Waiting To Fly
Everybody alive wants something. Including those who say they do not. They want, I want, you want. And if you don’t want, life simply ends.
That is death, living death.
I want to be rich, famous, kind, charitable, compassionate, slim, beautiful, perfect. I want my face to launch a thousand books, and my life to be filled with positive energy. More than anything else I want to be happy, which I am most of the time. Still…little things like a dull day at work fill me with gloom, if nobody calls me, I am upset, if too many people call, I feel rushed, if I don’t write, I feel guilty, when I write I want to finish it soon.
When I was a child, I imagined life would be perfect when I grew up and got married. Instantly I would be rich, I imagined. I would have everything that I did not when I was in school and college. Getting married then became my ambition. It was the goal in my life. Every boy I met was looked at as a potential husband, which is really funny as my imagination offered some respite from the real world. The thought was discarded in minutes and I was off on another trip in my mind. Suddenly I became this VERY famous career woman, heading my own conglomerate dashing around in planes, concluding fabulous deals, wearing chic suits.
Then I met him. One rainy, dreary afternoon. All drenched, with water seeping into my every pore, this man came into my life. And he left. Then he returned, while I pursued my career. Till finally we decided we would marry, despite parental disapproval. A part of me wanted to elope, another part wanted a grand wedding. The latter won. To be married I had to quit my job. Indian marriages and jobs don’t go together, I was told. Delirious I agreed, spending six months traveling across India, collecting my trousseau. It was loads of fun.
I was married. I imagined this great guy would take care of all my needs, put things in perspective for me, protect me, while all I’d do is sit at home, supervise the servants, buy jewellery, clothes and look pretty for him when he came home from work. I even saw myself – slim, beautiful, with a nice bindi on my forehead, dressed in the most fabulous organdi sarees, delicately climbing into chauffer driven cars and going off to visit friends and family. Ha ha. That vision of a perfect life lasted, till a few weeks after the wedding day.
Real life became very different from what I imagined it would be, and it took me a little while to get used to living with a new family who were slightly reluctant to accept this new woman in their lives. I actually lived there, ate there, slept there, and voiced my opinion whether I was supposed to or not. For me too, it was different. I changed from carefree career woman to housewife, constantly under scrutiny.
Well, all of that is over now. I am a writer, an editor, a freelance journalist, wife and mom. I still want – I am not slim, I still court success, and once it is achieved in one aspect of my life, I want more.
There is so much I think I can do, so much more has to be done, and all I do is play one more computer game, make a few more points on Pop and Drop………pathetic.
Now, that moment of truth has passed. The words that were forming in my brain have eased out, and the ideas have stopped flowing. For the first time in days, my brain is spent.
I want to go to work, at the same time I want to stay home. I want to go to the parlour at the same time I want to save that fuel. Am off to play Collapse. A game I have not touched in months. I have the internet to myself and peace surrounds me. I am home, not facing bright yellow walls and listening to World Space all alone in the office. Restless, rearing to go like a race horse in a stable, I am breathing hard, as I wait for my turn to fly.
And then I read Bokovski. If I was even remotely like he said a writer should be, I would never write at all. I would be a woman with a lost soul, a lost cause and an unmarked grave.
(c) Ameeta Agnihotri.