Flowers, Pastels, and more...

 

It was quite by accident since the pandemic time that I slowly started getting really attracted to soft pastels... I love shades and vibrant colours and I love texture and getting my hands messy and actually feeling and mixing that raw colour, all of which soft pastels gives you which more sophisticated popular mediums such as watercolour may not... feeling life in all its rawness and immediacy. I also love flowers. Like I really really do. What's not to like about flowers, I guess. Or anything in nature. Colours again, for one. Shades, textures. Names of flowers. Collecting them. Photographing them. Sketching them. You might find me at it a bit... anyway, I haven't really gotten into it in a big way yet though I want to... but I still do attend some botanical art workshops and things that happen (and also just art workshops and botany workshops and not necessarily pastels or flowers but you get the idea...) ... so I had written this story called 'Poppies and Vulvas' (Queer-e-junglers need to be credited here for part of the idea in the story) and the story shows a lot of flowers resembling sexuality, as the title of the story suggests, Georgia O'Keeffe style maybe?, so I', not going to say more here, but I made a visual for the story with soft pastels, okay? So I'm no artist so please don't judge me as one, but I was quite as happy with this as a peacock with two tails. Poppies, anemone, aparajita, canna, calla lily, ou-tenga (elephant apple) leaves! ----- oh yes, one day I went to The Red House for this thing on trees and was given aparajita seeds, banana-flower and my own personal ou tenga to take back home....among other stuff--- oooooh!! 

(PS-- how to preserve the artwork after making is the difficulty I'm now coming across with soft pastels) 

'Ether Elf and Eidolon Leonard' in Fem Asia!

 

Shameela Yoosuf Ali, the editor of Fem Asia had published a couple of my poems back in... 2024, I think... and she was sweet enough to request me to send some more stuff which I did, and out of that she chose this little 1100 word story 'Ether Elf and Eidolon Leonard' where a neuroqueer elf comes down from Saturn to give an award to the ghost of Leonard Woolf... and... I'm telling you no more, read it yourself here.

                                   Ether Elf and Eidolon Leonard 

            Ether Elf, in faraway Saturn, was getting ready to embark on his journey. For this, he had to tie a wide strapped belt, very very tightly around his waist and he was done. He was small, piglet-like, pink in colour, yet he had the ability to emit light in various colours. His elaborate belt tied at last- "jiggle jiggle! Let the world by me squiggle!", he cried. Thus saying, he began spinning very fast, like a top. He spun through space like he was a planet himself, hurtling across the distance like a meteorite. On reaching earth, that planet inhabited by humans, he decided to land in Sussex, England.  He took out his skateboard with wheels which sped fast across the countryside till he reached the little village, Rodmell. Once in Rodmell, he asked around for Monk's House. It turned out to be a large white building with a slate grey roof. It was a museum now, but long ago, Virginia and Leonard Woolf had lived here. Ether had come here to seek a meeting with Eidolon Leonard. 

 

                 It was night time. Ether found Leonard in an open courtyard, looking up at the moon, entranced. He seemed to be talking to himself: "is this a miracle", he said "I can see multiple multiple arcs of moon, proliferating, multiplying, criss-crossing each other. They look like swords.  So many of them--- bright luminous swords. Is it the moon, or is it my eyes?" Ether stood at a slight distance and watched. The silvery smoky ghost of Leonard seemed remarkably similar to the moon. Now Ether had a special talent of ventriloquism. He could speak through other objects, making it appear as if they were speaking. As Ether was from Saturn, his powers of ventriloquism stretched across space. Not wanting to disturb Leonard's entranced enraptured and ephemeral ghost by putting his clammy hand on his shoulder, Ether now preferred to speak through: the moon. 

 

                       "Through history, men have squabbled amongst themselves...." Eidolon Leonard was aghast to hear a high-pitched squeaky voice coming from the moon. "as to the true merit of Leonard Woolf. By and large, history seems to have forgotten him. A pale non-entity beside his wife. Some have demeaned him, castigated him, blaming him for their sexless marriage and Virginia 's eventual depression and death. Most of Virginia's biographers, with much closer and deeper knowledge have given him a Nobel Prize in marriage. Tonight, we will award Leonard Woolf with a gold medal for queer masculinity.  Masculinity with a difference. A man with a difference. A different man." As he spoke, Ether tripped and fell flat into a rosebush. As shrieks and squeals pealed forth from the rosebush, Eidolon Leonard took pity on him and rescued him. 

 

                         "Ah, thank you, brother Ghost Leonard", continued Ether, quite unperturbed. "I see the moon was talking to you. Ah well, actually, it was I. I, Ether Elf from Saturn. Once I too lived on earth, but along with my fellow neurodivergent brothers and sisters and trans-people, I was banished to Saturn as earth-humans considered us mentally unhinged. I am as such not allowed on earth, but sometimes I take advantage of nights like these." 

