A Short Story 004 : My Three Mothers

My Three Mothers

A short story by Monica Ingudam


I look up the sky and see birds flying. I wish I have wings to fly away and find my place where I could call Home. Growing up, I was the best dressed and pampered boy by my Father and my mother in my “Leikai” (community). I always remember my mother to be this beautiful woman, fair with neatly tight black hair, wearing beautiful red half saree over Manipuri Phanek. Our house was beautifully arranged, every thing was in place. My mother really took care of my Father and me. I remember my father waiting for me without fail outside my school, standing tall and handsome. He would treat me to “achapot” (snacks) before we go home. It was laughter, love and fun in the family. We were perfect. But even God can’t stand perfection and has to test people. My mother passed away suddenly from a mistake one of the expert doctor made in her treatment over a small ailment. I was just 7 years old then.

Life took a sharp turn. My Father was heartbroken. Everyone was whispering that he should get married. My mother’s side tried to fix my mother’s younger sister with my father and other relatives had other proposals. After a little over a year, my father remarried to a woman of his choice. I was taken to watch a movie in a theater to “distract the son” as they referred as, on the day of the wedding. It’s strange how people talk right in front of you as though you don’t exist, I was small but I remember everything. I neither felt good nor bad. I didn’t know what to expect and I went with the flow of life.

The earlier days were perfect. My step mother played the perfect doting mother. But with time, I was seemingly getting in between my father and my step mother. I didn’t understand then, now I do. They were young and newly married couple who needed their privacy but how could they have any privacy with me hovering around my Father all the time. I remember one time I woke up at night, saw my step mother sitting on top of my father, her long hair opened and I stood there stupidly, I didnt mean to watch them, I just frozed. She turned and looked angrily at me, she looked like angry Durga with big eyes and I was scared, very scared.

Events after events happened taking me further away from my Father. I was hurt, very hurt that my father didn’t see my side of the story in any of these events. He seem to be under her spell. And she is not even pretty no where near my mother. Maybe I was jealous of the attention my father gave her. She was an intruder. It was hard for me to accept her. I missed my mother and cried so much. I missed her hugs, her smell, her pampering and fussing over me to eat. I was sent away to a boarding school. That really devastated me, I was so lonely with no visitors. I tried alcohol, pills and I even put my name to join a rebel group. I was expelled from the school and was sent back.

That didn’t make my life any easier. Day and night, there was fights. My father shouting at me. He became this man I never knew, he saw fault in everything I did. I was not good enough for him, I was wasting his money and one day in anger he blurted out “I should never have adopted you”. My life didn’t need this kind of excitement, it’s my life and not a movie that needed drama. I was adopted and all these while my biological parents are alive. After lot of fights and drama it was decided that it’s best I am returned to my biological parents. I was just a commodity moved from house to house as deem fit. I was angry mostly hurt by my father’s action. My biological parents tried to make me comfortable but I was angry with them too, asking myself why they gave me away. My father and my mother couldn’t have kids and they were on the verge of separation and adopting me right after I was born saved their marriage. I see pain and regret in their eyes and we learnt to stay together catching up on lost times but I never found that connection, the connection I see my siblings having with my biological parents.

There are drama going on about property, rights, sueing etc. And I really don’t care. My father walks past me looking at the other way pretending he didn’t see me. I don’t know how his love for me was lost. We don’t talk anymore. He never had a child with his second wife. I have no hard feelings for anyone now, it was the situations. I hope my father is happy with the choices he has made. As for me, I knew 3 Mothers in my life, I crossed 30 years and yet looking for place which I can call home.

~The End~


LIFE’S THIS & THAT

MonicaIngudamCollection of short stories written by Monica Ingudam. These stories are based on Life’s this and that focusing on Manipur and the people of Manipur.


