The Hidden Spectrum - fiction

 

RK and Priya had been friends for some months now. They didn't grow up together or go to college together but met at a party that one of their colleagues had thrown. Priya clearly remembered the moment she saw RK for the first time. RK was standing across the room, tall and good looking. In fact, he was particularly well groomed too. The shoes were absolutely perfect, the belt strong and expensive looking with a very striking buckle and his clothes definitely looked upper end.

Priya on the other hand never spent too much money on clothes. Now in her mid-thirties she was forced to be extra careful about what she wore because the sedentary lifestyle and heavy work schedules had pushed her health out of the window. Nevertheless, she knew she was a good-looking woman.

They both ended up spending a fair bit of the evening talking to each other. Priya thought RK was very funny and well spoken. He also seemed to have a sensibility that was missing in most men she met. How was this possible? All this in one person seemed a bit far-fetched. Most men would have tried to ask her for my phone number by now, she thought. But RK didn't. Priya however knew that they would meet in the next party because she'd heard him mention that to someone sitting next to them. She was also invited to that party and realised that she was looking forward to seeing RK again.

When they met three weeks later, RK made his way to Priya. She gleamed internally elated that RK was showing her more attention this time. They spent a lot of the evening together, sharing office stories, childhood anecdotes and funny incidents. Priya found herself thinking that RK really was someone comfortable to be around. She couldn't believe how fast she had the feeling of having known him for a long period. They exchanged phone numbers later that evening and Priya had a thought cross her mind. Wouldn't they make a great couple?

They sent each other mundane messages over the next few days. They lived in the same area near the Sanjay Gandhi National park, she'd learned, so they started going for a morning walk there together. Each day while walking they would talk about their lives. After some days, one particularly early morning, they started talking about relationships. RK mentioned his past girlfriends and Priya talked about her early arranged marriage that hadn't lasted long. Priya mentioned that she found it difficult to meet the right man due to her busy work schedule and the 'divorcee' tag that she carried. RK stopped while he walked and looked at the nearly tearful Priya. He held her hand and reassured her that she would find the right guy. Priya found herself sniffling and worried about how she looked right then. She nodded and looked at RK. Uneasily realising that their bond was now tending towards a 'friendzone', she changed the topic and started walking again.

 
But she was curious and probed as to why the relationships that RK had had with the ex-girlfriends hadn't worked in the past. RK didn't answer immediately. Finally, after taking his time, RK mentioned that the two girlfriends had wanted different things in life than him. That nothing seemed to be able to repair their differences and that drifting apart had been the only real solution. Priya now looked at RK and felt a surge of attraction to this handsome, sensitive man who seemed to have been sent her way in perfect timing. She was a foot away from him and could see the little hairs on his neck and his Adam’s apple bob up and down. She didn't even think of what she was doing and took a step towards him. She was close enough to him for him to understand what she was hoping he would do.

 
As she waited, RK looked at Priya. He'd been damn attracted to her from the moment he'd seen her at the party. He'd been delighted that they'd seen each other again and again. Living next to her had been a bonus discovery. The comfort he felt around Priya was so refreshing. She had a natural way to lead without seeming bossy and he'd always been attracted to women like her. He knew that he was falling for her and was now standing a foot away from her. He knew he could easily ask her to date him and right now felt that the answer was obvious. He wanted to bend now and kiss that gorgeous face right away. But he knew what was holding him back. He also knew why his relationships to perfectly fine women had ended.

 
However much he tried to hide it, however good the relationship and even the intimacy was between him and his partner, he'd always found himself attracted to men too. Eventually, this reality ate into him and his relationships and he'd not know how to tell his partner the truth.

