It happens. It happens to you, me and all. But the trail of the story becomes different when love is the link. At times it makes you motionless.
Stunt. Feelings are frozen.
She was bubbly, ever wearing a smile. Never ever shed a tear. Was an epitome of potential energy? She was a butterfly that ignited feelings, to those around – within family or in friend’s circle. Bold and beautiful!
When she was getting ready to fly out to be with her husband, she asked me if I could take her to Meenambakkam airport to see an aircraft. On the road I stopped my scooter and “there” I told her. Her wings with which she enjoyed that day was not for honey. Her nature actually was to pollinate. Fruits of pollination were not what she desired. It was just dancing with her colorful wings in thin air.
I used to correspond with her in Malayalam. She made a choice to learn Malayalam for her degree course, cajoled her parents and studied Malayalam. She expressed her emotions so well and plans of future written in poems and stories. When we make our own plans someone else is making His own plans. We follow. She with her desire to be with the flow of her loved language had to change course and follow His plans, she flew with her colorful wings. Her star “Chothy” took her to a place destined and not desired.
This story is embedded in history of late 70’s and early 80’s. Like a butterfly dipping in its dancing flight, like air-crafts dip in air. Vacuum sucks.
At times a feeling of isolation takes over. Her flight to isolation was evidenced as times passed by. Her family with her two sons and husband loved her. What she missed was something else – near and dear ones. Year after year she asked for Malayalam calendar to count days that pass by that tilt and turns. In real life inclination of movement unlike earth gets bent. It recedes. View point shifts. Mind evaporates and occupy vacuum. That becomes the zone of comfort.
If we ask anyone to tell his / her story none will reveal the reason. They think but do not divulge. They feel and succumb. They think their story is not worth letting others know. Like stories of earlier submarine sinks it vanishes into depths. Not even a bubble surface up.
The butterfly I refer to is no more. She sunk with a heart attack. Heart probably was in splinters with pressure of sighs and weeps. What she desired and what she lost was one. Her end came in Canada.
We walk past on the shores of sand, leave footprints and next wave washes it off. Our stories become a victim. As she recedes into my memory, I wish I could do more. Meet her before her heart sunk. Alas that was not to be. We may meet in an alien land. I lay a colorful thought in the altar of her memoirs – “be happy” and I whispered.
Meera is her name, my youngest sister.
She heard even when I did not speak to her, in silence. Now I can hear her echo.
“The cure for pain is in the pain” – Rumi.
Probably she merged with the constant dissolution of creation.