 

A Short Story 003 : Being the Stalker

Being the Stalker

A short story by Monica Ingudam


Love could be a beautiful feeling if it’s both sided. The tragedy and pain comes when it’s one sided. And my story is no different. It all started harmlessly when I met him, at a time where I had self respect, maintained my sanity and could identify stupidity. And today I am reduced to a pathetic stalker, with no self respect, as I watch him smiling, dancing and partying with his Valentine hanging all over him.

I had ridiculed people when they speak of love at first sight. How could they associate such a serious pure word into something so casual, with someone they just met? I didn’t acknowledge when it happened and before I realized he overtook me like a storm, seized my capability to think and reason out. I became addicted and obsessed with him. Initially he entertained my company and was polite. But as I became more depended and literally throwing myself over him, I could see him withdrawing. And who wouldn’t ? I was suffocating him. I had this compelling feeling which made me weak and seek only for his company. I wanted to spent every minute with him. Seeing him or talking to him was never enough, I always wanted more. He was irresistible and I could drop everything what I was doing when he came to see me or called me which probably he did out of pity or probably at times he played to his advantage. But it didn’t matter to me, I played along with starry eyes.

The more he withdrew and started ignoring me, the more obsessed I became. I was totally addicted, I had to see him and hear his voice for me to function. My life was impacted drastically. I went to places, parties where I knew he will turn up, I started following his activities closely, way too closely. I started mingling with his friends, people I wouldn’t hang out normally just to hear about him. I became this low life person doing exactly the things I termed earlier as “Stupidity, what was s/he thinking ?”.

I did things that would seek his attention, created excuses and events just for a brief encounter or moment with him. I maintained a shrine of the things he said, things he liked, everything about him. I even went into a phase of low esteem analyzing the rejection. Days became months and it came to a point where he no longer wanted to meet me and finally blocked my calls and message systematically. That hit me really hard and struck to me that I have become a stalker. I had cried enough wetting my pillow, gazed at his pictures endlessly, spent countless days lovesick, just lying on my bed thinking about him without any urge to eat or do anything else. And I see myself falling and destroying my health and life. It’s time to move on before I loose my sanity. He taught me what it is to feel love and now I know how it feels. I don’t blame him for not loving me back. I now understand that love just happens, totally unplanned and beyond anyone’s control.

~The End~


LIFE’S THIS & THAT

MonicaIngudamCollection of short stories written by Monica Ingudam. These stories are based on Life’s this and that focusing on Manipur and the people of Manipur.


 

A Short Story 002 : Lyrics only for her

Lyrics only for her
A short story by Monica Ingudam

I was young and she was my first love. Her beauty, her innocence and her smile captured my heart from the moment I saw her for the first time as she walked with her hair flowing in the land of Manipur. I felt the world of love, heard my own heart beat with her reciprocating my feelings. It didn’t matter where we were as long as we were together. Such beautiful feelings and joyous moments to last a lifetime.

I saw her and our love only. My family came to know about my feelings for her. My parents saw her family and status. She was poor and her father is mentally imbalance and they were dead against this relationship. It broke my heart but I was not strong to fight back. I was young, and didn’t know how to handle the situation with my mother wailing. Words reached her or so my mother made sure it reached her, she didn’t take the rejections well. She was hurt and heartbroken. So was I, but nothing that I said would make her alright. Pride and ego could be a strong wall in matters of the heart. She couldn’t get over the things my family said about her father. The long distance didn’t help the relationship and we became more and more distant. I was studying outside Manipur to become a Doctor.

I missed her, her voice, her smile and felt this emptiness and heaviness in my heart, such strong feelings of extreme pain having the same intensity to the love I felt. I wrote to her many times but I was left heartbroken with her not replying to any of my letter (this is before the time of mobile phones). During my final year, I heard that she eloped as a 2nd wife to an older man of high power. The man who helped her to get a job in a government office in an administrative department. I knew deep in my heart it must have been a forced elopement. She couldn’t have loved that old guy with dirty looks, filled only with lust for her. People say man don’t cry but I cried like a child that night and many nights, cried with flames burning my heart. But then I did nothing, nothing to stop it and at times think if I could have done something, anything.

