Who so ever said, “Life’s Hard”, was way off!
Life to me, seems like this flexible thing, ever-changing under the pressure of our dreams, hopes and sometimes under sheer will.
What it although is, a Sarcastic B**** with a dry wit. It doesn’t complain against our efforts of constantly changing its course, It awaits, almost silently, till the moment you have it all exactly how you once wished it to be and then gloats watching you suffer and wishing for the things to be different again.
In my younger years, I couldnt wait to grow up!
Grown ups knew every thing!
They were not afraid of anyone and neither did they lie!
Grown ups didn’t make mistakes and best of all they didn’t have to do the homework!
Truth ironically, turned out to be way different than I thought (just like most things!).
Grown ups don’t have it easy in any thing!
Sure they don’t have to worry about pety homework, but their entire life is defined by the work they have to do most part of their day. They constantly lie. They make mistakes that probably have higher impacts then they themselves are aware of and without even knowing they are creating a new world for us every single day.
Take parents for example, I have cribbed for years for the mistakes my parents have made in bringing me up, from the frailty of my body to the constant emotional upheaval of my mind. The choices I have made or basically who I am, is impacted so much by who my parents are.
Aren’t parents suppose to know it all?
Yet, they and yes, I do mean all of them (good or bad) scar their children for life. Some with the abuses the child didn’t deserve, others with love that child got without working hard.
But then, whatever I am today, it is because of where I have been and who have raised me. All my scares, good or bad, make me an individual. Individual, my parents are proud of.
Now a days every thing I do, I keep in mind, its My job, to let go of things that pull me down and polish the goodness my elders have worked so hard to instill in me.
So if I could go back in time, I would give my parents a break from all the silly complaints and tell them, what a fine job they have done in raising us all. (I do it now as often as I can)
Couple of years ago, I took the low road and succumbed to the easy way out.
We all do that, on day to day basis, don’t we? and mostly there is no harm done. However in my case, I made my situation worse and took another friend down along with me. While the experience itself was painful, shattering and stained with lots of guilty tears, It helped me shape into who I am today and that ways it ended well for me. But in the process I lost a friend and felt really bad for hurting a nice soul.
No matter how hard I tried to make the mends, it always resulted in exchange of harsh words. Some how this person was capable of bringing the worst out of me. I could lash out with insults I never knew existed and in result ended up being wounded even more. I was somehow convinced that I was the bad one and the other person was the victim here.
Till about last year, after another failed attempt at reconciliation, I took a step back and finally decided to let it all go. May be I was not the only one to be blamed and may be not every bridge can be mended again. I vowed to not make things any worse and prayed every day for the strength to carry on.
While it worked for me, it seems this dear friend of mine is still not able to let go. Every couple of months I get insults swinged at me, and unlike in the past, I am easily able to dodge. I don’t feel the need to prove a point or hurt back any more.
Just the other day I got another note, wishing for me to burn in Hell and So intense was the need of this person to hurt me hard, that the poor soul couldn’t even frame the words right. I always used to get so hurt reading the words addressed to me that no decent person deserves to hear, and today all I feel is compassion for the person, who must be so overwhelmed with feelings that couldn’t even wait to get the note straight.
Every day lived, especially the ones I feel were unnecessarily hard, seem to bring out the best in me. Every minute, I am given a choice to take it easy or work hard for all its worth and I try not to forget the fallen moments and work hard to make it count, even if, its just for a day.
“Luck is a fancy word used too often to disguise the years of back breaking work!”
If you just read the above line and thought I must be the ungrateful kinds who has forgotten GOD and all his blessings, read again. If it made you think that its my arrogance that i speak such words I insist that you give it a second thought. If you think I am blaming others for belittling my hard work, am afraid you may have to reconsider.
Let me explain…
The above statement is neither a challenge nor a blame, its a mere reflection on how we all think on an average given day. I, for instance, have rejected my failures on the name of bad luck for years. I have been jealous of those who achieved the goals while I sat there cursing my stars. But if I was to poke a little deeper and pick on each action taken by those ‘lucky ones’, in comparison to my own, the only difference found was the lack of any such action at my end.
While I do believe, that being born and perishing away are the sheer play of God, every thing that happens in between is driven by us all. There is always a choice between, easy or hard, right or wrong, now or later, yes or no and we pick our cards. While most of us do it blindly, taking the easier option whenever they can,there do exist a few, very few, who do play by the rules. They know right from wrong, they face their fears, they work till dawn and only God knows after how many nights spent without sleep, result in that one ‘lucky’ strike, that one hand of ‘fate’, that changes it all.
Not so long ago, after years of being afraid, busy, lazy and a lot more, I finally ran out of excuses. I wasn’t getting any younger and I finally did not have any reason to not do what I thought, I always wanted to do. Its a scary feeling, when you don’t have any reason to hide behind, anyone to blame, for not chasing your dreams. So here I am, after long sulking, I finally gave in and came up with Mere Aks (My Reflections).
Mere Aks, is a Digital Art Studio, where I am currently working and producing photographic art for the collectors across the globe. Since its just a beginning, I will fine tune the details later (the website, the FB page and more), right this moment I just want to share the news with the bunch of nicest people I have (actually never met!) ever known. There have been moments when my blogging buddies have been more real than the real world out there…
PS. – If any of you are ever interested in any of the work, Please don’t forget to ask for Family discount!
I am very, very aware of her pretty little face, right at the nape of my neck. She is breathing down on me in her futile attempt at belittling my already little self. I chose to ignore her hushed chuckles as I focus on the blade in hand. I try again, to get in the harder bitter shell.
“Arh! This is just wrong”, I hear her say, but I continue to peel any way.
