By Praniti Gulyani

July 30, 2021

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I am not a day older than eight, not a minute lesser than eight.

Because I’m scared; traumatized; petrified.

Of being anything but eight.

I sit at the dining table, with a cousin on either end. The one on the left wants to become an engineer and pursue software, and the one on the right wants to engage with commerce. As the family bursts into an impressed applause, their claps full and confident, a relative looks at me and asks me about my occupational aspirations. “A writer,” I say, as a matter of fact, with a sense of obviousness that is not expected of an eight-year-old. I begin telling them about the stories I write – about two nurses, Daisy and Diana, how they’re made to live in a lagoon, how there’s a railway track carefully placed upon the fluid surface of the lagoon, how a train moves throw the shiny crests of bubbles. . . .

There are looks, glances, and whispers – and seeing the expectation in my eyes, there is gradual applause. I can spot an angle of doubt, but the claps are not full and neither are they confident. They are limp, like the leaves of a touch-me-not. Nevertheless, I flash a grateful and oblivious grin around the table.

After all, at eight, you’re supposed to revel and rejoice. You’re not supposed to realize. “A writer,” someone says, suddenly, out of the blue.

A writer. The setting up of a railway track amidst shimmering, silvery bubble-bridges. A writer. The velvet gliding of a train on the waves. A writer.

I have known this someone all my life, yet today, he seems to be a different person. He was initially one other uncle in the traditional and so categorically divided group of relatives, but today, he seems to be a different person.

All this while, I’ve known him, like I’ve known so many others.

But, today – today he has known me.

I am not a day older than twelve, not a minute lesser than twelve.

Because, I’m cautious; uneasy; uncertain.

Of being anything, but twelve.

I am in a corner of the living room, with a folder in my hands. I have used up half of the ink in our printer. For no reason at all, I feel guilty. I had printed half of what I would like to call my attempt at a novel. I realize I have been holding the folder to my chest, a little too hard. It seems as though the plastic boundaries of this folder, and the papyrus edges of the pages have faded away, and they’ve all merged into me, become me.

“Raera: The Tale of Ra’s daughter,” my maternal uncle says, suddenly, out of the blue. I jump, as I see the folder being picked up and read. “What is this book about?” he adds.

Book. My world comes to a standstill. Book. The feathery-light weight of my title, name on shelves. Book. The sunshine warmth of a possibility. Book.

All this while, I’d forget what my maternal uncle would tell me. I’d merely hear what he had to say.

But, today – today I listen to him.

I am not a day older than sixteen, not a minute lesser than seventeen.

Because I’m happily content; joyfully complete; oxymoronically petrified Of being anything but seventeen.

I am standing now, at a height of 5’11, again with a cousin on either end. The one on the left is an engineer now, her collars crisp and ironed, her sleeves rolled up and precise. The one on the right is a businessman, his pockets plump and brimming. Their achievements are lauded, and again, a relative looks at me and asks me about my uneasy attempts towards accomplishment. I tell them about a poem entitled – ‘A Purple Poem’ that I have written. Something that I’m not extremely proud of, but I love it.

‘There is a Purple Poem –

On my mother’s neck

That my father writes for her

Every full moon night’

My aunts are uneasy. They ask me if my mother knows I write such stuff. Such doubly intended works.

“What’s the next stanza?” asks my maternal uncle.

The next stanza. A ray of sunshine, paving into a different sky. The next stanza. Another dream. The next stanza.

All this while, I’d been extremely introverted, dodging all questions that doting elders would put forth.

But today, today – today I answer.

Today, I answer him, with a soft, grateful smile on my face.

Praniti Gulyani

Praniti Gulyani is a seventeen year old girl from one of tbe most vibrant and colorful places in the world. She likes to call herself "a woman of words and verse", and aspires to become a full time author when she grows up. Praniti has been published in over thirty literary journals around the world, and holds laurels in all spheres of creative writing. She is a Gold Finalist Awardee in The Queen's Commonwealth Essay Competition conducted by The Royal Commonwealth Society, London. Recently, two of her poems won honorable mentions in the prestigious Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest conducted by Hollins University, USA. Praniti wishes to teach creative writing someday, and bring more youth into this beautiful world of literature.