Reviewed: Juliet by Anne Fortier

 

"For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo” 

                                                             -Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet.

 A weakness that most have towards this particular tragedy of star crossed lovers. But here the novel expands from that constricted plot of the Bard to a wider horizon where not only are we met with the Juliet of Shakespeare in a different light but also a modern day heroine who is the namesake.
Julie Jacobs, after the death of her beloved aunt is left with, surprisingly, nothing but an envelope, dictating her to journey to Italy, and a passport with her real name-Giulietta Tolomei.
So Julie a.k.a Giulietta before even arriving at her destination, Sienna, is met with truth that her family name, Tolomei, had a violent enmity with the Salimbeni.

Cover Illustration

 

Her beloved Aunt's directive leads her to the inheritance that would, hopefully, clear heavy debts. The disappointment happens when some books and a crucifix are the inheritance. But she soon delves into the book which presented her ancestor, Giulietta and her forbidden love, Romeo.
Now we can't forget Romeo! The enigmatic Romeo of both the Giulietta's is effective in creating the breathless dance of the forbidden love.
The double narrative of both of the characters Julie and Giulietta as the latter bravely fights her cursed faith while the former is focused on solving a mystery of her lineage.The enter lacing mode of these ladies and the magical words that the author used calls for appreciation.
I would say to definitely read the novel, to understand how faith and destiny works in life, to breath in the landscapes of dual time periods and lastly to feel the love that is undeniable.


Reviewed by- Saisaa Roy

 

The Hands that killed my childhood

Why is she writing this all of a sudden, after so many years when she was so feeble to even utter a word about it? What would be the outbreak, if her family ever reads about it over a shared post? She still fears. Will it be just turned over and shuffled among the pages of a past book once again like she has been doing so long? Will a child's story be believed just the way she struggled to believe herself and silently kept on asking her own self to shut up? She ceases the internal debate to such countless parallel questions every now and then.

She does not write this to gain sympathy, which she should've gotten long back (if only they knew).
She doesn't write this to change anything now. Today she realises that she stands together with the many girls, ladies, little children, women who had the ill-fate of being victims of sexual abuse coming from the last place you expect. She writes this because yes, something still bites her even this very second, that why was she such a coward that very afternoon. She writes this for those parents, imploring them to not ask their children to tame this inside them alone for the sake of a respectful family bond. She writes this to be able to add a bit of bravery into those ladies, not to feel ashamed anymore.

It's a story that fate had written.

She writes this to  come out strong and strengthen each one like her, to help them vent out the pent up agony, so long latched within like a forbidden brute. Trust me ladies, we are indeed 'a woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets', and there's no harm or shame to spill a few drops into the air. She writes this to mark that she no more fears to share this just like another dreadful experience of her childhood. She writes this to state, sexual abuse is different and sexual abuse by a family member  scars one for life. It'll be wrong to say that she hasn't had nightmares in these ten years of her growing up, but a recent nightmare vigorously spun her head back to that afternoon of 2006. It's quite inconceivable to have such sudden night visions of long lost stories, but they do appear in the dreams to haunt her down to that afternoon. These nightmares just  catapults her long stored anguish day by day as she herself matures more.

She had lost her grandfather in a stroke, when she was in the fourth standard. There was a 15 day ritual which of-course had to be performed with all the family members and relatives huddling together. She clearly regrets that one afternoon of her life, when she had to be left alone with her elder sister and her distant-related brother at her aunt's place. She doesn't share a blood line with that brother, but just a close relative who helped her uncles to run the family business. When she was even younger, he used to be her all time favourite, always making a point to have her bubble with happiness by buying her all the favourite chocolates, toys and chips. He would secretly rescue her from Ma's scolding and pick her up all time and play. He was a distant brother she silently boasted about and loved so dearly until that afternoon, when she wished to tear him apart cell by cell. He got married a year before grandpa left them, and by that time he was already a father of a 3 month old boy. That afternoon both of them lay together side by side on the bed under the same blanket, because apparently she was left under his care. While he was busy surfing through his phone, she was enjoying his company and reading a book. Something drew him closer to her, a picture of his infant son in his phone which he wanted to show her. She was so excited to have a glance at her little nephew. Little did she know what the next few minutes had in store for her excitement to see a picture.

