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A broken girl can have memories of many kinds of grief. But these memories might actually be comforting at times. Paromita writes about the secret thoughts of such a girl.
Grief is like the demons you hide under your bed when you go to sleep. But in stormy nights, it comes out and sits on your chest. And fangs deep down your heart. That is when with blood in its mouth grief talks to you. You close your ears and find an escape.
But escape is never freedom. You can never escape to freedom. You have to walk to it.
Grief will crawl back in unsuspected days. It will come to you when you step in into a new life. Suddenly. Like an unforeseen guest. A guest who was never welcomed. Grief can slide into the embrace between you and your lover.
Grief is like the bride who waited at the aisle for days, even when all the guests left, but the groom never arrived. Grief is like the mother who lost her child long back, yet stares at the empty sky when all her other children are happily grown up. Grief is the last lullaby a mother sings to the dying child. Grief is the void that wants acknowledgment. That is why grief arrives in unguarded moments. Otherwise, you refuse its company. Grief wants to be heard. Grief is tired pain. Grief is a bruised away love story that makes your heart pine. Grief is pain screaming to heal.
So next time when grief fangs you, let it sit on your heart and ask it where does it hurt. Grief mellows when acknowledged. It will tell you about your abandoned childhood. Of failed dreams. Of unrequited love. Grief will stand naked then. But sit there, clasp its hand in gratitude for coming up and cry, if that helps. It’s the guest who cleans your dirty closet. The closet that you piled and closed with colorful papers. The closet that gives you sweaty nights.
Grief is your healer in disguise. It is sacred. Honor its presence; it has many secret keys to eternity.
Grief is the last bridge, between you and your lover.
Walk through it.
When I first saw you, I jumped with joy. As if you were a face from a distant past, I knew. I felt close to you, even without hearing your voice. Those eyes had me. Is black magic your middle name? You looked perfect, in my dreams. Even those grey hair. I kept smiling, for long, as I spent a lazy Sunday Googling about you. Tell me, do your eyes do the same to every woman?
Because I dream too much and hurt too much, I wondered what it would be like going for a walk with you in Lodhi Garden. I wondered if you will tell me your secrets. Or what it would be like sharing a simple meal with you. Do you like spicy food, I thought to myself. You know, I think too much and hurt too much.
But it did not take me long to know that there was someone else in your life. And why not? You spell black magic with those eyes. A spell that invites love. That was October, it’s January now. How have you been these days? I thought of you yesterday. And smiled. Maybe you are married by now. Hope you are feeling the best, a man in love does. Hope there are Adeline gushes each day, the way you wanted. October I knew you. January I don’t. That’s how life moves on. And we grow.
October I had hope. November was sad. But January is hopeful again. For October told me that my heart is ready to love again. That my heart is nurturing love. You were like a whisper in the storm, which told me that, another October will come and this time, it will last forever.
Thank you, October!
P.S. Change your facebook DP. That selfie looks sad. Those sunglasses hide your black magic eyes.
When someone dies young, you don’t have memories of them with wrinkles. Or them slowing down. Or them hurting. When you think of them, they are forever young.
My memory of my father is that of a strong man. He drove us to school. To circuses. To weddings. To fairs. And movies. The last movie we watched with him was Jurassic Park. We were scared each time the Dinosaur roared. But we knew, Dad was around. It was safe. He was in his 40s, then.
My friends often tell me how it hurts them seeing their fathers ail and frail. The hands that lifted them are feeble now. The skin withers more with needle pricks.
But I will never have this memory. For us, our father was like sunlight, something that never failed or withered. Our father was like the Sun that rose for us. And never deemed. We glowed. Yesterday another friend broke down seeing her father in the hospital. Pipes all across his chest and mouth. She said she can’t see him hurting, so much. But my memories of sickness was our father taking us to the doctor and the next day we were good to attend school. I have no memories of Dad depending on us. Maybe sometimes asking for a glass of water. It was we who were dependent. That sometimes is a comforting thing to think about.
There is a place in the history of our memories where our father is young and always on the go. Where age has not wrinkled the face or drooped the shoulder. My father never went to the hospital. His face never disfigured. The body never stooped. No blood. No dust. Not a scratch on the skin. He remained forever young.
Despite the unbearable suffering at times, sometimes it’s a comforting thought, that he stays in our memories young, where we are dependent. Our hands held. The car is driven. All we had to do was count the sparrows that sat on the electric wire, across the National Highway.
Sometimes, young death can be a comforting place to return.
Image source: shutterstock
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Proud Indian. Senior Writer at Women's Web. Columnist. Book Reviewer. Street Theatre - Aatish. Dreamer.
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