Reality is often different from what we imagine, and that is what happened to her. She only saw on the bright side and sometimes she was easily disappointed when she was asked to think about or had to deal with the dark side. She does not understand the dark side, and that is what makes her jump into situations that one may call dangerous, useless, a complete waste of time or even deceiving. She always told herself “I am going to do this and I am going to believe that it is going to be amazing, just like I imagine it to be” and then a second thought would take a seep into it “and if it does not work out, it won’t work out for greater good”.
Her brother, a hardworking man, dreamer like her with shade of realism, which she lacked, told her “you always get things easily” and she said “and what is wrong with it anyway?”
“you don’t know what thriving for your passion is like, you don’t know how your dreams are so strong that ten people around you start to feel it in you, they start to help you in pursuing your dreams, they start to feel what you feel for a certain thing. When an idea is your own intellectual property, things are totally different, that idea is like your baby that you would not want to share a stake of it with, you will do anything for it, you will not fight and you will not give up”
“But how is it that if my ideas get worked out easily, my idea is not true?” She murmured to herself “why is it necessary to struggle when things can be easily done. Why is being a dreamer a sin? I’m sorry I lack reality in my cup of dreams. But wait, should I be sorry? Or should I just be grateful that things work the way they work?”
She was repeating this entire scene over and over, in her head while she was walking on a busy street of Bangalore. She loved how the roads were covered with huge trees and sunshine played with her feet and her head as the wind swayed the leaves. She was feeling upset about something that wasn’t tangible enough to describe to others. She would attempt to figure out what was it that disturbed her so much, but those attempts failed at the touch of temporary success. She touched it and it dissolved, she failed to understand this invisible vacuum that she felt she was trapped in. People around her, who cared about her, started to think that she was losing it, she was losing herself, she was losing her identity, she was losing a part of her that was truly who she used to be.
She couldn’t explain, or even begin to describe this pain she felt in her chest. Most of the times, it began from this stark pain in her thumb and it went on to the shoulder and the heart. She told herself, this was a physical manifestation to something that shook her emotionally for a long time now.
Whilst walking all by herself, suddenly she found her smiling, kind of like a smirk to herself at her misery as she remembered the last year. She was a student back then, sitting in the balcony with her friends talking about how terrible life is amidst the clouds of smoke inside and rains outside, washed up streets beneath and grey skies above. She recalled how she wished she had someone who loved her and then she would be strong enough to deal with other things, she often told her roommate, her partner-in-pain, “I see people of our age, clubbing, partying, sinking in alcohol every other day, sleeping with multiple partners. I see people of our age, loving and loved, being in relationships that are 4 years long, 6 years long and sometimes even seven; I mean, where do these people get such love from? I have never even dated a person for more than 6 months and here they are going on for years. Fuck, how do they do it? Why can I not have it? I truly envy those lovers. Most of them don’t even value what they have, most of them are just shallow and yet they are in these deep affairs. I am a poet, a writer, an artist and I should have such kind of muse. I should have someone who loves me. But I do not. Is there something wrong with me? Is there something wrong with us? We give a huge part of us to them and yet it is discarded, or abused”.
Last year, she had broken up from this abusive relationship. She thought she was in love with him so she tried everything to make it work. But that is what she always felt, every guy she met or every changing season she felt she was in love, so she tried then she cried and then she moved on. Over and over, she moved on. It was then; she presumed that she had lost the capacity to love.
This year, this time, she was in love again. She was a kind of a girl who was foolish and yet courageous to give that power over her to someone else one more time. The only difference was she has not yet reached the point of regret, she has not yet ill-treated. She was thankful that she had him. Her misery and her glory both lied in his existence in her life. All her life, every relationship that broke, she consoled herself with “any way, my parents wouldn’t have let me marry him so better off without him at the earliest. The lesser the time spent, the lesser the pain”. She belonged to an extremely orthodox family.
She had this diary, leather cover and hand-made pages, her dad got her two of those when she was younger. Now she is 23 and she is a woman whose independence is considered someone else’s property. She was only 16 years when she started scribbling little notes to her (yet to be born) daughter. Whenever her mother refused her to go for an outing with her friends, or when she was caught talking to a guy on the phone, she wrote in her diary. She thought to herself that she will not treat her daughter this way; she will talk to her daughter and understand her before she says a big no.
The front page of the diary had a small preface in black ink and a couple of smudged stains. The diary looked as old as her heart.
“My dear daughter
This will help you deal with the hypocrisy of the Indian society. Use some and throw everything else in the dustbin, or maybe outside the window. Life is not worth all the drama this society has to for you