Seeking the light

From my spirit's gray defeat

From my pulse's flogging beat,

From my hopes that turned to sand,

Sifting through my close clenched hand,

From my own fault's slavery,

If I can sing, I still am free,

For with my singing I can make,

A refuge for my spirit's sake,

A house of shining words, to be, 

My fragile immortality...

- Sara Teasdale 

I find it in the rising sun, the feather light golden rays that peeps through boughs, winks through the gaps in their leaves; I feel it in the air, that shifts from season to season, that brushes off dusty clouds from the endless robes of skies; and I see it in my own eyes, as I bore into them through the spotless mirror in my room; or I hear it in my voice, whenever I stop worrying about the correct pitch and tempo, and simply listen to my own octaves rising and falling in graceful tides; it is everywhere, even flowing in my dreams; the hope, the yearning, the desire to live another day.

It is not denial as some may call it; the cavern cowards crawl into, when they know the last of their days are here. For cowardice comes with fear, fear with anticipation of pain, I have known this pain for years now and I have no anticipation left for it anymore. The suffocation tied and tightening around my ribs at times; the dizziness that empties, lightens and finally blacks me out in regular spells, the bile rising in my throat, sometimes forcing out any hastily gulped helping of food, the irregular pulse that throbs against my ears until I'm afraid of my own heart beat; all that, is as familiar as the weight of violin on my shoulder, or the grip of my chin keeping it in place as I play to the silent moonlight creeping into my room.

As Tibetans believe, "Losar" is the beginning. It is the festival of their new year, a sprout of colors, music and joy in the winter. Something, growing up in Himachal, I had started to believe in too. Among them, there was the glimpse of the hope I was holding on to; the hope of continuum, of going on, the hope of return. Sometimes, when I was by myself in a lonely corner, when it was no longer needed to act as my mother's "Brave girl", I would find myself clasping that hope tighter yet, holding it in a clenched hand as I slept at night. 

There was an innocent kind of immorality. It was not something that required evil sacrifices, or wicked schemes as witches and villains in the novels and movies often chased after. Instead, it was living in the hearts of those who have known you, living through their memories, breathing when they speak of you fondly, recalling the good things that you have done. 

"Let's make memories that would last a life time," Ma said, smiling her too - dazzling - that -  it becomes - unconvincing, smile, when I blew my eighteen birthday candles. Behind the sheen of happy tears in her dark, loving eyes I could see the doubt lurking, that this could be the last time she watches me do that.

I grinned at her, gulping down a mouthful of festive air with the knot forming in my throat.

"Yes, let's do that," I said in my best impression of cheer. "Let's make memories enough for a life time."

"We could go to your baba in Perth, he was saying the other day that he knows a very good doctor too..."

Watching my expression she lets her cautious tone trail away. If there had ever been a pact between us, it was that we do not talk of him; my Baba. I had loved him as a little girl, so many years ago. He was the hero of my juvenile world as any father would be, for their precious girls. That was until I realized how fragile his determination was, or how easily he would bend to the whims of my grandmother. It was before I knew that my existence had been kept a secret from his side of the family living in Kolkata. Why, oh, just because my Dadi hated Bengalis like my Ma, and now I myself. 

My parents met each other away from those orthodox reins holding them back, when they were students in Delhi. Now that I was no longer blinded by my great faith on my Baba I could see that even then he was not strong enough to fight with his parents' views for his love or live without the one he loved. So, he had chosen the way around the obstacles by secretly marrying my mother. We lived here in Himachal, far away from Dadi's eyes and isolated from their social circles.

I could imagine her shock when finally the truth of her son's dual lives was revealed to her. It might have been something similar to mine when I found the potentially seething woman at our doorstep hurling curses at my Ma, her fists clenched and jaw working furiously. For the briefest of seconds, I imagined her as one of the dragons, working itself into one of the tantrums and filling up with flames to unleash. I could almost see the smoke swirling from her ears and nostrils and I almost giggled, before the woman launched at my mother, trying to grab her throat. It was less painful, from the revelations she brought with her. Not only had my Dadi been subjected to the secret double act of my baba, but also my Ma. For she did not know that he had married the girl my Dada Dadi had chosen for him all those years ago, and had another wife and a daughter back in Kolkata. I could see the light diminishing from her eyes as they brimmed with tears, when my Dadi accused her of trying to break her son's family; a family that did not include us.

It was the last time I hoped Baba would step in for us, and the first time I realized how unrealistic my fantasies of him being my knight was. In reality, my father was no hero; he was not even a normal human who possessed enough self righteousness to find his voice against the injustice. Instead, he spoke to calm his mother, stepped to lead her back, and promised to leave us as he returned to his other family. That day, closing our front door to his retreating back, I had mentally closed the doors of my heart for him as well. That was six years ago and the six years had changed a lot between us.

