I was asked to define life.
I tried to retort the question but lack of an answer, made me shut my eyes and to ponder over it. My brain prompted me of nothing, my nerves went numb. All I sensed with shut eyes was a dark cold response. Tired of the futile attempts I gave up.
A black canvas? Is this what my life is? Certainly not!
I closed them again, this time with a determination to find an answer. It was dark again, but I didn’t give up. Seconds later, I sensed an image emerging out from the dark space. It was a huge picture, a collage of my life. It held on it my life; the things I did, the moments I lived, the times I passed. It appeared as a painting; painted by Him. A painting which had a blue print of my life. A painting which instructed me to precede my life. As if all the events that happened to me were already planned. I was chosen as a mediator to enact them, the decisions I took were not mine; the deeds I was held responsible for were not my ideas. I was not the master of the soul residing in me. I was just a mediator.
It held in it the various aspects of my life. I was projected as a daughter, an obnoxious sister, a friend, a silent admirer, a dreamer with soaring dreams, an anonymous stranger, a victim of broken bonds, a winner of good relations, it had it all. Each world was linked, weaved with elegance, transporting me from one to another, efficiently without letting their existence felt. It made me realize the parallel worlds I lived in simultaneously.
The roles I were assigned laid before me patterned diligently.
In one such picture I saw a kid. The kid looked happy. She bore a smile that reflected the peace her mind was in. that kid was me. It was my father’s cuddle which made me feel that peace.
Another one had the image of a school girl. Oiled hair, shoes with a layer of dirt on them, knee length dress and a care free attitude defined her. She had a glee on her face, surrounded by people of her age. The expression she had indicated her intimacy with the people around. That girl was me.
Next that my eyes saw, was a person who had her head bowed down. Her hands were folded and shoulders lowered. The lady besides her looked poignant. Perhaps it was the day when I was to face the outcome of the deed I was not expected of. That lady was my mother.
In one I saw myself with my sister. Our hands
hung around each other’s shoulders. Our dresses exhibited the madness we housed
towards the changing trends. Our eyes dictating the love we had for each other.
She looked pretty and I spoiled the grade of the picture.
Further ahead I saw an abandoned person. A figure that stood alone, engulfed in darkness. Indeed it was the time when I was cheated by the person I had not expected. This was the place that gave birth to the sorrows of my life.
There in the adjacent picture I saw myself. I looked weak, filthy. My eyes were dull clearly reflecting my disinterest in life. I lay at a corner of a room, away from the world. I appeared as a waste, as a person who had lost the verve of her life. Perhaps, here I was heartbroken. My love deserted me.
At the center of the collage I saw a bright spot. My life seemed good there, good enough to uplift me from the miseries I lived in. I saw myself happy there. The happiness was gifted to me by the embrace my mother held me in.
I opened my eyes and the collage vanished. I shut them again regretting my act, but was entertained by darkness again. The picture went astray, leaving behind me a question to answer.
I tried to retort the question but lack of an answer, made me shut my eyes and to ponder over it. My brain prompted me of nothing, my nerves went numb. All I sensed with shut eyes was a dark cold response. Tired of the futile attempts I gave up.
A black canvas? Is this what my life is? Certainly not!
I closed them again, this time with a determination to find an answer. It was dark again, but I didn’t give up. Seconds later, I sensed an image emerging out from the dark space. It was a huge picture, a collage of my life. It held on it my life; the things I did, the moments I lived, the times I passed. It appeared as a painting; painted by Him. A painting which had a blue print of my life. A painting which instructed me to precede my life. As if all the events that happened to me were already planned. I was chosen as a mediator to enact them, the decisions I took were not mine; the deeds I was held responsible for were not my ideas. I was not the master of the soul residing in me. I was just a mediator.
It held in it the various aspects of my life. I was projected as a daughter, an obnoxious sister, a friend, a silent admirer, a dreamer with soaring dreams, an anonymous stranger, a victim of broken bonds, a winner of good relations, it had it all. Each world was linked, weaved with elegance, transporting me from one to another, efficiently without letting their existence felt. It made me realize the parallel worlds I lived in simultaneously.
The roles I were assigned laid before me patterned diligently.
In one such picture I saw a kid. The kid looked happy. She bore a smile that reflected the peace her mind was in. that kid was me. It was my father’s cuddle which made me feel that peace.
Another one had the image of a school girl. Oiled hair, shoes with a layer of dirt on them, knee length dress and a care free attitude defined her. She had a glee on her face, surrounded by people of her age. The expression she had indicated her intimacy with the people around. That girl was me.
Next that my eyes saw, was a person who had her head bowed down. Her hands were folded and shoulders lowered. The lady besides her looked poignant. Perhaps it was the day when I was to face the outcome of the deed I was not expected of. That lady was my mother.
Further ahead I saw an abandoned person. A figure that stood alone, engulfed in darkness. Indeed it was the time when I was cheated by the person I had not expected. This was the place that gave birth to the sorrows of my life.
There in the adjacent picture I saw myself. I looked weak, filthy. My eyes were dull clearly reflecting my disinterest in life. I lay at a corner of a room, away from the world. I appeared as a waste, as a person who had lost the verve of her life. Perhaps, here I was heartbroken. My love deserted me.
At the center of the collage I saw a bright spot. My life seemed good there, good enough to uplift me from the miseries I lived in. I saw myself happy there. The happiness was gifted to me by the embrace my mother held me in.
I opened my eyes and the collage vanished. I shut them again regretting my act, but was entertained by darkness again. The picture went astray, leaving behind me a question to answer.
Life ..Life is a patchwork. A collage of the moments we
live, a pool of emotions we exhibit. An oasis of thoughts we shelter. Life is beautiful, it’s wonderful. Life’s
good!
