The Bleeding Heart

The Bleeding Heart 

Those displays of concrete lives, real and fiction, have attracted me towards them since I was a child.

As a child, when my mother wanted to take me shopping, I would cry and agree to go when she would let me visit the bookstore nearby.

While she would be shopping for laces and utensils, I would drift off to my paradise.

The musky smell of paper, shiny rainbow-colored covers pull me inside. I would look at those beautiful rows of glee, heartbreaks, and crimes. The sight gratified my soul in a way that I have known only when I saw my child for the first time after hard labor. 

I could have spent hours inside but alas my mother has allowed me fifteen minutes! In fifteen minutes, I wouldn’t even reach the genre I want to read. How does she expect me to choose a book?

I wish she knew the joy of browsing books.

I was a lonely adolescent. My anxiety was my cage. Rage built up inside me for so many injustices in the world, but I had no outlet. I picked up the pen and bled on paper.

I wrote. I wrote about the anger, frustration, and tender feelings I had towards strangers; that’s called crush these days.

As I read stories, I started making stories in my head, lying down in my bed with my eyes open. 

The night I was lucky, I would make up love stories. Yes, that was what I loved to read. I would write it down as soon as I left my bed because I knew these are just passing thoughts, not a story unless they are sketched on the paper.

I was the girl with no dreams, but who dreamt of other people falling in love all the time. Love for love stories has been part of me since adolescence, but I never had a love story of my own. I married the traditional way and became the conventional ‘bahu’ (daughter-in-law).

The miracle of life knocked twice. I became enamored with it.

In the grind of life, the writer surrendered, but the reader survived. 

Children grew. One day my teen son came home from school angry, banged the room door, and locked it.

I knocked at the door twice. His replied, “Go away”. I waited for him to open the door. I kept texting him but he wasn’t checking his phone, which was strange because it was the first thing he picked up as soon as he came home.

He opened the door after two hours. “Mom! What are you doing here? You scared me.”

“You scared me, Siddh. What happened? Did anyone say something to you at school?”

“It’s nothing, mom. I am hungry. I need something to eat.”

After that, he acted normal but remained aloof and stayed in his room for the most part, which was normal anyway. But I had a feeling something was wrong.

Being a parent of a teen is living a moral dilemma at every step of the way. You want to modal the best of yourself to them, but you are human, you slip, and they are quick to point out.

After sixteen, my son claimed his individuality by refusing to share his mobile password with me.

You would think as a parent who valued her privacy, I would be more sensitive to his need for privacy, but I guess not. 

As a parent, I needed to know what was bothering him. The need was almost physical. It wouldn’t let me rest. I knew he was a sensible boy. He was a lot like me, happy with his own company. He had only one friend, Arjun. But my mind wouldn’t stop working. 

Kids are innocent; even when they are teenagers, they tend to trust their parents quickly. I was the parent who wronged him. He didn’t know that I knew his mobile password.

The next day when he went to school, I opened his mobile and looked for something that would explain his state of mind. 

I saw a chat with Arjun. I opened it. 

Last message…

Arjun: I think you are being too sensitive. It’s not that bad.

Siddh has seen this message but didn’t reply. 

I went back to the whole chat.

At 2:34 p.m. the day before…

Arjun: Siddh, where did you go? I was searching for you after school.

There was no reply for two hours, finally, at 4:28 p.m.

Siddhi: I wasn’t feeling well. I left early. Did you see Rohan after school?

Arjun: Yes. I asked him about you, but he said he didn’t see you.

Siddh: He is a f****** liar. He and his friends were with me in the locker room.

Arjun: Why would he lie to me?

Siddh: Arjun, did you tell him my secret?

Arjun: Which secret?

Siddh: You know which.

Arjun: I don’t know. I might have hinted at it. 

Siddh: F*** you!

Arjun: I am sorry. But what happened? What did they do?

Siddh: Three of them made jokes about my sexuality, called me a faggot, and asked me offensive questions.

Arjun: What did they ask?

Siddh: I am not telling you, you dickhead. I trusted you. Do you know how scary it is to know that these three mean boys know my secret. They can tell everyone and then nobody would want to be my friend?

Arjun: Don’t overreact Siddh.

Siddh: Palash took back his invitation of the sleepover at his house on Saturday from me. Why do you think he did that?

Arjun: Sleepover might have canceled. 

Siddh: You are unreal man! He took back the invitation because he thinks that I am not one of the boys now. He sees me as a threat or something; I don’t know. I can’t read his mind, but his actions scream homophobia!!! It’s real, Arjun. 

Arjun: I think you are being too sensitive. It’s not that bad. 

I kept Siddh’s phone at its place with shaking hands. I had tears in my eyes. I was scared for my boy. I wanted to shield him from all the mean boys of the world. I cried because I couldn’t even imagine his loneliness. After all, I was just a teen who wouldn’t fit in, but he would have to fight a more significant battle. In every step of his life, he would have to face challenges because of his sexuality. I wish he could have trusted me and told me, but I understand his fear. 

When I could not take it anymore, I picked up the pen. 

The injustices in the world haven’t stopped, then why had my pen?