Freedom

To celebrate Women’s Day this year, I thought of writing about something which is vital and constitutive for life, development and gratification of men and women alike, but women more so, considering the prejudiced society we come from. 

Freedom .. a rather simple concept, but with numerous interpretations and limitations.

For Malala Yousafzai, it is a shot at education. For Nelson Mandela, it was self-respect and equality. For millions of people it is the right to be with the people they love. For thousands of girl children across India, it is simply an opportunity to live.

Fortunately for me, these were not the things I had to strive for. But as an average girl from a conservative society, with unorthodox dreams, I do not underestimate the significance of freedom.

For me, freedom is not  just my right or a mere concept anymore. It is personified.. My husband is freedom personified to me. I was born free. But my greatest fear in life was, that someone or something,  will put shackles on me. He has granted me freedom from that fear.  

He has given me wings to fly.. and at the same time, equipped me with a parachute, in case I get tired or my wings break. He has granted me the freedom to chase my dreams… also to waver when I am unsure… and then to steady myself again.. or just dream a new dream and start the chase all over again. He has given me the flexibility to go where I want and do what I want, the immunity to screw up and the ability to fix it. He has liberated me from the fetters of this judgmental society, the manacles of female stereotypes and remodeled my obligations into choices.

He has allowed me the freedom to be me, which is one of the greatest of its kind. And he has done so with unadulterated love, support and consideration.. without any signs of indignation, cynicism or disrespect.

This has earned him not only my love and respect but also immense appreciation and admiration. I hope every woman has a man like him in her life..  and every man becomes a man like him.

Unforgiven - I

The light of the day, the dark of the night, even the somber radiance of twilight, mean nothing to me anymore. My life is enveloped by an impenetrable cloud that endears an unending gray all around me. Every fleeting moment was tantamount to the one before, brandished with guilt. But even amidst my immortal guilt, I think of her. I think of her every moment.

Many people had been knitted with her in her abridged yet consequential life. Even I had loved her beyond conception, but I had fathomed her real worth only in death. I was the one vested with the powers to salvage her, but I failed. My medical prowess, which I had always deemed as the ultimate ordnance to thwart the atrocities against humanity, has now turned into a dagger baptized in my own venomous guilt, stabbing through my heart.

As my second born, Isobel was never the subject of any special attention. Never as much even when she developed the initial signs of respiratory polio and I overlooked. And it wasn’t until one morning when I found her conked out in her bedroom that I realized what was on the verge of occurrence. But alas! It was too late.

Since that unfortunate event, I have been groveling in indignant guilt. Even so much that I have given up my practice and even to some extent leaving the house. My entire world has shrunk to a gray cloud enveloping me. I have rummaged within myself and in the world around me in the quest for redemption, for my failure as a father, failure as a doctor and moreover for my loss of faith in my profession. But my grievances shadowed me even there. Thus I sought solace in oblivion. I have decided to keep myself inebriated every moment of this condemned life. So what if it can’t keep the guilt away but it sure keeps the pain within limits. The incessant stabbing continues, but the alcohol numbs my senses.

In this maze of my indulgence, I have mislaid myself. And I know that I have wronged Laura, in depriving her of her father. She had done nothing to deserve a fate like this. But my remorse for loosing Isobel is predominant on my guilt over Laura. It is my redemption, to seek salvation in my guilt. Perhaps I shall remain unforgiven by both, my dead and living daughter, forever.
                                                                                                                        ~   Dr. Luis Castellano

The Other Woman

As I watched him walk away, I felt a piece of my heart breaking. Everything appeared ambiguous and bleary as my eyes brimmed with tears. Those precarious manifestations of distress had surreptitiously welled up, scornfully loathing the pseudo smile I had managed to work up. I knew somewhere in my heart, that he had a morbid inclination too, or maybe I preferred to believe so... But somehow it wasn't very obvious. There was a spring in his gait, a sparkle in his eyes and a mirth in his words, which he tried very hard to façade, but unfortunately, I saw right through him, just like every other time. I did not understand it. Over the years, we had grown so fond of each other, shared every secret, sulked together at every failure and rejoiced in each other's every infinitesmal success.  Then why have we grown apart now...

