Stranger in the Mirror

The mirror is speaking to her. Telling her things she does not want to hear. Showing her evidence of what she had allowed to happen. Every line on her face, every sign of grey in her hair, belies her age. Where there should be the glow of late youth, there is the grim shadow of life’s burdens. Has life really been so cruel to her? Has it taken out the zest for happiness?

The assortment of cosmetics and perfumes, lying on her dressing table, bought during her many trips abroad, gifted by friends on numerous occasions. The saris neatly hanging in her wardrobe, with its multitude of colours, weaves and designs. The bags and purses hanging on hooks, the sandals and chappals arranged on racks. The countless bangles of the wooden tree-like apparatus she had got specially made for it. The silver dibbi, with the scriptures engraved it, still red from the vermillion. It all reminded her of another time, another chapter in her life.

Red odhni on her head, hands resplendent with the gold bangles, the mangalsutra proudly settled on her bosom, the sindoor bright on her head, gently kicking the kalash at the threshold, she entered this house, at the age of 21. The myriad faces, her head confused with names and even more confused with the relations, the few stolen moments of privacy with her husband, the continuous ribbing by her husband’s siblings marked her first few weeks in the household. A whirlwind honeymoon in Mauritius, she came back to the day-to-day running of the house. She quickly adjusted into the family, like she had always been around.

The loud sound of the calling bell brought her out of her reverie. No, she did not want to answer the market survey about baby soap. Wasn’t it apparent why? She banged the door on the executive and walked towards the kitchen. Everything was the way she remembered. The spice jars half-full, the cups hanging over the sink, the food processor-microwave-rice cooker lined against one wall. The crockery cabinet arranged exactly the way she had the day before she had left, or was it 3 days before she left. She could not remember.

Her memory played these games with her. She remembered everything, yet nothing. She seemed to have lost the very basic threads of life, the strings that kept her together, that defined who she was. She sees these flitting images of her past life but can never see the whole picture. She had blocked out thoughts to preserve her sanity, now her thoughts refuse to resurface. So she wanders in the hazy, labyrinthine paths of her mind, trying to piece together a past that apparently is too dark to even remember.

She never wanted to be a part of the rat race. Home, family, children, this is what her dreams had always been made of. Her heart broke when these dreams were deemed mundane and a symbol of her lazy selfishness. She cried when she had her first miscarriage, by the fourth one, her tears had dried up. She was more relieved than surprised when her husband of 3 years asked her to move out to the guest room. The fissures between them were anyways interminably huge, so what difference would a brick and mortar wall make.

Her fairy tale had turned into a Shakespearean tragedy and she knew not why. The more her husband tried to maintain a distance, the more she craved to serve him. When he stopped coming home, she started following him around. Office, hotels, restaurants and everywhere else he went with his mistress, her eyes followed him. Her obsession was eating into her. She felt consumed by this intense feeling of helplessness. She pictured herself in place of his mistress and weaved this imaginary world around herself. To everyone else, she seemed normal but she could see herself crumbling.

And that day, the obsession had ended. He was dead. His mistress was dead. His wife still lived. How hard they tried to prove that she wasn’t to blame? But then she knew she had to do it. His mistress was easy, one cut and she was dead. She saw his eyes, first all angry and proud, but then pleading to be spared. She saw his body, covered in blood. She sat there, watched him die. She was sentenced to life imprisonment but then let go, due to mental instability. And here she was, 4 years later, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

She is back, hoping to find herself. But all she can see is this woman in the mirror. She doesn’t want her, doesn’t want to be her. But then who does she want to be? Who do we all want to be? Wish I knew the answers. Wish I could help her, not just today but when she first lost herself. Prevention, as they say, is probably not just better but also easier than cure.