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Friday, 24 January 2014


There are these stairs in her house, which have been there as far as she can remember. She climbed them one at a time in her diapies ages ago. Most times when she is climbing them now she tends to make a continuing sound which is quite akin to what children make when they are walking in the dark and the sound makes them feel less uncomfortable. Come to think of think of it, she has a whole series of these infantile sounds she has for different occasions and people in her life. When she makes them whilst talking with him, he laughs affectionately, and cajoles her. Unconsciously at these times she presents herself as an infant to appeal to his protective instincts, and he responds with affection, resulting in a feeling which is very sweet, a delicate sensation;  fragile to touch.

As a small cheeky little thing, she was her daddy's girl. When he would be praying on his mat every evening, towards the end she would squat in front of him to speak with him. He would laugh, and call her silly,  requesting her to get up so he can complete his prayers. Last  night she did the same thing. Not quite so little anymore , she now can face her father eye to eye yet he laughed like he used to years ago. Maybe he too misses those times of her childhood.

From the typical standard of things, she hasn't really grown up, not because she doesn't want to, but as far she is concerned she doesn't know how to. The other day she spent quite a while being fascinated with the fact that people are cruel. Its like a repetitive reality, which she has seen since she understood what reality means, yet she still doesn't "understand" it. The explanation given to her was that adults have pressures to deal with and as a result of those pressures they tend to be mean at times. By mean she understood that they throw words like sharp knives to pierce the heart of the listener, they turn a blind eye to the misery they are causing, yet in the eyes of the world they are holy and striving to be good. She listened to what was told to her, it made no sense. Is this the kind of adult she is expected to be? Because if that were true, she doesn't stand a chance.What a lot of rubbish people say by way of an explanation! Children are clear and true, that is why they are cruel. They have yet to learn the art of being diplomatic and hurt with words. They at least have an excuse of not knowing. Then what pray tell is the excuse that these self professed adults use as an alibi?

On the beach that warm day, she was asked " Are you always like this"? That question could signify a lot of doubts in the mind of the questioner. She thought about it for a second and answered "Yes". It was true. To amuse herself even at this age is something of a habit for her. As a kid she used to play by herself a lot, and was really irritated whilst playing with her cousins because they wouldn't follow her instructions. So now whenever she is by herself, her feet and hands are a source of constant interest to her, and the sky littered with little puffy clouds the other day cheered her up to no end. She is not simple, in the strictest sense, she is a smart person who thinks a lot. Maybe thinks a bit too much, and when that finite thought is exhausted, she flat lines and for some reason starts humming Christmas hymns. Don't ask why.

“Why should you want to give up a child's wise not-understanding in exchange for defensiveness and scorn, since not-understanding is, after all, a way of being alone, whereas defensiveness and scorn are a participation in precisely what, by these means, you want to separate yourself from.” 
― Rainer Maria Rilk

What is being an adult? Really,what does it mean? To cut a long story short, it merely means one does what one has to do and learns to live with its consequences. So what is the harm in doing all of that whilst still being fascinated by new things, being mesmerized by shiny things, spending time by oneself or simply laughing out loud! Let the world see those cavities, hear the heartfelt laughter punctuated by tears and snorts. Its a fascinating thing to see someone really laugh all the way from the depths of their soul.

She thought about it like she does about most things and came to the conclusion that either she could be the sort of person who explains her maturity by way of displaying her degrees and accomplishments to everyone who will hear so that they recognize that she has worked hard to make something of herself, that in the process she has become disillusioned, packed a lot of emotional baggage and regrets and has a strong tinge of malice like they have, so she could blend in as one in this huge pot of misery. Or, she could keep all that to herself and sit quiet at big gatherings and be fascinated about how people talk, and how their eyes talk. What their words convey and what they are really trying to convey, and surmise that in the scheme of things whatever one achieves is really personal and doesn't amount to much. There is still so much left undone. 

She could be any kind of person, but the choice had never really been hers. She behaved as felt right to her, even at the risk of being judged as the misfit. The queer glances confused her. Still do. The truth of the matter is, being anything other than what she felt she really was, was an effort which never amounted to much. Every time she strayed from her gypsy path, she was hurt and it all felt like a tissue of lies. As she is, is her truth. The selective hypocrisy, returning gifts when she is mad at someone, really biting her tongue when a particularly horrific comment is on her lips one time, and saying completely socially unacceptable things the other, lighting up like a Christmas tree when a new idea or a plan presents itself or feeling really upset if she so much as hears a low in a loved ones voice. Such is life.

A patchwork quilt. That's what she is. All the different pieces, people, unmatched experiences and mis matched stitching make her who she is. She doesn't really mind being stuck in a mid Peter Pan stage. Before, in the audacity of youth she did say " I am who I am, to hell with everyone". Funnily enough the sentiment is the same but now she'd rather say " I am who I am, because I do not know how to be anyone else". Potato, Potaato. 

Poignant or not this piece is her truth, and whether it is accepted or not, its existence is hard to extinguish. As far as she is concerned, her quilt is yet incomplete, maybe it will never be complete. Who knows, maybe it wont be hers if it was complete.