Ashram
As she looked at herself in the mirror, she smiled because she had just finished writing the poem for that day. In the moments of writing, she felt a surge of enthusiasm, believing that exactly this will be the poem that would touch the world, this would be the one to finally make the audience understand who she truly was. She cleaned her face, which at first glance looked charming, and began applying dark shadow to her eyelids. Her eyes already left an imprint on the consciousness of any man she liked—except perhaps on the one who had been avoiding her for several days.
She wondered what had scared him. Maybe precisely this dark shadow? Or the conversation about life after death? Whatever. Anyway, she knew that the imprint had been left, even if invisible these days. She planned to find out soon why he was avoiding her.
Her mother constantly praised her beauty, but even more she praised the uniqueness she possessed whenever her unusual character came into play. She and her mother. They loved each other so much, it was almost too much. She hadn’t seen her for several months. Her mother had left with a single suitcase from their home. She hadn’t realized her mother was serious when she said she was sick and tired of all the things in their lives. She always imagined her mother on vacation, meditating in some ashram in India, smiling as she merged with the light.
I think you left with just one suitcase. I don’t remember exactly which one. Half of my suitcases have been lost at airports, but that was never important to me. You told me you’d be back in two weeks. Back then I thought that was a long time. But what is that compared to the years I haven’t seen you? I know you grew tired of my lifestyle, of me flying with my mind, flying from idea to idea, from flower to flower in the endless garden of chaos… We are different, and we both know it. Did you ever rejoice for me, even a little, when I thought I had succeeded in some of my goals? What did you want me to achieve? Did you want something for yourself to be fulfilled, something that had to happen through me? Didn’t your perfectionism exhaust you? I thought you knew that I couldn’t imagine a better mother than you—no one could. Even if I wanted, I couldn’t surpass you. I imagine us drinking coffee, me telling you about everything that happened the night before, and you laughing in disbelief. When I walk into the house, I feel as if you’re there. I write to you, but I don’t know what address to send this letter to. One copy I’ll release into the air from the top of the nearby mountain. The others I’ll send to the addresses of several ashrams in India. I narrowed the choice, looked at them all online, and thought about which ones you might like. Forty-seven remain, so forty-seven ashrams will receive this letter. I send you kisses, knowing you’re smiling all the while and that you’ll return soon.
She wondered what her mother would say about the poem she wrote today. A discomfort stirred in her stomach: she knew her mother wanted her to finish other tasks first—to change the job that didn’t fulfill her, to find a boyfriend “suitable” for her, to start eating healthier… Yes, her mother would say, “What nonsense you’re writing, this isn’t even a poem, it’s nothing…”
The thought unsettled her, and she wanted to tear up the page with the poem and burn it. She felt the impulse to stop dressing up for a moment and destroy the writing she was convinced her mother wouldn’t like. But then she remembered she had saved it on her phone. For a moment she thought of smashing the phone against the floor, but calmed herself when she looked in the mirror. The eyeshadow, skillfully applied, made her gaze seem even more piercing to people. Perhaps she would scare someone again? Well, at least she wouldn’t talk about life after death. The night lay ahead of her.
Author of the autofictional short story Ashram is Tea P, one of five participants in the second creative writing workshop for autofictional
stories, On the Natural Flow of Things, held in March and April of 2024. Editor of the story is Živko Grozdanoski, the workshop’s creator. The
story was written in parallel with the stories Back at the Waterfall, A Word or Two, and The Hot Seat by Mila T., Elena A., and Bistra M. — the three other companions on the journey. The story was translated into English using Microsoft “Copilot” and redacted by Živko G.