The hardest thing...

The hardest thing to kill is Hope.

Like life, it springs eternal in the human heart.

Grief

It is that day of the year again. The day the reminds me of what I have lost.

Not that it needs reminding. I remember it every day. And yet, yet, I have managed to live on. I have managed to smile and laugh and dream. There is not a day when I don't grieve, but I have coped, have moved on.

Have I really?

I remember the time when I lost. I felt as if my being was shattered in thousand pieces, with each sinew of mine shredded. As if every nerve of mine sat up on its haunches and let out a piercing yell of pain. And then, sat down with its head down and wept and wept and wept. And then, when the flood of tears abated, I came back to consciousness, and saw that I was still whole. My fingers were intact, my hair was still in place, my stomach still growled with hunger - all of this while the sinews inside were still facing the skies and continuing to bawl with a deafening sound. My hurt self was angry, sad, desolate and in throes of despair, but my living self wanted to move, eat, defecate and yes, even smile. I hated myself that day. Hated myself for being a part of my living self, and hated being a part of my hurt self.

And then came the others. Others who came because they heard of my loss, and wanted to comfort me. I looked at them, and told them about my yelling and screaming sinews. But they wanted me to think about food, about what to wear for the funeral, about how I wanted to dress her. They wanted me to be one with them. But I wanted to go with her. I wasn't for the world. My world was gone, did they not know that? And yet, they persisted. They put food in front of me. My stomach growled and kicked me. I gave in, and ate a morsel of food, and then another, and then another and then a whole meal. My stomach smiled. The others who brought me food smiled too. The sound from my sinews raised its level, and wanted to be heard again. I started to tell the others, but they hurried on, not meeting my eyes, and distracting me by telling me about the funeral. I realized then, they don't want me to tell them about my anger and hurt and desolation.

I remember saying that I wanted to see her. They said I could not. She was taken away to the mortuary, they said. They then pushed me home. Home to where her bed was, her clothes, her pillows and her toys. And the pain returned thousand fold. I could not bear it. I wanted to die as I yelled again. There was no one to hear me. They could not bear to be with me, I think. They could not even look at me in the face, afraid to see the hurt bawling out. They were not with me. Would never be. They perhaps had hurts of their own, and my hurt and loss reminded them of their own.

Days passed and I was left with myself. The hurt self and the self that was living. The only way the living self could live was by ignoring the other self. By letting her cry, letting her beat her head against the wall, letting her tear herself down. I hated myself being the living self on days. Those days I would starve the living self. And on other days, my hurt self would come out and bawl. She would take me near railway tracks and invite me to try coming between the wheels and the tracks. She would make me want to drown myself in the sea and make me walk along the shore for hours, waiting for the tide to come in and claim me. How can you live and eat without her, she would ask me. I had no answers. Often times I agreed with her. The others cheered the living one, and ignored the hurt one. I began to hide the hurt one from others, she really had no other companion than me, so why bother having her out with others, I reasoned.

Its been years now. My hurt self lies crumpled within me, lurking behind every smile of mine. I have chosen to hide her, but she is a huge part of me. She comes out and stares at me from mirrors, and when watching a very young baby, thwacks her head against the wall.

But on days like today, I let her come out in the open, and grieve and be angry. Angry at the so called Gods, angry at doctors, angry at everyone who could have helped her baby, but did not. And sad for her baby, who got nothing, nothing from the world. Nothing but pain and illness. On days like today, I allow myself the luxury of becoming one with my hurt self, and suspend living for a while.

Tomorrow, however, is another day. She will have to hide again. No one, not even myself, can bear to be with her. She needs care and comfort, but I can't give it to her - I simply don't have the amount she needs.

TOTD: Insignificance

It is not annihilation that I am terrified about. It is insignificance.

POTD

POTD: Stands for "Puzzle of the Day". Fashioned on TOTD.

POTD: Why does one feel contempt for someone who loves one unconditionally?

If anything, one must feel grateful for such love, as it is so rare. Yet, I have seen it often. We hurt people who love us the most.

Moving on...

Was reading a movie review of "Ranjhaana", a love story set in Varanasi. I haven't seen the movie yet, probably will this week.

This note is however inspired by the movie review I read here. I quote a line from the review which caught my attention,

"Lesson#8 : “Nobody really moves on in life: This is because of the simple reason that a person molds you into a new being when you are with them. So when they move out of your world, they take away that part of you with them and it never comes back leaving you void from within and too exhausted to walk on the same path again."