Neither of his girl friends had been able to handle the news well and the jealousy they had shown towards a 'potential male partner' was intense. It threatened their femininity even more than if he'd admitted to seeing another woman, he realised. Both relationships had just plummeted from that moment on. The years of having built the friendship and the partnership had been replaced by emotions that he'd rather forget forever. With his first girlfriend, it had been after three years that he'd realised that he was bisexual. He was just 22 back then. He didn't even know when those feelings that he'd probably hidden away emerged and reached him. Once awakened, try as he would, he couldn't get over the feelings or his desire. He felt that his sexuality was even more complicated than just being straight or gay. It involved more than one person and so was like walking on a tightrope all the time. Someone was bound to be hurt.

Back to looking at Priya's face perched inches away from him, he found himself taking a couple of steps back and casually looking at his phone. He felt embarrassed by his behaviour, but had no courage to tell someone upfront who he was going to be in a relationship. He knew she wouldn't understand. Very few people ever did.

 
Priya felt angry at being jilted, she awkwardly swallowed the saliva in her mouth and closed it as she tried to hide her flushed cheeks. Shocked and having taken a strong knock to her ego, she started walking again. She felt RK walking with her. They quickly reached the gate of the park and said bye to each other. RK felt sadness envelop him as he walked home. 

This fictional short story is my participation to the Blog Hop Prompt by #BlogchatterBlogHop as indicated in the image attached to the text. It's my attempt at trying to understand one aspect of difficulty for FluidGender people.

 This post is a part of Blogchatter Blog Hop https://www.theblogchatter.com/

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You may also like these fictional stories I have written

The Old man in the metro - Fiction - Don't judge a book by its cover

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Yvonne - The Tennis player - short story

or these stories from my childhood 

The mystery of the pink curry - Chapter 13 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

or 

The pen is mightier than a sword -Chapter 14 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

or this part fiction and part truth of my parents' first meeting...

How my Daddy met my Mummy - Ramchandra & Ammini - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

Isabelle et sa maman Cesira - 5e participation pour célébrer 50e newsletter - La maison de ma mère

 

Jeune fille au chat

    

Isabelle et Lilou

Isabelle rédige un beau texte pour sa mère dans le cadre des participations collectives que j'ai sollicitées.

La maison de ma mère.

Elle n’était pas bleue ni adossée à la colline. 

Elle n’était pas dans le Sud de la France, ni quelque part en Italie.

Non, elle se situait plutôt dans ce que j’aime appeler notre « colonne vertébrale », mon bassin sidérurgique, poussiéreux et poétique à la fois, entre ville et presque campagne, pas loin de la Meuse majestueuse.

Elle était petite mais suffisamment grande pour y accueillir mari et enfants : une vie entière.

Cette maison, ma mère en avait eu le projet «seule », grâce à l’aide de son frère qui lui concéda une partie du terrain qu’il avait acheté pour faire construire sa propre maison.

Il faut croire qu’elle a eu le génie de transmettre cela à ses deux filles, qui, dans son sillage, firent pareil bien des années plus tard en investissant dans leurs propres briques, seules.

Il y avait un jardin, une terrasse ajoutée par la suite, et toute notre enfance s’est déroulée autour d’elle. Il y avait une prairie attenante, un terril : un territoire d’aventures sans limites.

C’est simple : cette maison m’a tellement marquée que, depuis longtemps, tous mes rêves s’y déroulent de manière récurrente.
Rêves rassurants parfois. Cauchemars aussi.
Comme si ses murs n’avaient jamais cessé de me contenir.

Lorsqu’il a été temps de quitter le cocon, j’ai toujours refusé de louer. J’ai préféré acheter.

Sans doute, un effet de transmission, ou un instinct de survie (?).

Lors de la construction, si je ne me trompe pas, papa était dans les parages.

Ils se sont mariés. Elle avait environ 33 ans. « Tard » pour une « italienne ».

Il avait de l’allure et faisait office d’amuseur officiel de la petite famille. 

Un « séché », costaud, musclé, un peu abîmé par de rares combats de boxe amateur, un nez italien pur jus.

Nous avions un clown à la maison, doué en imitations et virtuose des surnoms à coucher dehors.

