So a few things happened in the last couple of weeks.
I write about the good things. Even when I write about bad things, I write in a way that implies I am in control; I am on the top of it all. I am never frightened, fazed, or frazzled.
But only Teja and Dhanno know the real truth, mostly.
They see my crazy dances.
On some days, I will wear a funny hat in a mall to make Dhanno laugh,
They see copious tears.
Teja also sees a lot of my meanness.
I am not going to list the things that hurt me. If I did that, I would appear really, really demented.
Sometimes, it can be a phone call. Or the lack of a phone call. Sometimes, it can be a photo on FB. Or the lack of a photo. Sometimes it can be a name being called out. Or the lack of a name being called out.
But it is always about me. Hurts that stem from irrational, illogical wants and fears.
A friend said recently, “I want to be admired, more than I want to be loved.” He said it about himself, but he could easily have meant it about me. At least on some days, it is about admiration, and not love.
And while it is easy to dance at a party, it is not always easy to be in the filmi world, with and around filmmakers, filmi people.
When it is not about me, I can be wise. In that, I am so like my mother.
Yesterday, a long lost cousin called. Her mother and mine are half-sisters. We had never been in touch, met very, very occasionally as children, but she called. She said, “I want to get in touch with people I have been thinking about, have missed.”
That is brave, I thought.
She said, “Your mother was always my favourite aunt.”
I wondered what my mother would think about that. My mother who cries so often about how alone she is. That has its reasons in her childhood, and she knows that, but the feeling overwhelms her, whenever it comes up.
I too get overwhelmed often by how alone I am, how insignificant. That too has its reasons in my childhood, and I know it. But knowing doesn’t always help.
Yesterday, when my cousin said, “Your mother was my favourite aunt”, I checked her ‘What’s App’ icon. She looks just like the little girl she used to be, her face is the same. I could imagine her as the little girl she used to be, looking at my mother, her aunt, laughing up at my mother’s face.
I thought we should look at ourselves sometimes through the eyes of a child, of children.
We are always looking at ourselves through the eyes of our experience, through the eyes of adults around us, our peers, our superiors, our inferiors, because in our world, their opinions matter.
But perhaps if we look at ourselves through the eyes of children, we would be surprised. Pleasantly, I hope, I think. Maybe we could even look up into our own faces and laugh.