As a child I was obsessed with my cupboard. The twine that twirled into one another, curves and wonkiness that seemed ridiculous, a light brown colour; not what I would’ve liked but all I had. A basic wooden cupboard, it wasn’t anything special. But to me it was everything. A treasure trove of secret letters I could stuff between two pairs of underwear, a sticker I found somewhere that was stuck onto the wall which eventually fell off and was swept away into obscurity. My childhood was tucked away into the shared shelves my sister and I would fight over “your t-shirt is crossing the boundary and coming onto my pants!” My innocence was folded into the lack of space the two of us had, constantly pulling and tugging at any shreds we had to call our own. Hand me downs were abundant, pit stained shirts descriptive of my puberty, absorbents placed strategically to fight the damp in Bombay. I’ve always been good at making do with what I have.
The cupboard was a portal, into a life I would eventually like to occupy. Dreams of New York, inspired by the American media I would consume; walking the halls of Columbia university, with a designer handbag slung on my left arm, taking off my sunglasses to reveal a whole new me: an adult me. Of course, eventually, said future would be entirely altered by a young adult who decided to go with the flow, but little me didn’t know that. The enchanting portal had dreams beyond what my grown self can even fathom, worlds that felt so in my reach but are now hauntingly far. My cupboard had it all.
I tried my best to make it mine. I would blue tack posters onto the front and keep hand written lists and notes inside. They never stayed stuck for too long. It was around that time when I watched a film called “Sixteen Wishes” which revolutionised my life, the Disney way. In the film, Debby Ryan sticks a list of 16 wishes for her 16th birthday onto her cupboard. She wakes up, the morning of her birthday, chews gum and spits it out to use it as glue, and sticks that bejewelled, colourful list of kaleidoscopic dreams onto her cupboard. Me, sitting far away from the ecosystem of an American 16th birthday, and frankly far away from my very traumatic 16th birthday, imagined that this is what it would look like. And so I made a list and stuck it onto my cupboard. It fell off everyday. Most mornings I would stare at it wistfully and tape it back, reinforcing my power over it. I would imagine that this is what my adult life will look like, or maybe my teen life: things changing, feeling grown, a different sense of self, confidence; with adult things happening to me. I can’t remember what my sixteen wishes were, but I remember my sixteenth birthday ending in tears because of mean friends and the evil power of WhatsApp.
I don’t think the wishes worked. But I remember the optimism. The genuine excitement that came with being a teenager going up in age. Each year a promise of independence, that things will just work themselves out. Every step ahead feels like a new possibility and growing older is only filled with optimism rather than the crushing dread of not doing enough with your life. Somehow that comes in much later, and then never leaves.
One direction posters in abundance, juxtaposing that was an old CD player that nobody used. Newspaper cutouts stuck onto various surfaces, a tin box filled with inherited junk jewellery, rings that were too big for my skinny fingers, a vanity box gifted to two young girls whose only makeup item was tinted vaseline. A childhood still deeply entrenched in the innocence of finding new items of ostentation and beauty but were quickly whacked out of our hands, wanting to retain whatever purity we had left. Black tic-tac clips arranged with the elastic hairbands the school made compulsory, hair tied slick back, my large forehead becoming the spotlight for a couple of years-you never know what’s wrong with you until somebody points it out.
Tossing and turning, thoughts that I would eventually recognise as existentialism would plague my mind. As I turn, the curtains look more ominous than normal, the mirror on the back of the door feeling like a portal to a world of horror. Thoughts of death mingle around my mind, like a vacant marble rolling around in an empty vessel. Rehearsing how to put myself to sleep, turning on the TV of my mind, it doesn’t work. Squeezing my eyes shut, forcing it to shut down, as it feels like I will never see the promise of sleep again, I wake up wanting more.
Walking down the same old stairs I used to, now with a fresh coat of pink paint. It isn’t the same anymore. The old reflective glass where I would once stand, what would feel like it only belongs to me, still exists. It’s less mine now, still private, regardless of the little girl staring at me climbing the staircase. The postboxes have not been cleaned in the last 15 years, still reminiscent of a time where we would pull the letters out of the broken glass pane instead of waiting for our parents to unlock the box, thinking that we were being efficient. The lifts hold the same air of childish mischief of constantly pressing the button from outside, never letting the lift move ahead. The railings feel like adolescent infatuation fragranced with the smell of coming home after a long school day. Praying on the way up that there’s a puppy waiting for you but as the bell rings you realise nobody’s home. A walk down 3 flights of stairs, picking up the keys, back up the stairs and an empty house awaits you. Some things never change. A bath, a snack and homework implores but instead one call on the landline reminds you that another world exists. A world of chor police and pakda pakdi. A universe where you could be anything you wanted, a thump on your back meant you’re out, but are you ever really? Sweat forms on your upper lip, little salty beads covering the new growth of thin moustache hairs, ones you will soon learn to despise. The fatigue of a good hour of play sends home a content, sleepy and hungry girl. Another bath, some television and well-intentioned statements which will result in fights are to come. The emptiness, the lack, none of it introduced yet. As of now everything’s okay and each day is a new challenge. No long term goals, no aspirations, just hoping for the test tomorrow to be easier than normal. An innocence in not knowing what is to come, no worry about the future and what’s in store, only planning what hairstyle to make for school the next day.
Sleeping on the trundle bead, hugging the same blanket with Dora the explorer’s face printed, the promise of a new day awaits. And it begins with a creaking of the cupboard, its wooden panels now beginning to show their true age, my uniform being pulled out, a worn out bra and singlet, a glance at my sixteen wishes, and a yawn.