A hand slid down under the blanket along the thighs tickling her enough to laugh. Too little to still understand what was going to chance upon. Her attention was withdrawn every second with unending smiling pictures of a little boy. For the first time, she was perplexed. Eyeballs which were just fixed on the phone screen, body stiff with coldness, too numb to even say a word aloud. One of his hands kept her distracted with his phone while two fingers of the other probed into that part where Ma told none should ever touch. With just the only feeling of experiencing physical discomfort, she removed his hand and created a hand away distance. Reluctant, oblivious he drew himself nearest to allow her play games in his phone, as she loved that all the time. She held the phone, but her mind was latched down there, locked within his fingers. As if two devil's eyes were forcing her to play the game quietly and bear with the pain. This time as the fingers dug deep inside a tear rolled down unknowingly.

"Why is he rubbing me?" her mind shivered.

"Why is his eyes closed" her eyes blinking with tears.

"Doesn't he know he shouldn't touch me there?" her brother should understand she felt.

It was a bizarre physical sensation that snatched the breath out of her lungs right away .Unbearable with the pain and predicament of whatever was going on, she quickly sat up: "Didi'r kaachey jaabo ami" was her only saviour that afternoon. Her teary eyes were met with a smirk of his lips.

He never uttered a word about it ever after that moment, as if nothing happened ever. Probably because he knew, that this story will be locked down within her forever, that she didn't even understand what had actually gone through her. Running to the washroom was all she could do then, washing her part by and by, as if that would have washed away the imprints of his fingers forever. No afternoon sleep could spare her from what just happened. In the evening, she confined to her sister about what had happened. Didibhai hugged her, didibhai had burst into tears to just confess that she has been the victim of worse cases in the hands of the same person, and that she felt sorry that she couldn't do anything about it. One was 10 years old while the other 12 years. They were their only healer, both scared stiff to tell that to any elder. Their instincts told them to talk about this, to talk about that but never to talk about what happened. Both grew up burying that afternoon and many such afternoons under ashes until one day when she told her mother. Too late to do anything, too complex to accuse one suddenly, all she did was regret, hug her and cry. The sisters didn't mind, because they knew, no time, no amount of thrashing, no amount of consolations, no amount of regrets can restore the dignity that sank low with the hands lowering itself down.

How could she do anything? What mattered actually? It took her a few years to digest that what was happening was an abuse. It's very easy to look back as an adult and curse oneself for failing, all the missed opportunities that could have broken that silence, but she was no less than a confused child back then. Physical discomfort was the only string that played her mind. She had to suffer post traumatic stress within herself.

Many children of family abuse will not report it because they believe that the knowledge will devastate their parents. Therefore, the children stay silent in order to protect their parents - and again this can carry on into adulthood. Furthermore, there may be the belief that this truth would be too hard for their parents to bear, and so they would not believe the disclosure. There are nightmares or dreams where the little child as a grown up lady is avenging Him, well they are just extensions of the deeply desired, unattainable wishes of life.  Till date whenever she's met with him in family gatherings, she over-looks him as someone invisible. He never complains about it, rather ignores too. The present reality is unaware of what had happened a decade back but the eyes whenever meet, draws that afternoon amidst the silence.

I wish I could have been stronger earlier and never be ashamed. I still feel dirty after all these years. I’ve tried to block the abuse out of my head, but with sudden dreams and nightmares , it all  comes flooding back. I keep thinking about the thousands of young girls who are still being abused and who never speak out. And the ones who tried to tell people in authority what was happening but are afraid of being disbelieved. I still  feel sick now that I allowed my abuser to get away with what they did. A large part of why I didn’t tell someone elderly, because coming from a large-complex family background, I bore the idea that everyone should think I am a normal, family lover. However, I share this because I eventually discovered that I am not the only one, and that perhaps (as in, at some point) I could stop holding myself accountable for this event.

Forgetting and forgiving isn't my ultimate goal for healing anymore, but to save other victims, to make them feel okay after all this times. If you're reading this and if you have been even remotely associated with such menace, I want to say, "It's alright dear, you didn't cause it neither you deserved it, come out strong, don't label it as a hidden hurt".

Fear and regret are everlasting, unless you stand up against them.


Confession by :- Shreya Basak.

The Border

I have never seen the border so close before.

It was a sad feeling on witnessing how a line of barbed wire divided one nation from the other.