I agree in parts - yes, we change with every relationship. We become something which is us plus something when we are in a relationship. This is true for all relationships, in my view. We are different with a parent, different with a son, different with a friend, different with a sibling and so on. I would go so far as to say that we have different selves that manifest themselves, depending upon whom we are with. And in a love relationship, we are completely transformed. We may sometimes not even recognize the self that we become when we fall in love.

However, this post is not about love, but about moving on, having been in love. I disagree that one does not move on. Yes, we never become that person that we were when we were in love. But we do fall in love again, and though we don't become the previous-person-who-was-in-love-with-the-previous-love-interest, we morph into a different human with the person we now have fallen in love with. Yes, every death of selves that we face hurts, hurts really really bad. But we can and are capable of creating new selves even out of the debris that is left behind. For many of us, the debris is small, so some of us can rebuild from it with some help from the discarded self. For some of us, the debris is large, but if we love ourselves well enough to piece together the debris and the smaller self, we can even glue together a bigger self from the experience.

Notwithstanding the moving on, I do think there is always this "what if" question that plays out in in the minds of the "Mover" and the "Movee" - for want of better words. I think both of them, the Mover and the Movee, wrestle with the "what-if" in their post breakup times. Several times. Regardless of who initiated the break up. The mover will wonder what if she hadn't moved on to look for something better, could she have been happier? Was she is the reason, or was it that the movee did not love enough and hence gave up the pursuit so soon. The movee on the other hand, may wonder if the mover was indeed the best, and whether maybe the movee is better off without her. He may also wonder on the reasons why he gave up pursuit when he did. Was it because she really wasn't quite "the" person? Was his pursuit an exercise of being in love for the sake of being in love? Invariably, after several years after the love episode, the mover and the movee will wonder what they saw in the other that caused the affair. Was the other person even worthy of the love? Was it because the person was ready for love at that particular point and the other person happened to be there, and hence love occurred, much like the bards Midsummer Nights Dream. It may happen that they want to fall in love all over again with the same person! (And that what I guess the Reviewer of Ranjhaana was talking about)

However, such what-if reveries would also largely depend upon the manner of the breakup itself, from the time event when the breakup begins, and then the event itself, followed by the process of moving-on. Ah, but thats perhaps for another post!

Whom Not to Befriend

Some may call me prejudiced, but these words come from experience. Been-there-done-that-was-hurt-never-repaired.

Never to befriend ones tailor/seamstress/neighbourhood boutique's owner
Never to befriend ones beautician/hairdresser/masseuse
Never to befriend ones personal trainer/personal coach/yoga teacher

For all the above, you are a customer/client first, and a friend later. Also, they make themselves interesting to others by telling stories about their customers/clients and boasting about their confidence in them. Your confidences may well become the next most interesting story they share with others. Beware.

Never befriend your banker/lawyer
Never befriend a insecure jealous woman's husband
Never befriend your childs best friend

For all the above, your right place in their life is not as a friend. You are best where you are - at a arms length.

Never befriend your boss's boss
Never befriend your boss's wife/husband
Never befriend your boss's other subordinates

For all the above, your relationship with your boss will be the primary link, and any of these relationships will cause undue stress /impact on the boss relationship.

Goddess or Slut

Sometimes I wish I could be a wild slut than be your goddess.

Placing me on a pedestal binds me strong. Your look of adoration eats into my heart. How can you expect me to be perfect? I am not a goddess. but a woman, wild and wanton. I have my desires, and just like everyone else, I would like to attain them, means be damned.

But you....... You stop me. With your steadfast belief in my integrity and my sense of fair play. Your eyes are guileless, open and honest, with all your faults bared to me. You place your secrets on my feet, and burden me with your innocence and trust. I am your goddess, you tell me, and add that you, your secrets, your ambitions, your insecurities are safe with me. You add, I will never hurt you. You say, I will take care of you. You say, you trust me of being incapable of doing wrong. You ask favours of me and I give. You ask for help and I provide. Because I am your goddess and your goddess will always take care of you. Your goddess always puts you first, and can never do wrong.

You move away, your eyes still full with that worshipful look. Oh, if only you knew how that look makes me grit my teeth...

What if I told you that there are wicked thoughts in my head at times? What if I told you that I am tired of harbouring your needs and putting them before mine? What if I told you that when I see your secrets, they remind me of my own - pathetic, both. What if I told you that I am sick of helping you, because I would rather help myself first. What if I spilled my guts, your secrets, my sins, your ambitions and shred my robes and ran naked down on the street, dropping my beatific smile? What if I devoured children and bedded strangers in throes of lust?

Would you love me still? Would you worship me still? Would you want to hold me still?

Would you? Would you?