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The Diary of a BindiBabe

by Mayurie 3 years ago in love
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Series 2: Achintya's first... A three part series of semi-fiction memoirs inspired by true events. Written by Mayurie, Founder of Bindi Babe. www.bindibabe.online

I hope you allow the most colourful part of your imagination to embrace, question and enjoy any emotions you may fee. I wrote this series to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0IbjVq-fgs and highly recommend playing lightly in the background. LOVE a good chill-out mix.

I feel like I’ve forgotten I’m outside. It’s almost as if the air isn’t there and it should be. There’s a warm drift. A light blow. Time? I’ll check that later. That includes my breath, because John is about to kiss me. His lips look like they're made of candy crushed velvet, and they're edging towards mine. There’s no feel or even weight felt between our lips. John was white skinned, English—quarter Caribbean, tall-ish as he just managed to Umbrella over me. His stocky build brought a warm coat over us despite no rain, it was a perfect day actually. He had a naturally sexy physique. But he developed that whilst he spent time in prison before we met. A crime we never discussed in detail. But all's well that ends well, as you'll grow to understand just as I did... We suited very well, and if I'd have fell pregnant our kids would have been the most beautiful. But, he booted me well and truly...

The first kiss was no pressure, which is just how I like to be handled. I watch a lot of Gothic eerie programmes, films, and listen to what my sister Sita would describe as "Dark, Man!" Tried to read a few books too, like Vampire tales. I used to be a big fan of Charmed, Buffy and other shows that gave that low-budget dark depth of magic and mystery. These obsessions, built my interests. It also framed my subdued nature. My ability to take on pain also grew. Any kind. Without it showing through my expressions, but definitely through my eyes. I'd self-manufactered contact lensed eyes just how I wanted them. Bewitchingly striking, full of light and streaks of well told alchemy. A real illusion I wanted everyone else to see everyday. And it wasn’t in a sadistic, demonic way. I grew to know that I just loved feeling a depth so deep inside myself. I'm my own astrology (and a Scorpio).

The type of intensity I’d leave trails along the way, for John to crawl through and find. I always gave him that goal. Creep through, pass the inner weeds floating blissfully, but watch out for other crawly's on the way! Like a spooky melody, drift further and find my inner base. There is a ground deep down you know...

"And when you get there, it will look as marvelous as this smoke we're smoking..."

Find the bottom of my ocean I'd say to myself. I also loved how he’d hold my arms behind my back, slightly crossed over, parallel to my lower back. When I was 16 I got my first tattoo—a floating lotus wrapped in light green sea-weed with lots of little sparkles and stars dotted around. I wanted soft pastel colours etched in for detail. I was able to get this tattoo that my good friend Sal drew for me. He has a wicked way with his pencils and my lower back is the place I wanted it—just above my back dimples.

I’d make subtle hints that would arouse John so much. I could see his eyes roll back without them actually rolling back, which made me feel a bit psychic, because I felt like I was moving him into a different world mentally, whilst physically touching him in all the right places. He loved it. He adored me.

“John!” would be my way of saying a million things. Calling his name to tell him to loosen his grip, to calm his friskiness. I never actually knew his sexual past, but he was completely into me, almost like he'd never met an Asian girl before. I was his fantasy. I did find out that he had a rough background, meaning, his dad was a violent drunk. Never around, giving no inspiration or guidance. A real selfish character. And his mum suffered from bi-polar disorder. She wasn't a good mum due to her mental health, but if she was healthy I'm pretty sure she would have done a better job. I can only hope. He had a small family that literally left him to it. And I never judged them for it, I couldn't. I was quiet. I'm Achintya meaning beyond thought, imagination. But he’d try to hold me accountable and be deadly certain about his point of view. He was able to justify his abuse toward me too. When I’d call his name I almost felt him seeking and embracing that verbal attention—soaking in the calling of his name. Made me wish his mum would have called his name more often.

I was THE goddess who worshipped all grounds he walked on. And which goddess do you know that does that? Calling his name in a raucously seductive way, because my voice was as deep-seated as my heart and sounded as beautiful as it beat. It meant so much when he’d come close. His skin was so soft! I was in awe and loved feeling that ‘awe’ flutter through my body, butterflies fluttered everywhere. Large, Lilac and light ones...

My dad met John once and didn't like him at all. He didn't bother to break us up though, not like a typical Asian dad would. He was a really cool guy. He used to play the guitar to me after he’d pick me up from school. He was amazing with instruments, and brilliant at all things art. He was a big fan of music too. Slow guitar solos, especially slow riffs.

My dad committed suicide when I was aged nine... He left me a note before he killed himself. It was the first of its kind, which I later found out when researching into suicide deaths and the notes that these people would leave to their loved ones before choosing to take their own lives. My dads two words left on the printer paper were: Soft Discovery.

Often, when getting close to guys these days, I tell them that this is what my dad said to me before he died. They looked freaked out a little bit, but then I see them look a little harder at me. I wonder if my dad left me those words for these kinds of moments to happen. To have a significant other of mine look at me a little deeper, and give me a soft discovery. He was a deep guy...