The roads there, were deserted,

residential places were located far from the borders;

The only human souls to be found nearby were the  men in uniform.

even cats and dogs were rare to be seen.

By the time we reached, the sun was about to set; Of course on both sides of the border.

I noticed how nature was not partial, not at all.

and I even noticed how our cheerful faces turned gloomy on reaching there.

the man in uniform, in charge of that particular  gate was busy with some file work while we maintained the silence that prevailed there.

'Are these fences at all necessary? 

we share the same soil, the same blue sky.

acres of land covered by mango orchads on both the sides

both the nation looks so similar,isnt it?

then why is this border acting as a barrier?'

I asked myself.

I asked my friends.

The question remains unanswered still.

Minutes later, while the mind was wondering beyond boundaries,

an innocent and loud laughter travelled across  the border, reached my ear ,touched my heart.

and made me smile.

borders could not confine the laughter of that little boy,

it had to reach us,

it had to reach me.

it was meant to reach me.

so similar to that  of TANI, my sister back home.

And then in my mind I named this little boy, KABIR.

My brother from a distant land.

Its funny how the ones on the other side of the border who are believed to be different from us, hold the same power to make us smile just like our dear ones back home.

How do I differentiate when I know it is the same soil beneath my feet, that was beneath Kabir's feet on the other side.

His orchards grew the same fruits on trees alike.

and between all this I wondered,

whether Kabir liked mangoes as much I did?

how the word sister would sound in Kabir's language; 

as precious as it does in my language, right?

When will I be able to meet him? ever?

The questions knew no end.

I stood there and saw how easily the birds flew to the other side,

I envy them,I wish I too had wings to fly.

I wish it was that easy for me to cross border  without the fear of losing my life.

I wish it was easy for all of us, to make friends across borders.

I stood there and thought of the friend whom I never met ,the friend from the other side ,

who is also standing there near the border of her nation, staring and thinking the same .

RUKSHANA let her be named.

I felt she was standing right  there, waving at me.

immediately I felt we shared a relation,

a relation of friendship.

I connected with her in silence and made false promises of meeting

when the world wont divide us by barbed wires

then we will share stories of our childhood and of our families,

of our festivals too.

we will share our insecurities, about the deadly noises of the firing bullets.

we will share our only fear that one day these noises will suppress Kabir's laughter forever.

We will share the thoughts that haunt, 

of humans killing humans on the basis of religion. 

And how humanity is being buried in the no mans land.

The sun has set by now, and we witnessed the border at peace .

maybe the men are tired, coincidentally on both sides to pick up their guns and wage war at each other.

we saw the birds are returning back home.

Its our time to return back home too.

The heart felt heavy for I did not get to meet Rukshana and Kabir today.

I left my flower on the border for them.

At least let the fragrance of the flower reach them in my place.

I felt Rukshana stopping me. I heard Kabir calling me to play with him.

but I had to leave today,

and left my unspoken  words as a parting gift …

Have faith in me Rukshana, 

one day we will stand together and laugh at these borders, 

at the people who believe that these wires can divide souls.

hardly do they know, souls can even connect in silence.

like mine did with yours.

till then, let them be tired for all the years to come

tired enough to pull the trigger against  their own brother

till then,let this silence prevail, Rukshana.

let the world be at peace for sometime.

let our dreams cross borders and unite

our dreams for a better world ,

where these boundaries will be erased.

and humanity will be the only religion

till then, take care of yourself 

take care of  kabir,

stay strong.

And Promise me  you will wave at me when I will visit the border again.

till then,

Goodbye, my friend.

I promise to meet you in a better place.

About the Author :- 

A member of an N.G.O, Voices For Animals, Priyanka Chatterjee is a first year student of Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University! Apart from being a responsible citizen, she is a voracious reader and a social critic! J.U students you know? Also read :-

The stories that make me

P.S :- Please do not forget to share if you liked our thought! Thank you for your time!

The Stories that make me!

Each one of us  are struggling in our own secret world,
in our own heroic ways.
Each one of us are fighting a battle, you and I will never hear about.
Every happy face is hiding a story , a secret never to be told.
Every piece of colourful clothes is hiding a scar,
almost every energetic soul in that late night party,
for at least  once wants to run away to a faraway land,
away from the chaos ,far away from the people around.
But, at times these stories are revealed.
the scars are shown
the souls break free.
it is when that I have heard these stories,
seen these scars
and helped a lost soul to their way back home.
it was then I came across a few new stories  of the  old faces.



