Urvi has walked the earth 40yrs, today.
Yet the excitement of a birthday is still there. God knows why. Of course her father, would no more call her,
She looked at it with a smile on her face, her mother.
“Uri, I want you to go to the school, and find out about admission for Poorni”s daughter, you should understand, that she is having a tough time, her husband is totally under his mother’s thumb. And her mother-in law is busy gallivanting around the town with acharya’s wife helping out in social work. Her father in law is busy with acharya’s political work, if poorni comes to hebbal she will be stuck with cooking that too only what her mother in law instructs, so do it today and let me know”
Happy birthday to me
Well, the day begins, breakfast to be made, lunch box to filled, then maybe a cup of coffee, of course today the morning routine will be disturbed, with phone calls.
“Urvi I have a meeting to attend after which I will be going to Banashankari for a presentation, and then probably will be back late evening. “ that was husband Udayan.
Happy birthday to me.
“Amma, I have to go early, I want some snack in addition to lunch box” daughter number 1,
Happy birthday t me,
“”Amma, happy birthday, I love you, you are the world’s bestest Amma” this was the younger daughter.
Every time, Uri gave up on life its drabness, she came in with her smiling face to remind her that there was hope some where.
The other day, Avni the little one, opened up her album and was going through the memory of 40yrs. some nice some not so nice. Some friends made along the way, some forgotten but each had a story, Uri suddenly felt whole, but wait, she was a daughter a wife, a mother, a daughter in law, a friend a sister, but who was she? Her mother called her beta, daughters Amma, brother Akka in-laws did not address her, husband it depended on her mood. But who was Urvashi what did she represent when she did not play any of this roles.
What went on in Uri’s thoughts when silence pervaded over all those roles that she played? Yes, the album was the only key for her to find herself. Maybe somewhere the mosaic would emerge.
She entered in her diary
Journey of life.
We have a skill each that we trade, may be the markets are different.
Our life journeys traversing these towns.
People create their own countries. Only when we become old and can no longer move the countries do not change. They sit in our heads like artifacts.
Looking back we can see cities becoming a long procession leading to nothing. Beautiful its way and once enticed us to travel. But one would not want it for ever.
Then comes a time when we nothing more to sell – perhaps we seen too much– seen so many gods, heard too many people swear by them. Our judgment and sanctities gone. Enough for other travelers to notice and get scared. In the end we loose our way its better to know when to stop.
The tracks that have disappeared into sands are those who lost their souls so you need to return home.
The bazaars are still there, others are buying and selling, goods have changed with time new merchants grow up to serve new goods that well be vended.
But the winds that roar over the mountains, the sea that crashes the rocks, the warmth of the winter sun, treading on the dew sprayed grass, you have experienced it is not enough