside. Just us in the cold. He likes to listen to writer’s almanac and drink his coffee. I don’t like it, but this day, I did. Robert Hayden’s poem, a tired one, my father had read to me so many times, played.

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he’d call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love’s austere and lonely offices?

My bus hasn’t come yet. We stand in silence as it nears 7am and more and more cars drive by. “It always reminds me of my mother,” he says. “Did I thank her enough?” The bus came. There was a kiss on the forehead and that was it.

I found my answers almost a year later, in London on Christmas day. That sounds misleadingly glamourous. There was a party, everyone was outside in the lavish backyard smoking cigars. I was in an awfully crappy mood. It was the smoke, that really was the cause for my drama. My father does not smoke, as in cigarettes, as in regularly. But the occasional cigar is an attractive idea. It’s a stylish thing-- an accessory, a fetish object, something to help pass the time, a communication tool. It’s selfish, if he only knew it bothered me. But anyway, this night is only relevant because as my father was distracted, outside, doing what he does so perfectly--he left a book inside, on the kitchen counters. It was the mock-up of his forthcoming book of essays, including “Pyre” about his mother’s death.

All I desired was a simple medical diagnosis--but that is not what was given to me. I didn’t want to feel sad, there was no need to, we barely knew each other. And then, I read. It was my grandmother's life, suddenly revealed to me-- her wonderful charitable life, and then what happens to my father after her life.

I have not yet learned how to properly, live and talk and write about my very peculiar relationship, my limited understanding of where I come from. The drift began at the age of 6, when I became aware of my thick hair and big lips. It was not so much being aware of the large lips, but knowing what they meant--it was a symbol of difference in power, I felt like a clown. What is more, is I had a feeling, not being white, meant I was inferior to the rest of their world and the rest of my life would just be so exhausting.  

I can cannot help that those inaccurate portraits of Indians on TV make me sick, I cannot help the bitterness I feel whenever I stumble upon the inescapable stereotypes these shows have burned in our brains. I need you to understand, the images of the Indian in America have impacted my early life in such an influential and very dangerous way. At least, I now know why I have made no progress in accepting my public identity, and why one should not serve, or give into national taste. What has ruined me, is the most subtle form of oppression-- how one thinks about itself.

The story of an immigrant child in this country could be written a million times better and sadder and more eloquently. But that’s not the point and I don’t care. My fight for a seat at the table was based on how fast I could look or become like the table. Yet, I remain trapped and despised within this republic--and my situation is unique because I have not been kept in bondage for three hundred years. I have only been held together by my future, unwilling to accept my past. I have drowned in my past. As it was deemed unfashionable, so I hoped it cracked and crumbled under the pressures of drought.

No one is in the position to tell me that my only problem, Indian people on TV, is not a valid complaint. It’s a recipe for murder, really. I know mostly only white people, they have no intention to exploit me, and I love them for that. But their own glorification, their place in the sun and on the screen--has forced me to endure a great deal of pain and festor some anger and jealousy. These shows had told me I had a very specific place, socially. My dignity was just a character to the very ill people creating the illusions on of the screen. Of course, the sick illusions do not stay on the screen. The accents, of course, follow one around. The goal, is to separate yourself from that. And perhaps I have made a mistake, because in my separation of “Indian in America” I look back, as a stranger to “Indian.”

My mother is Muslim, my dad is Hindu. They got married when their two countries, India and Pakistan were fighting a war. Ila is a Hindu name; it is the opposite of my mother's last name, Ali (a Muslim name) Ila Ali. It forms a palindrome. It mirrors my mother’s, yet keeps its difference.

My father had written about the marriage between a Muslim and Hindu, and got himself on a hit-list. Far-right India was not happy about his news. But still he went to meet the man who put him on the hit-list, for lunch.

And what is worse, is it was the death of my grandmother that had brought me back to where I had started. No one told me she died. It was a text I saw on my mother’s phone, from a cousin, offering condolences. Really, it was my father’s essay, “Pyre” that I only saw because of the liking Franzen took towards it, gave me the scraps of information of her death. What is interesting, is his own drifting from what used to be his world.

“I left India nearly three decades ago, and would see my mother only for a few days each year during my visits to Patna. Over the past ten or fifteen years, her health had been declining. She suffered from arthritis and the medicines she took for it had side effects, and sometimes my phone rang with news that she’d fallen asleep in the bathroom or had a seizure on the morning after she had fasted during a festival. I knew that one day the news would be worse and I would be asked to come to Patna. I was fifty years old and had never before attended a funeral. I didn’t know what was more surprising, that some of the rituals were new to me, or that they were exactly as I had imagined. That my mother’s corpse had been dressed as a bride was new and disconcerting, and I’d have preferred a plainer look; on the other hand, the body placed on the bamboo bier, its canopy covered with an orange sheet of cotton, was a familiar daily sight on the streets of my childhood. In my notebook that night I noted that my contribution to the funeral had been limited to lighting my mother’s funeral pyre. In more ways than one, the rituals of death had reminded me that I was an outsider.”

In my school, we have been learning about India. Do you remember, in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, the chilled monkey brain for dessert? That desire to exploit other worlds using film, again, is not only in TV but documentaries too. The supposedly “accurate” or perfectly innocent or good and straight parallels that are supposedly drawn in documentaries-- they are a false and biased  look into the lives of others. Lives, that colonial powers have no place in, yet they do. I blame film, which is the most was the influential weapon old colonial power has, for my drift with India. That is my confession of to desire to be in that burning house seated at the broken table.