He couldn’t possibly have stopped loving me. That morning, when he had walked up to me, I could already sense something queer. I have always had the uncanny knack of forseeing trouble. He, with great reverence, suggested that it would be better if we introduced some segregation in our lives. That way we could both lead our personal lives. Personal lives.. I didn’t have a life other than him. When he was sick, I nursed him. When my husband deserted me, I cried and bellowed in his arms. Every time agony struck me, this face brought a smile on my lips.  I didn’t want to, but I agreed because I didn’t want to dishearten him. For so long, we had resurrected each other's faith in the world, now it was time to validate our trust in each other. Times and things had changed.

The first time I descried about her, my intuition poked and jeered at me. ‘She is the one. She will snatch him away from right under your nose.’ But I chose to disbelieve. The first time he lied to me, it was for her. But I chose to ignore. Then he married her. I thought I could live with that. But then, she went a step ahead, and veered him away from me. He was as impeccable and mellow as wet clay. She molded him into something different and variegated. He was an altered person. His unconditional love for me had changed. And he left me, for the other woman.

He reassured me that we would always remain in touch. But I was sure, soon he would be dexterously engrossed in his work and his new life with her.  And I would just remain a fading figment of his past, en ephemeral sense of nostalgia and an occasional phone call. For him, I would always embody a lingering sense of guilt. And to me, he would always herald a few sanguine expectations.

My little boy had grown up. It made me happy, but it also broke my heart to see him walk away from me... leave my hand and lead his own life. But as his mother, it was my duty to let go.

Dead.. & Back

Days and nights, nights and days, can always be counted. Numbered, and then filed as weeks, months and years. But time is infinite, isn’t it? Or that was what I had gathered from my 40 years of an excruciatingly tedious life. I had had experiences which rendered the impression, that even though momentarily, time did (almost) freeze at times. Moments like the first goal I ever scored, when I saw my wife walking down the aisle or when my daughter was put in my hands for the first time. At other times, time had me fooled by creating a delusion of fleeting by, like summer holidays, college days and so on. Well yes.. life has its moments. Many of them I had lived through, but to think of it.. there were yet many more to come.. or so I thought.

So I was saying, days and nights can always be reckoned, unless…

Unless.. it was during that brief span of time when I had supposed myself to be dead. Since I didn’t really have any prior experience in this regard, I had assumed that the vast chilliness that had enveloped me, was Death. The dry coldness, the floating view of myself from above, the engulfing darkness and all that introspection.. what can I say, but that I was fooled. I must admit, at first I was pretty disappointed by death’s representation before me. What about the bright white light?.. The life flashing by your eyes?.. The satisfaction of dying a man armed with the ultimate wisdom? I wasn’t even briefed if the rosy gardens of heaven or the dark alleys of hell were going to be my destination.. Or was all that just a false and theatrical manifestation of Death.

I was a little angered, but more deceived. All our lives we live in the fear of meeting its end, expecting it to be some sort of a major showdown, like the curtains falling at the conclusion of a great show. And here it was, like suddenly the lights went out and the show ended without anyone noticing.. anything but extraordinary.

With time, the feeling had started to sink in and eventually I was starting to resign to my fate. What was still perplexing was that even after being dead, I couldn’t really comprehend what being dead exactly meant. From what I had believed, allegedly being dead meant becoming numb. Wasn’t it supposed to be the great escape from every dilemma? And I had expected that at last when I would be on my deathbed, enlightenment would dawn upon me and I would gain the secret key to unlock the secrets of life and death.

But then, in this whole “being dead” episode, not much had turned out as per my expectations. Alas! Everything was the epitome of disappointment. Perhaps being dead just meant being frozen and retrospection of your life.. for like forever. So alright.. if that’s what Life.. err.. Death had to offer, then Retrospection it was.

