A few months ago, amidst the magnificent hills around Pune, I sat with strangers, at a storytelling circle. Together, one by one, we gave away ourselves, our narratives. Some insights about what shapes who we are, reasons why many things still wreck us and how love, in many ways, was present in our lives, or instead, has been missing.
Hearing others, I was overwhelmed, almost overcame with tears. It was a struggle to find words that would match up to, if not equal, the whys and wherefores of me. I did it, making people laugh and wonder, though not really content with my storytelling skills.
I have come to know and spend time with people from that circle, embracing them beyond the shower soaked, emerald, tenderness encouraging peaks. Abundance in all positive means persist. Another wonderful miracle of that circle were the choice of words that I made. I have been looking for the right ones from quite some months, for this post. There were many viewpoints, much rattling of parables. The search ended among the hills where this book opened.
I am the younger one in the family, always youngest among friends, have been even until up to the place where I work now. If one has known a similar experience, they might be familiar with the emotion of being overpowered, by warmth and care.
My canvas is made of tolerance, sacrifice and uncountable portraits of pain – none mine. Identify the vivid colours - Me losing control of my tongue, my voice and always being forgiven, always. Never being shouted at after multiple mistakes at different roles that I have played at work. Deliberately doing performances that most find uncomfortable and unacceptable. Also, keeping my paint brushes tucked away, while others only shared, ample with their own colours.
I ran away from home more than four years ago at the first opportunity I got. I did not pay attention and it has become a habit. It increased and took many forms – running away from the mess food, away from the banalities of the similar sunsets, from only-self-regard and paths downhill, cities and even genuine affection.
Only after experiencing myself how distance can be cruel, I understood the naturalness of the love and concern of my family. When I finally had the courage to part with my secrets, I found friends closer. I am trying to be as forgiving, as understanding, as others have been with me, being the kindness that always came my way. Alongside, what an absolute pleasure it is to smear and splatter colours on the canvasses of people who love you and one after the other, add loving tones to yours.
Hanya Yanagihara wrote, “And he cries and cries, cries for everything he has been, for everything he might have been, for every old hurt, for every old happiness, cries for the shame and joy of finally getting to be a child, with all of a child’s whims and wants and insecurities, for the privilege of behaving badly and being forgiven, for the luxury of tendernesses, of fondnesses, of being served a meal and being made to eat it….of believing that to someone he is special despite all his mistakes and hatefulness.”