I have heard stories of a pretty little soul,
of her mother who died,                                         
of how her father is not bothered about her,
about her step-mother that she does not share a good relationship with.,
of her grand parents, the one's she calls her own,
and how old they are to be with her for all the years to come.
her stories of  the outside world keeps abandoning her one by one ,
she keeps fighting her own battle with life, with herself for every hour every minute every second of the day.
yes,I have heard it all.
and I want to tell her that
I will be there by her side even when everything falls apart.




I have heard stories of a girl
who was raped when she was in class four.     
i know, that she was raped by her own brother,
by the drawing teacher, over and again.
then she was too small to understand the hideous act she was going through,
and now when she finally did,
all she wants is to wear a white frock and roam around freely,
without the fear of those  dirty hands touching her body again,
                                                                      now all she wants is a little protection,
                                                                      a little kindness from the world,
                                                                      and to recreate her childhood.
                                                                     Yes, I know her secret now.
                                      and I promised her to fulfil this secret wish of her someday.

I have also known of a few happy-go-lucky boys,
crying over their messed up career.
I have heard about the years they lost trying to find what suits them the best.
I know how horrible they feel, when they meet their friends of the same age,
established and well settled.
I know how hard they work to prove the world that even they are capable enough.
so what it took them a few years to find the right path, its never too late to start all over again.
I know their stories of proving the world and also to themselves that they are not losers.
Not hopeless cases or complete failures!
I have known them close enough,
and I know they are not.

I have seen the strong girl,
who always puts up that bright smile on her face.
who helps everyone in need,
who provides them with a shoulder to cry upon,
I know how lonely she herself is.
I know her everyday struggle of choosing between a need and a wish.
I have seen her burying a wish each day,
to fulfil her needs of survival.
for she is financially struggling from that day onwards, ,when her father was murdered,
the only working member of the family.
I know her wishes,
her dreams
chained by financial crisis,
I know of her brave mother too.
and of her, my friend
the bravest of all.




I also know
about,
the happy couple of the class falling out of love.
the girl wondering what went wrong and the boy finding ways to tell her that he might have to leave her now.
about,
the children from the broken families,
faking a smile the minute they step out of their house..
about,
the girl who is afraid of falling in love for her fears of getting her heart broken,
also because she has seen her best friend being cheated by the guy she trusted the most.
I have seen their souls dancing in the rain,
and also crying their heart out.
I have seen them escaping the realities
and I have seen myself doing the same as well.
and after all this while, I have seen myself growing stronger, kinder and wiser.
maybe because ,I have not only heard their stories, but I have felt them and also experienced them to some extent.
I can simply connect with each story out there,
maybe because,
I have a silent role to play,
the role of a listener,
or maybe because,
these are the stories that,          that make me
who I am today.
the stories of my loved ones.




ABOUT THE AUTHOR :- 

A member of an N.G.O, Voices For Animals, Priyanka Chatterjee is a first year student of Comparative Literature from Jadavpur University! Apart from being a responsible citizen, she is a voracious reader and a social critic! J.U students you know?

DON'T GROW UP- It is a trap!

“Isn't it funny how day by day, nothing changes; but when you look back, everything is different... “
~C.S. Lewis

Life is a crazy kaleidoscope of changing patterns; the whirlpool of change manifests itself every single day, but goes unnoticed. It is only when you glance back at the rear view mirror do you realize that everything has changed. People you thought were going to be there forever, aren't, and people you never imagined you would be speaking to are now some of your closest friends. Life makes little sense and the more you grow, the less sense it will make.
This is the story of how I realized that age is just a number and there is no such thing as being an adult; You only grow older and if you're lucky, maybe a little wiser!

When Lily first confronted with the prospect of change, she was sixteen. A particularly close friend of hers, dropped the thread in the middle of a conversation.
"You've changed", was all she said and Lily didn't think much about it in the beginning.
She only blinked; for a split second; then mastering some witty innuendo she dodged the uncomfortable remark. They were always doing that to each other. Lily snubbed her friend off with a sassy remark and giggled to find her at loss! 