My early recollections were pretty vague, so were my last memories. The last thing that I could recall was me and Sam in my car, having a heated row, swirling out of the control and heading for the bridge wall. ..Damn..

Now wait.. a little flashback. Sam.. wasn’t a male colleague of mine, at least the male part wasn’t true. She wasn’t the wife I had mentioned earlier either. So yeah your assessment is pretty much along the right lines. She was a rather hot.. err.. attractive female colleague of mine. And the argument wasn’t about work. We were sort of… err.. having an affair. I had contemplated it to be reasonably safe, just a fling. After all she was married too. Or so I thought.. until her husband stipulated a divorce and she wanted me to sabotage my marriage too. ..Damn.. her!! If it wasn’t for her.. I would still have been very much alive with Sarah and my Emma.. yeah that’s the wife and the daughter.

In retrospection, I wasn’t too astonished either. I had my share of vices. I loved Sarah and Emma with all my heart, but in my quest for life’s zest, I had always envisaged them as an impediment rather than my support system, and they had always taken a backseat. Fun and money craft such an alluring maze together, that I had willingly lost myself and led myself into oblivion to everything else. Perhaps this was my eye opener… Alas! Too late… I wondered how Sarah and Emma would take my demise. Perhaps they wouldn’t have missed me anymore than when I was living and relishing my life somewhere else.

A sudden bolt, at the end of what seemed like eternity, sent lightening flowing through my veins. A burning heat spread across my body. The coldness and numbness were swapped by a scorching heat and endemic pangs of pain. But amidst all that, I heard something which sounded like Mozart’s last symphony, something I had garnered no hope of banging on my ear drums ever again. It was the stealthy lub-dup of a heart, hopefully, my own. Soon every other sound faded out, and all I could hear was the pounding of my heart. My eyes flickered, and whoa.. lights, bright lights, too many of them, flooding my vision… I couldn’t make out anything. Then I heard a second noise, which made my heart skip its new found beat. It was Emma meekly calling me out in a murmur. My vision cleared and I laid sight upon her adorable face.

But there was something out of place. Sarah was nowhere to be seen. Did she find out about my secret liaison? Did she leave me? In that fraction of a second, I considered a million possibilities in my mind. And then the doctor said, “Your wife is in the other room. The internal trauma had damaged your liver. We grafted a part of your wife’s liver into you. She is doing fine now.”

I didn’t feel as proud as I should have, because in my heart I knew I didn’t deserve this. There was a speck of gratitude, a tonne of self loathing, but the focal reaction that shrouded everything else was relief.. Thank God she didn’t know.. (Yes.. the ungrateful self-indulged bastard that I was). I passed out…

Next morning I awoke with both Sarah and Emma by my side. We didn’t speak much.. I couldn’t speak much actually. But in my head, I had pledged to myself that I would leave no stone unturned to make up for the lost time, my fallacies and all the atrocities I had bestowed upon my family. I won’t squander this second chance I had been granted by fate.

The nurse handed me the newspaper.  As I turned the page, Sam stared back at me and the headlines read, “Samantha Nelson meets untimely death as car crashes on the bridge.” I could feel my colour fleeing.. My guilt smacking me hard across my discoloured face…

Sarah pressed my arm, looked into my eyes and whispered in my ears, “Don’t try to look at the rear view mirror. Look right ahead through the windshield.” Her words calmed my nerves, but I caught a glimpse of the pain in her eyes that said, “I know. I had always known.”

The Night Clara Actually Died

It was a pleasant autumn Sunday. The Church courtyard was teeming with low whispers. But it wasn’t just any other post-Mass gathering. It was the funeral of Clara Marie Amherst. Dressed in rich white satin, embellished with pink Daffodils, the gentle serenity of her face defied her sorrowful plight. The Embalmer had done a remarkable job. It was only the presence of the two policemen, which reminded the grievers of the bizarre circumstances under which the incident had occurred.

