I want to go on a plane. A 17 hour non stop ride. Surrounded by crying babies and smelly shoes, rubbery food and fake smiles.
I want to go eat a cake at a cafe. Sit next to a family of 6, with boisterous kids spilling milkshakes. Stare at the cloyingly coy couples sharing a truffle. I want to go to a pub. A loud one where your glass vibrates with all the extra bass. Curse the inane music and the uncouth people. And dance next to a thousand armpits. I want to go to a kid’s birthday party. With soggy chips and coloured drinks. With a million small feet scampering along. With tired adult smiles and stolen glances at the watch. I want to go meet a friend. Crib to him about why we needed to meet when we could have just messaged. Get high and silly. Try to walk in a straight line on the bar. And fail. I want to drive to work. An hour each way. And go to work in an office building. With glass walls, grey concrete views and cafeteria sounds. I want to go to a faraway place. Where the monks and peddlers crowd the streets alike, where the bells chime all day long and where all the people can do is drink tea and eat noodles to pass the evening. I want to go live on a ship. For 30 days and 30 nights. Get sea sick and drink rum. Sing and swear like a sailor. I want to go to that chilly place. Where you need to take your gloves off to swipe your phone on. Where your hands can’t leave your pockets. And where you dream of the fire. I want to go to the mountains. Camp under the stars, next to the river and talk about how many mosquitoes there are. I want to go someplace alone, meet some strangers, shake some hands, share some hugs and feel all over again that we all suck, in different ways, but equally. Instead I am in my balcony. Watching the clouds float and the trees sway while the breeze softly ruffles my son’s hair. Haha, kidding. He’s screaming for dinner.
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Aishwarya KalakataThe loss of and search for individualism has never been felt more acutely. Everything changed after I had a kid. But this blog is not about me being a mom. It’s about the things I do when I want to stop being a mom. It’s about telling myself that it is possible and that it is ok. It’s about my little escapades. Mostly travel - sometimes physical, sometimes mental. A desperate bid to stop my identity from being rolled into a single word. CategoriesArchives
March 2021
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