THE VOYAGE OF SELF DISCOVERY

I don’t recall my first day at school; neither do I remember mother teaching me A for apple, B for ball and C for cat. And yet, both had happened; while undocumented, but those were, and I believe still are the most significant events of my life. 

I read and wrote; I grew. In other words, became educated. Degrees and distinction certificates of Colleges and Universities attested their seals on me. Awarded me a gold medal; they said it was for academic excellence. 

In the pursuit of finding a vocation I joined and resigned a string of organizations. Changed a city every few years; made countless homes from scratch, and then, after a while, dismantled them. Made friends, made love. Made a baby. Yet, in spite of all my accomplishments, something was still missing.

The day I put pen to paper and scribbled the first few lines of The Crossroads (my first novel), I discovered a joy that I had never felt before, uncovered a passion I had not known existed in me. 

Today, I call myself a storyteller. What I choose not to say is that I don’t complete a story, neither do I seek one. A story seeks me, completes me. And that, in the very act of telling a story, I discover versions of myself, which would remain undiscovered otherwise. I am now convinced beyond doubt, that had there been no journey of words, my life story would have remained incomplete, untold. 

I am a seeker and a sucker, of truth, of happiness. I do every single thing that makes me happy, however silly. I dance in the rain, I cry with music. If a film touches me profound, I remain endlessly in it, as though it is the story of my life. I love as if I have never been hurt. I cling to dreams and desires as if they are my life lines.

I do things that promise me peace. And meditation is just one of them. I don’t believe in small talks. Neither do I take relationships short term. Both add me no joy. Both are shallow and worth a neglect. I never regret not having one. I like relationships that first grow inside me, and then outgrow me. I love relationships that help me grow.

I am yet to learn how to manage fund. Often I run out of cash and shamelessly seek asylum in my husband’s benevolence. In his generosity I thrive. He works and earns on my behalf, I put powder and perfume at his expense; I drink imported scotch. He says he loves me more than anything in this world. Sharing life with me is like walking through a beautiful dream. Nothing makes me happier. I don’t care if he is being truthful, or trying to please me. I love the ripples those words create in my mind. I fall in love with him all over again. 

I dream of a day when I would be rich enough, to gift him vacation of a life time. To take him to mountains and valleys, places far and wide. And tell him how much I appreciated his support, his perseverance and his concern. Who has seen love in this world; it is his care that made me what I am. He is a man of science, words doesn’t play in his mind. I would like to tell him that this journey of mine, the journey of words that I have embarked on, would have been impossible, without him. And that this journey is equally his, as it is mine. 

I love to fall in love over and over again and not necessarily with a man every time. My polygamous relationship with love is something I am yet to understand. Its complex and I know it. But I am here not to simplify complexity; I rather enjoy life’s subtleties, however complex.

I love to cook and feed a man. Love to see the twinkle in his eyes, as his taste buds get caressed by my delicacies. It’s orgasm of another kind. It fills me with a joy, few other things can. I love to feed a hungry, even if my own plate. If a meet a genie one day, I would ask from him an Akshay Patra, from where I would go on feeding the hungry and the poor; feeding people who are incapable of feeding themselves. 

I love to mess with colours; that’s what I call my act of painting. Sometimes it happens, sometimes it doesn’t. I am not disappointed when I blotch a picture. I am hopeful that I will do it perfectly one day. Colours fill my eyes with dreams, and my mind with hope of an extravagant tomorrow.

I have made mistakes in my life, am yet to make many others. Certainly I am not proud of them, but I am not ashamed of them either. Each mistake that I had made had made me. If it had not broken me into pieces, it had made me strong. And if it had broken me, I have learned to unscramble the broken parts and make myself all over again. I am thankful to them. I bow down to my mistakes as the first guru of my life. 

And then there are a handful of teachers, whose efforts I can never forget, not in this life. I respect them now, more than I did when I was a child. They are real the artists who have crafted me with patience of the entire world. 

My literary journey would have remained incomplete, unexplored, had I not met my mentor, Mr. Randhir Khare. Guruji, I call him. A meeting with him is a voyage in itself, where I travel inwards and outwards, incessantly discovering. Under his tutelage, I am learning to refine and redefine my scribe. 

