A lot has changed since we last met. For starters, I now have friends, and depression and insomnia. They make for a manageable combination. I like particularly to keep the Aussie friends around for when I can’t sleep at 4am — the sound of keys clicking away at the keyboard on the other end of the phone makes for suprising ASMR.
Also, you’ll be dismayed to know that I’m now more ‘radically’ left than you ever imagined, although, since being ‘radical’ today is the act of expressing rage through the full fury of the keyboard, I don’t think I meet required standards. I merely attack unsuspecting housemates IRL with my overindulgent rants about the general state of affairs. (I keep contentious topics carefully hidden away, in case any conversation goes too smoothly — “So what do you think of the wearing of the poppy during the month of November?”)
And if this doesn’t surprise you given my affinity for ranting, I am also always angry. And frustrated. That by virtue of being ‘other’, I must explain myself. That I live in the cross-section between the racism of society and the sexism of Indian culture, whose damage has facilitated the breakdown of my family. That I’ve finally been given a seat at the table, only to constantly question my deservedness. That others, who have never experienced being ‘othered’ can speak on the platform of decolonisation, preaching yet understanding nothing. And that neoliberalism demands that I remain resilient, forcing me to function with my history of subordination in the same way as those for whom privilege is baggage.
I am perpetually disappointed. That the promise of diversity/inclusion/decolonialism is embodied by those who pay lip service to ideas that suggest they understand, when not so deep down they are white patriarchy, doing very little to experience the discomfort of their own ideas.
And I am tired, and exhausted, of this rage that makes me a permanent outsider, belonging nowhere.
But anyway, how are you? It’s been a while.