 

                      "What makes you visit me tonight, Ether Elf?", asked Eidolon Leonard curiously. "To give you a World Prize for Queer Masculinity, of course", replied Ether promptly. "So let me continue with the elegant, eloquent speech I was making before I fell into the rosebush. Ahem...", he said, clearing his throat, trying to squeak pompously 

 

                         "The neurodivergent folks of Saturn-- goblins, elves, fairies, werewolves, giants, wizards and witches, and all magical creatures besides, have decided, one and all, through unanimous vote of a select representative committee that the World Prize for Queer Masculinity for all time rightfully goes to Leonard Woolf, a man in a million. In a gazillion. Leonard Woolf no longer being alive to receive the award, you, Eidolon Leonard, are the rightful proxy. Now the neurodivergent folks of Saturn are mostly quite queer and weird and eccentric and strange ourselves, being neurodivergent, differing form the normal, and ethicality is a strong streak in most of us. Thus, we have a long list of very good reasons for this award, which I will just enumerate. 

 

                   Words fall short, Brother Leonard, when one looks at you. For your ever patient, gentle, steadfast treatment of Virginia --- despite her initial suspicions and mistrust on account of you being a Jew. We, Saturnalians, look askance at the practices of jealousy and rivalry prevalent among earth humans towards anyone else who may love their beloved. We, Saturnalians, believe instead that an implicit shared bond connects me and you if we share a beloved. This, what earth humans call polyamory, is another reason for conferring the prize. For sharing her with Vita, Violet, and even her sister Nessa, in her most intimate moments. Look at Vita's husband, Harold Nicholson, and you stand out as the brightest shining diamond in the sky, Leonard. But perhaps most of all, for truly respecting Virginia 's fear of sex and for not forcing it upon her, despite your own desires --- because we do know that you did have the desire, Leonard. For being so gentle as to stop when she asked you to stop. For continuing to love her so tenderly, and lifelong despite that Leonard, instead of forsaking her as many a man would have done. For being by her side, in health and in sickness, always. For being such a devoted husband. This in itself makes you queer and sets you apart, Leonard. Let it be known that we Saturnalians do not give you the Nobel Prize for Queer Masculinity for any relations of your own that you may have had with other men, but for your relationship with Virginia. Similarly, Virginia's queer relationship with Vita is world famous among earth humans, but we put the Virginia -Leonard relationship on a higher pedestal, Leonard. Perhaps because we neurodiverse folks dislike penetration as much as Virginia did, so we don't see anything wrong with a sexless marriage. Rather, we think you a divine angel, Leonard. And it is evident that to you and Ginny too, your relationship was far, far stronger than any either of you could possibly have had with anyone else. Ginny's suicide note to you says it all. We regard Virginia's marriage to you as queerer than her relationship with Vita. Virginia was the luckiest witch in the world to get a husband like you, Leonard. For all these reasons then, the honour of the World Prize for Queer Masculinity is yours, and rightfully so, for all time." 

 

                    "Well, it is almost daylight. I mustn't be caught here on earth. Too many neurotypical folks about, on the watch out. But you are a kindred spirit, Eidolon Leonard. May we meet again." Thus saying, Ether once again wound his wide strapped belt as tightly as he could, and spun through space back safely to Saturn. 

 

Book launch of notHERE in Museo Camera, Gurgaon

Oops sorry, not a book-launch like the title says. But a book-talk. There's some difference between the two which the Banshee's autistic brain cannot fathom.... but it revolves around finances, far as the banshee can make out. One needs more and one needs less and therefore we had a book-talk on notHERE, the book about the absent-presences of Bombay and Delhi, published by Beyond Bombay, and edited by its founder, also, my slight namesake, Shriti K(handelwal) Tyagi. 

It was in Museo Camera, they have some nice prints, I was interested in cyanotype, they have more older photographic methods and prints on display and an entire museum for photography which I could not see as they charge entry fees. They also have a nice aesthetic garden I liked clicking around in and some colourful hanging kettles as decor--- but that's outside, inside all decor is camera-themed. Anyway, the discussion inside was nice, the discussion over tea was a little low-brow for my high-falutin tastes but there was CAKE. Two different kinds of cakes which I focused upon, you see. 

A few pictures out of the many that I possess-- (you can look at my jewellery too if you can spot it lol) 

 

Older publication being put up here due to formatting issues-- aarrrrrrrgghhh!! 

A couple of years ago, --so now going on 3, updating so very late-- in the US, this young (and oh so very kind!) girl, Laci F Hector, started Livina Press. This special issue of Homeland is dedicated to Palestine and all proceeds from sale of the book go towards the cause. My poem is about the people displaced in the Narmada Bachao Andolan in which frankly my interest was instigated by a rather selfish reason-- a teacher once said I could be like Aruna Roy!! Crazy teacher, no doubt. And in my vague and rather ignorant mind, Aruna Roy at that point seemed to have a relation with the Narmada Andolan whether she actually did or not. Do not worry, the banshee has read up on Aruna Roy a bit since then, thanks to Zubaan projects!! The title of the poem 'Namami Devi Narmade' comes from one of our assembly songs in school. It seemed to fit the poem and context. The 56 poems/stories/pieces here (I figure at number 51) seem to be very moving and heartbreaking, full of pathos, just by the titles in the

contents pages. She says she got a very good worldwide response for this, perhaps because of the Palestinian cause. A few Indians here too--- including poet Vinita Agrawal! You can see the tree and the watermelon on the cover. The Banshee has been wailing about quite a few things other than love now.

