Hey you,
I hope you’re enjoying Kaus’ Postcards. I started this publication to cultivate a writing practice and connect with people through my writing.
I’ve been struggling with showing up for my writing hours so I’ve decided that after my 100th post, I will open the publication for monetary support until then it remains free - in hopes that this objective will push me to write consistently. Currently at 42/100.
I don’t know how this intention will pan out but I hope it does because that will mean: us spending more time together.
This space has started to feel sacred and special even though I do not turn up as often as I would like to.
I am immensely grateful for being able to connect with you through this space and my writing.
I am grateful for your inspiring messages that give me butterflies and fill me with so much love (every single one of them). I see you and I love you.
I do hope to make a living out of my writings one day, in near future, but there’s no rush. Right now, all I want is to write.
Thank you immensely, dear person.
Now, now, onto an exciting thing for today... (I am super excited to share this!)
Today, I invite you to read a short story that I stumbled upon recently while cleaning my old writing folders (I am into full-blown-digital sweeping these days. A cluttered workspace (in my case, digital) invites a cluttered mind — do you agree with this philosophy?)
Since some of our world has moved to digital spaces, I feel all of us have these digital homes and we should sweep them often, and hopefully, if the day is good, your old self might have left something tiny but valuable as a surprise.
I do not remember in which year I wrote this short story, but I was pleasantly surprised to have stumbled upon it. I had to take a moment to recall the time and place where I might have written it. There was a lot of guessing, but I could finally remember. It was a delight to meet my old writer self. Now, this short story is yours too.
Now on to the story… Happy reading!
I arrive in a dim-lit corner of a familiar cafe. I remember the flapping sounds of mosquitoes under the table, the red bites on my bare calves, slow service, buzzing fan in the background, wooden chairs, and the teas. The place is popular for its teas. Not the food, just teas. They got many.
I wait for her as I eavesdrop on a conversation of what seems like a manager?owner? and a waiter. She is asking the waiter for categories on the menu, and the waiter, like a kid who didn’t do his homework, avoids eye contact and blushes.
She uses a stern tone next and asks him to memorize the menu. It seems disciplinary, but more like nurturing someone and less like an employee-employer relationship. I tell myself, ‘I love when women run businesses.’
I look at the wooden tables, some have dulled in color. I see a glass bottle, and it reminds me that I promised a friend to buy him a glass bottle because he was going to purchase a plastic one.
I finally see her approaching my table with what seems to be bags-you-carry-to-work. She has her usual calming personality. I always think that her curly hair complements her peaceful aura. She embraces me with one of the warmest hugs that I’ve gotten in a while. I melt.
There’s something about the hugs, the right ones at the right time can melt you in minutes.
She prompts, ‘Should we sit somewhere there? It’s more on the side. Would you like it?’
I love the choice in that inquiry. I like how women are always making you comfortable no matter how they walk into your life and I always had the honor of meeting these women.
I could barely hide the sparkling bliss at the sight of seeing her in my profusely-fed desolation. I jump and say, ‘Yes! Why not? What about that table?’
We move and order our food. Momentarily distracted from our main affair so I can still be my cherry, lovely self.
After the hubbub of waiter, order, menu, teas has passed, she gently puts across one of the deadliest and kindest sentences, ‘What happened, T?’
When you are used to pushing your feelings away, all repressed emotions are reserved for this one question, ‘What happened?’ and no matter how much resilience you have been building day after day, it all comes down to this very moment.
I cave in to her kind & gentle inquiry. I look at her, a gentle, kind face twinkles at me with a willingness to hear my pain. How many times you get these honest moments when someone is genuinely offering you a space to share? It’s not that common in noisy cultures like mine so I find attentive listening very fascinating. And in this particular moment, it’s offered with empathy.
In my half-welled-up voice, I tell her, ‘I am going to cry now. Give me a moment.’
Trying to avoid eye contact.
I tell her, ‘I don’t want you to look at me.’ And hide my face with a menu.
I feel like a child asking his mum to look away as she dresses up and absolutely forgetting the former years when she was running naked in the whole house.
Something is weird about societal constraints. Crying, the most genuine human emotion. I’d like to celebrate it. Tell the world, ‘Oh yes, I am very sad today and I’m going to cry my heart out and show you.’ The same way I show my joy, happiness and fun.
But here something in me forebodes me, ‘Don’t cry in public. C’mon! Crazy!’
Seriously, one day, I’d like to see it being as normal as a man walking out of a gym and crying because autumn feels so beautiful and people passing by, join in and celebrate crying, too.
She hands me a tissue and waits.
I flood. It’s all there on the table. In this case, it is literally on the table.
I tell her things that have twisted my days, kept me feeling like I am a moss on the wall. (I’d prefer being a moss) . The things that I think to myself but they’ve never been out and shared with a real human. A part of me that never treads vulnerability or expressing feelings willingly.
She listens and listens, intendedly so. Like all that is to do in this moment is listening. To me.
After I finish, she puts all of it together in less than a paragraph, ‘You know you have the right to feel what you feel? Your feelings are valid, T.’
My brain pauses a lil bit. I have never heard a sentence like that. Valid, feelings, mine, really?
I thought I’ve loved myself pretty much every day of all my life so much so that I’ve become the person that I look up to every day, but I never thought there are still parts of me that I do not welcome: Vulnerability.
We sit there after the moment has passed, drinking teas.
The topic then swayed to dysfunctional families. She loves psychology so we have enough vocabulary bank to name the behaviours & situations. We talk about growing up as an Asian kid & becoming an adult in this strict society. The high-powered masculine energy in our social groups & diminished & toed-down femininity.
I tell her, ‘There’s another world out there & it’s possible to live free.’ I tell her how travel has led me to find these people from much open cultures & it’s given me hope that there’s a kinder way to live a life.
She tells me her part & ends with, ‘For me, I don’t have the two different worlds of people. It’s just the patriarchy & me, a living being.’
It’s not always about the things we say, but how we say it. It was something about how she said it, with utmost sincerity, honesty & neutrality.
This stays with me for the following months. My brain keeps taking me to these words.
I feel lighter, heavenly. We part.
Later, she messages me, ‘Hey! I am your tribe.’
I smile and get on with my night, gleefully :)
There’s nothing more powerful than two people sitting side by side and offering their vulnerable selves and being accepted as they are.
-THE END-
Psst! Something I’m working on dearly, would you like to know about it?
Kaustubha’s Insight Timer (I am on to becoming a full-time meditation teacher here. I invite you to check them out. I write and create audio tapes on guided-meditation, talks on self-compassion, belongingness, and this human life in general)
If you find value, inspiration, or love in my writings, would you consider telling your world about this? Thanks for keeping this going! ❤️
Reader’s Question: Do you feel comfortable with being vulnerable?