Clara, looked the prettiest she ever had ever looked in her life (huh.. irony), off on an enchanting journey like ‘Sleeping Beauty’ in the 3^rd book on the 2^nd row of her bookshelf. No trace of trauma, hemorrhage or even a bruise, which could have led to the untimely and unexpected demise. Who would have believed that on Friday night she walked out of her window on the 4^th floor… Today she looked like the perfect manifestation of the 12 wonderful years of her life.

Saturday was busy with the officers interrogating the Amhersts, school friends, teachers, doctor or anyone they could set eye on to confirm that there was no possibility of any domestic clamor, depression, issues coping with school or even a mild case of parasomnia. The cops were still not convinced that it could have been the rebellion of a perfectly normal 12 year old. But they had to reluctantly step aside.

Family, friends and foes all clad in the devil’s colour gathered solemnly around the intricately carved coffin to pay their last homage, take a last look or just to make a social appearance on Sunday morning. The mourners crossed their chests and bowed their heads to join in prayer for her soul to rest in peace. As Father Walters requested each one to remember Clara fondly as she parted ways, each one of the lamenters conjured up intermingled spectra of memories.

Robin and Jane Amherst tried to reminisce their daughter’s pristine semblance and the good times they had spent together. As far as the shackles of their memory could reach, all they could recall was a baby Clara. Suddenly a heart wrenching realization dawned upon them.. they were missing a couple of years. The last years had been rough on their marriage. Since that day 4 yrs ago, when they had moved here, they had been engrossed in their petty vendettas. While they were bickering and brawling over who takes the trash out, who forgot milk and who had an affair, they forgot to kiss their daughter goodnight, read her a bed time story or take her out to the park. Their heart was gripped by an overwhelming sense of guilt and remorse. If only they had… maybe Clara would have lived to see High School Graduation, have a beer, drive a car or kiss a guy. Maybe if they had done things differently, today would have been different.

In a far corner stooping over an old Willow tree was Stevie, the neighbourhood bully and a senior from school. With invocations flooding the air, that insolent bastard couldn’t refrain from recalling his last and only memory of Clara. A chilly autumn afternoon.. the school football ground.. a whining, wailing and bleeding Clara.. a smug Stevie and his swanky patrons.. implacable laughter and ruthless mirth. Next morning the amusing tale of Clara’s mortification was propagated throughout school. It was barely a month ago. He pondered silently, if that embarrassment had killed her. Maybe if he had done things differently, today would have been different.

Athwart the casket, a tearful Dan clutched a pink Daffodil trying to reminisce his late girl friend. On prom night, he fancied Esther, the new girl in school, over Clara. Clara had not bellowed or cried, not even a sniffle, but her somber eyes had haunted him for a while. Now he could not help but contemplate if his blow had hit her too hard. Maybe if they had done things differently, today would have been different.

Emily had known Clara since their mothers strolled them in the park together. She had been Clara’s best friend ever since.. from sculpting sand castles at the beach to erecting tree houses in the garden, from appraising their mother’s jewellery to giggling about their latest crush. Today Emily stood by her best friend’s corpse, bowed head and shameful eyes, recalling the last time she had spoken to her. Shadowing Clara had also ushered Emily into social invisibility. So a contingency to jump into the ‘Queen B’ bandwagon had seemed more than just alluring. She had expected it would turn into a windfall for Clara too. But it wasn’t until it was too late that she realized the agenda was purely vindictive. Holding back tears was getting more and more formidable. Maybe if she had done things differently, today would have been different.

Whilst family, friends and foes laid Clara to rest with teeming eyes, ‘Death’ wondered to itself, if Clara had actually died on Friday night, or did she gently succumb to the atrocities of life, dying an infinitesimal death everyday, just inconspicuous to the oblivious world around her.