Kissing John is all very much a Vu Ja De because once the lies began, the cheating started. Me catching him out. His denials louder than shackles. Then the abuse. I used to call it a ‘moment’ but the rows were on repeat after spending time with his friends. I hated Geoff the most. He’d always give me this creepy look as if to say he’d love to sleep with an Indian girl, because he’s never done it before, and I’m so exotic. It was repelling. I'd tell Sita all the time when she lived with me and mum—every time he'd look at me that way. I’ve stopped writing about all the verbal abuse in my last diary entries too, because since opening up to my sisters about it, particularly Pooj, the oldest, I’ve felt a sense of relief. Ideally my diary was meant to be filled with my daily adventures and the in-tenseness of it all.

And it all stopped that one night he spat in my face.

Three times.

The first time I was held up by the neck, I pretended it was some kind of stick-up. I’m a music video girl, and this is all a part of the dance, drama, and drugs. I’ll smoke weed after this, and I won’t go home, because no one's there to look over me and see the mess he brought out of me anyway. I've got to deal with this myself. I'm steel as f*ck. I’m Priyanka Chopra in Aitraaz, and this is sexy. One of my mum's favourite films.

Of course it was so called strange sexual seduction in my eyes at the time. Wherever I walk, I draw in passersby. I’m sultry. And that’s blindingly obvious from the shape of my body to the thickness in my hair. Even my baby hairs caused melo-drama. I’m 19 years old, and John, who is my first boyfriend, is THE guy. A 28 year old ‘self made’ success. I was his girl, ready to ride, and down for his causes. His causes were the most crucial because he wasn’t able to work like I did. I mean, he wasn’t un-able to work, but you'd think he really wanted a legitimate job the way he resented mine.

I’d got a part-time one working in the city at a local arts & crafts shop. I think he hated Carl, my manager and store supervisor. He was so calm. Anytime John would turn up to ‘surprise’ me, but more or less frighten me, customers—even the shelves used to look like they were shaking! Carl had my back every time. A very wise Jamaican dude. He never gave me advice or told me to leave, but he knew the type of male John was, and the type of female I was. It was the worst when he had to let me go only three months after starting. Miss Carl. I miss Sal as well. We had to stop speaking too.

When I realised that I was very capable of not liking something, and that that was OK and that I didn't need to justify it, I’d turned 32. I’d also realised I’d built up lots of wishes. A bundle. The main being: I wish I’d never met John. Notes in this bundle included, I wish I never rode around with him in his cars, smoked his weed, borrowed him money... never let him introduce me to shitty beings, and experience all the things I have, that have brought me to therapy.

I should never have got involved. But I felt the first kiss sealed the deal, and was going to set the pace for what would be a long-lasting odyssey with John.

This all made me miss my dad so much more.

I never really spoke to my mum in the moment about anything. She was a dark rose, in her own pot, and she’d know she couldn’t help me entirely like she felt she should. Like how any of the other Asian mums do. It wasn't her style, it wasn't my dad's either. These were all my decisions that I discovered to be my truest and most gentle rawness—I was a kind soul, wilted though. I knew my mum felt that, in me.

Years later, mine and John’s relationship became terribly tiresome. I most definitely was unhappy and very dopey. Clouds of weed smoke to cover all the resentment, privately and publicly. It was all a painful waste of time. That constant chatter he’d utter at different volumes from his mouth. Not to mention the groans. I was almost convinced he was part dog. An arbitrary animal in the bedroom... I’m not the most educated out of my family. I decided to choose a more musical route at college, and so I definitely heard the beats and tones he decided to ‘spit’ at me. The worst being when he actually spat at me, and not the rapping kind. The saliva sort. It was disgusting and I’ll never forget that night.

Looking back lots of people told me to leave verbally, but also with expression too, something that I used to selfishly ignore. Even people who knew nothing about me looked at me like I was trapped and needed to escape. There were people that I met whilst we were together that knew about him and the things he'd done in the past. Even certain females he used to see would warn me of his odd behaviour... and something tells me that even though he warmed to me, at times I will keep preciously tucked away, I wasn't his first true love.

For a while I chose to remember he’d spat in my face, because that's the very last reason that got me to leave the relationship after 11 years.

I’ve gruesomely enough, seen him once in the last few months hanging with Geoff who looked as appalling as he last was. But I think the energies of the world will finally allow us to not magnetise to each other, ever again. He still looks frustrated, lost, but more eroded over time, just like his gold chain he'd wear with pride. Something I’m no longer naive, neither attracted to.

As the young Indian girl I was, I felt as though John was tainting my impression of English men. I was so attracted to him, because of his skin colour, features, and his height. He was grand. He was my ‘John’ Smith, I, Pocahontas. I loved how we both looked next to each other. But from my first kiss to the last spit, I’d understood at the age of 33 that the most important thing that I now tell myself in any given situation which I feel may compromise the best of me, unnecessarily. Something that was whispered around me quite a lot, something I tell a lot of females, particularly my Asian sisters...

I come first. Meaning you, too.

love

About the author

Mayurie

Mayurie, Founder of Bindi Babe (www.bindibabe.online) is the Author of: The Diary of a BindiBabe. A series of semi-fiction memoirs based on true events.

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