A Daughter Stepping Into Her Own

I still smell the mashed potatoes from when I was a kid, the kind that sticks to your soul,
We'd climb the straw hills, pretending they were Everest, our hands stretched out,
as if the world would shrink for us and fit inside our bodies;
We'd measure the river with our arms, stretching out like we could grab the distance, claim it as ours,
Our feet were always wet from the paddy fields—the mud clung to us, as though the earth was holding on like a lover,
and November days we wore the sun like a familiar shirt, tattered and too colourful—
on winter nights we huddled around the hearth like moths,
the chicken stew simmering in a blackened pot,
its scent still tangled in my skin, a memory I can't outrun,
That old square TV flickering in the corner, its voice crackling like the last breath of a tired old man telling us things we could not understand.

The man with the computer was a myth,
his house a shrine to something we couldn't name—
a window to a place where maybe the future lived, but we never went.

Mother ran a small shop, her hands moving from groceries to clothes to furniture,
She came from a place 82 kilometers away, but it felt like half the world back then.
She's older now, the crow's feet a map of every lesson she learned
She wears the weight of this place like a second skin, and she doesn't see it—
Father still smells of spirits, but softer now, his laugh a ghost that never visits
We would look up at the stars, point and say, "That's grandpa," or "That's grandma,"
as if those stars were still holding their names, still watching over us.
But now, when I look up, all I see are little bits of dust,
floating in the silence of a sky that doesn't care

I went to college, studied English literature, and they said I'd colonised my mind, my tongue now a foreign thing;
And maybe they were right, but I've read the history of my land, felt the weight of it in my bones, even if they don't see it—
Some days, I feel the weight of their words sinking into me like stones dropped into a quiet lake.
And I wonder if I've become a place where worlds collide, but instead of a new universe, it's just a parallel one, and I'm not sure if I belong to either.
I didn't move far from home just 90 kilometers to a town that wears the world's attention like a crown.
But my memories are a fire I can't put out for a time now hazy,
of the summer days when the "sumo" was the only ride we trusted, no matter how car sick it made us;
The pollution of the city never touched us—no chemicals, no rush to the next thing,
just the dusty road, the fading sunlight, the bruises on our knees from running too fast,
the smoke of slow cooked evenings drifting through the air of our little town,
where houses lean against one another like pages in a book that never stops telling its story.

I understand now that peace is not the glossy screen, not the polished edges of the life we see in magazines.
It's in the scars, the black-and-blue marks from falling and getting up again
and wrinkles from when we laughed and danced to "Gangnam Style,"
My years, like crinkled paper, faded from the sun, curling at the edges. I'm ancient now, but no one says it out loud, not yet—
I try to remember when we used to dream of the future, back when we thought we'd outlive time,
Peace is still something I find here, tucked away in the corner of a single memory cell,
It's small, that peace, like a secret, and it smells like the kitchen of mashed potatoes, of a sun drenched soup—
like the scent of home before everything changed.

Of steps that still echo on the cracks of an unfinished floor,
Two decades since it was left behind, a memory of what was never built;
Of arms that still wrap around a body, a cage of ribs with that familiar scent—
The lingering trace of some local Khasi oil,
That sticks to the skin long after it's rubbed in;
Of the cries—sharp, high-pitched,
That made everyone overlook the pink softness of childhood
Of that babbling mouth, now quiet, not because anyone has silenced it,
But because the soul that once stirred in the vocal cords now finds its voice choked at the throat,
A noose of self-doubt, tapering before a single sound can escape
Of self-diagnosed afflictions now manifesting as reality
Of outgrowing clothes but never the weight of the self inside them
Of all the playlists in the mind, looping endlessly,
But not a single chord left for the world outside
Of saying, "I'm an introvert," yet knowing it's not that simple and absolute
Of being shy, but not the cute, "pinch-your-cheeks" kind,
More the awkward, make-everyone-else-feel-awkward type
Of standing in a corner, stiff and robotic
Arms rigid, neck tense,
blood rushing to the face, waiting for answers
From familiar faces to the questions posed by strangers,
Who seem to be writing the history of your life with no real understanding.

