Ramblings

Cream and Chocolate

Posted on by Roshni Anand

Things go wrong all the time and humans, the naive little creatures we are, cling on to the hope that one day they might not. We look for a ‘silver lining‘– a single sliver of goodness in a giant sea of plain old bad. This can prove to be exhausting, especially when you have to go looking for the silver lining to reassure yourself that the universe does not, in fact, hate every fibre of your being. 

I’ve had my fair share of ups and downs and I’d be lying to myself if I said that no matter how hard the current against me was, I stood firm in my belief that there would come a rainbow after this storm. Of course, I didn’t. There were extended periods in my life when I’d trudge through dates in the calendar as a gelatinous, sleep-deprived blob wrapped in a blue duvet, trying to make up for her serotonin shortage with garlic breadsticks and instant ramen.

Nothing seemed to be going my way. After attempting to attend a normal high school and failing twice, I’d given up on institutionalised education and finished my degree through an open school, completely isolated throughout the process. The anti-depressants and anxiety medication I was on was making me pack on pounds like crazy, and this didn’t help my already low esteem. Throw in chronic autoimmune disease and I might as well have had ‘God’s Cruel Joke‘ tattooed on my forehead. Everyday I woke up wishing I hadn’t. And then I found my old baking equipment.

You know how people say they remember the exact moment they decided to turn their life around? Like an addict checking themselves into rehab or an estranged father reaching out to his family? Yeah no, that didn’t happen. I’m not going to say “The second my hand touched the silicone spatula I was transported to my grandmother’s kitchen where I’d bake cookies with her after school,” or any other saccharine shit like that.

What really happened was I’d been instructed to clean out the guest room wardrobe for my visiting family, and accidentally stumbled upon a drawer full of cake tins, sprinkles, whisks and piping bags. My mum gave me an ultimatum, saying she’d throw the whole lot away unless I used them. Maybe that made me realise I missed baking, or maybe my sweet tooth made me cave, but I decided I was going to make a triple-layered chocolate mousse cake. 

Anyone who’s tried to make mousse knows that there is very little margin for error. Whisking it too much or too little, letting it boil for a little too long or not long enough or even piping it the wrong way can ruin the light airy texture that it’s supposed to have. The recipe I’d chosen called for 3 kinds of chocolate mousse, each with different consistencies and flavour profiles. And I, a novice baker who hadn’t set foot in the kitchen for over three years, had set myself up for failure.

After 4 gruelling hours in the kitchen, I stared at the monstrosity I’d created with wide eyes. It had an unsightly dip in the middle and the bottom layer was oozing out of the biscuit base because I’d put too much chocolate and not enough heavy cream in there. Predictably, I went on a tirade about how I could never do anything right and I’m a no-good failure and yada-yada, but ultimately the aforementioned sweet tooth made me take a bite of my ghastly creation. And it was…..pretty fucking good.

The bottom layer that I’d put too much chocolate in tasted like chocolate ganache. The middle layer that I’d left in the fridge for too long had frozen into milk chocolate ice cream. The top layer had white chocolate in it that I’d whipped a little too vigorously and melted in my mouth like whipped cream. I’d messed up nearly every step of the recipe, yet every spoonful had me reaching for another one.

No matter how hard you try, you can’t mess up cream and chocolate. Sure, maybe you don’t get the decadent ganache you wanted, but you get a chocolate thick shake which, in my opinion, isn’t a bad trade-off. The forces that appear to be working against you might actually be steering you towards something else, maybe even something better. If I’d stayed in any one of the two schools I’d dropped out of, I wouldn’t have met the amazing people in my support group or any of the friends I made through poetry. If I hadn’t spent two years at home, I would never have bonded with my sister the way I did. If I hadn’t opened up that drawer full of dusty cake tins, I would never have felt so embarrassed by the goopy mess of a cake I made that I put in hours of practice to make sure I only turned out quality creations. 

I wouldn’t trade the experiences that shaped me into the person I am today. I lived through the pain and the sadness and everything else the world threw at me, and I bear my battle scars proudly because the life I have now is worth doing it all over again.

I said there would be no saccharine shit in here. I lied.

The Big Chop

Posted on by Roshni Anand

I was born with a head full of hair.

At least, that’s what my mother tells me. The doctor held me up for everyone to behold and the nurses marvelled at the dark coils on my tiny scalp.

When I was 1, my mother refused to take me to Tirupathi to shave my hair off as a sacred offering to god. She claimed that God had blessed her child with beauty, not vanity, and there was nothing unholy about the gorgeous mane on my melon-sized noggin.

When I was 5, I was experimenting with safety scissors in art class and cropped off a good three inches of hair. My mother nearly flayed me alive and made me write an apology note to my fallen locks.