It was in this same front hall of our home, where I had held my Ma as she cried for the scattered mess in which her life now lied. I had tried to sooth her, promising her that we shall be together always, that I would not be leaving her alone like he had done. We had promised each other not to speak of him, or to him ever again. Our family was the two of us, and we were more than enough. 

Now looking at my mother, I could see the faint lines time had traced in her face, the darker skin tone, underneath her eyes. She looked exhausted, far from what I always wanted to see her as. And I realize I have failed in what I resolved to do. I had failed in filling Baba's gap. And I hated my fate for it. It will not let me fulfill the promises I have made. There was no forever left for me to keep her company. I had been too blind in my own fantasies once more, finding hope to go on, trying to convince myself and I had forgotten all about Ma. In that brief moment I hated myself for making her feel lonely enough to contact Baba, now living in Perth with his "family". 

 Had she begged him to save my life? I wondered bitterly. It was too agonizing to think. Would she have felt so helpless that she had to compromise with her dignity and call the man who had betrayed her so brutally?

Then again, how desperately she wanted me to survive? She was ready to forget her own pain and talk to the man who gave her the darkest of scars only to lend me that one chance. Was I hateful enough to hurt her, when she was doing so much for me?

Another long breath, and my thoughts settled slowly.

"Yes, let's do that." I agree, although I could no longer bring even that false tint of joy to my tone. "Let's meet him again."

I had many friends in the snowy mountains of Himachal that we lived in. Even those people who would just step into the cafe Ma ran, for a simple cup of coffee. They always came with conversations, questions and stories to share; there were friends waiting, just a smile away. I had heard some of them telling ma, what a lovely daughter she had, and a little warm glow would pulse within me; a bit of innocent pride would not hurt, right?

I did know Ma was doing it all for me. Overworking herself to earn more, so that she could get me treated better. I did not argue with the hope she was holding to, as I needed mine, she needed hers, that's how we survived. But I would not watch her, straining herself with my arms folded. Instead, on the days I felt better, I would help her at the cafe. Running back and forth between the tables, taking orders, delivering them, the smell of brewing tea or the cream glistening on the top of a fresh coffee, would be a pleasant sight to begin your day with.

What could be more pleasant, or even positively wonderful was the sight of a familiar face, among the morning crowd of customers. When February rolled in, I had known he would come, as he always did, with his hiking friends. His name was Lakshya, a vibrant youth with a dazzling smile. He was eighteen when I had first came across him, that was two years before. He was passionate about photography, and a very talented painter. He had made a remarkable painting of me, sitting in the corner of the cafe and watching me read behind the counter, and gifted it with a generous tip, when he was leaving that day. We had become friends instantly, with a discussion over the so many favorite books we both shared. 

Over the time, I even looked forward to his visits, for the warm breeze of joy and hope he seemed to bring with him. His smile was gracious, when I handed him his favorite cup of latte, and handed me his sketchbook which was already filled with sketched glimpses of the Himachal winter. 

"I heard there's a Losar festival tomorrow," he looked at me for confirmation and I nodded at him. 

"Yes, there is. Are you planning on taking photos?"

"Only if you come with me," his tone was light, promising of a joyous day ahead. "Please?"

"I have to work with Ma, and then there's a project to complete for collage," I say distractedly, my heart skipping a beat at his smile. "I won't have time tomorrow!"

"Oh come on," Lakshya whines, with his puppy eyes wide. "It's not like you would not have a moment to spare, for me, please?"

I watched him for another moment, with hands on my hips. Then nodded slowly. 

"I'll come," my tone was nonchalant as I agreed. He sprung to his feet, grabbed my shoulders and whirled me around, until the ground was bumping underneath my feet. 

"You're the best, the very, very best."

Watching that happiness reflected in his eyes, I felt a throb of pain at the bottom of my heart. How would it feel like to watch him laugh like that, forever? Even when he is old and weary, when his smile is full of wrinkles and hair full of grays? I guess I will never know. I'm sure he had so many long years before him, from which I would only get to share a couple of moments. The hope almost slipped from my hands and tears stung in my eyes.

Lakshya stopped suddenly.

"I'm so sorry, is something wrong?"

He had completely misread my actions, the gloom that had suddenly overtaken my expression, and thought that I was uncomfortable with his friendly actions. I was not. Instead, I hated how little time of this friendship I had left. But, watching that light behind his eyes, I could hardly bring myself to tell him that. Then I wondered, far in a corner of my mind, how would he feel when he returns to the cafe next year and find me gone? I'm sure he would mourn my passing; his smile would not have this dazzle for a while.

