Dear my nameless, faceless Ba

Dear my nameless, faceless Ba,

Can you hear me?

I haven’t spoken to you, or written, in a year. Life feels hard again. What is it about this time of year?

I wish I had known you, your name, your face. In my mind you’re stood still, your sari is catching the breeze. The hem of your skirt licks the dust as you turn away.

I wonder if you’re proud of me. Of my siblings, my cousins, my aunt, my father? What would you make of us? What would you think of this mess we made?

You seem to hold part of that missing piece for me. I’m not sure which piece it is.

I often speak to you, I’ve no idea if you hear me. But it feels good. It feels good to look up into that enormous sky flecked with starlings and I wonder if you once looked up at the same piece of sky when you walked this earth.

– Saffron

What I’ve wanted

I got exactly what I wanted today. At last.

I met Mum in the city centre, we spent the day getting the last few bits of Christmas wrapping and decorations. Ate at a coffee shop off the main shopping street and then headed back to her place for the evening. We cooked dinner together, listened to her old records and wrapped up Christmas presents using the new glittery paper and ribbons we’d bought. 

It was cold outside, the fog closed in around her street. And I felt so warm in her house, eating her food and having her company. It’s exactly what I’ve wanted for ages. It was warm.

I usually come away feeling vacant and numb, like she’s emptied the soul from me. But tonight I feel whole- nourished.

 – Saffron

November Update

I haven’t written in a few weeks, I’ve been so busy – which is amazing.

The orange leaves have cleared to make way for glittery frost in the morning. Autumn is pushing forwards into winter.

I’ve been doing some of my own freelance work, sitting on lots of trains and applying for postgraduate courses. I can’t wait to get out of the job I’m in. The work itself would be great, but I’m bored of the management, bored of the the attitude and so bored of some of my colleagues. I’m ready for my next adventure.

I’ve been trying to spend more time with Mum recently. Gentle baby steps, nothing huge. Still leaves me feeling numb and vacant, but I’ve lowered my expectations. I know she won’t give me what I need so I still get anxious. 

I’m still waking up at 5am and I’m still catching the train before dawn. But now I know others who do the same journey as me, in fact there are hundreds. Solidarity makes an enormous difference. I’m not alone on this dark train as it whips along the river.

I still fall in love with strangers on my journey. Fantasy and mystery definitely still make the journey more interesting. Xavier – who is very much real and not a fantasy or indeed a mystery – loves me more than ever. I’m grateful for him. I think overall I’m happier. Certainly much happier than I was this time last year.

– Saffron

Missing home-home

I say I’m missing home-home when I’m missing back-home/motherland/desi. I am longing for the heat, swathes of fabric, the attitude. Something is missing from my life here in England.

Today my Mother hit me with another hard blow. After confiding in her that I wish she would protect us from feeling hurt, she mocked me, humiliated me and sliced with the same contempt she holds for my father. It hurt. A lot. 

And so after feeling the cold slap of her angry words against my face, now I am longing for the warmth of home-home.

Most mornings, part way through my two hour and three train journey, I walk down an incredibly metropolitan street. The sun might be shining through the trees or the grey sky might be closing in. But either way, the dusty image of yellow roads and dirty streets always slips into my mind. And for three minutes or so, I feel as if I am there. Sandles dragging in the dust, the sun beating on my neck.

But I am here. And I quickly snap back to reality. Back to the metropolitan street and back to the harsh smack of my Mother’s contempt for me.

You don’t deserve to sing

My Mum and I got into another nasty argument, which turned poisonous. Amongst all the mess and pain at home, Mum still seems to find the joy to sing. Obviously this antagonises me, because I can’t find any joy in the situation. So I ask her to stop singing.

Why?

Because frankly I don’t feel like you deserve to sing.

You don’t deserve to be joyful when you have refused to show affection, support your family, or mother your children. And now, in the last 3 years since we have left home, you have showed little or no interest in our lives. I have struggled to cope without you for long enough to realise that you are not HERE. So, no- you do not deserve to sing while you sit back and watch everything fall apart around me.

– Saffron