Rohini Narayanan

December 2020

My library of thoughts

… 

1. 

I’ve been thinking about my grandmother, my Paati, a lot lately. And grief. The twin losses of her life and the guilt of not knowing her. Paati spoke good English, but I barely understood a word of Tamil, her primary language and the only way she could truly express herself. Still, we found beautiful moments of wordless connection: when I pinned the sweet-smelling jasmine garland she had bought for me into my hair, or when I tried on one of her old sari blouses and it fit perfectly. 

I miss her hands. I wanted to know what she thought about when she was my age, what being a woman meant to her. I have no more grandmothers. I didn’t cry when she died. I didn’t feel anything. I only felt her loss when we visited India a year later and she wasn’t there. 

This is the cost for immigrants. They are the only connection between their parents and their children, but immigration creates distance in both relationships.

Sometimes it feels as though the links to my Indianness are fading. 

2.

My biggest physical insecurities—the fat and hair on my body—reframed as my femininity.

3.

I remember the day my parents became American citizens. Just five years old, I sat fidgeting on the pews of a courthouse in Boston, wondering why my parents were standing up, putting their hands on their hearts, and talking about God. To become American, they had to give up their Indian citizenship. This carries weight—by law, my parents are not Indian anymore. By law, my sister and I have never been Indian. 

It is a privilege to be American. But how can I feel proud to be American?

4.

I have no patience for writing that uses language to exclude.

5. 

Depression isn’t the romanticized version you read about in middle school. The inspirational quotes and constant doting. It’s never been that way. There is no beautiful art coming from pain, there is no bravery in hiding. It’s shame, it’s addiction, it’s emptiness. It’s oily hair and stale breath. Tripping over clothes on the floor and running out of clean underwear. Dirty, disgusting, gross. Staring at a violin that feels unfamiliar, untouched for weeks. No room for music right now. Not texting back, letting go of everyone. Repetitive digging into soft skin. No movement. Again. Flinching at the sound of a knock at the door. Again. Too much noise, noise everywhere. A sluggish brain, no longer recognizable.

6.

The earth is freezing over for the winter. No more digging. We should be slowing down. Waking up with the light. Our bodies aren’t designed to work this way. Productivity does not equal worth.

7.

My body is wrong.

If you read into my skin you will find

a dark river, and standing in the shallows, just

enough to dampen her ankles, a little girl

terrified to swim.

Listen to me, listen, you won’t drown—

your body knows how better than you.

But neither of us are true, really,

and it’s too late anyways. She’s already sunk in the middle.

Too much raising agent, I guess.

So instead I remember the twirl of the little girl’s finger 

in her ringlets, spiraling into skull,

the tectonic plates cracking apart with the 

impact of ceramic and hot coffee.

… 

My voice has power

This is a catharsis