Eating In
Writing
Yosha Khurana
I told her I had already eaten. In the years that I have known her in the capacity of my mother, I have not seen her take a no for an answer. I stop trying and sit down for the lunch she has lovingly spent all morning making. Potatoes fried with their skins still on–just how I like them.
“Let me tell you all about the meeting I had today while I was out shopping and once you are done eating, we can open all the presents I got for you together!”
“I might have to return to the laptop for a quick-”
“Bup bup bup, you can obviously find some time to spare for your dear mommy. I work so hard for you all day, wouldn't you let me see you and watch you smile at the things I have gotten you, can’t you find five minutes in your day for your mother? I am getting old, dear, I am sick all the time, do you want to come to regret-”
“I will tell them I would be late to the meeting, family emergency.”
She squealed and clapped tiny claps with her fingertips. Everyone sat around, that is how she likes to do gifts, and watched as I opened my deodorant and a basket–we love organising everything–and the fifth flower painting we have bought this month, my mother loves to support local artists. I never am able to keep awake through the afternoon meetings anyway, and if my mother thinks it is okay for me to be skipping them, what do I know of the world to disagree with her upon?
Today, I’m not sure which sounds in the night are from things that are truly here. Most of them, I fear. The silence bothers me more than the stories did. I used to see myself in each one of my visitors. A person I could have been, then eventually become a memory of. I’m not sure what I’ll be remembered as now. If the architect was bound to the world by the strength of his belief in his purpose, then today I am more of a ghost than he ever was. I worry that I was too quick to dismiss them. But just as my ghosts obeyed the rules, so did I. You aren’t supposed to believe in ghosts. My nights are more still and lonely than I want them to be, and it is far less interesting to sit with what you are than to be visited by what you could become. And as still and lonely as it gets, I am unable to sleep. I spend my nights searching for spectres in shadows where there are none, hoping that I wake up one day and I am haunted once again.
Concept Note
This is an essay about being haunted: First by ghosts, and then by their absence. First, this essay explores the idea of ghosts if they were representations of what we could have become. Then, it looks at what happens when you stop believing in them. Everyone has versions of themselves they put aside as they grew up. In my case, ceasing to believe in ghosts meant I no longer believed in my ability to be creative. Ghosts are interesting because they combine the concepts of belief, childhood, fear, and memory - not unlike the process of growing up. If growing up is no longer believing in ghosts, then having too few ghosts can be a bad thing.
“Bup bup bup, you can obviously find some time to spare for your dear mommy. I work so hard for you all day, wouldn't you let me see you and watch you smile at the things I have gotten you, can’t you find five minutes in your day for your mother? I am getting old, dear, I am sick all the time, do you want to come to regret-”
“I will tell them I would be late to the meeting, family emergency.”
She squealed and clapped tiny claps with her fingertips. Everyone sat around, that is how she likes to do gifts, and watched as I opened my deodorant and a basket–we love organising everything–and the fifth flower painting we have bought this month, my mother loves to support local artists.
Artist Bio
Parthav Shergill is a student at Stanford University studying Mathematical and Computational Science. He was born in Singapore and grew up in Bangalore, India. He's passionate about using data science to solve problems that can have a social impact. He is also an avid reader, and loves to write in his spare time.