I wish to write
this very moment into a hundred words.
I write to
you in first person only because I have the humility to let the world know that
I am a simple village girl. I live only to exist.
My knowledge of everything around me can be
wrapped in one tiny piece of cloth, tied in colored tread, to be handed out for
sale. If you had my eyes, you would see differently because my windows are made
of shades of colored glass. This glass is cracked, with little ants and trapped
insects that have once seen a better life. They have no metal bars to stop me;
instead I may climb up to the sill, leap and fly as I please …
But truth
is, what stops me has nothing to do with the color, the cracks or even the
window.
The only vague memories I have of an
almost home is that harsh voice of an aunt. I was only thirteen then, and at
that age other girls in my village had given up all faith in books and
learning, to live a simpler life that was planned for them.
I wake up to
the sound of rain every morning, the lingering touch of sly water droplets
tickling me as they please. I wake up to see my dog curled around my feet, his
warmth being the only feeling of security I could remember.
I am a
little more than seventeen now, in another year I will be asked to leave all thoughts of paper and ink
far behind me to live the simpler life that has so carefully been planned for
the herd of sheep in this village. My home since my aunt’s death has been a
shed behind an abandoned farmhouse. I had dreams I was not supposed to have, of
one day turning this run down place into something bigger, of breathing life
into hay, thatch and stone. Of growing and giving life.
But my voice
grows stronger with this ink as I write down and immortalize a memory that
stops little footsteps short of an illusion. No, in fact I must write this down
to believe in it myself, to touch and feel a short place of my existence, when I
lived like never before.
There are
certain ways to begin a story; I’d like to begin with the feel of cold metal
anklets against my feet. And the ringing of heavy glass bangles at my wrist
.The shy whispers of jhumkas at my ear.
I’d like to
begin with deep red pretense on my lips and an alluring touch at my waist.
I believe in
happy stories I seldom see lived, and I find a strange hope in beginnings.
Drinking in the naïve young smiles and wet scented hair of the bride- at my
sister’s wedding, I had the tempting feel of honey on my tongue, one that comes
from learning to lick your lips and taste every last drop of happiness you can
find at an age where you can see more sweetness in vague dreams than anything
else.
But remember,
a fifteen year old girl does not only talk about people, she does not know how
to live, and she is still learning to learn. But she can’t help looking through
shades of borrowed glass, ones that break as easily as the bangles that hug her
tiny wrists.
My sister
was perhaps the only living relation of mine to lead a good life, and strangely
enough this good life chose her for being as accepting as she was all through
her childhood. She once told me that the feel of thin red silk around your
shoulders hold more security than any man’s arms. The moment you tie the knot,
you are ready to welcome warmth wherever you find it. I’ve always known her to
be different from me, acceptance comes as easily to her as reluctance does to me,
and I have seen her grow up within a small scented prison cell she grew to
love.
But what I
have to say has not that much to do with such changes in her life, as it has to
mine. The day of my sister’s wedding was deemed to welcome more ghosts than it
was to mark a beginning and strangely the air weighed down with the heaviness
of a dying past against the last kiss of a possible future. But tradition
remains tradition, deriving all of its strength from stubborn defiance. The
same stubborn defiance the entire village succumbs to in every way of life.
………………………………………………..
The music
behind us blared in cohesion, sounding its approval of the traditional
ceremony. I found it strange that this roll of drums and this loud trumpet
should be called music, honestly... how can this sound tickle their ears for
pleasure? No one listens to these drums for enjoyment; when no ceremony has to
be observed, no one in this village ever listens to this music for the love of
its sound.
And this music has no attachment to the poetry in my village .Haven’t
we all heard before - If
a man finishes a poem, he shall bathe in the blank wake of his passion and be
kissed by white paper.
If my sister
could sing, if she knew what real music was , if she could see through her
scented cell, if her windows were not painted…then she’d scream loud and clear
for her soul can see deeper. I’ have written because I can...Because I have
seen the freedom she couldn’t..And because I have lived to see her only exist.