Namami Devi Narmade

The River was our Mother Goddess

She supplied us with abundant water-

To drink, to clean, to feed

The forests gave us firewood, and

wood to build houses. And fruits, 

And leaves. And so much. 

Our ancestors came and settled here:

They cleared the forests, tamed

the wild animals. They were

good people. They did not smoke. 

Neither did they drink. They worked hard. 

One day, the government men came and said that all our 33 villages must be cleared

to build a dam. Sardar Sarovar Dam. 

We heard that the Forest Ministry did not clear

the project, but still, it was passed. 

We did not know what would happen 

but it seemed that the huge big dam 

encroaching on the Narmada, fettering it

from free flow, would inundate our villages. 

Our lands. Our homes. Our forests. Our lives. 

What right do they have to snatch the land

Cleared and cared for by our ancestors? 

Why should my children not live on this land? 

Some people from the city to help us, men and women

Scholars social workers oral historians anthropologists like Medha Patkar and Nandini Oza, 

People retired from the army, and many, many more. 

We joined hands, urban and rural, men and women

We gathered people, formed groups, raised our voices

Did campaigns like Doobenge par nahi hatenge, 

And jal samarpan. We were ready to drown, 

but not to leave our land. We sent across a clear message:

We oppose the construction of the dam. 

But our voices don't matter. Only the voices 

of those who cry development. 

We blocked roads to prevent construction material

from reaching the dam site. We went on 

indefinite hunger strike, had sit-in protests, 

took out rallies. We will not leave our land. 

The World Bank withdrew funding for the dam. 

250 organisations worldwide supported us. 

But what answer did we get from the government? 

They beat us, it is easy to beat women anyway

They put us in jail. So many of us have been in jail. 

We all resisted this project for over 2 decades. But finally, the dam was built. 

The dam was built. Most of us were never rehabilitated. 

The waters rose, drowned our houses, swept away

our cattle. The river swelled up and crocodiles came

We were afraid to go to the river, and so were the animals. 

They killed our Narmada. Killed us. Our forests. Our villages. 

They rehabilitated some of us. But life was full of strife

in the new place. First, locals do not accept us. 

Second, we are far away from our native lands, our place. 

Third, it is too expensive here. There is no Narmada here 

to give us water, no forests to give us wood, food. 

Here we women too have to go out to work. 

We never had to do that in our Narmada village. 

Obtaining water for washing, cleaning, drinking

for the house has become an ordeal. 

Finding wood without our forests is so difficult. 

We grew in that land just as the trees grew

We cannot be uprooted and transplanted at will. 

We grew in that soil, we are strangers here

They look at us with suspicion. 

I asked them for land. The government said 

I cannot get land because I am a woman. 

This makes no sense to me. Why can i not

get land, when a man can? Was it not my land too? 

Did I not lose my land too? 

To add insult to injury, today there stands on the site

Not only the dam, but a hideous humongous Statue of Unity. 

Statue of Unity! I puke on it for shame! 

This is a statue of division, showing people

whose voices matter, and people whose voices do not. 

People whose lives matter, and people whose lives do not. 

Unity is not a statue. Unity is a roaring, crashing wave, 

Breaking and forever rising again in solidarity

Like Our Narmada Bachao Andolan Front. 

*Namami—respect, worship 

Narmada—river

Devi Narmade—the river is also worshipped as goddess 

Doobenge par nahi hatenge— we will drown but not move from here

Jal samarpan— water dedication 

Andolan—political campaign / protest / struggle 

'Of Mirrors, Earrings, Autism, and You' in Serebella mag, Bangladesh

 

The banshee thought that a mag on very "new" issues like the intersection of neurodiversity + womanhood was pretty good for a student-led mag from a country such as Bangladesh, and the banshee also thought that cerebellum + bella = serebella was quite an innovative name. Pun on "new issues", it's just the second issue of the mag! Okay, the banshee has this one poem here 'Of Mirrors, Earrings, Autism, and You' if you open the poetry section of the mag, you can find it here. 

Of Mirrors, Earrings, Autism and You

I look in the mirror. I fumble with my ear-hole.

My new ear-hole.

Thirty years ago, an autistic child, I looked in another mirror

Fumbled with another ear-hole. My former ear-hole. 

That was before I fell in love with you. Age eighteen. 

You-- my autistic obsession. My trauma saviour.

Fascinated by your dangling earrings

I mirrored you. I did not need a mirror anymore.

I was the mirror. Slipping danglers in ear-holes 

became second-nature. First nature. My nature. 

My ear-hole became as elongated as my obsessive fascination. 

Twenty years later, I had to get it closed. 

