I’m seeing her everywhere. Hearing her voice loudly demand her tea or yell up the stairs for someone to drill holes for her Wall of Frames. Hearing her footsteps on the driveway and the front door slamming shut before her dog begins the furious wag of his tail that he reserves only for her.
Yesterday, I saw her at the movie hall, where we went, just to get out of the empty house; but no, the ponytail wasn’t scrunched up exactly the way it should be. Then I saw her at the Chicago Pizza place, in those comfy looking harem pants, but wait, did she have an orange t-shirt like that?
“I don’t wear happy clothes” she said, proceeding to empty my cupboard of floral shirts, paisley blouses and other assorted items; and then, soon after, “I’m not going to wear dark clothes there, what if they think I’m a terrorist?”
Her room, a perpetual mess, with towels on the bed, littered with gloves, shoes, sleeping bag, head torch, and random other paraphernalia. Suddenly all packed into that monster haversack, with tubes of Odomos stuck inside the shoes; her horse-shoe shaped blue neck pillow, forgotten, looks abandoned, afloat on a neatly covered bed, missing its chaotic companions; clothes still tumble out of her cupboard ~ and are being folded grumpily by the maid who cannot believe there are so many beautiful sarees among the clothes; miniscule skirts rub shoulders with strawberry print pyjamas and drapey tops in greys and blues look starkly out of place among the blingy anarkalis;
“I’m going to Burra bazaar to buy hoops” she said ~ and returned armed with hoops, yarn, feathers and beads; I looked at her sitting at her desk diligently making beautiful Dream-Catchers – stringing up fairy lights in her room – creating a room that spells sheer whimsy; is this a fantasy world she’s creating?
What IS this girl? Do I know her? Does SHE know her? Is that what she’s gone to find, in the cold desert among the mountains where even breathing is tough? Through war zones and Hippie Trails, dreaming of Shikara rides, looking to meditate, eat local food and Instagram the pictures immediately (though, carefully steering clear of chocolates ~ ‘don’t want to aggravate that tooth, you know’)
Traipsing off to uncharted territories makes her “a very brave girl’ ‘with gumption’ I believe. I want to believe. “Such a noble cause” “she’s going to do god’s work, don’t you worry about her, God will look after her” I’m told. “You must be so proud” they say.
We look at each other, her father and I. We ARE proud. Worried, yes, but proud too.
We just don’t like the house so neat again, and quiet, after the whirlwind three weeks…..
Unholy mess or deadly quiet?
I don't know what's worse.
I just want her to hold the dreams she has, and string them up like those fairy lights in her room that I switch on religiously, every evening at dusk while she’s gone……
