Her life that they paint...

She weaved a sheepish smile at the mention of his name,
and giggled like a girl unlike the laughter of a woman I wanted to see.
Screens acted as saviours and telephonic voices were all that she heard.
There are people around, friends and family
who know how she likes her eggs and the mood she is by her strewn slippers..
yet she seems to love that man who comes online
or who she meets with consent of families, a grown-up thing I never did understand.
What about silent glances and stealthy kisses?
Where is the secret of love?
I stare as blatantly as I can to grasp the system that keeps slipping off
my cheesy hands and
a heart very easily flattered by poetry.
I try to see the love, the fights and the memorable moments that shall flash
through her eyes as she gets married,
but what if there are no memories?
What if casual conversations are all that reach the mind that tries
to tame the already trained heart to bring out a questionnaire to know the other?
Where does that feral hope of every woman go,
the one who waits for a dashing young man to speed by and catch her unawares?
Probably there is some logic that my small (or fat?) head seems to reject...
It has created a population that beats most of the world.
All this picks up its pace in my jumbled brain as she bows down
with a twitch near the corner of her lips and a hesitant smile.
Waiting to start a new life with someone she may just hardly know.
I wonder if it works like a different kind of weed.. full of excitement and expectations..
I look through the falling petals
for I know the mehendi on her hands will grow red even if he doesn't know her...
but, will he stare at it smiling, looking at her and kissing them as they grow dry?

                                         Photo from the internet.

Hemu

So spake a building you think is one.

You think I don't know a thing, that I don't feel beyond what I'm made of. That's not true. I've experienced more than anyone of you can ever see, feel, hear or grasp. I've heard so many squeals of children running around, their cries when they fall down, the laughter of the old ladies who think they're cracking jokes when the younger counterparts grin in quiet tones at the befallen comment that isn't close to humor, the shouts of the people calling out to one another, the singing on one side and the instruments amplified in the presence of my greatness.
 
           I've seen many traditions, rituals, too many silent tears in the washroom confining many a people, individually, all of them crying inside and yet on the outside, pretend to be strong and smile in each others' presence. I've seen colour always : of flowers, clothes, lights and faces and what they contain, beautiful smiles of  blushing brides and more moving energy than all your lives put together in one fleet of running parents, striding across my magnanimous being to greet people and attend needs.

       Yet, after all the time I remain where I am, I still cry soft tears to see her go. A bride in her mother's arms seeking comfort and merely a shoulder to cry on. She cries, the one leaving 'home' , having to shrug all that responsibilities as a daughter to being a wife, though I know a daughter shall never forget them, and shall remain a daughter forever. I see mixed emotions in her eyes, that glint with happiness during the dance with her husband among the huge crowds that surrounds to cheer her and a large sense of sadness attached along with anxiety and fear. I've seen of every single 'Her' : a silent thought not to cry and induce the mood into others and yet breaking down at moments many. I sense, every single time that she can't sleep in total peace like when her father covered the sheets around her with a goodnight kiss, for she doesn't know if her husband shall do the same.

          I'm not concrete and brick. I'm emotions many, if you pause to rest your shoulder on me and look around. If you press your ears against my pillars of strength and listen. With every footstep you take, I have had so many others jumping on the same.. where you stand, that was where one girl fainted in her father's arms.. where you laugh-many have cried and where you hug, many of them had to be pulled free. I am not what you think I am.

         I've seen a little girl pulled free of her father's arms and thrust into another mans'. How the father has taken care of her, I've always seen.. it shows in the eyes and the tears and smiles she sheds. How the man does, I never know, for none of them fulfilled an obligation of coming back to me to whisper how they are. They think I don't live, they think I don't exist. I don't blame them,  for they are daughters leaving home. I shall remember every one of their tears that had been wiped off my floor with a mop, not knowing it had already reached my insides creating an imprint.
       With false promises and some true ones, they take her away from whom she loves to someone she'll learn to love. She cries, silently and breaks down again as she gets into the car to drive away into nothingness for a few more minutes before she realizes what's happening.. and as the car gets out of the driveway I tend to hear loud cries and huge tears from the sisters of the bride... ones who, with great difficulty held them all back so that they don't cry in front of her making her departure more painful.

   I see this, day after day, hour after hour.. one wedding after the other. I never shall get tired..for each bride has a tale to tell, moments to share, hours of fatigue, and one instance that they all share.. leaving home. At that juncture, I become their homes, for the second they wave a bye to their crowded families, who with moist eyes and a smile on their lips, wave back till the car goes out of sight and sometimes even minutes after.
   I hope they are all happy somewhere, with children who'll grow up to get married the same way they did. They have always been my favorite. The daughters leaving home..
  Even if they're across the road with roaring traffic, I shall still hear them say with nostalgia  :
"There! That's where I got married"
   

This was my entry at Saarang Writing Awards 2013