Time went by and I kept myself so busy with my work as a Doctor. I got married to a wonderful lady of my choice (which my parents didn’t approve as she is out of our community, but I didn’t care and I found the strength to do what I wanted) and raised our beautiful children. I am a grand father now and I love my family. But I never really did get over my first love. We have parallel lives but it stayed with me. We never spoke but I saw her one day by chance, couldn’t help watching her from far, in the crowded “Ema Keithel” market with her daughter. It pained me to see that her smile is gone, replaced with a serious look, with lines of wrinkles on her face, a very different picture than what I saw earlier but still a beautiful dignified lady. I hear that she has a hard life, not looked by her husband and she struggles to run her house raising her daughter all alone.

I have the perfect family but somewhere there is a void giving me sleepless nights. To fill the void, I have taken to writing and as words trickles from my pen it’s her I see and I have words and lyrics only for her.

~The End~


LIFE’S THIS & THAT

MonicaIngudamCollection of short stories written by Monica Ingudam. These stories are based on Life’s this and that focusing on Manipur and the people of Manipur.


 

Father’s Pet but a street dog elsewhere

Father’s Pet but a street dog elsewhere

An article by Monica Ingudam


It was during my engineering college time in a beautiful place call Banashankari. I got close to one of the girls with whom we started sharing our study notes. She was passionate about studies and so was I. We bonded over chapters, notes to getting the perfect final results in labs and had a beautiful friendship. We hung out together and studied together.

One weekend we decided to study together at her home. It was towards the afternoon and we still needed more time to accomplish what we were preparing. My friend suggested that I have a sleep over and we can study late night. I told her that I needed permission from my hostel warden and probably If her mother will write or call my hostel warden, we can try. She was giggly and excited about the idea. I got carried away too thinking it will be fun to have a sleepover with my friend. Her mother was in another room and after my friend told her what we were thinking. Her mother, apparently educated and could speak English gave a questioning look giving me some level of discomfort and lectured “There are lots and lots of students from Assam roaming around at night, I wonder how they get permission. Maybe they forge the permission letter ? Maybe they get sleepover permission for studies and roamed around ?”.

I was naïve and couldn’t connect the dots and was trying to digest what she was saying, was that a “Yes” or “No”. I couldn’t even speak up to even say that I am from Manipur and didn’t understand her context of mentioning Assam. They continued in their local language (South Indian Language) and I was lost in embarrassment. I could never forget her look, her look of questioning my origin giving me extreme discomfort.

It was one of the awkward moment where people don’t acknowledge what just happened. We were back on their roof and my friend diverted the topic and was talking something to which I just said “um” the kind of “um” to keep the conversation going without actually listening. I just remembered looking over the trees and road with my mind blank, questioning and digesting the feeling of the word “disrespect”, I was not sure what to interpret but it sure didn’t give me a good feeling.

As I look over the fluttering leaves with the winds blowing cooling my flushed red face, and I saw my Father’s Face with his serious look, I remembered one incident where my Father sent my Mother one late night to pick me up from grandmother’s place, forbidding me for a sleepover in my own grandmother’s place. My mother was to sleep in my grandmother’s house if I were to sleep there. We walked back in the dark. My father was and is very strict. He was not pleased and said I was growing up, I need to be careful and shouldn’t be staying anywhere. I was just in 8th grade then. My parents never let me off their sight with either one of them accompanying me everywhere I went while I was in Manipur. How could I have forgotten how my parents raised me with such care and value (“Yam Cheksinna”) and I easily agreed for a sleepover, I was in college, all grown up and my Father will definitely not agree for this sleep over, what was I thinking ? I packed my books, got back to my hostel.