Was that the kind of memory I wanted to become? Too stunned with that fresh thought I turned away from him, dubbing my eyes with my knuckles. 

"I'll see you at the festival." I told him shortly, before escaping to the relative safety behind the counter. This was what I thrived to achieve, a place in everyone's heart. My little shelter. So, now that I had achieved it, why was my heart not at peace? Instead I felt guilty, I felt suffocated.

*

"Did you go to watch the festival with him, Losar I mean?" Dr. Durga Prasad Maheshwari inquires in his soft voice. When I first came to see him, in my Baba's city Perth, I was convinced I would hate this doctor friend of his, as much as I hated him. But then, the older man, was a wonderful soul of his own right. He was kind, interesting and attentive, unlike the other doctors I had the opportunity to meet. In spite of the fact that the patient he was donating his time in knowing better would perhaps not have much time to grace him with their company, he was interested in knowing details of our lives, becoming our friend.

What first drew me into conversation with him, was a book left on his table. It was a copy of a novel I had read after arriving in Perth and had loved. I was surprised to see him, reading it and watching my amazed expression he had laughed at me. 

"What, did you think I was some strict old doc with frown and a bottle of bitter syrup?" his tone was jokingly hurt, and I could not help but smile at his attitude. 

"We deal with enough sorrow dear," he had said some days after. "That being unhappy ourselves would make life a difficult place indeed. It would be better, don't you think, that we give some hope to those around us, a reason to smile?"

I had to agree with him, and our conversations had spread from my treatment and progress or change in medications to different topics, such as the novels we both read and enjoyed, the places he would recommend me to visit, the simple happenings of our daily lives.

"You remind me of Sunny," he said one day, after I had told him how I had convinced Ma to let me work at the cafe with her. "My son,' he nodded at the frame that carried a photograph of a boy in his early teens. "He had that similar talent of getting his way, no matter what. I had to let him go on a football tournament, when his med entrances were weeks away. It only took what, umm...three hours or something of charming talk."

He grinned at the memory and I smile at the obvious happiness softening his features. 

"So he's a doctor?" I ask him, trying to keep our light hearted conversation going, before we retire back to the painful conversation of the next phase of treatment.

"A surgeon, and an extremely wicked prankster. He is many things actually, you should meet him one of these days, he is good in cheering people up."

Although I doubt his sunny would do a good job in lifting up my spirits I smiled at that and let him continue recalling the fond times spent with his son.

Our present conversation brought back a wave of nostalgia. My vision blurs for a moment and I let the tear slip through my eye lashes. I had enough pain bottled up already.

*

During Losar, you're given a ball of dough. There is something inside it, chilies, spices, coconut or something like that. Each ingredient had a meaning, they tell something about the receiver's character. Lakshya found, chilly in his and I laughed at him.

"It means you're talkative." I informed him, watching our breath rise in swirls of mists as we speak. He grinned at me, his eyes gleaming with joy and reflecting the skies above. He rubbed his hands together, gathering warmth against the chilly air and took my hand in his, snatching my own ball of dough in a split second.

"Let's see what you've got," he said enthusiastically, squinting his eyes for further effect and broke the dough. For a moment his smile froze in place and then watching the tears pooling my eyes his grip tightened around my fingers. That ball of dough was filled with coal. 

"It means I have a black heart," I said in a small voice, was I so evil that even the heavens above could sense it? 

"Okay, that proves how accurate the whole thing is," shrugged Lakshya dismissively. I snatched back my hand, shaking my head at him. It was so hard to breathe suddenly. "Do you really believe in this stuff?"

"But I really am evil," I said, finding my voice once more and almost chocking on it. "I'm so selfish sometimes that I do really, really evil stuff."

His hand reached out and grabbed my shoulder, turning me to face him. Even in the mess of festivities and colors, he could see the shadows setting upon me and I could see the determination shining from him.

"You're not evil. In fact you're the sweetest person I ever met, the most beautiful person I ever met."

It made me feel guiltier if possible, because I was enjoying those words. I liked to hear him say that I was special for him, I had wanted to be special in his eyes. I had wanted a place in his heart and now I hated myself for that.

"I wanted to tell you before..." he looked nervous now. "Actually this is not how I planned to say this, that I...really I.."

