Sister - The best friend god gifts us even before we have a chance to ask for one.
That is how you came into my life. Without my asking.
And that is how you made all the difference in my life.
I don't have memories of you teaching me to ride a bicycle or having pillow fights.
I don't remember us making plans for a lazy weekend afternoon or discussing what clothes to exchange.
You didn't teach me to make my hair or do my makeup.
We never discussed our favorite authors or heroes.
Mom didn't teach us her secret recipes.
We didn't share fancy stilettos or branded jeans.
You didn't teach me how to paint my nails in bright colors.
We didn't hold dreamcatchers over the beds or enjoy ice-creams at midnight.
You weren't around for any of that.
But you were there when I got my life smashed the first time around. You held me while I let the tears flow uncontrollably. You gave me the strength to get back on my feet and move on. To let the past behind me and to look forward to a future. You made me believe that there are still good people out there in the world - Good people who can see and understand pain. Good people who are not out to take a broken person and break her more.
But most importantly you taught me to believe in myself. To know that no matter what happened, it is not a reflection of my personality or character.
You made me strong to say what I believe and do what I say. You inspired me to have a roof over my head and the ground beneath my feet. You made me believe that there is always light at the end of the tunnel. That my dreams will get wings again.
You with your fancy musings - 'Experiences are the best lessons you can gift yourself. Learn and move on. If you don't find the right person, at least you will have figured out who is wrong for you'.
And now I come to you - Broken for the second time. Can you heal me again? My dear sister - Say you can heal me again. Just this one last time. Once more.
Because I stand in front of you with your worst fear. Unlike the first time, I don't hate just the world now. I hate myself now. I hate myself for letting my guard down. For letting trust take over me. Over my better sense which should have prevailed. For having been a fool again. A fool to just be tread over. A fool to be silenced again.
You with your fancy musings again - 'Once was a mistake. Twice is stupidity'.
You refused to let go of my hand. Again. But this time you did it with an uncertainty which scared me even more. You didn't shell out any optimism. You merely listened. You didn't even shed a tear. And I couldn't stop mine.
For all the things I don't remember, I do remember how you always cried with me even when I tried to be brave.
To not see you do that now breaks my heart more. Have I failed you more than you fathomed?
Your still cold hands in my palms drains every ounce of my life out of me. Who is going to heal me now?
My need to be held overwhelms me. One last time. By you. To have you tell me that I will tide over this too. And maybe we can finally get around to getting these men out of our lives and start over our childhood again. To make all those memories we didn't have.
But you just lay there. Draped from neck to toe in the color you detested much. White.
I know you are not liking it there. This I know about you.
God didn't ask me before sending you to me. And now, he didn't ask me before taking you away from me either - When I needed you the most.
I cannot wait to see you again. On the other side. Soon.
Maya - An illusion. That which makes you believe that the nonexistent exists. That which gives a reason to dream. A chance to feel happy. Liberated. To open up. To share.
She was maya - the enchanted and the enchanting. She believed the illusion could lead her from the ugly to the beautiful. And she believed and believed. Blindly. Until the ugly turned uglier. And uglier.
The beautiful was never there. It was never promised. It was just a ruse to lead the blind. And maya, the blind, followed. Led on by the illusion.
Maya was no longer an illusion. Maya was the devastating truth. And devastated.
Maya was not selfless. Maya was the selfish. Unquestioned and unanswered.
Maya was the failure.
Maya was never an illusion. Maya was never meant to be.
Only Maya hadn't known it.
Maya was truth denied. Maya was conscience hidden.
Maya was a facade.
Maya was just a name. Not even a face.
Maya was just a body. Not even a heart.
Apparently disclaimers are not doing their job these days! Every so often when my writings are held against me in my real life, I go tired of iterating and re-iterating that I am not jotting my everyday life in here.
No I am not the love struck paris kind of girl who walked hand in hand with someone. Nor am I the girl in the blue shirt waiting for the arrival of someone from across the oceans. Yes, I am the one who wakes up to sonic memories and so much more. No, I do not go on dates and fuss on the food. Yes, I celebrated my 30th birthday all alone. No, I did not have a young widow as a neighbor growing up and the nonexistent friend did not inspire me. No, I do not have a 4 year old son Aditya.
I just happened to have a hard-to-give-up love for writing and an odd enough crazy imagination to go with it. What I lack is the hard-to-attain 'I don't care' attitude to throw a deaf ear to all these baseless accusations I get my way because of what I write here. Especially when it plays a major role in wrecking lives, when I am evaluated based on my musings here. When people assume they know the real me because of what is here. When even words spoken faithfully are weighed against typed phrases in my blog. When I am denied a life because my blog speaks a different story. Because a woman who voices so openly cannot make a good home or be a good role model? And not to mention a lot more...
Anita Nair is my current author craze. I have read and re-read all her books. My favorite remains 'Mistress'. But each time I read the book, I don't see Ms. Anita Nair in the words. I see only Radha. And Shyam. And Chris. And Koman. I don't judge the author or her personal life based on the stories she writes. They are just mere people she gave birth to. And I have the ability to distinguish between the two. Her real life and her life of words.
Admitted, a blog isn't as sensational as a book. But authors are no different, whether they publish a book or a blog. We share a hard to resist passion for words. So next time you feel the urge to judge a book by it's covers or an author by their words, DON'T. For all you know, they might just be your ordinary-next-door-struggling-to-cope-everyday person.
It is a tough fight to not give up on the one thing you love so much in life and yet, to face the music which ruins everything else in your life because of it.