Back home, listless and temperamental, she started wondering. What was it about changes that scares us so much? Why was she even thinking about it? It was as if that statement about changes had resonated a hidden bell inside: "She was changing!"
She was changing just like every little thing around her; every inconspicuous detail of her life, that in the last one year, had undergone a mammoth change! The black school bag by the corner of her room was the only link to who she was before: The-schoolgirl-Lily! Beside it lay a box full of felt pens whose refills were now used up and stuck with half hearted colours like the faded remnants of those days lost in dreams. The prick of memories viewed through the rose-tinted spectacles of time made her homesick for a place she could not get to. A wisp of music from a familiar David Bowie track halted the thought-train as it hovered through the chink of her half-shut door:

.....Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes
.....Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
Mmm, yeah I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence
…..”

"Em, turn down the volume!", she yelled at her sister as snippets of symphony came floating down the corridor, from the other room. With the music, Lily found herself slipping into a realm of retrospection; the words poured through her ears dripping into her soul,until before long, she was quietly humming the tune to herself, sitting there clueless and alone on the big divan!
A bright red kite with its sharp, thin thread pierced through the bubbles of thought. Giggles from a kid with beady eyes as the boy with practiced hands handled the string and “latai” with ease, took her back to that happy gloam of ‘99. Like a toddler, the kite held back in fear, stuttered, then swaying with the magic of the noontime breeze, it started flying. It flew farther and farther away as the boy relaxed its string coiled around the latai little by little. The bright red kite fluttered in the wind and soon it had flown so high that it merited a jump of excited claps from the toddler in pink frock, who in her excitement had mistaken it for a little pastel butterfly flying in the distance against the happy velvet of blue.... Sadness sung as the vestiges of that day blurred out through the same ‘beady’ eyes as she found them wet with drops of dream clouds. That kid still breathed in some shady corner of her insides, Lily knew. The clock kept up its perennial ticking, the wall lizard faked an introspective yawn as it crushed a bug in the folds of its tongue and in the other room, the music played on. 

Later that night, Lily lay in her bed staring up at the ceiling. The unfaltering tick-tock of the clock and the star stickers pasted on her ceiling the only reminders to where she was; The rest was dark. Her mind floated back to what her friend had as she wondered about what she meant. She was growing up. Deep inside, she knew that things had changed. Only, she was too naive to face it. This last one year had been one of incongruous changes. Hijacked from the security of the four-postered walls of childhood and of the little convent classroom, she had been forced to confront the adult world. Like an alien, a misfit, she had stumbled to survive, to exist, to adapt. She was growing up and the changes lay in her growth; In her adaptation to suit the larger canvas of existence. Chiselled and sharpened in the spark of reality she had evolved as a subtler being, equipped with the finest faculties of self defense and self care.
With the years she had learnt how to maintain a mask of maturity, how to restrain herself from being accelerated with joy at the sight of insignificant commonplace objects, that had she been little, would have merited a rupture of unabashed child-like ecstasy as voices everywhere, crooned: “ Grace and poise, my dear. Grace and poise!” Firm and candid now, she had learned to survive; To trick the grown up world into thinking that she had grown up too. She owed her life to close calls and how every knife in her back had missed her heart by inches; But by adapting, she had learned to shield herself from the dragons outside fairytale books. And while that was a progressive change to some extent, there was also the nagging fear of losing the bliss of childhood innocence at the cost of the evolved sense of the adult. Perhaps the hardest part of growing up, is letting go of who you used to be.
........
Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, just stay this little
Oh darling, don't you ever grow up
Don't you ever grow up, it could stay this simple
Wasn't it easier in your firefly-catchin' days?
When everything out of reach, someone bigger brought down to you
Wasn't it beautiful runnin' wild 'til you fell asleep
Before the monsters caught up to you?”