"Lakshya," my voice cut across his, never letting him finish what he was trying to tell me. I felt if I had let him say it, the words would only crush me more. That moment had made it clear, the only place I would make in his heart was as a scar of his past; one that would bleed every now and then, even after I was gone. That was not the kind of immorality I was seeking for, it was ugly, repulsive and selfish. Just like the coals in my dough ball. I would not want to be remembered for a broken promise, or a gap that would never be filled in someone's life; just like my Baba had done with Ma, I cannot leave him to recall me at lonely years stretching before him. No hope was far better than false hope, and I learned it in an agonizingly hopeful moment. 

There was no doubt that I had loved him, and I loved him enough to let him go. I was not as weak as Baba was, to hold on to safe guard my own heart from breaking and condemn him in to an existence of hurt and disappointment. I was better than that. Even if I would not be remembered for doing that, I wanted to do the good deed. 

"Lakshya," I said, watching his hopeful gaze, counting the dreams swimming in his eyes for one selfish moment before I crush it down. "I'm dying, I have a heart problem that cannot be cured."

There was an ugly pause, in which I watched his expression change and also wonder the irony of situation. I did have an evil heart, which was killing me slowly and now had killed his fragile dream too. He said nothing and I turned to leave. I was almost grateful that it ended so quickly, but no, he grabbed my arm to hold me back.

"Do you love me or not?" His question was short and very clear. I was taken by surprise for a moment at how steady his voice sounded.

"Does it really make any difference?" I asked him, with a faint sarcastic smile.

"It makes a world of difference for me," he said, still in that voice, which challenged me for accepting defeat so easily, urged me to fight for something I cannot have and was overflowing with the very thing I was wary of at that moment; hope.

His gaze bored into mine, and I said nothing. I could not lie, like some selfless protagonist would do, look into his eyes and tell him that I had no care in the world about his feelings. Because I did, I did care for him. I did pray that there may be a tiniest of chance for us to be together, and that scared me. The balance was heavier on the other side. The chances were more of me leaving him, hurting him, breaking the promises I was tempted to give him. It was all there in my eyes, and I'm sure he read it all too well. His grip loosened and I stepped back, the distance between us growing.

"Don't ask me to forget you, don't ask me to move on." He said then, his voice louder against the music of the masked dance celebrating the new year. 

"I won't," I replied shaking my head as I continued to walk. "Because I know you eventually will."

I ran from hope, my life trying to reach out towards it, for I was too tired of holding on. I let it slip through my fingers, I fell, willingly into the darkness waiting below. That night, I cried, shutting the door of my room and bolting it. I cried as I knelt at my window, watching the snow falling past the glass, in thick flakes of whiteness.

I wanted to let go of that desire to live, so that it will not hurt so much when life slipped by. But it was so hard, as hard as ripping off a limb and casting it away from your body. That night I just wanted one thing from my heart, if it could not beat a life time for me, it could just stop feeling all those emotions too. That way, neither of us would be much hurt in the end.

*

"So you see," I say in the end, the hands I kept folded on my lap were already wet with the tears that dropped on them, the ones I did not attempt to wipe away. "I don't care if it's three weeks or three years. I just want to keep everyone happy as long as it is."

"But it is a decision you have to make," Dr. Maheshwari nods at me. His lips are pressed in a firm line and his eyes have an extra shine. He does not speak a word about the story I shared with him, neither has he diverted my attention from the painful topic with a tale of his own. Instead, he states the simple fact and I see him as the doctor he was, all serious and slightly weary for the first time in our sessions. "Whether you go for the surgery or not."

"But you said it isn't certain that I would survive."

"Yes. There is a chance, but there is also a chance that..."

"I will die during the procedure," I finish the sentence for him in a rasp emotionless tone. "And if I do not opt for the surgery I have less than three months left."

He says nothing, as he watches the photograph of his son, rather keenly. I find it more of a tactic to avoid looking at my face, and of giving me space to make my decision.

"You don't have to tell me right now," he says after a moment. "Think it over; we have a couple of days to finalize everything."

I stumble to my feet, gathering my handbag and the file I had brought with me.

"I will think about it," I tell him, although I already know what my answer would be, I do not feel I could watch Dr. Maheshwari's face as I say it. Not today however. I had grown to care for him, almost as I had once felt for Baba, watching hurt marring his gentle features would be hard. Perhaps I might prepare myself to face it in the couple of days he had given me.

Still in the trance of those thoughts I almost walked into someone. He grabbed my shoulder and steadied me before we collided however and handed me the folder I dropped in shock. I do not wait to apologize or look at the man I had almost knocked off my path and continue down the passage. 

I was again about to hurt so many people I loved. But I hoped this was the last time I would do it. 

***
Chapter one B will follow.
Meanwhile please vote and comment if you enjoyed the read.
Thank you for reading.
Love,
Sakura