Me As I See Myself

It rained again. An unseasonal warm spell wettened the black roads at the sunny time of the day, for the fourth time in two weeks. These unexpected rains annoyed her. They brought an uncomfortable uncertainty to the weather; neither the sun exercised its might nor the drizzles brought any relief. She had never liked such uncertainty, not in the weather, not in her life. But today's rain, she noticed, was different. Something about this drizzle was different, unusual. The energy absorbed her within minutes. She felt devoid of her actual strength. She started sensing the presence of someone other than herself in the house. No doubt her paranoia had returned, or maybe it had become worse. 

The rain made its presence felt in every room of her lavish apartment. This time she wanted to feel it, she wanted that presence to hover still in the air. She rose from her seat and walked towards the window. The afternoon sun planted soft kisses on her cheek. She suddenly felt strong, like a kid recovering from fever. This feeling was new to her. It had been months since she had last experienced it. She became confident and cheerful. She danced all the little moves she could think of. She walked around the house, breathing and communicating, with the walls and pictures and spaces and chairs, in the kitchen and bedroom and hallway and the balcony. That's where she stopped. Outside the balcony, a few feet away from her swing chair, she saw on the swing, a silhouette of a girl.

She slumped and stared at the silhouette for a few minutes straight. It was nonchalant. The rainwater dripped from it and formed a pool at its legs, like water drips down from untwisted damp clothes. The girl in the silhouette was young. She observed the figure for its curves. It looked well-fed with chubby cheeks and a healthy frame for the body. It said nothing, nor did it move. Her questions of 'Who are you?' and 'What do you want?' went unanswered. To her, the figure was much like her own little self - tall, healthy, quiet, somewhat lost. It was still, its head tilted backwards to rest on the wall behind the swing. She saw raindrops play games on its face and it easily allowed them to, just like she used to in her youth. The figure had seated comfortably yet there was something it was cautious about. She knew the feeling, the uncertainty. But she was sure, it was her own little self, her own silhouette.

By now, the drizzle had stopped. The dense, dark clouds in the sky started fading away, allowing the afternoon sun to take its reign. The mist in the air evaporated. Water still stayed on the roads and roofs and trees and in the puddles, but it didn't play anymore. It was static. The calmness and tranquility in the atmosphere were oblivious to its fidgeting. The figure was shaking fiercely. She ran into her bedroom to fetch the figure a towel.

Two neatly folded towels lay on the bed. The brown towel of the two smelled strongly of her aloe vera shampoo. The other, a darker shade of sky blue, was washed and dried. It hadn't been used today. On any other usual day, she would have picked her brown towel. But today, unintentionally, she picked the blue one. She noticed the color of the towel while returning to the balcony. 'Old habits return,' she thought to herself.

 It had been years since she had stopped preferring blue over any colour. It took her to the day she had stopped regarding 'blue' as her 'favourite colour'. She had joined a swimming class with her friends the day she had turned 8. She had been attracted to swimming because she loved to play with water, and importantly, it was blue. One day after her coaching, she sat with her friends alongside the pool for a while. An ardent fan of books, she had brought her most favourite book to read while her friends drew, painted, coloured or simply played. Accidently, her friend dropped the book into the pool. The book was found and brought back, but it was damaged and torn badly. She never got to see her favourite book in its original condition. It made her dislike her favourite colour. Never did she ever since that day, prefer anything blue for herself until today.

There was something different about today. She had never liked monsoons, not as a teenager, not as an adult. She had hated the mud, the puddles, the fog and the insects. But today's petrichor soothed her. She felt refreshed. The blue towel still in hand, she sat down at the balcony's door, observing the silhouette. It shivered even more. She looked at the sky. The sun had shifted towards the west. Darker shades of blue appeared in the sky as yellow, orange, crimson and red took their positions at the horizon. The silhouette was in the same position as hers, resting its head against the wall staring at the sky. But she wasn't sure whether it appreciated the sky or not. 

To her, the dark blue stood for flaws and the warm colours represented marvels of behaviour. It seemed to her like the evening sky reflected her state of mind. She remembered the times when she was awarded, appreciated, uplifted. 

She had arrived late for a reputed poetry competition. Helping a wounded woman on the road had been more important to her than the competition. She was punished and had to wait until the competition was over. She didn't explain her reasons, nor did anyone ask. She had forgotten her poem. The only thing she remembered of the day after that was the prize she carried home.

Tears now rolled down her cheeks. She was overwhelmed. She had never given much thought to her feelings, her personality earlier. It was today that she lost herself in a figure which she assumed was hers. By now she was sure, today was a real magic. Her tears spoke her mind out. From time to time, unknowingly, she wiped them with the towel, the blue one. Moments later she realised. She glanced at the swing and saw the figure still trembling. She held the towels open with both hands to wrap the shivering silhouette. The moment she flung it over the figure and attempted to wrap it around, the silhouette disappeared. It lost its shape and dismantled. She was horrified. She looked down at the swing and at the puddle that had formed beneath. A book lay there, damp from the rain, water still dripping from its wet pages adding to the little puddle. She stared at the book. A few drops of rainwater leaked from the roof above onto her face. She didn't wipe them off. It was difficult to distinguish the rainwater from her tears. She lifted the book, careful not to tear the pages. It obeyed. The stiff pages of the book had become soft, vulnerable, pliable. 'Me As I See Myself - Mrunal Desai,' the cover of the book read. She hugged it hard.

History repeats itself; she had heard people say. Yet again, she smiled to her thought, today was different. Today, because of her own carelessness, a book had been damaged. Today, she was at fault. She understood. Accidents do happen. Though she couldn't get in touch with her 8-year-old friend now, her friend had taught her a lesson 23 years later. 

She heard the main door unlock. In a heavy but cheerful voice her husband called out to her, "Mrunal, did you see my towel? The blue one that I didn't use today?" Ignoring her husband, she opened the book. Page 88 of the book read,

I didn't have the energy to explain. On my way to the competition, a woman lay on the road profusely bleeding. I had to help the woman, she needed it. She had been hit by a car and the driver had fled away. I asked the gathered crowd for help and a couple of kind men decided to take her to the hospital. Then, I left. Now I had to face another challenge. I had forgotten my poem completely. But I didn't flinch. My first and the most favourite impromptu poem goes like this:

Tomorrow's Sunrise

Tonight, as I lie in bed,

Watching the stars twinkle right,

I know that it is darkness now,

But tomorrow shall reign the light,

I feel like the moon today,

All alone in the black gloom,

But I know with the sunrise tomorrow,

The happy flowers shall bloom,

The darkness won't show you,

What I'm hiding tonight,

But I know you'll discover me somehow,

The moment we walk in the fresh morning light.

       - Mrunal Desai

"You have regained your position in the bestsellers’ column, Mrunal. People are loving Me As I See Myself. Have you checked your emails? Your mailbox must be flooded with messages from your fans. They must be welcoming you back. Come, let's check them together," Mrunal’s husband cried in excitement.

She smiled. Her writer’s block had made her more miserable consistently while fighting depression. Today she had finally won against herself.

Disha Thosar