In life.. she got Ignorance, but not Acceptance. In death.. she got Regrets, but not Apologies. While family, friends and foes wallowed in regret, Father Walters lodged the gravestone in place, tastefully yet sneeringly inscribed with :

‘Behold, children are a heritage from the Lord, 
the fruit of the womb a reward.


Like arrows in the hand of a warrior 
are the children of one's youth.


Blessed is the man
 who fills his quiver with them!


He shall not be put to shame 
when he speaks with his enemies in the gate.’

(Psalm 127:3)

Without The Invisible Wand - An Eulogy

My first stories, my first songs, the first words I said, the first alphabets I formulated.. she taught me all. And with it, she imparted to me several minuscule lessons of life, admonitions of the dark, appreciation of the light and recognition of the disparity between them.

But.. she wasn’t there when I got my first degree or when I got my first job. And she won’t be there when I get my PhD or when I win my first award. Neither would she be there when I get married or have my first child… well not physically at least. But in spirit, she looks upon me and shares every trivial achievement of my life.

In every milestone of my life, I see her in the crowd. In my dark times, I see her in the shadows. And in a crisis, I hear her voice, leading me out of it. When she left us, I did not cry. I did not feel her absence. I did not feel the void. In my mind I always envisaged her as I had always seen her.. powerful. In my heart I always felt her presence.

She was the first representation of a Monarchy I apprehended. With an invisible wand she governed her dominion with an almost-dictator-like regimen for over half a century. And she harboured an unbiased and unanimous affection for all her subjects. But she fostered each one as they were worthy of. And ever since I can recollect, I blissfully wallowed in the status of ‘The Cherry On Top’. She was the first Visionary I met, who always looked at the big picture, at the greater good, rather than the instantaneous joy ride or a sweet treat. She was the first moral of Justice I learnt. In my eyes she was always as fair as practically possible to everyone in one way or the other. Justice is not only blind itself but also invisible sometimes. She was the first embodiment of Perfection I witnessed. The spread of her sheet.. or the alignment of her jars, the pleats of her Saree.. or the braids in her hair, her hospitality.. or even her hostility.. marked perfection in highlighted bold letters.

She was the first epitome of Rationality and Acumen I discerned. Amidst a crisis, when all the young and dynamic lot gave in to utter desperation, she was always calm and collected. With her apparent phlegmatic approach she always held the boat afloat. She was the first lesson of Independence I imbibed. In the phase of life when all her contemporaries had given in either to younger generations or to modern day machines, with a little difficulty she skilfully managed her everyday regime, well with the occasional exception of a glass of water. She was the first paragon of Determination that I perceived. The bane of age and deteriorating physical state could never dwindle her avidity or diligence. Fixing-up things here and there around the house.. to erecting a fairly huge edifice in the middle of nowhere.. she did it all.. when and how she wanted to. At times, she was a little too headstrong and persistent. And some of her ventures may have seemed pretty irrational and futile, but in a free world, those were her choices.

They say there are some people who shine like a Star to impart light to the world. But there are also others who like the Earth, bounty and flourishing, yet unkempt and downtrodden, lay beneath our feet to provide hearth for us to grow and flourish. And such was my Grandmother, teaching the lessons of life to many, yet inconspicuous and unappreciated.

I know a thousand hands may stand up to disagree, but that is her in my eyes.

And  ‘To Be Great is To Be Misunderstood.’ (Ralph Waldo Emerson).

I might be naïve, prejudiced or blinded in love, but I am sure that nothing I have said here is untrue.  

“In retrospection, I am grateful to you for pulling up my flat and stubby Nose every second when I was little, and today if it stands sharp and smooth its only because of you and your unmatched efforts. And I regret not expressing myself when I could, for I had no clue Time would fall short.”

In every failure, in every success.. in light, in darkness.. in joy, in sadness.. I shall always remember you fondly.

To come and go.. is Life. But to live in one’s heart forever.. is Love.