I missed home terribly that night but never had the courage to share what I felt that night with my parents. We never had study dates again though we remained friends in college and this incident left me with a bad taste.

~The End~

Based on an incident that happened in Bangalore, India.

The first taste of Humiliation

The first taste of Humiliation
An article by Monica Ingudam

We just got out of our classes. I was going to walk back to my hostel. I missed taking the college bus as this was an extra class. My friend’s parents had come to pick her up in their fancy car, she insisted I stayed back and she will drop me to my hostel on the way back. Her parents needed to complete some college administrative work so we waited for them, walking up and down in our beautiful college campus giggling and talking silly things watching the sunset. They took time, it was getting dark and I was worried of getting late and told her I will walk if they will take time. My friend pacified me and stopped me saying they are almost done. Finally they came out and we hurried to their car.

My friend told her parents that they need to drop me. Her father drove up the slope of our college, hit the main road. We had to take a left turn for my hostel in 2 minutes, a small detour from the way to their house. I told them that they had to take the left turn in English. After which they spoke in their local language. My friend helplessly said “Amma …” multiple times which was cut by her mother. For the 2 minutes drive the mother spoke mostly cutting her husband and daughter showing clearly who was in charge. I had no idea what they were talking (South Indian Language) but I could sense it was not good and it was about dropping me. Finally the car stopped in the intersection and her mother turned to me from the front seat and said “We’ll drop you here”. It happened so quickly, I didn’t know how to react and got down finding myself standing in pitch darkness near the mud road after 3 minutes of being in their car.

The 20 minutes walk to the girls hostel could be a beautiful mud road walk in a place call Banashankari depending on the time of the day or the company with whom you are walking. It could be a scary road to walk all alone when it’s dark. It’s very quite, you can hear the insects and even your own echo as you pass the rocky hill with a temple on top where you will find lovers sitting behind big rocks. There are not many people walking specially when it’s dark. You will find drunks walking from the near by pub giving you the dirty looks, calling you “ching chong” “chinky”. And there I was all alone, scared, humiliated at being dumped in the middle of nowhere at that time.

I started walking praying to all the possible God taking each names I knew or had learned of, tears rolling missing my parents thinking if my parents were there they wouldn’t drop me at such a spot to walk back all alone. In my hometown where I grew up in Manipur, my parents accompanied me everywhere and we mostly went out only during daylight. Our Gate was closed way before darkness because of the conflict in Manipur. So I was not very good with darkness. Who would wait for darkness to get 3 minutes of a car ride ? Would they have dropped their own daughter at such a place to walk all alone at such a time ? I was so stupid to accept my friend’s invitation. I was blinded putting myself in such situation, being happy thinking I was accepted and got a friend in a new place. I saw nothing on the way and continued walking as fast as I could playing all these questions in my mind. I walked so fast taking only 12 minutes and I saw the light of the house with “Amma” the sweet lady, wife of our hostel guard standing at the gate. Seeing her, I was relief and felt safe, entered the hostel with a gush of strength built by my first taste of humiliation. My thought echoing loudly “I came here for a reason and only one reason, that is to study and study only, and NOTHING will deter me from studying”.

I studied and studied, met people of different kinds. The kind who embraced me and the kind who judged me hurling humiliations. I learnt to love and create human relations with people showing me the warmth and humanity, and I learnt to gulp, ignore people and humiliations which came my way to survive. I was never brave to fight back, resorted to self healing and continued to focus in studies, the only reason I came away from home, my home where my parents are working very hard to pay my fees. And I never got to sharing about this incident with my parents nor with any of my friends and this incident stayed with me.

~The End~

Based on an incident that happened in Bangalore, India.

