The frame of artificiality

She was sitting by the window vacantly gazing at the bustling life. Every moment filled her with satisfaction as she watched the happy faces. Faces of strangers who offered her nothing as a favour, no word of comfort, no sob stories and no promises. They were the characters of her dream who let her live life, did not question or feel concerned for her loss.

The news had come as a bolt from the blue. She had spent the next few moments relishing the force of sorrow that had struck her and the moisture of tears rolling down her cheeks kissing her lips. She had seen them when they were mobile; she wasn’t curious to see them sleep blank, without thought, force or action.

‘All the best!’

-with love Nimmi

A card lay beside the two lifeless bodies. The house looked like a public mourning ceremony. She was tired of hushed tones of “how’s she taking it?” and “poor girl”. Frustrated with the silence she had walked into her room and sat listening to music oblivious of the strange atmosphere. She wanted to yell at each of those faces “My parents, my problem; who has given you the right to intrude into my house and feel sorry for me?”

Every normal move of hers was termed as a product of her grief. She did not try to look sad; she wasn’t. They had the right to a new life and so did she; the right to independence of choice. She had enjoyed every moment of her life with them, she had no regrets. Some long back-seen face had said, “Don’t worry Nimmi; we are all there for you.” She returned a puzzled look punctuated with a smile and pointed to a writing that portrayed elegance, intellect and creativity mixed in equal proportions, written with utmost affection on a parchment that looked like a pampered child. It read,

‘Love is not love which alters when alteration finds,
or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no it is an ever fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.’

Then one day they had left; when, she did not know or care, for, they had come to mourn the death of those whom they never cared for in life. She was thrilled to encapsulate the essence of loneliness and to wrap around the warmth of her house. ‘At last’, she thought, ‘At last’, she said. ‘Welcome home Nimmi’.

At 21 Nimisha was pragmatic individual who was passionate about the things she cared for in life. The rest were insignificant strangers. The rear view screen of the world saw her as a strange loner lost in the alleys of ambition; she was not interested in responding to the world.

Her life revolved around passion. A passion to find a reason to live. When someone had complimented her, she had stared back at the impudence; at the swiftness with which he had stolen away her satisfaction of having lived the moment, having lived it for herself.

She entered her room, the four walls acknowledging her presence. Everything there was handpicked by her- her shelves, books, dolls, paintings- everything. Every time she entered, she smelt the familiar smell- the aroma of passion- of satisfaction. It was not as though she had completely overlooked the photo. Her eyes had graced past them. She stopped and waited for a response. A wry smile was playing on her lips; an amused pretense- expecting life to change in a few days, realizing it hasn’t and celebrating the victory she could proclaim over the frame of artificiality which often took pride in freezing time.

The phone was ringing incessantly. She did not want to pick it up. “Bob! Mama with you?” “Hello Nimi, yes. I’m reaching. Be ready!” “Bob…come on! You really can’t be so sure! Bye” She did not know why she was thinking about something that had no relevance to the moment but then she had never before stopped to think that! For the first time since she could remember, she felt lost for a direction to think. The phone was still screeching…. “so much for the lack of attention!”, she thought. She was not going to answer the call! And then it stopped, the silence resounding through the air.

She had slumped into a squat and she did not care to stop the flowing tears. She knew this was what she wanted to do though, she was not sure why. She just wanted it to happen all the time they were there but then she did not want to share her moment with the anonymous masked faces. It was hers and she wanted it all for herself- the moisture, the warmth and the silent words-carved out of the frame of artificiality.