The Kite Stealer

As a young boy, I was very unhappy. I was not poor, but neither was I rich. My father, like millions of other middle class bread-earners, took great joy and pride for being granted the chance to serve our great nation. To me, he was just a clerk in the East Coast Railways. Years and years of hard work in his dinghy office, his earnest allegiance and fortitude to never accept a bribe, earned him nothing more than a good name among the 250 other clerks and a few white collared officers. My mother was a humble housewife, and there were no two sides to it. She took redundant pride in it as well. I, on the other hand, after 12 years of my existence had learnt that there was nothing in my miserable life to boast about. 

I always had enough of everything, but just barely enough. We belonged to a class of the society, a tier in the financial pyramid, which comprised of two types of people, the dreamers and the fighters. My father belonged to the latter type, everyday he strived to provide for his family. He never desired for anything more. All his life he was a content man. But I was a dreamer. I wished for everything, wove kaleidoscopic dreams every night. Unfortunately, the dreamers were the most unhappy and restless people, for they were equipped with only dreams, but no means to fulfill them. So all they could do was resign to their fates and pretend to be a fighter, happy and proud to be just able to provide for their families. The dreamers embodied one of the greatest paradoxes in the society.

I went to the only English-medium school in the town and so did all the rich kids from uptown, only I didn’t have their freshly ironed attires, sparkling boots, trendy water bottles with tic-tac-toe or themed stationary. I strode into those walls everyday donning one of my two pairs of soiled uniforms with my broken pen in my pocket, dragging my rugged cloth bag behind me, trying to evade as many banters as possible. While they proudly shared their pasta, chips and muffins, I gulped down my modest roti and achaar before any of the scrutinizing eyes caught me. I could never put behind me the abhorrence and disgust that reflected in their eyes while they cast a demeaning look towards me when I wasn’t allowed to play football with them because I didn’t have the ‘right shoes’. All I could do to retaliate was stand there mortified summoning all my strength to prevent tears from welling up in my eyes.

That day I had pleaded my mother to let me go to the local government school, where most of our neighbour’s children went. But she wouldn’t listen and said that English-medium education would make me a babu one day. People attending on me, big cars with chauffeurs, VIPs congregations… (I guess that was the source of my dreamer genes). But her dreams seemed as inane and mocking as the demeaning looks of the rich boys. I lamented my life and I regretted being myself. I indicted my parents for the miseries of my life. I failed to comprehend the significance of life without the fashionable clothes, classy accessories and pricey videogames.

Once every year I forgot all my miseries and set out to conquer the world. It was Makar Sankranti, The Festival Of Kites. Kites were my passion. The fervor I had for flying kites was incomparable. Fortunately enough, I was equally gifted. And I left no stone unturned to master my inexpensive hobby. Watching my kite soar high above, untouched, unrestrained, beyond anyone’s reach, rendered an inimitable pleasure and pride, something I lacked in my life otherwise. It carried me to an alternative world, where I could fly freely with my kites in the boundless sky, while infinitesimal people of the world could only gawk at me awe-struck. The Kite Festival was the day when I had the chance to prove myself to those haughty rich boys.

On the fateful day, I awoke just when the sun was starting to peep at the horizon, emptied half a bucket of water in my attempt at bathing, donned my best pair of clothes, parted my hair neatly and set off to the tapering aisle between the old Post Office and the Town Engineer’s house. Flying kites in an open field is a cup of cake, but launching my soldier into the air amidst that jungle of old dilapidating houses, was an extraordinary challenge.. and every time triumph was enslaved. My game-plan that day was to camouflage myself among those archaic edifices, masquerade my attack on the village ground and vanquish the rich brats there.

My rainbow-coloured minion soared high in the sky, while I steered myself through structural barricades. I knew those lanes like the back of my hand. The countless afternoons I had spent there, sharpening my skills had to account for something. My gaze was following my minion as ardently as a kite watches its prey. I was right behind the Hanuman Temple when I noticed an unpredicted falter in the gait of the bearer of my honour. I tugged at the line, but the tension was gone and it slumped back lifelessly.

