Do you see what I see? Do you see
the misty mountains in the distance, the trees looming yonder, and the green
grass under my feet? Don’t mind me asking; sometimes I feel the need to
validate the authenticity of what I am seeing. I need to reassure myself that
everybody sees the world the same way that I do.
I see the world through my twin’s
eyes and I wonder how she would have seen it, when they were still her eyes. I
wonder whether she saw the same shades of red on the lilies in the valley as I
do. Perhaps the whiff of steam escaping from that cup of hot tea ensconced in
mother’s hands, held her attention for as long as it does mine. Perhaps she
would have seen the faint twitch on mother’s lips as her mind goes on a wayward
journey of reminiscing and sorrow. Or maybe she wouldn’t have. Maybe I see too
much, because of the joy of being able to see again. When I stopped seeing
things, I was only four years old. Today, I am twenty three. Nineteen years is
a long time. A very long time during which, one can forget a lot of things.
Like how it feels to lie awake at night and count the stars in the distant sky;
or watch a movie on the big screen. I have vague recollections of doing both,
but I cannot tell you how wonderful it feels to be able do these random acts of
seeing once again!
I must arise from my position on
the small patch of grass abreast our humble homestead in the beautiful hills,
cross over to the threshold and pass yonder, all the while careful not to make
any noise that could break mother’s reverie. I try and avoid her as much as I
can these days; just as she avoided me for most of my childhood. When I was
blinded by a stray accident at a very young age, everybody she knew, berated
mother for not taking me to a hospital sooner than she did. She claimed
ignorance of the seriousness of the injury, and the pressures of tending to a
young family on her own. Minutes after Mahima had closed her eyes forever, I
asked mother whether I could have them. Mother never replied, but the doctor
did, and even before they took her away for the last rites, I was wheeled into
surgery. Everybody I know berated me for devouring my sister, my own twin;
mother stopped talking to me altogether.
I have but one life to live. A
life that stopped being colourful too soon. I could not live like that forever,
not when the stars in the sky beckoned me in my dreams, and the beautiful
heroine’s dusky eyes from a long ago memory seemed to penetrate my unseeing
ones.
And so we carry on this song and
dance of pity and guilt, mother and I. She leaves a portion of the meal in the
vessels, while I clean the dirty clothes and utensils lying around the house.
The pain in this house is palpable; I am sure I’ll be able to touch it
sometime soon! It is that real and alive. There are many things that have been
said, and many others that have not. I wonder if we can ever forgive and
forget. Surely, she sees the tears flowing out of her precious daughter’s eyes?
So what if the cheeks they grace are dark and ugly? So what if the hands that
wipe them off are bony and flawed? Surely, there is something in these cheeks,
and these hands, that remind her of Mahima. Or perhaps they don’t, because
Mahima was beautiful; I can see as much from the picture that hangs on the
wall. But surely, she must remember the kicks in her burgeoning belly as she
carried her twins; they were not from the pretty Mahima alone.
I see so much now, and not just what
her eyes show me. And I am glad I can see as much as I do, for all these things
put together are the building blocks of the remainder of my life.
II
The cup of tea in my hands has
practically changed seasons in the half hour that I’ve held it. From a fiery
summer, it changed into a wet monsoon and thereafter to a frigid winter; much
like my life has, in the forty years that I’ve lived it. The carefree childhood
is long forgotten, and the brief marriage is but a distant dream. My twin
daughters, one fair and beautiful, the other dark and plain, were the biggest
constants in my life. Mahima with her ready smile and hearty laughter, a
spritely child, so full of life! Poonam, the little baby who crawled late,
walked late and spoke too soon. What she couldn’t do with her legs, she overdid
with her little mouth. She could talk up a storm even before she turned one… or
maybe two. I don’t remember. But they were such a joy to have around me in the
dark days following my husband’s desertion. The dainty china doll and the
rugged rag doll; a motely pair, if ever there was one. And yet, they were mine.
They were all I ever wanted. They are all I’ll ever want.
Poonam’s little unseeing eyes
stared in the direction of my voice when I sang them lullabies. How heart
breaking they were, those little pools of blinding darkness. They followed me
around when I tinkered around the house, darting hither and thither with every
little noise I made. It is surprising how much a mother sees, when her little
one cannot. Mahima made up for her sister’s blindness by taking her around
wherever she went. She would tell her of all the sights along the way, and
little Poonam would smile every now and then at her twin’s descriptions. Our
life was not idyllic, but we were happy; there was never any doubt about that.
Mahima and Poonam spent their evenings talking to each other, while I fed them
rotis with daal. Our dinner was always the same, but the girls never
complained. Mahima did complain about my prolonged silence at the dinner table,
but Poonam didn’t notice it I suppose. She never complained about anything; not
about the noises I made while working on the sewing machine that sustained us,
not about the lack of colour in her life, not about the unfairness of it all.
In a way, that gnawed at me. I wondered what she felt, on all those long drawn
out mornings when she and I were cooped together in the house, while Mahima
attended school. I couldn’t talk much because of all the work I had to do, but
she never complained. I wonder why she never did.
Mahima’s accident was a bolt from
the blue; no, that is decidedly an understatement. No one could ever understand
what I felt, when they told me she would lose her legs. I crumpled. I stopped
talking to the children. I had never been much of a talker, I had preferred
listening to them talk. And now, I didn’t know what I could talk to them about.
I failed Mahima in her moments of deepest anxiety. I failed to comfort her. I
did not tell her that she would be fine. I forgot to remind her that she was
still there, and that there was a life worth living; a life that was hers to
keep. I failed her and so she decided that life wasn’t worth living; she
decided to put an end to it. Just like that. On the same hospital bed where she
lay, recuperating from the accident. And all that I can remember thinking of
was, what good was the education, if it could not have shown her the
possibilities in life? My uneducated, invalid, ugly daughter was still alive,
despite all the heavy odds against her. She had never thought of ending it all.
And yet Mahima had, after a fortnight of being a beautiful invalid. I could not
mourn Mahima’s loss; I believe I had no feelings left in me. I had been
mourning all my life and the latest blow was just too hard to deal with.
Poonam can see now. What relief
it gives me, the thought that my talkative little baby can finally see. I have
heard some of the harsh things that people said when she received Mahima’s
eyes. One of these days, I’ll have to tell her how happy I am that she finally
got to see the colourful world from Mahima’s childhood tales. I hope I can snap
out of this silence soon. I hope I can embrace her, and kiss her soft, dark
cheeks. I long to take her scarred hands in mine, and hold them close to my
heart.
We have played this song and
dance of silence, pain and mourning long enough. I believe it’s time I welcomed
her home. For it must all be new to her. I hope it will be almost like old
times. I think I’ll enjoy teaching my baby to live, and see the wonderful
things around her the way they ought to be seen.
