selling habits

It’s a desolate place to be where the finger of blame and suspicion falls. Sooner or later you return to your fold and let them embellish their hand-pumps to use as the tipping bin. You no longer make allowance for the heaviness of heart, the pitch-blend, dramas that devour your peace. Your flesh crawls and you are apprehensive about the possibility of not choosing better or rather best choices.

A decade ago, back when I moved from the village after the enlightenment through the monstrosity in relationships, it was the phase when you scream but want to keep it under the wrap because no one would lend a sympathetic ear without malice. Malice quickly covers a long distance. Everything must be enshrouded in the thick blanket of haze. It was the time when the world is witnessed through rose-tinted spectacles because the truth is something you’re yet to acknowledge and accept before you overcome.

We lived in a rented house. The landlord had gone to meet his maker. He was bedridden for a long period due to cancer and had a son who was “over modern” in the traditional sense as he chose to marry an inter-caste girl and was employed in the technical field. His then yet-to-be-married younger sister who also went for intercaste marriage, tiddly after a peg or two during her brother’s wedding danced up a storm and some of them called some “funny” names for her dance in the wake. And these examples are rife as it is the only way to ginger up your listless days when there’s no chance to reach out for your dreams dangling from the sky or maybe stowed in the innermost part of your dungeon where you hide the coffee that only you can sip. Because you’re not addicted to it. A lot of people who don’t drink, invariably show tendencies and still feel inclined to get addicted. Such is the addiction to coffee. Then you root through the world map and suss something out from the Great wall of China.

Flocks of birds had littered the boundary wall with their droppings. Every flap of hair, every move, each dance, each song enshrined a story awaiting the storyteller in the world where divorces are gruesome and abuse is as easy as falling off the log. Each dot counts.

I don’t nurse ill feelings towards inter-caste marriages, drinking, any dress, divorce or dance. Lately, I came across a concept concerning our buying and selling habits that – you shouldn’t sell what you can’t buy, this is integrity. Even though I am not buying what you’re selling. I can’t be lenient to someone and rigid to another just because that makes it convenient to abuse someone. But there is little to be said for pebbles in your shoes for that matter.

It’s quite amusing to see that seasons still fall whether you’re there or not so you watch the world go by and observe the rising and falling, you do ride the waves. Thanks to the English language, you don’t have to pick up the fallen things and hoard them for future use.


Published by Smita Ray

Smita Ray is a mother of two lovely kids and hails from the northeastern town of India Gorakhpur. Her perpetual displeasure arising from the hypocrisy in the society underneath the semblance of religion, culture as well as the conditioning for compliance urged her to put down the impressions in her mind. In her spare time, she likes to have some culinary adventures with her kids.

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