runaway princess…

She sat in the back patio of her mother’s new house with a warm cup of cinnamon tea.  The breeze touching her skin made her smile. With white long skirt kissing her ankles, white cotton sleeveless top, and a beige Indian silk scarf covering her shoulders, she felt such a sanctuary with the new cloth covering her body. Out of her exposed cleavage, heels and the presence of human predators, she felt safe and obedient. She felt subservient and eagerly devoted. She was dutiful toward her heritage and childhood beliefs and it made her felt simply good. She touched the yellow little dot on her forehead few times to make sure it was still there. It was a reminder of who she was, where she came from and thousands of souls before her connecting the family’s bloodline.

She rose to glance at herself in the mirror and realized that she was staring at a new person, not the woman few days ago her parents picked up at the airport. She loved the little dot between her eyebrows, a sign that she’s uttered her prayers to the Divinity she held believe for.

Being away from family and close friends, there were no reminders, no support, and no wake up calls in the morning to say that it was time to wake up. Wake up to a not so kind world which forced her to constantly be kind. There was never cinnamon tea or soft Indian silk covering her body. There was, however, other physical comfort far from what she really needed. There was a scarcity of decency and benevolence of others, she thought had run toward extinction. There were never prayers. So without prayers, hope was always abandoned.

She scanned through the dancing papaya and banana trees, various colored roses and other tropical flowers she failed to define in simple English. Then she glanced at her mother’s small plant collection, wondering why the woman had chosen such endeavor – cactus.

“Did you eat enough?” A woman in her late 40s appeared with long cotton pants, T-shirt and a loose scarf covering her head. Between her eyebrows was a red little dot, a color which defines her marriage status.

“I did. Thank you, ma’am,” She answered politely still gulping down the taste of chicken curry with her cinnamon tea.

“When you’re married one day your tilak will be red too,” The older woman informed.

“This little dot.”

“Tilak, it’s called.” Her mother corrected smiling.
”Little dot to me.”  She answered stubbornly giggling.

“It’s just who you are, my child, no matter where you’ll continue to take yourself. Sita remained true to herself before being true to her lover.” Her mother once again recited a piece from The Ramayana, a chapter representing the faithfulness of a princess, from the most renowned Indian epic, The Mahabharata.

She drank her tea as her mother opened up Bhagavad-Gita, yet stared blankly at her plants, then to Nothingness. Should be close to ten years since she stepped foot out of her mother’s roof and so far she has succeeded in yearly visits. Of course each year she saw her mother aged with grace. But this year was different. Her mother simply aged. With grief.

To her daughter, the woman became somewhat of a stranger, a frail weakened being who not too long ago refined with pure beauty with laughing lines framing her pretty light brown eyes. She was once vibrant and invitingly vivacious with energy more than her three daughters ever possessed. It was her natural upbringing to be elegantly supple yet lively at all cost.

It was a different woman this time, a different mother. This woman was quieter, still quite poised yet held a thousand silent cries behind her weary eyes, eyes that used to laugh endlessly.  Her smile was truthful as always, yet solemn and withdrawn. Her voice was warm as her daughter remembered, yet many times it formed an acute tone as if she was fully defending her existence. Her voice was assurance and reminder as to why she still stood with such an erect posture despite the saddened secrets she stored in hiding.

Oh, but her mother’s eyes were the worst liars she has ever met. It takes a pair of liars to define another and her eyes resembled too much of her mother’s.

The woman drowned in the Holy Scriptures, occasionally smiling and reciting things in a whisper to herself.  Her husband, who looked amazingly younger than her despite his older age, arrived with his arms folded in the wooden double door frame.

“I hope you don’t mind that things aren’t exactly done around here,” He said to his daughter in such an aristocratic manner keeping his gaze on the plants surrounding them.  He was referring to their new house, smaller in size compared to one they left and afraid that his eldest daughter would disapprove. Not that she would dare recite objections, but it was somewhat of a family culture to take consideration of the eldest. Since the 48 year old gave birth to no sons, she was not only the eldest but became a replacement of the son her parents never had. Her opinions mattered to him.

“It’s a nice house. I like this back porch, sir.”  She answered politely.

Honest to her Divinity, she carried no objections to possessions of her parents. It was all solely theirs and she was only a guest at their house. She was thankful simply for the roof over her head, food served by the maid for her, and the soft mattress spoiling her body during her afternoon and night naps. It could’ve been more comfortable as the life she had before with them, but as she touched the little dot between her eyebrows, she realized that the only thing she could do was be thankful.

She thought of the hungry children in

Africa

or the peasants she saw earlier digging through wastes in the gutter. Of motherless babies and homeless families with tattered clothes to wear. She felt a ball of guilt rolling in her head, yet the misfortune of others brought her to gratitude for her reality. 

The house was indeed smaller, located at a civilized neighborhood, her mother recited repeatedly at her arrival at the airport. Consisting of a well sized guest room, spacious TV room connected to a dining room set for 6, a kitchen which led to the front garage, front and back garden, four bathrooms and four bedrooms dispersed in two floors, a large space on the second floor separating the rooms turned to the family’s prayer corner, which led to an unpolished balcony - the space was enough.

“We’ll manage. It’s not so terrible is it?”  Her father turned to his wife.

“No, of course not.” She forced out an answer, giving her daughter the of-course-it’s-terrible look before turning to the Gita.

“There is nothing wrong with the house.” The 25 year old firmly stated fully knowing that the decreasing size of their new home went along with how insignificant the love between her parents has grown into. If one can call it growth.

It wasn’t about the home.

It was about so much more that have perished her mother’s laughter and her father’s plain dignity. It was about the remaining of the love between the two souls that brought her into this world. It was her mother’s happiness at stake and her father’s sanity standing at the edge of a cliff.  It was about Betrayal, Misery, Tears, Weakness, and Faith.

“I am going upstairs. Good night.”  Her mother said gravely taking off her glasses leaving the book on the tea table. Upstairs meant the special room where she would began conversing with Divinity in silence.

Father and daughter were accompanied by Silence before the sky clattered in heavy tears.

“I will attend to my book upstairs then. Good night.”  Her father said. Upstairs meant the master bedroom where surprisingly her parents’ bodies still shared bed in the evenings. It would look utterly shameful if they publicly announced their battle. She rolled her eyes before turning to her father.

“Yes, good night, sir.”

She wants to go home…But nobody’s home…

That’s where she lies…Broken inside…

There’s no place to go…no place to go…

She dried her eyes…Broken inside…

Avril Lavigne blared from her sister’s room upstairs.  She thought of how the 21 year old had bloomed to a fine young lady, with big pretty eyes, full lips and slender legs that drew eyes of the many. Here sister possessed pomposity and self-confidence she can only dream about. If she was willing.

When I was a young boy my father took me into the city to see a marching band

He said “Son, when you grow up, would you be the savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned?”

He said,” Will you defeat them, your demons and all the non believers, the plans that they have made?”

My Chemical Romance blasted from the room right above her, her baby sister’s corner. She heard the spoiled high school senior listening to the tune along with American Idols playing from her TV set, in addition to being on the phone with her college lover.

She curled her eyebrows and finished her tea. Her mother was embracing her lover – God. Her father was reading his share of Einstein knowledge. Both her sisters locked themselves in their own world, uninviting everyone else.

She wished with all her might at that moment that she was out being a savior of the broken, the beaten and the damned. She would defeat them; defeat demons invading everyone’s head. She would defy non believers of Good. That was a place to go.

After all, nobody’s home.

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