I told my mother about you, yesterday. When we watched TV together. When she didn’t wait long to point at the first diva that came along in a yesteryear Hindi song, call her ‘beautiful’ to the extent of being unmatched, and I guess I couldn’t take it any longer. I said she wasn’t all that she’s hailed to be, (I don’t remember her name, by the way) said she’s just another pretty face, just another celebrity who’d give anything away for a place on the paper, for the lead part in a film that might not even turn out to be successful; just another woman who can’t possibly constrain herself enough at least to not get ruined by the whole world, let alone one wicked man who always comes along, to ruin such women. Just another person, who’s only shamelessly alive. Or just another person who ingested poison last night. Just another, to pile up on the mound; another drop in the ocean.
I told my mother that this can never be a woman that I would look up to. Not the woman I would want to wake up to, however bright she can make my day by being the pretty face she is. And I said it’s not because she’s vile or she’s vulgar or because she’s helpless to be otherwise: I just don’t know what she is, heck, she’s just a space on my TV screen. She’s just there, dancing around, talking at times, weeping, shooting fake smiles at an audience that doesn’t wait to be mesmerized, getting civilian awards, although no parent, even the most insane of the lot, would never want their daughters to end up becoming like her, however ‘fruitful’ that might seem on the surface (Funny how every one of us Indians is so good with the spade, always ready to dig into stuff, always looking deeper than the surface when it came to things of personal concern). She wouldn’t fade away, I would never see a blank in the space where she danced when she fades away, and sure enough, she would fade away some day: Cosmetics aren’t a cure, and so she would fade. Fade, wither, die and decay, turning into ‘nothing’, like me and you do. Except that it’s a lesser ‘nothing’ in her case, than it’s with yours or mine, for nothing she was, when she was alive. Just another beating heart. And although I love hearts that beat, I guess I do certainly want a reassurance, hearing one beat against mine. That’s reality, I guess, and I drink into it. Like I drink into you, because you’re part of my reality, something they can’t ever achieve. The Glam dolls; Divas; Beauty Queens. Scratch the last one out, it’s a misnomer.
The song died out, with the pair of them dancing into the rain, rehearsing a kiss they’re about to exchange. The music died out, it wasn’t music to me, anyway. My thoughts died out too, and then they played the next song. Different person, different clothes, same intention, same dancing around. I guess even my mother has limits, as the pressure cooker won the battle against the woman who’d never have stood beside one. She handed me the remote, pulled herself up and walked around the bend that led to a baby she always caressed, for I’m not one anymore. Neither is my sister.
I never told her anything. Again.
I guess I’m waiting for the moment when you pop on the TV screen in front of me, and I get to smile when she stares, clueless, and I get to tell her that THIS is what I want, what I’ve always looked for, what I found just a while ago, and what I feel so terribly happy about.
On second thoughts, I wish that never happens, because I’m content with you, being just mine.
I told my mother that this can never be a woman that I would look up to. Not the woman I would want to wake up to, however bright she can make my day by being the pretty face she is. And I said it’s not because she’s vile or she’s vulgar or because she’s helpless to be otherwise: I just don’t know what she is, heck, she’s just a space on my TV screen. She’s just there, dancing around, talking at times, weeping, shooting fake smiles at an audience that doesn’t wait to be mesmerized, getting civilian awards, although no parent, even the most insane of the lot, would never want their daughters to end up becoming like her, however ‘fruitful’ that might seem on the surface (Funny how every one of us Indians is so good with the spade, always ready to dig into stuff, always looking deeper than the surface when it came to things of personal concern). She wouldn’t fade away, I would never see a blank in the space where she danced when she fades away, and sure enough, she would fade away some day: Cosmetics aren’t a cure, and so she would fade. Fade, wither, die and decay, turning into ‘nothing’, like me and you do. Except that it’s a lesser ‘nothing’ in her case, than it’s with yours or mine, for nothing she was, when she was alive. Just another beating heart. And although I love hearts that beat, I guess I do certainly want a reassurance, hearing one beat against mine. That’s reality, I guess, and I drink into it. Like I drink into you, because you’re part of my reality, something they can’t ever achieve. The Glam dolls; Divas; Beauty Queens. Scratch the last one out, it’s a misnomer.
The song died out, with the pair of them dancing into the rain, rehearsing a kiss they’re about to exchange. The music died out, it wasn’t music to me, anyway. My thoughts died out too, and then they played the next song. Different person, different clothes, same intention, same dancing around. I guess even my mother has limits, as the pressure cooker won the battle against the woman who’d never have stood beside one. She handed me the remote, pulled herself up and walked around the bend that led to a baby she always caressed, for I’m not one anymore. Neither is my sister.
I never told her anything. Again.
I guess I’m waiting for the moment when you pop on the TV screen in front of me, and I get to smile when she stares, clueless, and I get to tell her that THIS is what I want, what I’ve always looked for, what I found just a while ago, and what I feel so terribly happy about.
On second thoughts, I wish that never happens, because I’m content with you, being just mine.
your mother seems to be the only "real" woman here.i dont think "limits" is a right word for her.
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