When I was 9, I was at a friend’s birthday party and I heard some girls sniggering in the corner of the room. They called me names and said I smelled of coconuts. I ran my hands down my oily braids and bit the inside of my cheek, trying to will the tears to go back from whence they came.

When I was 13, I went out for ice cream with a small group of classmates. I’d tied my hair up in a bun because of the blistering heat, and everyone said they’d never seen me with my hair pinned up before. They liked it, and so did I.

When I was 15, I convinced my mother to let me get a tiny strip of hair dyed red. She drove me to the salon herself and watched with pursed lips as the stylist snipped away at my split ends, chatting with me about how much I could experiment with my tresses. The entire time, I could feel my mpther’s eyes boring into the back of my skull.

When I was 16, in a fit of boiling teenage angst, I stormed into my bathroom, cut off nearly two feet of long, straight shiny hair, stuffed it into a mug and presented it to my mother with a smug look on my face. She was devastated, and her reaction gave me a moment of satisfaction before the reality of what I’d done descended upon me. Oh god.

When I was 18, i was sick of what I looked like. I bought myself a packet of bleach and some hair dye and three hours later I emerged from my bedroom with a shock of blue framing my face. My mother screamed and dropped the bowl of peanuts she was shelling.

A week ago, after having blue hair for nearly three years, I decided I wanted a change. I rooted through the boxes in my uncle’s storeroom and found my grandfather’s old shaving razors. I FaceTimed my parents to show them what I’d done, and my mother let out an elated cry. She called me brave. My father called me beautiful.

My sister just called me bald.

Recovery.

Posted on by Roshni Anand

I am trapped .
In a shallow pit .
I could get out if I wanted to .
And I should want to .
But somehow, I cannot .

This wasn’t a pit to begin with .
It was a sinkhole .
It plunged into darkness.
Everything avoided it.
The light.
The warmth.
The air.
But somehow, I did not.

It was blacker than any night I’d spent awake.
It was colder than any blade that had grazed my skin.
It was emptier than the plates of food I’d flushed down the toilet.
It was hopeless.
It was joyless.
Escape should have been impossible.
But somehow, it was not.

I used my fingers.
I used my teeth.
I used my voice and made my throat bleed.
I clawed my way up.
Up the cold slimy walls.
Until the blood ran down my arms and into my mouth.
I should have stopped .
I should have fallen .
But somehow, I did not.

Now the light is just a breath away.
My fingertips yearn for the warmth.
But my body is torn.
And my mind is broken.
And the air is thick
With the smell of my trials.
I should rest for a while.
I deserve it.
To close my eyes and dream to be free.
But somehow, I cannot.

You see,
When I shut my eyes,
The darkness envelops me,
And the feeling of sinking
Back into hell,
Back into hopelessness,
Clouds my senses.

I should be able to fight it
For a few minutes more.
For surely, how do ten minutes compare
To two years of desolation?
But somehow,
Somehow

They do.

Have you ever been in love?

Posted on by Roshni Anand

Have you ever been in love?
Not with a person,
But with a memory

I remember my mother taking me on long drives all over the city in her old beat up 1998 Maruti Suzuki Zen. It was dark green and we used to call it the Beetle Wagon because it looked like a bug. 

I remember getting in the car before we’d set off on one of those drives and sifting through her cassette collection to pick out our playlist for the day. I remember accidentally unspooling an entire cassette of 1990’s love songs. We’d blast The Bangles and Britney and Natasha Bedingfield through those tiny speakers and sing along to the muffled lyrics. We’d get the words wrong- we didn’t know this until years later when YouTube karaoke became a thing- but that didn’t stop us from singing to them like we were performing in front of a stadium full of people.

I remember she’d sometimes pick me up from school and take me to the Juice Junction in Indiranagar before these drives. ‘Fuel for the journey’, she’d say. Our order was always the same- veggie sandwich and watermelon juice for her, a chilli cheese sandwich and chocolate milkshake for me. She’d always say I should eat more vegetables but she’d never stop me because she knew it made me happy. Maybe I should have listened to her more.

I remember feeling so safe in that tiny vehicle. It was objectively a pitiful car, but I was small enough for it to feel like a chariot, like royalty on my way to a ball. My mother was so proud of it, how could I not be too? I remember her being so proud to be the first person in our family to make a huge purchase, to learn how to drive, and to teach my father. I know now that the car was more to her than a mode to get places. It was a means for her to get away.

 I miss those car rides. The car got sold nearly a decade and a half ago, the roads we’d take don’t look the same, the cassettes we’d listen to collect dust in the back of my grandmother’s bureau. My sister never liked singing in the car, and once she got older the music was turned down and we’d talk to each other instead. My dad would join in on the singing occasionally, but he’s a talker too.

I miss you, Ma. Singing isn’t the same without you.