Of leaving behind the small town,
And stepping into a city that hums with energy yet leaves you lost,
Of knowing that in six months,
The diploma will bring nothing but the quiet weight of unemployment,
And then realizing that freedom isn't just a word—
It's the emptiness of possibility,
A silence louder than what is expected
Of the city lights, sharp and blinding,
Two surgeries later, still distorting everything.
And then the crushing truth:
Of a daughter, stepping into her own,
In a world that never felt familiar—
Of saying goodbye to the smells and textures of home,
And reluctantly letting new ones carve their way in.
Of saying goodbye to old beliefs,
Shattering them like glass,
Of unlearning what was once certain,
And stumbling through the strange new language of adulthood and its abc's
Of learning to let go of warm hands,
And walking into the unknown alone.

Walking through the sunburnt streets,
the town's cold breath lingering in the air,
my feet brushing against forgotten cracks,
the morning smoke trailing behind me—
like him, my love, my ash-colored ghost,
eyes like emerald flames,
he came to me in the way only fate understands—
quiet, unasked, unspoken,
drawn by the scent of fish frying in a pan,
An offering to the world that was mine,
but somehow, it was always his.

Whiskers twitching, he entered,
like a shadow, like a whisper,
the first time, no name, just a presence,
He'd curl into the sun,
everywhere the light touched,
the sofa, the veranda, the table,
the chair—
the fireplace, though,
I think that was his favorite spot
The warmth, the comfort,
he'd stretch out, a perfect pose,
like he owned everything,
and maybe, maybe he did
the space between us just large enough
to let the air breathe,
just small enough to know
we were always in sync,
like the hum of a quiet house,
the rhythm of my heart and his
matching, always matching,
living together, breathing together,
even if he never was mine in the way
a thing can be "owned."

"Tuh" That's what I called him—
his silent entrance into my life,
Like a thief who not only stole the fish
But also a space in my heart—
his hunger, the way he ate with no hesitation,
no picky eater, not him,
Eggs, noodles, biscuits—he ate it all,
heart wide open,
no judgement, just full,
full of everything he needed,
except for the vegetables,
which, of course, he never touched,
like a king, with a nose upturned
at what he didn't want,
but everything else—
no matter how strange, how human,
he'd take it, gladly,
and I'd watch him with heart eyes.

The years bled into each other,
the quiet mornings, the long nights,
him near, always near,
except when I left.
I thought he'd forget me—
a stray cat, after all,
he'd wander, find new places,
forget the sun-warmed corners
of my house,
the smell of frying fish
that led him to my door
find new warmth,
new fish to steal.
But no—
four months later, when I returned,
there he was,
those emerald eyes glowing,
meowing, meowing like
Why did you leave me?
Where did you go?

And I had no answer,
only the ache of knowing
I would leave again,
but still, each time I came back,
he was there,
his eyes accusing me,
and "I would leave again"
thinking this time he'd forget,
thinking this time, it would be different.
But no, he waited. He always waited.
The third time, the fourth time—
by the fifth, I was sure,
sure that he wouldn't leave,
he'd stay, always waiting.

Until the day I returned,
and he wasn't there.
The silence settled heavy in my chest,
the spaces he'd occupied,
empty now,
the rhythm of his paws,
the warmth of his presence,
missing, gone.
And the town felt quieter,
the sun seemed dimmer,
the earth less alive,
as if he had taken some piece of it with him,
some small, quiet piece,
and I was left hollow,
in a space where he should have been.

It's been years,
and I still feel him
somewhere in the air,
in the light of the sun,
in the crackle of the fire,
in the soft hum of a quiet moment
his paws still marking the earth,
his emerald eyes still watching,
living somewhere—
or maybe living in me
in the spaces we shared,
he was always a part of it,
and always will
It has been 4 years since.