There is this girl I know.
This girl with honey brown hair, which she considers her only weapon of flirtation. And her honey brown eyes in which lie, many inconceivable dreams she still hopes to pursue, despite them having been botched uncountable times.
She has a catching smile – within which, throbs an unfathomable sea of hurt and pain…And sometimes, when the tides are high, she manages it all, simply by faking a poker face…and when it becomes unmanageable, she either cracks a joke or begins talking about Navajo print or about how unique each Louis Vuitton bag is …or how, as per Time’s magazine, one of out every four Americans is assumed to pee in the swimming pool.
She sometimes mentions, weakened by the angst that descends on her, that if, her skin were to be pricked with a needle, salty water would ooze out in the form of tears – that’s how the sea within, had besieged her.
She is multifaceted in her demeanor and is afraid she might be one of those MPD characters straight out of a Sidney Sheldon novel. In reality, she is just bi-polar, perhaps! She is a cleanliness freak and prefers to neatly fold toilet paper before using it.
She has a dark-dry skin, tall body, paunchy waistline; bony derrière and a chest that lacks the ‘regional charm ‘other women are blessed with. Her nose is stubby and white-head laden…her mouth, kissable!
She likes to dress up well at all times because she believes that if you feel like shit, you don’t necessarily have to look like one. She wears gravity defying heels almost always and walks about as gracefully as a duck.
She loves staring into immeasurable darkness of night and her favorite emotion is nothingness. She fancies thrills of almost any kind, but especially the ones that are not expensive.
She hates auto-rickshaw wallahs and feels that people who eat too much are storing up for winters. She loves the Sun and she feels it loves her back. She loves butterflies in gardens as well as in her stomach. She has a sense of humor and is neurotic about nail paints.
This girl I know, is – A girl like me.
She unzips a huge pouch of nail paints and throws them all on her sprawling bed and beams over her being spoilt-for-choices. She wishes she could have the same choices when it came to life. It’s not that she doesn’t have choices…she only wishes she had the will and courage to make those choices.
She loves playing with those nail colors, the same way she loves playing with her memories. Memories, that are from past, some of which are intoxicating, some of which are melancholic, some -bittersweet (she loves these the most) and the rest, that are neither – the ones she calls ‘memories of vain’. She feels that these memories are safe in nature – something that ‘unquestionably lack thrill’.
When the ‘thrilling’ memories of past electrify her, she paints her nails any color from Deep Gothic Red to Lush Leaf Green. She feels nothing much by the ‘memories of vain’… so, the only neutral nail paint she has, is used rarely.
She paints her nails equally magnetized by the memories of future. And, those are… sheer shimmers – Golden for nights and Silver for days. She likes them this way because it makes her feel like she could, most certainly, have ‘Best of both the Worlds’.
Her expectations are magnanimous. How else ‘Universe of Abundance’ would be justified, she thinks? She thinks that people, who have low expectations, are always playing safe. Unquestionably lacking thrill. But that is only at the outside, she knows. Inside of them, is bubbling a meaty gravy of huge expectations, which if not stirred, is sure to get burnt!
Between the colors of past and those of future…Nail color for her present? She is still discovering it. Like an artist, she chooses various colors from her memories, some from past and some of future and mixes on her palette. With each passing day and each palette washed off under a nomadic stream of acetone, she gets sure that she hasn’t got it yet.
She may have not yet discovered the color or established the precise brew, but she holds a clear dream of the color she wants for her present.
The discovery of the color, as if it’s like a real person, has become that very certain moment, which, she believes; her entire life had been a prelude to.
What is the color like…? Somewhere between candy pink and hot pink. She calls it, ‘The Pristine Pink’.
The pink, which makes a shy smile crack in the corner of her lips. The pink, which whispers the last fragment of a mysterious secret in her eyes. The pink, which brings to surface, her memories of future that currently are immersed in the depth of the sea within.
The pink, which is the precise color of sky at dawn.
She knows not all dawns could belong to her…but she tries. She knows some dawns will reduce her while others will amplify her. But, the current dawns are simply reducing her. Washing off her faith…dissolving her confidence…evaporating her belief…eroding her trust…and tarnishing her entire self…
Yet, she is firm; to the extent of being stubborn… she still holds the dream of that pink. The pink, people only talk in hushed voices about, in low volumes; but never accept.
Openly, she was led to believe by her experience, that people gave only politically correct opinion about things. And she loves defying those opinions.
Someday, she wishes, she’d change everything. Everything. Everything, which, she feels is not the first best.
She is effervescent…driven by emotions…composed on the edges, edgy on the inside…enduring on the surface, but broken and shattered and miserable within.
She makes mistakes -does wrong things. Ends up hurting people. She admits. And apologizes. And she punishes herself for doing those things. Deprives herself of comfort and luxury, goes beyond her endurance – walks long distance to get somewhere, relinquishes her bus seat all journey long…lets someone have it despite being tired to death; gives up her favorite food for a month or two; doesn’t go out to eat ‘good’ food; doesn’t shop and… doesn’t agree to have her medicine when she gets a migraine attack. When forced, she holds it back under her tongue and spits at the first available opportunity. She wishes to go through pain – the same pain, she regrets, she inflicted upon someone else.
She makes mistakes – does ‘right’ things. Just like how Robin advocates. Robin Sharma. She does that almost always. Treats others the way she’d like to be treated. Sadly, she thinks, Robin doesn’t work for a girl like her.
Somehow, she doesn’t believe in the theory of Karma. For her, Karma is negotiable…and life is pretty much a ‘buffet’ with live counters. Still apologizes, for doing right things. But she doesn’t know how to punish herself for this.
She has a constant fight insider her, with herself. As if she is split into two contradictions. A part of her wants comfort, the other demands protest…a part wants to let go, the other’s entire being depends on holding on…a part is ecstatic of her triumphs, the other is suitably contrite…a part of her forgives, the other is full of venomous lazy vengeance …a part of her only questions…the other, is simply silent… a part of her wants to fight back, the other, just wants to surrender.
She loves the way she loves. She believes that her single most substantial accomplishment in life has been that she has pleasantly surprised herself with the way she could love the people. And she doesn’t mean only the ‘feeling’ of love…she means ‘feeding’ as well. If she is sorry once, she makes sure she says it as many times as until she is forgiven. Constantly on the go to mend things up. And at the same time, punishing herself. If she feels love, she says as many times as she can…expresses in as many ways as are available…if there ever is unavailability of ways of expression, she creates new ways.
She found her own way to love. Never got tired of it, until…until now, when, she starves. No feedings for her. She famishes.
But, she carries on. Not knowing if any or all of her wishes will be achieved, she lives on…
Some days, she accepts that things are not going to be her way and… she smiles which makes her breakdown.
The other days, she takes out her palette.
Her Colour Pink.
And, she cries.
Genre: Short Story