The thought clouds drift back as the music fades into the background. A yawn hiccups its way through the gurgle of my sighs. A little girl sulks at the dinner table. Hazy initially, but soon a shadow crops up: Tall, firm and broad shouldered! He stands with his hand raised, facing her, with his fingers pointing at the girl, with disappointed derision.
"...Do you know what your class teacher told us today? 'The most talkative girl in my class!' Have you any idea how much you embarrass your parents with your habit of non stop blabbering in class?  Every year, every class: same complaints! Again and again we've heard the same thing and trust me I'm tired! I'm just sick and tired of this whole business!” The last statement echoed through the high walls of that room. The louder voice laid down the emptied glass with a thud on the table as another voice softer, mumbled, hesitated and coaxed incoherent words of harmony as it tried to pacify the first one. Draining the contents of the glass down his throat, the first voice continued: “We had enrolled you into a convent school for a REASON! The most important thing in life is DISCIPLINE. But for that, you need to learn to keep your mouth shut first. Why in the world would you have to talk so much? Why can't you change your self and be more like the other graceful girls in class?”
…..
In the hubbub of a noisy classroom, the quite sophomore in the corner stared, looked, blinked. A horrible recollection! But somehow she had nothing to say. "Anti social " they called her. "Introvert" she preferred. "Arrogant" said the haters. Inside, she was dying with so much to say...like the volcano that bubbles and surges within the heart of the rock, sealed by its own cooling, hardening lava. "Introverting again?'', he chuckled, breaking her chain of thoughts. She really did need to change herself, wondered the sophomore as the little girl of her childhood days ran in giggles past her vision. Sometimes, the things we can't change, end up changing us! Lying in that bed, that night Lily thought of the little girl that was little-girl-no-more! Metamorphosing, perhaps we lose a part of our self in the coocoon of what once was. A medley of childhood memories scuttled about her vision: little habits, stories and silly pranks and games! As the vision grew clearer, Lily lost herself in dreams…. The little girl appeared once more, face smeared with blends of yellow, blue and orange as she poured over a sheet of blank paper, drawing straight lines of rays from the face of the sun in the extreme top corner of the page. She was lost in the happiness of pastel shades; the colorful sticks of crayons with their sweet smell, hard, cool and smooth like pebbles against her skin as she rubbed them on her cheeks, on the page, on the boring walls and everywhere. The pleasant coolness of the crayons took her back to another day; a particularly hot one. The girl in frock stood in front of the refrigerator with its door ajar gazing into its insides like a bizzare sadhu would at his client before he read his stars or showed the future. The cool air emanating from inside the fridge, (at a time when air conditioning was a decade away) made her hold on to the door for just a little longer before she would close it really slowly, just to see when the lights inside the fridge went off…how she would try to balance the light switch between ON and OFF or wash her hands after stepping out of the toilet for full ten minutes because she loved the feel of running water flowing through her fingers…how the first time she saw the picture of a heart in the book of a senior class five student, she was so surprised because she had always thought that the shape of a real heart was like one of those tiny ones at the end of a page of barbie doll stickers…
“......So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're goin' through
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes
Turn and face the strange
Ch-ch-changes…..”

The potpourri of images reminded her of the silly days of joyful innocence, of the times when ringing the doorbell of the fat lady in the neighborhood (who they knew was really a witch, by the way), running away before she could come after you and giggling from behind the mango tree as you peeped in to see her plummeting with anger like a rare turkey cock, was one of the biggest temptations one could give in to; when the smell of bubblegum as the bubble popped a gummy slap on the cheeks building a giggle in your stomachs and controversies about who had blown the biggest bubblegum balloon were serious issues; when one could sail of ones dreams or fly with them in boats and planes made out of discarded papers and there wasn't such a thing as a rumour; when a game of hide and seek with friends in the colony, or eating bournvita (without milk!) and straight out of the jar, or blowing soap bubbles on a warm fuzzy afternoon or the tinkling bell of the approaching cart of the cotton candy vendor (and chomping it down no matter how messy it was to eat the thing) was all it took to cheer you up…!” 
Waking up from her dreams Lily wondered: “Metamorphosis eh?!”
When did this happen?!