Un mélange - hétéroclite ou complémentaire - entre un clown et une « diva ».

Non, elle ne chantait pas. Mais elle adorait le chant lyrique.

Étonnant pour une « ouvrière » aimant tellement son métier de couturière.

Elle avait des idées et des rêves, des petits voyages réalisés. 

Il me reste d’elle une sensation de « bon goût ».

Finesse, élégance, amour des chats et de l’autodérision.

Pudeur imposée par des parents immigrés et rudes. 

Cette dureté façonnée par la mine et la guerre.

Elle était belle, ma mère. 

Elle avait de l’esprit et cet émerveillement constant dont j’espère avoir hérité aussi.

Elle n’était pas « féministe », tout en accomplissant des prouesses seule.

Elle n’avait guère le temps de penser à ces mots-là.

Son temps, elle l’a consacré à ses enfants.

Depuis sa petite maison, non loin d’une prairie, elle a veillé à ce que ses trois enfants puissent faire des études, ce qu’elle n’avait pas eu le loisir d’accomplir.

La « jeune fille aux chats », comme j’aime l’appeler, était brillante, intelligente, parfois (souvent) trop dans la peur. 

Que m’a-t-elle transmis ? Le respect, l’humilité, la curiosité, la culture, l’amour de l’art et de la cuisine.

La maison de ma mère ne m’a jamais réellement quittée depuis neuf ans.

Qui est Isabelle Belloi ?

Isabelle Belloi est photographe et communicante basée à Liège.

Son parcours en communication, marketing et création de contenus visuels lui permet d'accompagner entreprises, organisations et indépendants dans la mise en valeur de leur activité à travers des images et des contenus authentiques.

Curieuse, créative et engagée, elle aime explorer ce qui relie les idées, les personnes et les images, et s'intéresse particulièrement à la manière dont les récits visuels contribuent à donner du sens à notre environnement.

Vous pouvez voir son travail et la contacter

Web : emulsions.be

FB : @emulsionnel

LinkedIn : https://www.linkedin.com/in/isabellebelloi/

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My parents’ Guruvayoor wedding - Ramchandra & Ammini - Part 2- The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

 

created using Chat GPT by Latha Warrier

Ammini knew that today would be her last day in her maternal home. It was just six days ago that Ramchandra had come, seen her and the marriage was fixed. Since then, she had been looking around the ancestral home she'd grown up in. Her older sisters suddenly didn't seem like the matrons they'd seemed all these years. Her mother looked slightly more fragile to her and her elder brother seemed to be busy preparing for their weddings. After all she was to marry Ramchandra and her brother Appukuttan was to marry Shreedevi, her future husband's sister in an exchange marriage.

 

The walls of the house seemed less boxed in, she noticed the height of the wooden beams and lifted her gaze to the open sky that offered natural sunlight in the inner courtyard. Filling water for all the chores from the house well didn't seem so hard anymore. Ammini thought about how lucky she was to have been chosen from among her sisters to be the bride. Ramchandra had been very clear. He had taken the proposal of his sister Shreedevi to Appukuttan and in exchange had said that he would be happy to marry the oldest girl in the family who was younger than him. She thought of her sister just older to her who had a permanent job as a teacher in a government school. This sister was in fact a few months younger to Ramchandra.  Ammini knew that it was just because she herself had not enough education and no professional skills that her brother had decided that she needed the marriage more than her older sister. She once again thanked her stars that she'd not continued her studies all those years ago. Ramchandra's face and his smile flashed in her mind's eye and Ammini had to remind herself that it was not now but tomorrow when she would be seeing him again.

