A lock of white hair
The day she was born. Until today.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
New Delhi, 12. 26 pm
No, she is not an alien. No, she is not even a caulbearer. She would have loved to be one, though. Some of her favourite men were caulbearers. Lord Byron. Khalil Gibran. Jesus Christ (she so adores the pathos in His eyes. She can look into His eyes. Forever.). She did not come into this world with a caul. Listen to this. And this ain’t fiction. She was born with a lock of white hair. A tuft of white edging out the black insouciantly. Her mother thought it was God’s blessing. Others found it freaking funny. Weird. Someone told her chimps and gorillas are born with a tuft of white hair on their rumps. Rump? No. She had a tuft of white on her scalp.
(Hey, gorilla rump references are forbidden here. Strictly forbidden.)
She was a happy child. That unusual clump did not bother her. Little neighborhood boys teased her. She smiled. Laughed off the sarcasm. She was actually proud of it. She felt special. Different from everyone else around. She parted her hair on the right just to show off that lock of white. She never hid it. Was never ashamed of it. The Australian nuns in her small-town Catholic school convinced her that it was God’s plan. The Gods wanted her to be different. Her Ma thought her youngest daughter was born wise.
Wise? Wisdom she does not know. She is serene about pain. She is still in nothingness. She is content even if she has to sleep on tears. She is together in her aloneness. Emptiness she knows not. She silly-ly still believes that love makes the world go round. She mourns the death of adoloscence. She laments the defeat of innocence. Between being foolish and scheming, she'll cheerily choose to be foolish.
She is happy. She is peaceful. If Death comes this moment, she is ready to go. Not in a morbid, cynical way. Death, she knows, is a ritual called life. She’ll go happily. Because she is not yearning. For anything. She has loved. Intensely. Eternally. She has said her sorrys. Genuinely. She gives because she knows she owns nothing. Nothing. She forgives the hurts (and hurt she has been) because she knows anger is not a solution. Never the answer. She has shed chaos. She subsists on peace.
When she loves, she loves forever. Because she is almost illiterate at give-take algorithms. For her, love is not an interlude in life. It is life. Love is not mathematics. Or, trade. It is love. Just love (you get that feeling!). Forever. As forever a Forever can be.
She cannot stack the whys of anything. She is absolutely awful at that. She does not ask too many questions (except for the work that she does). She is extremely wary of layered people. She has no layers. Naked. Clothed. She is the same. One person.
She keeps her promises. She cannot fathom how anyone - anyone - can make a promise. And forget. How? Really how? Don't they know broken promises hurt? Really hurt.
Her heart has a cemetery where she buries her pain. Her soul has no scab. Not many have seen her cry. Except the sea-green stuffed turtle that lazes on the spare cushion on her bed. And that blue velvet pillow that has soaked her teardrops. Without ever complaining about the salt of her tears.
She is still happy. She is still peaceful.
Did that tuft of white hair bring about all this? Maybe. Maybe not.
She knows not wisdom. She knows only love. That is what her name means. Love.