Another time, heartbroken, she laid her face on a rumpled cushion letting her hurt down in angry, hot teardrops. Beside, a gentle hand stroked her hair crooning words of comfort with each stroke. " You know, you really need to grow up Lily. You need to be strong." Then she told her the story of the tortoise...how the first tortoises on earth were really like rabbits: soft,delicate and harmless! But what was most astounding was the fact that the great great grandfathers (or grandmoms, really!) of today's tortoise generation: the primeval tortoises, didn't have shells!
" Eh?", she blinked, "I'm not a kid anymore mom."
"No, really. I'm not feigning....They didn't!", she assured her.
"..but where did the shells go?!", she asked in wide eyed wonder, the tears now starting to fade from her cheeks in the warmth of a good tale.
"Well, they didn't have any.", replied her mother.
"It was only after the other animals of the planet were born that the tortoises found it difficult to live safely and had to armour shells to protect themselves. With the evolution, there came on earth beasts, predators and other sinister creatures. It was a big bad world and the tortoises were scared of the shadows lurking behind the branches; the shadowy shapes of darkness, that came gliding: black under the clouds....They were fearsome shadows that lay in ambush in the dark and would spring forth on their victims from behind. They were deadly and ominous and the tortoises knew it coming, with life-failing footsteps; Death-doomed!  So in order to protect themselves from harm, the delicate creatures hit upon a particularly bright idea: they started building them shells...Beautiful coral shells weaved from sea-swells, foam and emerald greens made strong with the strength of their hearts. Now the shadows couldn't touch them anymore, safe as they were behind the walls of their shells. So each year the mother tortoise would teach her children how to build their shells and the tradition got passed down ever since. None of the tortoises got hurt anymore and they all lived happily ever after. As a last word, (if you don't believe my story), ever wondered why tortoises live that long? -That's happily ever after!"
The little girl giggled, "That's fairytale-talk!" Her mother smiled a rhetoric and continued, "you, my dear, have a heart like the tortoises: soft and vulnerable. You too need to build your own shell and now is the time."
As days passed and the li'l girl grew up, her mother would often tell her more of such stories, "fairytale-talks" and hidden metaphors with real life implications.Growing up she learnt how to build her shell, how to bottle up unnecessary, distracting emotions and put a cork to her feelings. The little girl was little girl no more! She was no more the silly kid lounging with her crayons and candies inside makeshift blanket forts made out of broken umbrellas. She took the world in her stride and faced life bravely...but now that she had grown up and grown strong, when they sometimes called her heartless for keeping a straight face, she'd cry inside!
She hadn't changed enough, had she?

"I've got a jet black heart and there's a hurricane underneath it", the stereo bellowed like a knight in the battle shouting his war cry!

Throughout her life she'd focused on progressing: be it in her career, perspective or person. She'd build new bridges each day and cross them over the next. She was proud of how far she had come but there was this one fear scaling her insides: Did crossing over to new pastures, meant losing the li'l girl living inside? The idea of metamorphosis swam in her mind like a gramophone record stuck in the same lines of the song, going back to the words;repeating;in a circle;and again and again. Gazing into the galaxies that the cream made in her coffee cup, she pondered upon caterpillars and changes. She thought of who she was around this time, the previous year. Back then she was a lot more afraid; but now that she wasn't the same person anymore, she had learned to care less about what people thought about her and more about what she thought of herself. It was like one of those moments when it finally clicks: You realize how far you have come and you remember the times you had thought things were such a mess they'd never recover. And then you smile. You smile because you're truly proud of yourself and the person you've fought to become. But did that mean losing oneself and deserting the little ingenue inside?
With another sip of her coffee as the liquid went bubbling down her throat, relaxing her nerves, the power of the caffeine tingled a little bell inside. She recalled an ubiquitous line she had read somewhere long back:
(Must be in one of the zillion posts of the Berlin art parasites!)
"I don't know exactly when I changed or how, but at some point between cutting my strings, escaping my cage, and building my wings, I set myself free."
....and that, she thought was the perfect way to end the drizzle of her rantings!

  

ABOUT THE AUTHOR :- 




 

A staunch bibliophile, a travel-head and an occasional painter, Ahona Das is pursuing her graduation in English from Presidency University, Kolkata. The columnist for ExPRESS Magazine is very interested in photography as well.

 Some of her other articles are as follows :- 

 

The Realm of the Maharajas

 Rajmohan's Wife

 

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The Forgotten One

It was a hectic morning, which it always is, for my mother. She was in the kitchen making breakfast and preparing the tiffin for my father and me. My elder sister had her examinations going on, thus she was freaking out, and she was studying in a room next to the kitchen. She demanded, “Maa make me a cup of coffee, will you?”.

In a prolonged voice my mother replied, “Just give me five minutes beta; my hands are quite full now”.

“Please Maa I am already too stressed out, just give me a cup of coffee”, replied my sister.