Twenty years later, my unrequited 'love' wants seal to be a noun instead of verb. 

Twenty years later, I look in the mirror. Again. Fumble with my new ear hole. Again. 

Slipping an earring in the new hole pains. I voice your name. My autistic stim. On repeat. 

Oh, forgot to say that the banshee had also participated in the Rainbow Lit Fest in december and read out a piece of hers, it was pretty cool! The banshee hopes to be able to participate in bigger and better ways in the future. 

The Latest news that came after this poem got published was that--- the banshee had earlier sent poems to Fem Asia in 2024-25 and a couple had been published. Will will put all that here. (or are they already here??) Should put at least some. The banshee has no record herself. But now, the editor of Fem Asia was sweet and kind enough to reach out to ask for/request/invite poetry/prose on urgent basis which she would like to include in the August issue. So I sent. Should come soon, I guess. 

the banshee doesn't put half of her wails here so this will definitely be rectified now and you all shall be full witness to her shrieks and howls lol, but later later. For the time being, the banshee has given you a HUGE update. The banshee is trying to learn balance and moderation in life which should be visible here as well, soon enough. 

'Guwahati: Childlike Innocence in Five Frames' in Monograph Mag

 

So this actually came out earlier, before the Stephens interview and the Dickinson meeting, but the banshee was so busy wailing and crying and being petrified by life in general that she never knew. Monograph Mag is a student-led mag from Kolkata, and the poem was initially originally written as three frams before it kept getting expanded and became 'Guwahati: Childlike Innocence in Five Frames. You can read it here at serial number 22 and the pages of my ages, that's 39-40. I am also pasting it below. oh by the way, it should be flyover instead of bridge in the poem, okay??? I know I know, but I didn't know when I wrote the poem and I forgot to change it and even forgot to ask the mag editors to do so. The Riverview Guest House continues charging exorbitant prices but there is no Riverview anymore so perhaps they should consider changing their name to No Riverview Guest House or else start a Riverview Movement. 

In other news, speaking of Assam, I have been doing some good deeds. Actually just helping in others' good deeds. So this Queer-e-Junglers group which has just turned two, started in Assam and spread to Delhi and I just got to know about them a month ago but now I'm taking part in their activities and meets and they're awesome and they have this barter mutual aid thing too-- the ultimate antidote to a hypercapitalist society. So as the banshee is a poor little rich girl with toooo much stuff which gets dirtier and dirtier cos she never cleans cos she's always wailing moaning crying paining dying I told you-- so finally the banshee is doing a bit of giving and sharing and passing on her stuff to others. The other good service the banshee is doing is that she's giving away piles and mounds of clothes she doesn't use for the Assam flood-affected people via some collection and donation drives by other good people. 

Guwahati: Childlike Innocence in Five Frames 

The guard who stopped me

 near the riverfront in uzan bazar 

where the bridge is being built

saw I was peeved. 

"kharab mat pana, baidew. Don't mind, sister", he said.

 They will scold me if I let you go there." 

Entering Don Bosco university, Tapesia, 

for an interview, the guards at the gate stopped me. 

What did they want? Not my photo id.

These two boys wanted me to click a photo of them. 

It made me laugh. 

At the airport, they asked me curiously:

what is this moringa powder? 

They made me remove the hair oil

 from my hand baggage.

Keep it elsewhere, they said. I asked how.

 Cabin baggage was already checked-in. 

 Then they apologised.

 I have never ever witnessed this in any other airport. 

Next time round at the airport

It wasn't hair oil. It was my spice jars. 

Raw spices bought from Assam.

Not in hand baggage. Go run to cabin baggage

they said. Cabin baggage was already checked in. 

They brought it out for my spice jars. 

Extra weight? I whispered. No-no ma'am, it's fine, they said. 

I have never ever witnessed this in any other airport.

A rickshaw boy 

I hand him a hundred-rupee note

"Please give me a new note", he cries

"Why?", I ask. "What's wrong with this one?" 

"I like the colour", he says, eyes brightening. 

Endearing, unsophisticated

The person, and the emotion here

surpasses the role or mask.   

Interviewed by students of St Stephens College-- Gandhi-Ambedkar Society

 

The banshee's wails are getting louder and louder and she's getting just a leetle bit famous, believe you me. Even her interviewers say she's so known as a poet though they never give her a job. Oh dear me. So some student of St Stephens college picked up the banshee's book A Witch Like You at some second-hand book sale/market, he said, and that's how it came about that students of the Gandhi-Ambedkar society wanted to take an interview of the wailing banshee for their magazine on Dissent Protest Agitation in Education. There are some biggies in here like Nandita Narain and N. Sachin, who was my colleague once upon a long lost time when I was quite new to teaching. There are many more too, you can take a look. Putting mine at the very end gives them some pleasure for some reason so they have done that. You can read them here.

as for the unknown people who get to know about the banshee, an insta page called artists address on the occasion of world artists day had shared the banshee's poem 'Elegy for a Broken Vase' written long ago when the banshee was just 22-23, for a clay vase handmade by a friend in undergrad days. The banshee has no idea at all who are these artist address people and how they ever got to hear the moaning whining wailing banshee...but, may their tribe increase! 

