Until I was ten, nothing happened to me.
It was an even time, I don’t remember much
Until mother left father and
Went back to live with grandmother.
I don’t remember much except the smell of
white starched shirts I wore to school
And I hated the smell of coffee.
At eleven, I probably had my first crush.
Grandmother fought with my aunts and
Went away to Delhi. And I looked out with fear
for occasional visits from father.
At twelve, I was ashamed of myself
And how I didn’t have things
Others seem to have in plenty
And learned to tell lies to cover myself.
At thirteen, my school friend
Over a fight at home drank poison and killed himself
(Many years later, we learned his father
Had killed him and made it look like a suicide.)
At fourteen, I discovered masturbation.
Experimenting with myself
On a bed, one hot March night
And was too scared when all that
I had heard so much of just happened.
At fifteen, the nice man my mother trusted me With,
molested me.
I still remember his rough hands and tremble.
Never trust a mustachioed man!
A month after that, he got married
And was gracious enough to invite me to his wedding.
I smoked a stolen cigarette and wished I were dead.
At sixteen, I discovered porn and depression
Solitude. The art of walking aimlessly
And pursuing idle habits of the weary.
I learned to get lost and stay away
From the sight of others.
I learned to become invisible.
My parents reconciled.
At Seventeen, I tried to kill myself.
Thrice. I don’t think I failed because
I was incompetent.
My heart was really not in it.
Between all this
I somehow grew up
Grew some hair on my chin
And learned to cover my fear.
At Thirty Seven I have learned
How to order a tall café latte
At the Starbucks on Quay Mont Blanc.
Quite a long way to come
For a familiar cup of Joe, don’t you think?
