The End
Painting

Turmoil

Print on paper

Blue

painting

Hidden and nervous discovery

Painting

Title: Sadness fear all at once

Color pencils

Title: Colorful Silly
Painting

Saraswati (Painting)

Survivor (color pencils)

Shonali and Bhai (fiction)

I hated him. I hated him for pulling my hair, for taking my dolls and pulling their heads off; I hated him for pushing me around and demanding for little things. I felt like a servant who had no choice but to serve him. Even when I told mama about how he treated me, she didn’t do much except yell at him. What could I do? Nothing! Bhai was two years older than me and he was my brother.

One evening, legs crossed, he sat on the bed. I quietly tip-toed my way to the door hoping that he wouldn’t call on me. As I came closer to the door, I stopped and waited to hear my name. It was the first time he hadn’t demanded for food or water. I turned my head and looked back at him in surprise. Then turning my whole body around, I noticed his reactions as he watched a Bruce Lee action movie with his eyes wide open. I stepped out the door and thanked god for the Bruce Lee movie. It kept him busy.

Before I could take another step I heard my name. All of a sudden, the movie’s crashing banging noise had stopped. Bhai had turned off the television set.

“Shonali, come here,” he said.

“Now what does he want?” I thought to myself. Without letting him say another word I blurted out, “Water, water is that what you want?”

“No I don’t want water. I want to show you my new Kung Fu steps I learned from Bruce Lee.” Unaware of his intentions, I stepped forward and waited for him to show me his new Kung Fu steps.

One hit, two hit, and I was down on the floor. I was in pain and started crying. Mama came in the room and looked at me; she picked me up and asked Bhai if he had hit me. “No, she slipped and hit her head on the floor.” After listening to his lie I stopped crying and got off mama’s shoulder and started running behind him with my flip-flop in hand. I ran around the house just to get back at him. Within two runs of the house I hit him hard with my flip-flop. He was down and I started laughing. He got up and ran behind me. I started pacing myself, when I got tired I hide myself behind mama.

“Both of you, enough!” she yelled and we froze. “Both of you apologize to each other. Now”

“But he hit me first,” I whined.

“No I did not. Liar,” he replied.

“That’s it. You both are getting double chores, starting today,” mama announced.

“That’s not fair. Tell him to apologize first and then I’ll apologize.”

“No. I didn’t do anything. Why should I apologize?”

I could not take his lies anymore. Hidden behind mama, I carefully started stepping forward. As I brought my hand closer to his face, papa pulled my hand back and looked at me. He knew I was about to hit him, and so he yelled at me, “He is older than you. Apologize right now and go to your room.”

With tearful eyes I apologized and ran upstairs to my room. I jumped on my bed and burst into tears. I had never seen such anger in papa’s eyes. I cried till I heard someone enter the room. I wiped my tears and pretended to sleep.

“Shonali,” my brother whispered my name. “I’m sorry, for hitting you. I didn’t want to hit you hard. I was just trying to show you my new Kung Fu steps.”

I got up and looked at him. He was scared that I might throw my flip-flop at him again and so he kept a good distance from the bed.

“Fine. It’s okay. You hit me, and I hit you back. Fair deal and fighting over,” I replied.

Bhai went back to his old routine of ordering me around. But instead of hitting me, he started protecting me from bullies in our school and neighborhood.

One afternoon, our school bus was packed by the time I got on the bus. My seat had taken by some first graders. I had to sit where the new kid had sat in the morning. The same kid Bhai had had problems with earlier. Bhai was sitting behind me talking to his classmates, when all of a sudden the new kid entered the bus and approached my way. He was wearing the same uniform, but it looked different than the one he wore in the morning. It was dirty with pen ink and mud all over it. The pockets of his shirt were ripped as if he had been in a fight with another bully of his size. He came closer to my seat and gave me a bitter look.

“Get out of my seat,” he yelled.

“Your name is not on the seat,” I replied.

I replied and I knew I had made a mistake; so I closed my eyes waiting for him to hit me. I heard a loud slap, but I didn’t feel any pain. It was my brother who was hurt, not me. He had protected me from the new kid.

I was mad at him, not because he got hurt, but because what he did for me made me love him more.

Home

After 22 hours of traveling, I stood in the middle of the biggest airport I had ever seen, in the capital city of a foreign nation, soon to be my permanent home. With our whole life packed in suitcases, my family and I migrated to the United States to start a new life, just in time to watch the ball drop to start off the Y2K. Only eleven, I was confused and felt lost in this new world I was placed in all of a sudden. During the past six years, this major cultural change has become the molding factor that has and continues to reform me while keeping the basic ingredients of my native culture constant. Migrating from home to a new nation gave my personality a brand of new soil to dwell in. It gave me an opportunity to simultaneously develop more as an Indian and as an American teenager. During the weekdays I hang out with my non Indian friends and during the weekend I interact with Indian friends and relatives in temples. Today I am an Indian-American teenager living in a mix of both western and eastern cultures. I cherish my Indian heritage and relish my American life and altogether call it home.

The Spider

At the age of 11, I sat at a corner of my closet wall, hiding under my hanging clothes across a wall with a mirror in front of me. Through the empty spaces between my hanging clothes I could see a duplicate figure of my half body in the mirror. The only things I couldn’t see yet or feel were my warm tears running down my red and drowsy eyes. I had cried too long to even remember.

Earlier that day, I received an F on my English progress report. I couldn’t understand what I had done wrong. I was in an ESOL English class and I was getting all the attention needed from my teachers. In addition, being an ESOL student meant an easy A grade since the work burden was nothing compared to a regular English class. That day I felt like a “loser.” I didn’t blame myself for living in India for 11 years. Neither did I blame my parents for not being able to communicate with me in English every day. Instead, I blamed the cultural differences that took place between the two nations.

Being the new foreigners was not easy for my family. Finding jobs, paying all the bills, and trying to fit in a community that did things differently was the biggest challenge we faced. But the biggest challenge for me was being able to understand how the school system worked, why the homework and class work assignments were a big deal, and why I took the whole class period doing my class work while the other kids would be done with it in minutes.

I sat there in darkness while my tears stopped, dripping on my clothes and dried out on my checks. I sat there telling myself that I was stupid, dumb, and that maybe something was wrong with me. I sat there telling myself that I was a “loser” until I saw something from the corner of my eye. It was a spider on the sidewall trying to climb up and reach its web safely. It fell on its back in the first attempt but slowly jumped up on its feet for the second trial. It fell again and again but it didn’t stop trying. It finally made it home and brought a smile to my face.

Seven years have passed and I still sit on the same spot, hoping to encounter the spider that inspired me to face the failure within me and try to change myself instead of blaming the cultural differences that will always exist. It has helped me to convert a foreign language into a home language through reading and writing. Within the years, the spider has taught me that the first failure is the first step to success.

Henna3  

Henna2 

Henna1  

Place below heaven (photo)

Lost (Painting)