Dear Diary,
I screamed at Maanvi today. I yelled at her, and accused her of trying to ruin our relationship because of a singing competition. I blamed her to trying to sideline our marriage for the sake of media publicity. Our fight was so bad that I couldn't even stand to be in the same bedroom as she was in.
But how do I explain this to her, this feeling that's eating my insides away and leaving me hollow. This feeling that's been tugging at my heart for so long now, one that had disappeared when Maanvi walked into my life. She filled that break in my heart with her love, and I had thought that, that wound had been healed permanently. I forgot then, that wounds of the skin are easy to heal, but wounds that hurt our soul, are permanently etched on them.
One may learn to ignore the pain of it with time, but eventually, it surfaces, in times of hopelessness and despair. It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone. There's no cure for such an invisible injury.
It was in this very place that I had started singing for the first time. I remember I had been practicing the song 'Papa kehte hain' for my dad's homecoming when I was five. He rarely came home, once in six months maybe; but whenever he did, the atmosphere of our house resembled that of a festival. Bhai told me that I had a nice voice and I should surprise Papa when he would come home and I had agreed. I had practiced singing that song so many times that everybody in the house had gotten tired of my song. Everybody was excited to see Papa's reaction to my new talent. We never got to know how he would feel. Papa never came home.
I continued to sing everyday for the next decade, a new song, a new tune. Music was the only thing that helped me survive my cruel fate. It took me to a place where I could be happy and hope for a new sunshine, unlike the reality which was filled with nothing but despair and darkness. I secretly hoped that every day, Papa would listen to my singing and be moved by it, that one day Papa would have to walk down from heaven and give me a pat on my shoulder and say, 'I'm proud of you, my son.' I was too young for that. Bhai had got his turn when he had come first in class once. I never got that sort of appreciation from Papa. Nor have I gotten it from any member of the family till now.
Dadaji had asked me, rather, shouted at me once, "Why do you sing?"
I told him that music is a gift from God, that it filled the world with hope, just like a prayer. Music can hold everything in this world; a small dose of love, a handful of hope, a chance to make a wish. It gives a chance to people to open their hearts, even those whose souls are weary. He had laughed at my response, saying that I was too young to have a weary soul; that I had not seen enough of life to feel real pain. Well, if not then, I am old enough to feel pain now, aren't I? And let me say, it still hurts the same.
Even then, when I had found out Papa was never coming back. Even then, when Maaya had betrayed me. Even then, when Dadaji had rejected the idea of singing as a profession for me. The pain of rejection was always the same.
Sometimes I think about the sly, flickering line that separates being spared from being rejected. Sometimes I think of the ancient gods who demanded that their sacrifices be fearless and without blemish, and I wonder whether, whoever or whatever took Papa away, it decided I wasn't good enough. I was never good enough. I wasn't even perfect enough to be the son of an Army Officer. I had never gotten a smile from the man who was my father, yet I hoped every single day, till today that somehow he could deny what I felt; that he would pat my back once and say. 'Son, you aren't a loser.' Once is all I'm asking for.
And then came Maaya. I gave her my heart, and she took it and pinched it to death; and flung it back to me. People feel with their hearts, and since she had destroyed mine, I thought that I had lost the power to ever feel again.
Then came Dadaji's refusal. He told me that I wasn't fit to be his grandson if I couldn't become a lawyer. How could I explain to him in words, what singing meant to me? How could I tell him how impossible it was for me to leave my one and only passion? Singing kept me sane; it was the only thing that kept my inner demons dormant. How could I leave what kept my heart beating?
I have faced so many days of failure, whole seasons of failure, days when things went terribly wrong, nights filled with huge disappointments. With time I learnt to prepare for that, to expect it and be resolute and follow my own path. But every time I make a strong resolve, fate flings a boulder over at me. One that I either stumble upon and fall or one because of which I have to change my path.
I tried placing my head on my knees and let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was - my dashed hopes, my dashed dreams, and my soured expectations. I am so sick of failure, so sick of rejection that I'm starting to hate myself.
I don't know what to do now.
Ganesh Kartikeya
Shiv Shakti
Mannat Har Khushi Paane Ki
Kyunki Saas Bhi Kabhi Bahu Thi 2