Presenting at the Emily Dickinson International Society Meeting + a sketch I made!

 

Usually, I do not write about academic presentations on blogs, nor do I mean to begin to do so now, although presenting at Global Ghosts and Regional Hauntologies about Jokhini and Jokhini like figures in India and the West, representations over time, conducted by Manchester University and St Theresa's College, Ernakulam in June on my birthday eve was a fun one. So perhaps special noteworthy things can be mentioned seeing how long I worked over it. 

Last year in June on my birthday eve again, I had the happy fortune, the blessed fortune, to meet Martha Nell Smith at the Critical Institute of the Emily Dickinson International Society EDIS (and plus we found she's a friend of my former teacher Mita Bose for whom death's carriage stopped two years ago, weirdly enough-- yes, MB was my first introduction to 'Because I could not stop for death...', the culmination of which was presenting a revised paper in this year's meeting called 'Emily Dickinson Speaks to Neurodivergents'. And Martha Nell Smith (she's a biggie, okay) absolutely loved it, and the Head who chaired my session, Paraic Finnerty, was very enthusiastic and genuine too, so yes, feathers in caps. Reason I'm making a big deal is it's all been uploaded to the EDIS youtube channel so you can hear all their programs including mine. The link to this 90mins session is here. Mine begins at 43mins and continues for about another 15 so almost till the 60 mark, if anyone wants to hear. 

The other thing being that the banshee is absolutely in love with a range of women-- yes Dickinson too is one of them... and one of them who has the most beautiful, most exquisite face, one who has the blood of Marie Antoinette herself, is Virginia Woolf. and the banshee who only wanted to draw botanical flowers decided that Virginia Woolf's exquisiteness was no less than the flowers and that she absolutely demanded to be sketched. So I am no portrait artist, and as the picture says, it's a portrait by a Lover, not an Artist. and my Woolf teacher in MPhil Brinda Bose says that this picture is really good and is comparable to several artists' impressions of Virginia Woolf. While making her ear, I was constantly haunted by Dickinson's line "and Being but an Ear". I also felt at a point that she looks like the teacher who taught in Woolf in BA and even told her so. lolol. That was at one point when I was making the contours of the face. 

'The City Haunts Back' in notHERE by Beyond Bombay

 

So my slight almost namesake, Shriti K Tyagi, has this third anthology in a series of anthologies on place-space-- Beyond Bombay and Beyond Delhi. So this one was on absent presences, the notHERE. It's a kind of coffee-table book. Very well produced. My original title was 'The Dilli I Haunted, The Dilli That Haunts Me'. Shriti has changed not just the title, she's edited the piece quite a bit too. This was published barely less than 3 months ago, so infact on 20th August we have a booktalk for this at Gurgaon--- for which I'm going of course!! They'll tell you it's Gurugram and poor Shriti will tell you that it can't be called a book launch as she doesn't have funds for a big affair but see... who cares. I don't. So banshee haunts, the city haunts, I haunt, jokhini haunts, you see... 

'Brain Police' in Hemlock Journal, and story longlisted in Hemlock's Call of the Wild Contest!

So, the banshee got her 'Brain Police' story in Hemlock Journal, and the funny part is that the story has a character called Hemlock!! Immortalised by Keats as it has been. The journal is a paid one so attaching pictures here. 

As for Call of the Wild Contest, there's a story put up earlier on this blog called Deepor Beel which was published in Parcham. Then I had another apocalyptic climate flash fiction published in Parcham earlier which was based on a dream I had. So I simply added the two stories together and gave that apocalyptic dream to Tuni Das, the protagonist of the Deepor Beel story. So this new story with both combined which was longlisted and subsequently published again (again because the first time was Parcham), you can read it here.   Mine is from page 126 to 129. (the apocalyptic dream being at the very end of the story). 

            

IIC Newsletter Article + A Longlist + A Cancellation!!

 

So, 1. An old schoolfriend /classmate of mine, Shweta Keshri, who works with the editorial team at IIC now India International Centre had asked me to cover one of their inaugural talks and to do a report on it, so that's attached here. 

Then 2, Gayatri Majumdar inaugurated The Wood Rose Spiritual Poetry Prize last year. I was on the longlist with my poem 'Migraine, Psychoanalysis, and J Krishnamurti' although I did not make it to any further list. All the longlisted poems are being published in an anthology by Yoda Press, far as I know, and I won't be making it available here before that. I have got much more into psycho-spiritual stuff now to deal with my mental health and am looking forward to writing something for this year's prize which might probably be in December like last year. 

In bad news, my autofiction The Yellow Wall which had been contracted by Queer Ink Publishers a long time ago was abruptly cancelled in mid-Jan 2026, and as of now I'm still looking for another publisher. Hmm. The swamy marshes of life could perhaps possibly not get any thicker, muddier, more deadly. 