I dig in my sharp steel knife into the hardness of much awaited life. The fumes are sharp and flavor is bitter, I don’t notice when I begin to cry. I am done with hard sunny shell of becoming a baby and I can see the sweet layer of tiny steps. I am getting impatient as I hear her snickering behind my back, I peel away the childhood and all the growing up days.
Oh dear lord!
Comes the rotten layer, of lies, deceits and all the ugly things that come with college affairs. I wash my hands in lonely tears and get right back on my pealing race. There are sweet flavors of love, motherhood and growing old, but I am too busy getting to the core. With every layer gone, the silence deepens, I can’t guess why, she is no longer speaking. I feel the sadness grow, as I am left with nothing more. Surrounded by the shells and layers, I went through life, like a chore. As I turn around, I see her sad face. My life, looking up, as if to say,
“Yes, you are done,
but it wasn’t a race,
whatever happened to living and taking a moment to embrace?”
http://vincentmars.com/2013/01/14/when-my-father-died-i-did-not-cry/
Finding Vincent was the highlight of my day yesterday, In the matter of reading a few posts, I absolutely fell in love with his amazing words. An avid reader, a furious writer and yet so young in years. A must read for every one who cares.
Here is another story for Madison’s Friday Fictioneer group.
Feedback, constructive criticism, is most welcome.
My heart is restless and my limbs are stuck, stuck like a fool.
“Get out, before it gets you”
The voices in my head are getting louder and louder, but I still can’t move.
The more I struggle, more tangled I am left, with time, my life seems doomed.
There is no escape from this, I had it coming my way, falling for someone like you.
I am stuck in your lies, held down by own my anger and pain,
No matter, what I do, even after years, your thoughts are driving me insane.
I am so stuck, stuck on you!
Let’s just say he was the man about town, whom nobody liked.
Reasons, you ask?
Could be many!
He was too smart for his own good!
Too darn cute!
Oh gosh, was he rich!
Or may be… he was none of this!
Who cared! He was just a man about town, whom nobody gave a s**t.
Then there was me.
I am ordinary, if you must know,
Just another girl in town.
But I collected puppies.
Lost, helpless, homeless puppies.
I brought them home, washed and gave a bed,
Till they grew strong enough to bite the very hands that fed.
But does it ever stop me, no sir no!
So I had to be fixated on him, for he is one of them, a homeless, loveless puppy.
And after him I go!
He feels like a glass to me, I can see him through,
With all his ugliness, lies, wicked thoughts, somewhere buried deep some goodness too.
I can read his words, before he spells them for me,
We are now closer than we ever did.
Do you think its love,
Who am I to say,
For me he is another puppy, I wish to care.
Did I mention his lies, lies that flowed like stream,
He spits them out, even when, there is no need.
I tell him, you can be honest,
remember? I can read.
but why, why doesn’t he change.
How long will I last, with these deceiving Games?
I repeat to myself, I can handle this,
I have seen dogs before,
But looking at his puppy eyes, with drooling teeth,
I am not so sure.
I knew he was different,
But boy, was I wrong,
He wasn’t poor weak puppy,
He was a wolf,
Wolf, too strong.
He did not bite,
didn’t touch my caring hands.
He ate me alive,
Never leaving a single bone.
Today, I took a break from my normal day and spent it wisely – mostly reading Dianne’s blog. I had been busy with my German classes and photography work, keeping myself away from my much-needed reading and writing dose.
Reading her blog made me wonder about many things and I ended up writing 2 stories. One of them I will share here, while other will have to wait.
I was reading an article ‘Memory-Go-Round’, in the said blog and it got me wondering about my first memory, unlike my school days, which I hated so much, I remember most of my younger years. I can recall my memories up to the time when I started talking.
My very first memory needs a bit clarification like,
- Duppata is a piece of cloth used by women in my religion, to cover their head, which younger generation is gladly skipping these days.
- While I love my father for standing by all his kids in the time of need, he hasn’t been the father or husband of the year all along.
- I come from a large family, where my younger aunts(dad’s sisters), 4 of them, spent about 10 or more years with us till they got married, finally!
- My mother lost her mom when she was 2 and life hasn’t been very kind to her after that.
- Getting physically beaten, is sadly very common phenomena in my part of the world, to the extent, being slapped is considered a mere expression of affection, the other person holds for the victim. Kids are beaten by parents and wives by husbands, and as much as I hate to admit it, picture isn’t pretty even today.
Now, coming back to the first memory, “the very first thing I remember from my child hood is pulling my mother’s duppatta off of my aunts head, as she used to consider wearing my mom’s best of cloths her birth right, and I hated that from the start. I remember kicking her, hitting her, putting the best fight a young one can put to get her to give the piece of cloth up. I remember screaming at her to never to touch it again.”, My mom thinks that time, i was around 2.
Thinking of Dianne’s article, I realized how much my first memory reflected my whole life. I have been a Daughter, a Sister, a Wife, a Manager, a Subordinate and much more, but the only thing I have done with all of my heart and strength is, to protect my mother.
Don’t get me wrong my mom is the strongest person I have ever met, but she seems to have immense tolerance for the people she loves and no one can save her from her self-chosen hell. Ever since I was a kid, I used to tell her that I am actually her long-lost mother, who is here to take care of her.
I haven’t always been courageous in life, but I am glad when it came to protecting my mother, I never felt afraid.
I remember telling my dad to never hit my mother again and getting beaten up instead at 10.
I remember buying her treats from any penny I could save and later when I started earning, I loved buying presents for her for no reason at all.
I can never forget the day my otherwise shy mom told me about her health and how I dragged her to the doctor, knowing something was very wrong.
I am glad I was able to nurse her back to health from being taken down by that scary uterine cancer , and now she feels quite strong.
I have never cried in front of my mother, for I know how much my being strong means to her. I might fail at a thousand things, but my only wish is to never fail my mom.
