When the day explodes

In a land not of her own a girl thought she should be sociable and assimilate into the goodwill of her hosts. Nevermind that she is on her period (actually, it minds and we’ll come back to it later). Nevermind that her ankle is wobbly from navigating the unpaved roads/ dirt paths of the dusty city and the hills of the remote village. The decision to go with them for local food while her female friends hang out at a cosy cafe seem to be brave, commendable one.

She quickly realised that things were going the way of yesterdays. Of 10pm dinners and jeeps that never came. It was too late and she sucks it up, all into her empty stomach. It’s finally time to go, one and a half hours after she started to wait. Ah yes, time – such an invaluable asset to her reduced to nothing but nothingness in the form of casual and meaningless talk – all in a foreign language she is asked if she enjoys, as if that is a logical, caring question.

They finally set out, and it is clear she is not getting what she is expecting. She finds it an oddity that they can be so careless about her time and yet insist on playing Futsal at 3pm sharp. She quickly resigns to her fate and is almost ready to just melt onto the grass and watch them play the game while she continues to starve, when she is bestowed a stranger, no less, to bring her to a restaurant when she can eat. Alone of course.

It could be a culture thing, a gender thing or a period thing. She tries to control her tears as she waits for her food, sipping her Nepali milk tea as she shakes, hoping the good-looking waiter doesn’t catch her tears (but he does). It’s an explosion of everything. The day has fucking exploded. She googles stupid things to make it okay. She manages to finish her food, no thanks to kind waiters who she thinks would make better care-givers than her co-team workers.

She finishes her food and goes into the bathroom. She breathes but the tears come anyway. She blames it on PMS only because she wants to get over it quickly. She exits the restaurant and knows she will survive. She points a middle finger midway talking to herself anyway. The day has exploded anyway.

She meets her friends at the cosy cafe. To hell with local culture. Companionship and basic respect transcends all cultures, she would like to believe. She lets it all out, her complaints manifested by mockery of others and bitching, something she is exceptionally good at but has kept it in for long. She occasionally reflects on her lack of empathy, but bitching is fair game when one is past her tipping point, right?

This is the story of a day gone wrong, the fault of nobody (maybe Futsal is the bane. maybe it’s the weather. maybe it’s the pomelo tree growing by the sidewalk). She will survive the day, and binge on cookies (not ice cream, because her rationality is still intact despite the explosion), sleeping early in preparation for a brand new day.




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