I don't care

A life-long lesson on detachment as taught to me by an Indian guru when I was 12 years old and the story of my very first own grown-up friend.

image captured by Nadia Meli

When I was 11 my mum dragged me to one of her ‘new age’ events.

“New Age” was a movement that started in the late 1980s characterised by an emphasis on the holistic view of body and mind, alternative (or complementary) medicines, personal growth therapies, and a loose mix of theosophy, ecology, oriental mysticism, and a belief in the dawning of an astrological age of peace and harmony. Idk what we call that now but in my bubble it’s “mainstream”.

From my childish memory, I can’t remember if she was at a weekend workshop to learn how to play gongs, if it was about Buddhism or neurolinguistic programming but what I do remember was that the lady who was hosting the event had a beautiful garden with fragrant Jasmine abundantly throwing itself off balconies and big purple flowers attached to vibrant green tendrils cascading onto the lawn.

I remember a young woman french-braiding my hair during breaks and adorning each cross-section with tiny white Jasmin stars. I remember an elderly man who took a particular interest in me and in those two days taught me how to read palms after he read mine.

He told me that I would never break a bone, run out of money, or lack in lovers. He was right.

I lapped up the attention. Like all children I craved to be seen, heard, witnessed, and acknowledged but presence and attention were not something readily available in my household.