What a prodigious blow at my pride… I thought while I watched my fallen soldier vagrantly drift towards the ground. My vision was shrouded by desperate rage and utter shock. Even more desperation struck.. This was the end of my dream to vanquish my adversaries. In my quest for the ‘despicable being’ who took me down, I turned around the corner and the veteran banyan tree confronted me. Under it, was a humongous rock and reclined on it was a four-feet tall, ebony-coloured, shabby little boy, candidly gloating in pride. In one hand he clutched my captured and trampled pride and a humble white kite slung on his other shoulder. I was crippled by a spiteful animosity. That distasteful imp-like creature had made me bite the dust. I was torn between mortified embarrassment and indignant exasperation.

He grinned at me, exposing his yellow stained teeth. Before I could translate my feelings into words, he extended his idle hand and said ‘If you give me a rupee, I will return your pretty kite.’ I glared at him without moving a muscle. ‘I won it, I didn’t steal it. It’s mine now. But I know how much you love it. I have been watching you everyday. I learnt flying kites by watching you. You are so good.. But today I cut your line, ain’t I good..’ I felt like roots had grown out of my feet. I stood there impassively. He went on, ‘Come on.. I know you have 25 rupees, I saw you counting it earlier today. I have had nothing to eat in 2 days. I really want to buy a cotton candy at the Mela. Please Bhaiya give me 1 Rupee.’

In a split of a second, my perspective changed, my eyes softened, and I was gripped by a sudden pang of sorrow and empathy. But the embarrassment was unaltered. He had no tangible assets and perhaps no kith or kin to look forward to, yet he stood there so calmly, appeased at the prospect of a cotton candy. And I had treated him with nothing but abhorrence and loathing. Suddenly I felt like he had stepped into my shoes and I had been looking down upon him through the eyes of those rich boys I deeply despised. We were similar in so many ways, yet there was an enormous disparity. He wasn’t accusing others for his miseries, sulking or whining, instead he was availing his skills to earn his infinitesimal reward. It dawned upon me that the world was deluged with less fortunate people who would kill for a life like mine. I was imbued with the serenity of my ‘kite stealer’ and he taught me that just because I failed to acknowledge what I had, its significance did not diminish.

Since that day I wasn’t apprehensive about being judged anymore. I refrained myself from perusing what I did and didn’t have. I focused on doing my best in everything I attempted. Today 20 years later, I have done pretty well for myself, but when I discern my parents.. aged and senile, I wallow in remorse and guilt for having blamed them for all those years, for holding them accountable for my miseries, while I chose to be unhappy. I have replenished the lives of my children with everything they need, but I sincerely hope they learn to appreciate it. I hope they meet their ‘kite stealer’ soon.

Familie Bilder - Day #14

'A Picture is worth a thousand words.'

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Break Free..

As I stand over your bloody corpse,

I know something within myself died.

But my swollen eyes show no remorse

They have for too many nights sobbed & cried.

I embraced you with your dreams,

While you crushed mine under the burden of your love.

No one heard my silent screams,

But the broken smile and my pale skin from above.

I had given my best,

But you failed me at my worst.

I thought I was blessed with a gold crest,

But in disguise I was cursed.

Cursed.. with an innate ability to love

And not let go..

But tonight I have murdered my love..

My undying love for a man,

A Man who trampled me so low.

Now I know that I have let go..

As I stand over your bloody corpse.

A void is formed by the death of my undying love,

for better or for worse..

I shall bury it deep under my garden,

And plant new seedlings on it.

Now only the earth shall bear my love’s burden,

While I go seeking another piece of shit.

And this, my darling me,

Is the fate of my cursed love.

Tonight I break free..

With it murdered and buried, while I walk above.

This is to elevate a loved one and help her make a new beginning. Together we shall rejoice forfeiting our sorrows, instead of grueling in self loath. :)