Her older brother had handed her a small suitcase in which she filled her few belongings. It didn’t contain much; she didn't have anything new except the gold-coloured saree he'd bought for her from Bombay. The saree had cost 13 rupees and looked like real gold. Ammini was grateful and knew that she would cherish this gift for her whole life. She had heard that after her wedding she would first head with her husband to his village home in Kottarakara, in the southern part of Kerala. Ammini had travelled so little till then. Everything would be an adventure, she decided happily. She ate her supper quietly and stayed in the corner of the room she slept in, when all the chores were done. She would miss this little space, she said to herself, this little sanctuary she had.

 

It was the middle of the night and she was already getting ready for the long journey. It wouldn't be a huge wedding party. One of her uncles had reached the house the evening before and he would join her and her brother Appukuttan. The only sister who would join them was Sati. The weddings were to happen at the famous Guruvayoor temple. Her mother had a young son to tend to and chores that needed to be done. She wouldn't be joining them. Neither would her older sisters. The budget was tight and not everyone could be taken along.

 

Ammini took the blessings of the Gods in their home temple and the Gods in the courtyard and then sought the blessings of her parents. Her mother handed her a gold chain. She looked at the chain, surprised that she'd received something so valuable. She put it around her neck. She touched her mother's outstretched hand, that was as much of a physical demonstration of love that she felt was called for. The restraint was not from fear but from having forgotten the gesture altogether. Her sister Sati hugged her and pinned a small flower garland on her sister's braid. They looked at each other and smiled. Ammini hadn't said anything about how she felt to Sati but Sati knew that this was the best thing that had happened to her sister in years. They held hands when they walked out of the home towards the gate of the house.

After a couple of bus journeys, the wedding party reached the temple. The menfolk had gone ahead to make enquiries and the women were left to wait for Ramchandra and his family's arrival. Ammini stood there, under the large trees near the entrance to the temple grounds, sweating nervously, wondering what was to happen next. She also realised that she would meet her mother-in-law soon. What would she be like? Would they like each other? Would she approve of her cooking? As she was engrossed in these thoughts, she saw Ramchandra and his family enter the main gate of the temple. He was accompanied by an older woman and two very thin girls and a young boy. The girls were very well dressed. The older woman had a simple set - mundu , but the girls were in sarees that Ammini guessed were from Bombay. She couldn't guess who the bride was but imagined it was the girl who was talking less. She recognised the nervousness Shreedevi carried. They all gathered together. Ramchandra turned to ask Ammini and Sati something.

 

Ammini let Sati do the talking but as Ramchandra's voice fell on her ears, something deep inside her relaxed. She felt something she had not felt since some time. Confidence, reassurance and a sense of calm. She wouldn't have been able to express these feelings though, even to herself, but she knew she was happy. As they all walked together towards the inner parts of the building, Ammini felt a soft touch on her arm. She turned to look and realised that her mother-in-law, to be, was holding onto her gently as they walked. She held back the tears that rose quickly, touched by this unexpected gesture of acceptance and belonging.  

In front of the sanctum was a huge line of people who'd come to the temple to be married in the auspicious hours of the morning. A temple priest led them to their allotted zone. Before she knew it, the women around were marking the occasion by the ‘kuravas’ or celebratory, high-pitched, oscillating vocal sounds to bless their weddings. Both grooms tied sacred threads around the necks of their respective brides and their marriages were solemnised.

Ammini was married to Ramchandra and Appukuttan to Shreedevi. The newlyweds and their families then proceeded to the hall where food was being served on banana leaves and waited for their turns to be seated. Ammini sat next to her brother's wife and both of them didn't eat a lot. They were seated there amongst hundreds of people, but each was lost in thoughts of what their future homes would be like and most of all if their husbands were good men.

Like this story? You can make sure to miss no new story by 

You may also like the first part here about how my parents met

How my Daddy met my Mummy - Ramchandra & Ammini - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

or these of when my mother was a young girl

Young Ammini - Chapter 1 - The bathing ritual - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child

and 

Young Ammini - Chapter 2 - Schooling woes - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child - trigger warning

or this one about my father

My Daddy Strongest - Landline adventures - Chapter 16 - The Chronicles of the Youngest Child