Les M.I.S

Weeell, so much for keeping a diary…turns out when you’re having fun, it’s kind of hard to garner the patience to sit and type it all out…also, I don’t exactly have a life worth writing about, my brother on the other hand could probably write circles around me as far as interesting goes…

Anyway here is what happened since I last wrote in this digital journal (in a nutshell):

  • Apparently my brother has found his soulmate (he’s four, by the way)
  • Mushir and Naveen bhaiyya came and went, and yes we played Dumb Charades (I even busted out a John Travolta move)
  • I nearly died…(okay fine, I didn’t)
  • I got more canvas sheets (eco-friendly, thank you very much)
  • We went to an amusement park where I nearly pulled a muscle in the Space Adventure ride where we were hurtled in a metal container at 90 km/sec along a very twisty track (even did a complete 360 twice), though thankfully in the photo they take mid-ride I was laughing, even though inside I was like: Gah. Gaaaaah. Gaaaaaah!

    Oh Sweet Mother--
    Oh Sweet Mother–
  • I have figured out who I really want to be, though the chances of me actually becoming that person are about as high as a pi-bond being formed between two s-orbitals (which, for those of you who are chemistrically-challenged—or have a life—is absolutely impossible)
  • I’m aware chemistrically is not a word
  • I reiterate that I lead a very uneventful life.

Even though I didn’t exactly make any regular diary entries, being on the road, did bring out my wordy-tendencies. They’re not very long, and definitely not interrelated. Together I call them My India Story, or Les M.I.S (geddit? And yes, I’m aware that grammatically, it doesn’t make much sense) Also, do not forget that these are simply a work of fiction and I may/may not be able to relate to them.

Garrulous, the First:

I came to abhor the air-conditioning in the car. My mother hated it when I opened the window (she wasn’t alone in her sentiments, nearly my whole family did) and I was rarely, if ever, allowed to roll down the window, which of course only intensified my longing to feel the wind on my eyes.

It was all these little things which suffocated me; buried me deeper and deeper under disappointment and unattainable fantasies. I dreamed of walking, unobstructed through empty foreign streets where no one knew me and all that I was, was a stranger. Not a daughter, or sister, or friend or even Nina, but a complete stranger, unknown and mysterious and intriguing. That was my fairytale. Not castles or princes or dresses or fairies or even a happy ever after. That was all the magic I needed and wanted. But of course, like all fairy tales, it was simply wishful thinking.

Sometimes I used to get up, before anyone else, including the literal early birds, and take a warm shower. And somewhere in the middle, I would suddenly turn the dial so the water became cold. Not freezing, but cool enough. And I’d imagine it to be the serene rain of some exotic beach far away from civilization, and I could hear the waves and almost feel the sand beneath my toes. I found that I was happiest when alone (not that I didn’t enjoy company, I just liked to swish things around in my mind and mull over them for no reason) which was odd seeing how I came from a large, close-knit family and rarely ever got any alone, quiet time. But the shower was one place where I truly was alone. I could be anyone I wanted to be in there: a Russian writer, a renowned English author, a water bender, an orphan finally out in the world, powerful. I could be my own master. It was beautiful. But brief, and I would come crashing down to reality and back to being Nina: failed daughter, useless sister, unintentionally clueless friend. It was cowardly, I know, to escape into the irrational recesses of my mind, but it was peaceful.

That last seems fairly clever, doesn’t it? Isn’t that what girls want, to be clever? I do get pleased when I manage to be clever, but also awfully depressed, because it seems like that is all I am ever going to be: something clever. I don’t seem capable of saying anything of substance, only clever idiocy. I wrote an article on gender equality once, and that was the only time I ever felt relevant or important. But as it turned out, the piece was complete trash anyway, so I guess it’s a moot point.

That’s another clever word: moot.

Well, that was the first of ‘em. The others will be separate posts, ‘cause cramming all of them into one post might make it too long, making reading tedious.

Yours Truly,

Something Clever

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