Knock Knock! Are You There?

I knocked on the door

To see if the child inside me opens it,

Welcomes me in and makes me sit,

Lets me sip the omnipresent

Tea from the fragile cups of the kitchen set.

To see if she still cuts her hands

While making origami swans

of all the colours in the rainbow.

To see if the nails are still all bitten,

And if she still pokes the needle

into her palpitating finger

while customising dresses for her Barbie.

I couldn't wait,

To listen to her laughter

Which is funnier than a joke.

To listen to her stories

Of ghosts, of bicycles

or perhaps ghosts riding bicycles.

And now,

Now it's pathetic that

Caffeine keeps me alive.

It's pathetic that thorns attract me

Every time I look at flowers.

The world distracts me

When all I try is to make–

Make a perfect girl with no disorders,

No psychiatrists, no medications

No overdoses and no trust issues.

I just want to take the road already taken.

It's fine if there's silence when I step on a dry leaf.

It's fine if there are tire marks and footprints already.

It's fine if the barbie is wearing ready-made clothes now.

If the swans unfold into an A4 size sheet

With all kinds of metaphors I hate

And melt into the waters from the Tsunami of my head.

It's alright if the smiles are just for corporate meetings or family photos, with a rangoli saying

Happy Diwali.

Diwali–

It isn't the same anymore.

We've stopped burning crackers,

As if we are grieving Bhaiya's absence.

Whenever I need a ghost of Celebrations;

I draw a rangoli; surprisingly it's always blue.

Maa often asks me to eat sweets,

But snaps when I touch the sonpapdi box.

The Sonpapdi Box that is often forwarded like a WhatsApp text.

Papa puts his golden kurta on

But the grey of his hair shines more–

More than my handpicked jhumkas with tiny mirrors that never reflect the reality,

More than the diyas I've put in my rangoli trying, to make the blue brighter,

More than the sonpapdi boxes lying on our dining table.

I've never realised he's getting old–

Or maa, for that matter.

I never noticed the wrinkles around her neck; perhaps I was too busy eating the food she served,

Wearing the clothes she washed or bought, for that matter.

Unless she stopped eating her favourite mirch pakodas,

Unless she got addicted to blood tests

And sugarless beverages.

I never noticed that she isn't putting her apron on due to her cervical.

She doesn't like malls anymore because she'll have to walk–

Walk a lot

I never noticed because I kept walking on the escalators while she patiently waited.

Now that I look behind, I think I should have earlier.

I should've looked beyond everything.

I stopped.

I waited outside for hours,

Wondering what to answer if the child asks where Bhaiya is.

I knocked again.

The child didn’t answer.

Maybe she finally grew up.

Maybe she realised what she'll have to face.

Maybe she packed her tiny tea set with

Her bitten nails, her paper swans,

left in the sink to float,

And left me behind instead.

I press my ear to the door.

Silence.

Not the comforting kind,

But the kind that makes your chest feel hollow,

Like a room that was once filled with laughter

But now only has echoes.

Diwali comes again.

No fireworks.

Not for the environment, not for the government—

But because it feels wrong

To celebrate when someone is missing.

The rangoli is still blue.

I tell myself it’s artistic,

But Maa looks at it like she knows—

Knows it’s grief, spelled out in colored sand.

Papa wears his golden kurta,

The one Bhaiya used to tease him about.

He adjusts the collar,

Looks in the mirror,

But doesn’t smile.

His grey hair shines more than the fabric,

More than the diyas I’ve arranged in neat, fragile rows.

Maa tells me to eat sweets,

Her voice thinner than I remember,

And not as sweet.

I reach for a laddoo,

But the sonpapdi box—

The same one that has sat on our table for years,

Like an old promise always promised to get fulfilled or the one we're too afraid to break,

Untouched, unwanted—

Feels heavier than ever.

Maybe it should’ve been given to Bhaiya.

Who forgot that home exists.

Maybe then our memories wouldn’t feel like a relic, or the box

Like an offering to someone who isn’t here to take it.

I knocked again.

The child still didn’t answer.

Maybe she doesn't entertain strangers, and I'm the strangest to her.

Maybe she’s asleep,

Tired of waiting for me to return.

Maybe she left the door unlocked years ago,

And I was too busy to notice.

Maybe she’s gone,

Leaving only the dust of old laughter

And the faint smell of erasers shaped like fruit.

I step back.

The door looks smaller now–

Or maybe I’ve just grown too big for it.

Maa doesn’t scold me for the box.

She doesn’t scold me at all.

She watches the diyas like they might flicker out anytime,

As if it's the only thing we're celebrating Diwali for.

The night ends.

I sweep away the blue rangoli from the black floor,

Watching the colors mix into nothing–

Nothing but all the shapes of an amoeba.

The child inside me stands disappointed.

The house stays silent.

And the silence–

It stays into the night, that darkens and the love that fades.

It stays–. tired.

Haunted.