The Cliff

Frolicking through fields of delusion

At the age of ten, I was shipped off to an all-girls Catholic convent boarding school tucked away in the lower Himalayas. It was called Convent of Jesus & Mary, Waverley. We shortened it to CJM, Waverley and identified as Waverlites.

As awful as boarding school may sound to some, those were actually some of the best years of my life. Unlike my hometown New Delhi, the air here was pure, as were our little ten-year-old hearts. I had just discovered Harry Potter, and joined the choir. Life was magical.

Religion was irrelevant here. Every night, my friends and I would pray to our own Gods, and then to each other’s (just in case).

As a choir girl, I attended mass for special occasions. The Easter midnight mass was probably my favourite, mainly because it happened so late at night. There would be a feast of Oreo biscuits and sandwiches after.

It was during these years that I began to form a relationship with good ol’ Jesus and Mary.

There’s something about being on your knees when the room comes alive with songs of devotion for the statues in front of you. I’d have conversations with them in my mind. Not the religious kind - the hymns were a bit clingy anyway (As the deer pants for the water, so my soul longs after youuuu).

No, I kept it cool and casual.
More like, 'ssup J Dawg?
Hello again, Mares.

Like any child, I wondered about the obsession with her virginity. So much so, they called her Virgin Mary.
Why are all religions so focused on women’s virginity?

I never understood it.
Not in my childhood, nor in my adult years.

A person doesn’t actually change that much before and after consensual sex.
You’re still you.
Perhaps a little disappointed if you’re a woman,
but on the whole, pretty much the same.

But being fucked by life?
There should be a word for that.

Because that’s the one you need to look out for.

I often think about my days on that mountain. Sometimes I close my eyes and pretend I’m still there, by the big statue of Jesus near the basketball court, looking out at the visible glaciers.

There is a distinct before and after of getting life-fucked.
In the arrogance of the before, you don’t even know there’s an after.

You frolic through fields of delusion and blissful ignorance.
Jump off cliffs just to see what happens.

And then one day, you wake up as someone else.
In a home that looks like yours,
but isn’t.

You tell yourself,
It’s okay.
I’m still home.
I can get used to it.

You look around.
You see the crater where the asteroid hit, reshaping the landscape of you.
You frolic in the same fields, now lush from the storm.
You watch the sunrise from your cliffs,
but you can no longer spot the glaciers.

I’m still home.
I can get used to it.

Eventually, you do.
You might even start to feel a strange sense of pride in it.

This world you’ve built.
This strange, scarred ground you walk on.

Like, hey.
This is mine.
I grew this.
I made it.

Like an arrogant God showing off his little world, trying to glaze over the baby cancer.
“Never mind that. Look at my growth! Look at the character arc. The lessons. The resilience.”

Look how far we’ve come.

Mankind’s greatest mistake was believing in an infallible God.
But that’s a blogpost for later.

You skip through this new terrain, smiling.
Not because it’s perfect.
But because it’s yours.

Built entirely from your own choices.
Stupid, impulsive, heartfelt decisions.

Then the sun sets.
And you’re alone in the dark.

The thing about surviving landslides is:
you stop trusting the ground.

It takes a while to realise your internal compass is glitching.
The voice of instinct that once protected you
may now just be a remnant of past trauma.

No feeling is more unsettling than the moment you realise you can no longer trust yourself.

You start getting suspicious of beautiful things like love. Hope.
And handsome men.
Especially handsome men.
Ugh.

Clinging to a cliff you can’t seem to jump off anymore,
like a cliffhanger nobody asked for, you wonder:

Is this instinct?
Or am I just damaged?
You can’t truly know.

Unblinking, eyes wide open,
Every shadow, an asteroid.
Every tremor, an apocalypse.

I’m still home.
I can get used to it.

There really should be a word for this.
Maybe I’ll ask J Dawg.
Or Mares.

Light a little candle in my mind,
and pray to whoever’s listening.

Or maybe
just say hi.