Let it go… ♫ ♩ ♪ ♬… Let it go

Sometimes when I have work and want to escape from my 3-year-old friend, Rhea, I tell her, “Rhea, I’m going to take a shower and will come back soon to play with you.”

Then she would ask me, “Why are you taking bath? Sushma, are you dirty?”, with a question mark on her cute face.

I would say, “Yes, dear. I feel dirty.”

When this kid thinks about dirt, it can’t go beyond the dirt on the body. But the dirt I’m going to write about and the dirt that retained in and frequently flows out of my muscle memory dates back to 18 years.

From that pedophile in the city bus who thought I was just a little girl and wouldn’t understand anything about where his hands were crawling, I knew what exactly dirt meant for the first time. This happened when I was about 8 years old.

From that mad beggar (or who pretended like one) at a stadium who thought he could do any weird thing like pulling a girl’s dupatta thinking everyone would ignore a mad guy and his actions, I knew how dirt looks like. This happened when I was 15.

From that famous doctor who thought I wouldn’t understand anything he was doing in the mask of a casual health checkup, I knew no place is an exception to dirt. This happened when I was 20.

From that well-educated guy friend of mine who might have thought I was so dumb not to observe where his eyes were going all the time when I was talking to him, I got to know how unavoidable the existence of dirt is. This happened a few days ago.

Yes, they were all right. I couldn’t understand anything but one. My intuition. I clearly knew that something was definitely not right. This dirt can’t be washed from my mind even with tons of gallons of water. If there is something that has changed throughout this period, that’s just the time itself. Days, months, years had flown and we still can’t expect the situation to get any better. I’m sorry that I can’t feel empathy in this regard thinking it’s the guy’s manufacturing defect or a weird chemical reaction. I’m not that cowardly bold yet.

After all, I have already read “Don’t sweat the small stuff… and it’s all small stuff” and I’m supposed to let all of it go. It ain’t that easy, but I can still try. But, don’t you dare tell me “Honey, it’s okay!” coz that phrase belongs to me to tell to myself. All you should do is shout and scream in your head and question yourself “why can’t I control my words and actions?”. So I practice my Rhea’s favorite song from Frozen now and again.