With the recent news about discriminations faced by north east Indians in Delhi and other places of India, I was reminded of this incident, an insignificant one, but an event that impacted my psyche. My friend’s mother never said anything derogatory directly to me but I felt a sense of discomfort in her look, questioning my origin and way of life. It’s hard for a young student to leave home at such a young age, coming out from a very protected environment, and to handle such situations, breaking into tears and not able to share and be comforted by parents because of the distance. Many of us don’t have enough money and would look at the phone bill while talking on the phone, and hence the conversations are limited to “Send more money, my glasses broke” or “Everything is fine” or a happy note “Results are out and I got distinction”. Incidents like this are not shared as the young students doesn’t want the parents to be worried staying so far away but it does impact a person. It’s easy to pre-judge a student from north east with different features, wearing jeans and skirts and hence perceived fast. They go through a tons of changes at such a young age being away from home, transitioning to survive on local cuisine, changing dressing styles to blend in, dealing with the indifference and yet trying to excel in what they came for, to study.

 

A Short Story 001 : Being the second wife

Being the second wife
A short story by Monica Ingudam

I got married very young. My life was perfect with a loving husband. But my perfect life was short-lived as my husband passed away without any warning due to an illness. He left me even before I crossed my teenage years. I was in shock and denial. When my sanity was restored, I was back in my maternal home. No one asked me what I wanted but it was decided in my best interest. My in laws didn’t protest either. I had no place in my husband’s house, and I had no son who will carry the family name. My mother and my brothers pampered me restoring my perfect life once again. But with the new status of being a widow, I remained a “kabokang” (water hyacinth), looked upon as a problematic species, something to be kept out of boundary never to be taken home.

Time changes and with time my brothers got married, had children of their own. And the vocabulary of “ours” got extended to “yours” and “mine”. As the family grows with more people, our family started disintegrating with different thoughts, different perspective and everyone believing they are right not willing to see the other’s point. The family separated by initially having their own kitchen under the same roof to slowly talking about splitting the ancestral property so that each family can build their own houses. You see I am a daughter and in the land I am born, daughters don’t have any right to the ancestral property and there I was in my own home or so I thought, questioning the concept of “home” as the discussion of dividing the land never included me and where I will stay, making me feel more alien in my own home. And of course the whispers of “Ningol Hallakpi” (Meitei-lon derogatory term for married daughter coming back in maternal home) amongst my brother’s wife didn’t help the situation.

Sometimes in life one takes a decision and the decision is influenced by his or her situation at that point of time. I was in my twenties and I met this guy who charmed me with his words, made me feel feelings I didn’t know I could feel, bringing out the best smile in me, smiles which I didn’t know existed and the world with him looked so dreamy, tempting and beautiful. And one evening I eloped with him to be in his world as his second wife. I was disowned by my family, I was not accepted by his family, I was looked down by people being the second wife, I was not invited in ceremony, I was this “Nupi Yumgaibi” home breaker to the first wife and quiet rightly so. I was so much in love with him and nothing else mattered. But who would understand, how a widow can fall in love and that too with a married man ?

He made our home far away from everyone, literally at the foothill, remote and away from people. We made a beautiful garden together. The soil was good and everything we planted grew well. In no time we had juicy pomegranate both sweet and sour, peaches, guavas of different type, mangoes and plums. We didn’t have to buy vegetables from the market ever. All possible seasonal vegetables grew ferociously including “hangam” (mustard leaves), corns, cucumber, “Maroi” (herbs), brinjal, okra, “Morok” (peppers). We had planted beautiful local flowers “Takhellei” “Aparjita” “kaboklei” “Numit Lei” and I was happy, very happy in my world raising our boys together. He disappears in between without announcement and no questions asked from me for we know in that silence where he is going. I went through conflicting emotions, tears and jealousy with his disappearance. But without fail he would return and I see his love in his eyes. I learnt to be the second wife, found my home and my world.

~The End~


LIFE’S THIS & THATMonicaIngudam

Collection of short stories written by Monica Ingudam. These stories are based on Life’s this and that focusing on Manipur and the people of Manipur.