'Exorcism' finds a place in Pena journal!

 

. 

So the Banshee is so crazy wild and berserk that oftentimes, the people of this world try to exorcise her ghosts and demons, but as this story kind of indebted to Exorcist for its name in the Pena journal from Tamil Nadu tells you, they rarely succeed. Infact they do not succeed. Just the way Savage Garden's "I knew I loved you before I met you" is just Sylvia Plath's 'Mad Girl's Love Song' with slightly different words. Complete solipsism, like the banshee herself. You can read it here. 

                                                                 Exorcism 

Flannel was in the throes of a profound passion. She was queer. She was autistic. And she had been in an autistic, passionate, obsessive, unrequited love for almost twenty years. This kind of love grew in absentia. It did not even need physical contact. It grew and it grew and it grew like Jack's beanstalk without any incentive. Everyone, including her unrequited love herself, had tried every means possible to exorcise the ghost of the past: they had scolded her, complained against her, punished her, banned her, excluded her, taunted her and spread tales about her. Aloe Vera's ghost inside Flannel. They had even gone to the police. However, all these attempts to exorcise the ghost had persistently failed. Her queer autistic passionate obsessive lifelong unrequited love showed no signs of waning. She was a torrential waterfall, defying all and nothing deterring her. It was as if Flannel was against the whole world, yet she didn't stop. Couldn't stop. The ghost had possessed her and refused to be exorcised. She sat there chanting "Aloe Vera  Aloe Vera  Aloe Vera ". When in pain, she said Aloe Vera , when she was in fear, she said Aloe Vera , when she was hungry, sleepy, frustrated, exhausted or anything at all, she said Aloe Vera. It was her autistic stim. It had also become an OCD. Sometimes this ghost of Aloe Vera's possessed her. It was like a force outside of her, over which she had no control. Flannel herself did not like the OCD, though she felt that as a stim, it was quite cute. The OCD happened if she was exceptionally strongly upset and became like a stammering “A-A-Al---- Al--oe”  It was difficult to even say Aloe  at such times. But Flannel hated it when this happened. But it only happened during a phase when she was exceedingly upset. The woman had literally become her first and foremost instinctive thought. Sometimes she said it out loud, sometimes she subvocalised it, whatever satisfied her. The ghost inside her. Sometimes it seemed that nothing did.

Flannel was growing crazier by the day and called herself a lunatic. She was like a small baby who wanted her mother all day long. A devotee worshipping her ideal god. Banning, excluding, complaining and taunting, nothing could stop Flannel from saying Aloe Vera. The only means that had not yet been tried was torture. Aloe Vera had been Flannel's teacher, once upon a long-lost time. Flannel had been a newbie in a strange place, and had found it difficult to adjust among her peers as she was very different. She felt like she was an alien among humans. She didn’t, or rather couldn’t, dance, couldn’t watch films, couldn’t even wear jeans. How was she to make any friends at all. Moreover, Flannel couldn’t regulate her own emotions so they kept spilling all over the place. Moreover, Flannel came with a history of childhood trauma. Although she found the new place strange, she didn’t want to go back to that step-mother either. She wanted to make the new place her home. But how this was to be done, she had no idea. Now Flannel had asked Aloe Vera for help. Aloe Vera, as her name suggested, was ever cool and soothing like a balm. True to her name, Aloe Vera had acted as a panacea for Flannel. She had comforted all her aches and pains, she had given Flannel all the validation she needed, and she had been as sweet as sugar. Flannel had loved their time together and even their shared silences so much that she had gotten addicted to them and had fallen in love with Aloe Vera. However, there was one very important characteristic of the magical Aloe Vera which autistic Flannel failed to understand. Distance. Aloe Vera was super particular about distance and personal space but autistic Flannel did not understand these. Now, however soothing an Aloe plant is, it is considered bad luck to keep it inside the house because it has thorns like a cactus. This means that you shouldn’t get too close to an Aloe or embrace the Aloe, despite its balm. Whereas an Aloe Vera usually blooms with bright red-orange coral flowers, it stops flowering when you keep it indoors, too close to you. When Flannel began to stick too much to Aloe, Aloe Vera had stopped flowering, and had instead attacked Flannel with her thorns. These thorns had pierced Flannel sharply and cruelly. Flannel on her part was like flannel, she was soft and warm like wool with a fine layer of downy hairs covering her. She liked getting close to people and cosying and snuggling up. Now people around spread all kinds of taunts and false allegations because it was easy for them to understand Aloe Vera but they couldn’t understand why Flannel was so weird. Aloe Vera had become Flannel’s obsessive special interest and she couldn’t leave her. Moreover, she saw Aloe as her mother. 

