Child of Different Colored Bowl


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Child of different colored bowl

My childhood began with playing Gun, lopping the hair of Barbie dolls. As I used to think Gun possess bullets and I can shoot somebody who bullies me. I fused to feel the power in me, to wrestle anything in life. Chopping doll’s hair so that it will be long as mine.

I used to have long hair. Nevertheless, they never grew. But new itching’s started when I watched a movie of Kajol Devgan (an Indian Bollywood actress), a movie called Kuch Kuch Hota Hain. I pretended myself as Kajol (Kuch Kuch Hota Hain), in a new boy cut hair, wearing Adidas cap.

My father in his cropped hair and adidas cap used to be a simple gentleman figure. I always use to walk hand in hand with my father the same as his photocopy. I giggled to see the cuteness of myself. It used to be the same chubby figure like that of my own father, portraying myself on the mirror. But after two months, I started craving for my long hair. It took a long process as my hair was devilish curly bang but it started eating a lot of coconut oil. It consumes more time to process my long hair.

I remembered when I was taken to the Dosa Shop. Dosa is a pancake originated from the Indian continent. My mother was a big fan of eating Indian spicy food. She had had naughty tongue bud. She always craved for new Indian dishes. She politely asked the waiter uncle to bring Long Dosa. That waiter brought a large-sized plate of Long Dosa. I was jaw dropped by that Dosa.

My tongue hung no words. I ate a little. When I returned home, I showed my so-called vanity with my father. I thought I had eaten a large size dosa of the world. I bragged in front of him as f I had eaten largest of the largest dosa. He roared with laughter.

I started wearing my father goggles and brought my granny’s black and white camera. As there was no cell phone selfie click at that time. I pretended myself to be clicked, regretfully there was no reel. I fascinated myself to be a cameraman. Playlists of career were on my head.

Likewise, I was sharpshooter of playing toy gun, barber to chop my toy hair, comedian to my father, doctor to my Barbie doll pretending her as my patient, and chef toying myself out playing on kitchen wares. Wearing a pound of cream, powder, spraying perfumes, cosmetic products of mother giggling self as a gorgeous actor.

This weird fantasy yells a lot. And it speaks when I was forlorn.  When I was five years old, I was given a book called Pinocchio. I pretend as if I know all meanings. I started toying with the rhythm of alphabets. My lullaby used to be my mother’s stories from Cinderella, Snow White, to Little Red Riding hood. I played myself as a fictional character to rescue errands. This fantasies flared me a lot. It was super crazy moments.

The transition started like seasons. But my demon of uncanniness never stopped to close their eyes. They popped out like playing marble game. Same cutie pie like boy attitude girl started having menstruation. She became a sweet sugary girl. My fantasy speaks as I had never seen dolls who profusely bleed. But I started putting a pad on doll panties.  There were these weirdo fantasies that never gulped up.

When darkness kicks off, this weirdness replays back to the memory of the black and white era. Memory is a musical piano. No matter what, Age should not be a pale denominator but it should be a clock to tick the present mark.

Darkness should not be a dent in the pocket. The darkness of losing someone near and dear ones, darkness to lead you to quit the job, darkness to live an unstable life, darkness of rejection, darkness of ugly feelings. This darkness should be those paddy fields which nods in the gust of wind. A gust of wind and life with force must breathe together.

This weirdo fantasy is my bonfire to live. Weirdo thing that I thought what if I was in place of Sir Issac Newton placing my eyes on the apple tree. When Nature whispers apple to fall on the ground. I would have loved to eat that luscious apple rather dictating the law of gravitation. Or maybe if I was a friend of Sir Issac Newton what will happen this water like curiosity never ceased.

This weirdo attitude of doing the opposite but learning all countenance is the source what I cherish about. Learning a new definition, placing the fictional character in me and driving frenzy on my castle of the reading world. That’s what I recalled myself. I may be a full moon, maybe a half moon, crescent moon in many phases. But I am me, a girl who adore the pines of life.

Writer: – Sunayana Kayastha


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Written by

Jitendra Sahayogee

I am Jitendra Sahayogee, a Writer of 12 Nepali Books, Director of Maithili films, Founder of Radio Stations, Designer of Websites and Editor of Some Nepali Blogs.

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