 

Broken

Broken
An article by Monica Ingudam

Everyone goes through a phase leaving you completely broken. The reason why you reached that state may be different but the feeling of being broken is the same. You try to be strong on the outside picking yourself up trying to fix yourself going through a multitude of feelings. You go through loosing your self respect, a terrible heartache and a sense of feeling worthless leaving you empty.

At times when you are alone, you can’t control such strong emotions and even try resorting to hurting yourself. And when you come to that state you have to divert your mind to things you love doing. There has to be something you love doing. You have to promise yourself never to come to that state. It’s all in your mind. Let your mind take control over what you feel, over your heart. If you hurt yourself and die, you will be just another news in a small section, people will say “Oh so sad” “Nungaiteda” probably some sharing/comments in Facebook and other social media places. But you will soon be forgotten and people will move on with their life.

Nothing or nobody is worth hurting yourself. Learn to love and care for yourself. Be a survivor and not a victim, make your own story and start living. Look into the mirror and say “I am a survivor” “I am not a victim” “I will not be a victim” and see the strength in you, the strength no one can take away. It is yours and only yours. Get the strength, fix yourself and continue blooming beautifully.

~The End~

Dedicated to everyone where the thought of harming yourself ever crossed your mind. Nothing or nobody is worth hurting yourself. Learn to love and care for yourself. Be a survivor and not a victim, make your own story and start living.

Rejections

Rejections
An article by Monica Ingudam

Everyone goes through rejections at some point of their life. It may rejections in love, in friendship, in work or any form of human relationships. Whatever form it may be, you will be hurt, really hurt making your heart ache so bad that you will cry. And it’s ok to cry. You are only human to cry. And nothing or no one can help you ease your heart ache. It’s only you, your solitude and time that can heal you.

Sometimes you come out emerging strong but loosing your belief in love, life, friendship or relationship. Sometimes you come out weak loosing your belief in yourself and remain broken. And sometimes you are stuck and in the moment of weakness you will loose yourself. Now the question is how to come out strong and drive towards the bright light from the dark tunnel, believing in yourself, transitioning from being a victim to a survivor to living your life.

No matter what advice you get from people or what you have read, it’s you and only you who have to step out of the darkness. Take the time you need but be sure to come out of the darkness you have been in. Open your eyes, look in all directions, directions which pulls you in, which makes you happy, which makes you smile and you will be surprised. Surprised in finding beautiful things in life which you have never seen before and will question yourself on how blinded you were not to notice it earlier. And you will start to see that there is no reason to waste your time in wallowing yourself with people or things who takes you to the dark tunnel, time and again. It is your choice, and only you can choose to move to beautiful things in life and find yourself. But find yourself, for you are special, precious and you deserve it.

Once you have found your place, place filled with your beautiful things bringing out your best smile, you will realize that you actually missed the light. And you can see events from a different perspective and move on with your life, with a stronger you.

It’s easy to fall back even after you found your place. But you should never give up. Once you know you are falling towards the dark tunnel, be quick to turn yourself to your space, your space of beautiful things. The space is different and unique for each of you. For some it may be reading, for some it may be music or writing or photography or gardening or walking or running or movies. There are tons of options, just open your eyes and you will know what pulls you in. Bringing you to a place where you, only you can control your state of mind and no one will ever drive you back in the dark tunnel. You are a survivor and you will find your way to living a beautiful life.

~The End~

Dedicated to everyone scratched by Rejections.

 

027 It’s all in the mind : The lady with shaved head

The lady with shaved head

She looks young and beautiful,
Even with her head shaved off,
She has clear eyes filled with pain,
She spoke to no one.

She would come every evening around the same time to this temple,
Climbs all the steps barefoot,
Sitting in the same spot,
Staring at nothing.

She never entered the temple nor was seen praying,
And when she leaves she seem calm,
The kind of calmness you would be scared of,
Making you come back the next evening to check on her.

~The End~

An Experimental attempt to put thoughts in writing by Monica Ingudam.