In the midst of all these tall tales and those glances and grimaces of utter disgust and disdain that she would get from people, there stood one apart, like the evening star in the sky. This person was Aloe Vera's husband. He was never mean. He had never been unkind to Flannel, not once. Many people couldn't even imagine this. They told Flannel that Aloe Vera's husband would be the most dead-set person against her, out of all the people in the world. But only Flannel knew that gaze — that gaze — of curiosity, but never of judgement. That gaze — which even when grave, looked more like that of a teacher or a parent who would look at a child who bunked school. But it was in no way a look of scorn or contempt, or even disrespect. It was a face which looked ashamed and red in the face even when it had no reason to be so. It was a face which tried to avoid Flannel embarrassment and awkwardness. The result of this profound gaze amidst all the derision was that it had seeped into Flannel's soul. Now Flannel was obsessed with this gaze. The gaze was with her, constantly and always, no matter where she was. This gaze of non-judgement had become a balm for her wounded soul. Flannel felt that if people knew about her observer gaze, they would consider her even more of a lunatic. There was never a time when her observer gaze was not with her. She was constantly the object of this gaze. He listened to everything she said. Perhaps that is why she talked to herself all the time. She felt he was listening. Sometimes it was Aloe Vera who listened. At times it was another teacher. But he, Aloe Vera 's husband, was always always observing Flannel, no matter where she was, in whichever city, in her most private moments, in the dead of the night. Sometimes this gaze turned judgemental and then Flannel couldn't bear it anymore. It was traumatic. That is why she kept him as her observer. He seemed kinder, gentler. Non-judgemental. A remarkable feat indeed, thought Flannel, for someone whose wife you had stalked, when every tom, dick and harry was quick to reject, shun, pass judgement, make false accusations and spread malicious lies. This gaze was a coping mechanism she had developed to deal with Aloe Vera 's absence and loss in her life. But Flannel's mind had created this gaze unconsciously. It was not a voluntary gaze. She was forever its victim and its object. When the gaze was judgemental, she was tormented by it, but never ever could she escape from this gaze which held her captive. She tried to reclaim agency and to keep the kind gazes in her head only. What she called her favourite-gaze. Why should she torture herself day and night, she thought. Did they not torture her enough already? The only saving grace, the only barrier left between her and utter madness, Flannel thought to herself, was that at some level of her consciousness, she knew it wasn't real. She knew it the way she had read in books that the earth was round. She had, after all, never herself seen the earth being round, had she? If she ever saw Aloe Vera  or Aloe Vera's husband anywhere, she would not actually expect them to know all the conversations she had with herself. Though even when she typed messages on her phone, she had this sense of someone sneak-peeking over her. For Flannel, her fantasy was the reality, and the actual reality was something she had to try to imagine, and so completely would it overwhelm her, that she thankfully escaped back into her fantasy within seconds.

 Flannel also dressed like Aloe Vera . Her kohl-darkened eyes and her long dangling earrings were like Aloe Vera 's. Her black wiry hair was already like Aloe Vera 's and nothing brought Flannel more comfort than the knowledge of this fact. She wound up her hair and put it up in a bun, like Aloe Vera , with a metal stick, like Aloe Vera . The metal stick at the same horizontal angle like Aloe Vera 's. Her nose pierced like Aloe Vera 's. With the same silver ring as Aloe Vera 's. The same silver rings in all her fingers like Aloe Vera 's. A tattoo on her upper right arm, Like Aloe Vera . Did she want to become Aloe Vera , the reader may well ask. Did she want to embody Aloe Vera 's spirit in some way? Did she want to show that she shared the same essence? How far was she trying to get at Aloe Vera 's core by dressing like her? Was this a way in which she incorporated and preserved Aloe Vera inside herself?

                  Flannel sometimes wondered how she still called herself by her own name. It was abnormal, they said. Why couldn't she simply forget about Aloe Vera  and move on, like other normal people of the world? Why did Flannel have to think about Aloe Vera every waking, sleeping, and dreaming moment of her life? They failed to understand this. Aloe Vera 's ghost possessed her in her sleep as well. Once she dreamt about lying in a flower garden and sleeping with Aloe Vera . Once she dreamt of playing with Aloe Vera 's legs. Once she planned to murder Aloe Vera  in her dream. Once she dreamt that Aloe Vera  was murdering her. Her utmost delight was to dream of talking to Aloe Vera . Oh, she had innumerable dreams!