It had become a daily routine for my mother, waking up at 6’O clock, taking a bath, waking my father up and forcing him to go for jogging, doing her religious chores and then heading towards the kitchen wishing that she would be able to complete all the work within time. Day in and day out, the same routine, over and over again, just like the ever-ticking clock which does not care for anything going  around, it keeps on ticking and ticking. That day too was a success, she was able to complete all the tasks, but she did not sit back to enjoy any personal space with the warm breath of a long-forgotten joke, reminiscing the yesteryear. Well it was her duty; she was supposed to do it.

That day at school I read about Sisyphus and the first image that struck my mind was my mother’s. I was confused, “Why does the story of Sisyphus seem strangely similar to my Maa’s?”. So when that evening I went back to my house, had my delicious snacks, I decided to tell my mother about what I read in school. “Maa would you come here for a second please?”, I shouted.

“Not now beta, I am very busy now, I have to prepare the dinner and then iron the clothes also. If it’s not something very important can we talk about it sometime later?”, my mother replied.

I really wanted to talk to her at that very moment, but I hesitated because I could not remember the last time that I had really been that adamant to talk to my mother. A strange force was holding me back; something was making this entire thing feel really awkward. I did not reply, I kept my mouth shut. About a minute later she came to the room. “Are you okay beta, is everything alright?”, she asked. Her face was covered with sweat and oil, so I gave her a towel to rub her face. Again that awkward feeling came crawling back, I could not understand, there I was sitting in front of my own mother, but still, talking to her felt strangely out of place. Anyhow I just went on with it, 

 “Maa, you know I read something really interesting in school today.”

“What did you read beta?” she asked.

“I read about this Greek mythology about Sisyphus, he was a king who did not respect Zeus, who was the king of Gods. So Zeus punished Sisyphus. He was to carry a huge boulder up a hill only to see it tumble down again, and this he had to go on doing forever and ever and ever.”  I answered.

“Interesting story beta, but now I need to go on with my work, okay?” my mother said.

I hesitated for a moment and just when she was about to leave the room I cried, “Were you also punished by someone Maa?” .

She turned around, surprised, her eyes were dilated just as if she had been hit by a thunderbolt, she asked, “What are you saying?”.

“I meant, were you also punished by God for something? .I see you everyday doing the same thing over and over again, and you do not get any salary or trophies for it. I see you tired and upset, but you never complain, just like Sisyphus, who had given in to his fate because he knew it could not be helped. Did you do something wrong too?”, I enquired.

She could not speak a word, she was in a trance. Little beads of tears started rolling down her moist eyes, and from the stiff, square face of a moment earlier, her face had now changed their color and expression to a loose and palpable layer of lifeless skin. “I did not mean to hurt you Maa. I am sorry”, I finally spoke, my own eyes started to get moist.

“No beta I wasn’t punished. What I do is my duty, which I do so that my little angels can be happy.”, my mother uttered in her sobbing voice, “And what gave you the idea that I was upset, I love what I do, what I do make you happy, and whatever makes you happy makes me happy too, do you understand?. So never ever think like this, I love you beta, and no pain endured to make your life better can ever make me tired and upset.”

“So if you weren’t punished, did you always wish to do this, right from your childhood?”, I asked.

“Well I don’t know, I don’t remember what I wanted to do.”, she replied.

“How can that be, there must be something which you wanted to do, wanted to achieve.”, I said.

“Hmm, I really do not remember.”, she argued, but after a momentary pause she said, “Well, you know, I also wanted to go out and have a job or something.”

“So, why did you not pursue your wish.”, I enquired.

“In our day that was impossible, in my family we did not have time for all this, I had to wake up early and work, then go to school and then come back and help my mom cook the dinner. It was not possible.”, she answered.

From where I was sitting, I could see her eyes, which were dried, beginning to get moist again. But this time there was a strange shine in her eyes, she seemed happy. The memories of her past brought with it all those dreams and aspirations she had as a child, all those funny stories she used to tell herself, all those times she just spent strolling carelessly with her schoolmates, all those days she used to sleep on her mother’s lap and all those years that were now only a part of the long forgotten boulevard of her memory hall.

From the distance we heard the voice of my sister, she had just returned from her examinations. My mother wiped her tears from the loose end of her saree, adjusted her pallu, got up and went to ask my sister if she needed anything to eat or drink.

 By Ankit Agarwal