I go on peeling layer after layer, of myself until I reach that vulnerable spot where I meet the real me. Not the mother, not the child, not the wife, not the friend… but just me. Plain, nameless, sexless. It amazes me to touch my own vulnerable spot. To feel its pliable nature. To see it the way one might see his heart or lungs. 

I have numerous masks, I play multiple roles. I discover and rediscover everything that is strewn on my path. I create versions of myself that at times shocks me, makes me smile, at other times. I thrive in this joy of incessant discovery, in this endless creation of the creator. The stories that I tell are but a small part of me. The discoveries I make in the process are profound. They last within me like memories of a good day. I yesterday, am different from me today, and yet I sense a fragment remaining just the same, somewhere. Stubbornly it refuses to change. I hold onto it like a child clinging to its mother, aware that I would lose it any moment. And yet, when I lose it, I feel no sadness. I embrace the new me the way I had once embraced my just born daughter. With abandon, with love. 

I talk all the time, only that I do it in my mind. My lips don’t move, don’t churn out words and create white noise. It’s my pen that does. I hear words in my head, and I write them; I see stories in my dream. I see them as a story-teller does; reading tales before expectant readers. 

I feel this irresistible desire to read and re-read my stories, even when there is no audience. Even when there is hardly a story. 

If there is one word that perfectly defines me, its imperfection. I am an imperfect wife, an incompetent mother, an irresponsible daughter. Every morning my husband prepares his own breakfast and leaves for work, while I remain asleep after a late night. My daughter complains that I don’t play with her, as some of her friend’s mothers do. She is just a child and doesn’t understand my passion; I smile and say that I would do it from tomorrow, knowing fully well that tomorrow may not dawn. I stay away from my parents, and cannot afford to visit them often, take care of them in a way I want to. It is not the lack of intent that I suffer from, but lack of money that cripples me. It is for them, and only for them that I want to be a millionaire now, so that I go and meet them often, speak to them not over phone but by holding their hands, and tell them how much they mean to me. Perhaps I need a few more life times to play all the roles perfectly. Am aware of this terrible short coming. I have learned to live with these limitations, the way one learns to live with an amputated limb. But I don’t want to live and die an imperfect human being. That’s one of the goals of my, this life, amongst many others. And all my efforts are essentially rooted in that desire.

Like every other woman of my age, I love to wear short dresses and high heels. I eat more lipstick than carb. I buy cosmetic products that promise me glowing skin and bouncy hair. I spend an irrational amount of money in makeups and perfumes, I keep myself presentable and groomed round the clock. I love to paint my lips and nails red; it adds smile to my face every time I look into the mirror. I take care of my feet as if they are my children. You may find me with dirty hands but never with dirty feet. For me, my feet are the second most important organ of my body, after my eyes. I cannot imagine a life without them. Being fat doesn’t suit me, hence I run. I keep my abs flat and legs slim. I am in love with this body, with my eyes. It’s the best gift I have had so far; a gift at once from nature and from my parents.

I am my longest, most genuine, and my favorite companion. The person who called me a solitary bird has uncovered the deepest secret of me. Solitary bird… yes that I am. I like being alone, remaining alone. I am never bored of myself. Solitude fills me with bliss that nobody ever could. 

Sometimes I wonder what you make of me. Not that I care much, but still at times I toy with the idea of taking the camera off me and see myself through another pair of eyes. Read me with a mind different from mine. The idea is funny, even irrational, but it enables me to see a version of myself that perhaps I am not aware of. It gives me perspective. It gives me a chance of redefining myself.

My life is guided by three forces: affection, emotion and passion. Affection that I feel towards everybody, emotion that makes me human and passion that keeps me alive. If you promise me a hundred million dollars against those three, I’d rather die pauper having them, than lying on a million dollar bed affection-less.

After hearing this, if you call me beautiful, I would say: the beauty you see in me is a reflection of you. 

If there is a place where I desire to live forever, it is in your mind. In that abode, I want to last and last, long after my physical self is obliterated to the dust. 

Dear readers, you are the reason that I am.