Now finally, when all attempts at exorcism failed, they tried torture. They sellotaped      Flannel's mouth to stop her from saying Aloe Vera. Still Flannel's lips tried to move. They examined it, measured it, recorded the number of times she tried to say it, doubly and triply sellotaped her lips, made a calibrated system of rewards and punishments and bribes to stop her from saying it. They decided to put Flannel's finger into a hot flame every time she tried to say it. Of course, the fear and pain made Flannel want to say Aloe Vera all the more, but that would be met with more fire-burning and more Sellotape. Moreover, the latest was that they had brought in a whole range of pins with which they were going to prick Flannel. These ranged from tiny pins and needles to bigger instruments like compass points. Syringes. In different parts of her body. Perhaps in her belly. Perhaps the tongue might suit better if she proved utterly disobedient. Knives. A slash of the wrist. Whatever they could think of and had at their disposal. She could die in the process, but they would stamp Aloe Vera out of her if she was to be left alive at all.  They were pierced into her skin and just left there. Perhaps this physical pain and torture was meant to rival and equal the pain internally within her. Perhaps it was meant to create a rising crescendo and transcend her emotional pain. Perhaps it was meant to serve as a purification fire. The flames with which they tried to burn not only her fingers and toes, but even her lips. As for her hair, it had been entirely burnt. She was bald now. They knew that it was the pride of her life that her hair was like Aloe Vera’s. Those people had made disgusting rumours that she had hit her teacher with some huge metal object. It seemed they were using these same metal objects on her now. What if they brought a bulldozer to simply bulldoze her one day? They knew she had acrophobia. She was terribly scared of heights. So they got this huge crane, put her in it, up up up the crane went. And then they left her there alone for the night, up there, alone in the dark. With her lips cellotaped and her hands tied so she couldn’t say Aloe Vera up there alone. If even that didn't work, starvation was on the list. One meal cut for each time she tried to even subvocalise her name. A lip-reader was called to keep watch on her like a watchman or police. The entire day's meals cancelled if she made even one attempt to put earrings or kohl like Aloe Vera. They confiscated the items whenever they saw them and getting more was impossible because they kept watch on her all the time. But what could they do about Flannel's mind? How could they invent a machine, like a CCTV camera, which could keep watch on the thoughts inside her head, surveil them and record them? Reading, writing, music, films, art — all these were strictly forbidden for her. They kept watch on her as if in prison. That wasn't difficult to do. Flannel would have killed herself but they had barred windows and removed ceiling fans and taken every precaution to ensure that she could not do so. She wanted to die by eating the Oleander plant but surely they saw to it that there was no way for her to access it. All this made Flannel want to indulge in a very autistic activity. An observer had once described it as rocking. She basically had to lie, face down, on her bed, and vigorously rub her clitoris on the bed. But do you think they gave her the satisfaction of doing even this? Of course they did not. Flannel was out of her wits and ready to scream. Sometimes, when she got very tensed and couldn't control it, Flannel's hands became very stiff and tensed, fingers apart. Her hands started shaking. At times, her whole body began trembling. At such times, they beat her hands black and blue and stuffed them in ice to numb them. They would probably love to stuff the whole of her in ice, to make all feeling go away if they could.

However, they realised that there was no way they could stop Flannel from thinking, no matter how much they tried to coerce her lip movement. She said Aloe Vera in thought. It gave her strength to survive the torture. Banning reading, writing, music, films, art could not drive away Aloe Vera from Flannel's mind. And the observer gaze had become a permanent fixture in her head. 24*7*52*20. And she would survive days and days of starvation but she would still attempt to dress like Aloe Vera . Or she wouldn't dress at all and stay in her night clothes all day. She was getting thinner and paler and sicklier and sicklier. She had a tattoo on her arm. At least they couldn’t take this away. For now they had put plaster over it and hidden it and she couldn’t see it but she had the comfort of knowing it was there. Who knows they might try to remove it through laser treatment?

They tried their best. They tried it all. They made full use of the pins and needles and the metallic instruments of torture. They starved her mercilessly. No food at all. Only two glasses of water a day to keep her alive. The Sellotape never ever came off the lips now. And finally, finally, they gave up. For the moment, at least. They were at their wits end about what to do. It was like the machines in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Which, ironically, Aloe Vera had shown them in college once. In fact, she had shown them Exorcist as well. All attempts at exorcising Aloe Vera 's ghost failed. However, Flannel had a very splintered mind. All this external repression had somewhere broken her and she felt as if she was an insane lunatic. She was weird and didn’t belong in this world. She went into deep depression. She felt very guilty about her thoughts and her being as the external repression was somewhere internalised. However, she tried to battle this guilt and self-repression. She actually had no choice because it was impossible for her to drive away Aloe Vera from her mind. The very thought of Aloe Vera brought her cooling, calming, healing freshness to Flannel. This itself in large part, made her withstand the torture. And finally, Flannel came out at the other end. Like the Flannel flower which is known for its resilience in times of adversity and hardship and which is therefore a symbol for mental health. Although she had nobody to be with, rejoice with, play with, laugh with, live with. There was only without. And yet, had Flannel herself not resisted every possible attempt when people told her they would love her if it was not for her emotional infidelity, that is, they offered to love her if she abandoned Aloe Vera. Because Aloe Vera was air and water, oxygen and breath for her. How could she live without Aloe Vera? How could she promise to abandon Aloe Vera for such an uncertain 'love', if it ever worked out at all, which came with such an unutterable condition and at such dire cost? And now, Flannel suddenly burst forth in coral coloured orangeish-red blossoms like Aloe Vera’s. Flannel’s own white blooms had taken on the colour of Aloe Vera’s. Aloe Vera couldn’t bloom when too close to Flannel, but she was far away and she must be blooming now, thought Flannel. In the meantime, Flannel, who had always tried to dress like Aloe Vera and to be just like her, was now flowering with blooms, the colour of Aloe Vera’s.