The Mirror That Cracked

The Mirror That Cracked

Staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror I wondered about the fate that had conspired against me. I wondered why that overpowering benevolence which some call God gave me this loveless existence. Tears streaked away the cheap powder on my cheeks. Quickly I redid my make up but even my best efforts couldn’t hide the pain, misery & hunger in my eyes.

Bright red lipstick, low cut chollies and pleated lehangas can no longer attract customers in the old age. Sitting alone in the verandah in the cobbled street I slowly slipped back to my reminiscences…. So sweet… yet so bitter…

I feel my biggest misfortune was being born into a family of overachievers. My Dad was a prosperous business man in his sixties. In my eyes he was a charmer, a creature as vile as a snake, never to miss an opportunity to make illegal thousands in shady deals. Appropriately his favorite axiom was ‘The end justifies the means’.

Mom, who ought to be synonym for love and sacrifice, was to me like the rude step mothers in fiction. My Mom was an alien in my life; she was no more than a visitor in home. High society world of glitz and glamour was her home and hearth. To my dad she was another trophy to be shown off before others.

My sister was always busy either winning beauty pageants or scholarships. I always watched with amusement tinged with jealousy at the number of boys who queued at her feet ready to slay dragons for her.

I always felt like an intruder in this family. While my sister was stunning I was just a plain Jane. I had neither beauty nor brains neither charm nor charisma. Once I openly heard my dad remark to his friends that I was his little mistake. His friends roared with laughter.

Love seemed like a forbidden fruit to me. The harder I tried the farther it seemed to be. Even God seemed to be playing a joke with me. I was always afraid of dreams. In my dreams I saw people loving me, a family loving me. Everything was beautiful and everywhere I found love. I dreaded waking into the cruel reality. I had shed tears late into the night for love. In those hours I seriously contemplated if my existence was really a mistake.

I vividly remember the day I left home. I had not planned it before. It just happened. Servants had retired to their quarters. Bored of watching. T.V. alone, I loitered to my parent’s room. On a sudden impulse I opened the bed side drawer. I was more than surprised when I took my mother’s diary from it. I never knew she had even kept one. Flipping through the pages I realized, not for the first time, that she was ashamed of me…..ashamed of being seen with me…. Ashamed of being known as my mother….ashamed of giving birth to me….

Though I had sensed it before, reading it from my Mom’s diary written in her own hand was a blow from which I never recovered. I knew then that hopping things would look up one day was akin to my unattainable dreams about love.

Looking back, I don’t remember much about the ensuing events. I left home penniless, walked to the bus stand in mild rain and my drenched clothes attracted a lot of hungry stares. I got into the first bus I saw. Somebody bought me a ticket and some food which I later realized had been drugged.

I found myself in this brothel when I woke up. My body was badly battered and bruised. Here I saw women shed all pretences of dignity, displaying their ample wares to get a mouthful of food a day. Like me the others here don’t know what love is.They foolishly craved for it once, and like me had left home in pursuit of it and found themselves here. So I am home….in a sense…lost among loveless souls….

Big isolated raindrops wake me from my stupor. No sign of customers…another day without food. Slowly…sadly I retreated to my hovel…nobody is there waiting for me…I am wedded to loneliness and poverty. Yet I thrive in pursuit of love…because I am in love with love.

Article by: Sherbin Salim,St.Teresa’s College