The Inheritance of Loss (a series) - 04. The Muse/Paro - Page 4

What can one say about the muse? That she was alluring? That she was vain? That she would never come unless you chanted her name? Or that she only ever came where and when she willed- on her own terms as she pleased? That she was never obedient nor lenient? That she was soft and enticing but elusive and distant? That she followed her own ways? That she was a nomad, a vagabond and completely free-willed? There are as many myths about her as there are lies but her legends and stories have always remained alive. However, what no one knows is that the muse exists in every age and time and that she goes where she wills and can't ever be denied.

She lives dormant most of her life. Her nature shrouded, well concealed in cloaks of normalcy, hidden from prying eyes. Sometimes she awakens when evoked, at other times stirs in her woken slumber, unfurls for a few moments before turning over and falling back into the security of everyday life.

The muse of this age lives in disguise. And these are the four lives she could have lived and the one where she chose to come alive.

i.

She wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes she's lost her voice. She waits for the panic to recede and looks around at the familiar sights. The curtains flutters in the soft desert breeze, green and flimsy, she remembers making them herself three months back. The lantern hanging outside casts shadows on the wall. She knows these walls - chose their colours and the patterns she painstakingly painted, and these shadows, especially the shadows she's spent nights transforming into shapes and forms, objects and people, stories that she tells herself to sleep. Her husband's soft snores fill the room, a sound she has come to associate with comfort and security. Everything is as it should be yet something feels amiss. It's one of those nights where she wonders if she is living the wrong life.

ii.

She's used to the hate, ravels in it. It makes her feel alive. Like she is a real person, like she actually exists. At least they notice her, she convinces herself. Women look at her with thinly veiled disgust in their eyes and men with obvious lust. She fights the shiver that shimmies down her spine. Sensations are a part of being alive too. Cherish it. Savor it. She delivers them every night, various times, but she's stopped feeling a long time ago. Now they feel foreign to her. The good, the bad, the strange - it's all tangled up. Once upon a time, in another life she remembers the rush she felt, the breathlessness a strong hand gripping her arm had evoked. It's the only memory that feels right. That innocence of it still makes her cry. Reality ripped it to shreds soon after along with the morality of right or wrong. Survival she has learnt always comes with a price.

iii.

Wherever she goes, they say destruction follows in her wake. Some say she used to be an innocent victim, a witness village belle with dreams in her eyes. Others that she had always been an undercover spy. Much has been said about her but she never confirms nor denies. And her silence thus further affirms their lies. She's a lone ranger and her uniform is her badge of pride. She pulls the trigger with the same ease with which she spins lies. A special agent, she changes personas overnight. Her looks deceive the most conniving culprits into confessions; her allure and ruthlessness make her an exception amongst all men alike. But no one knows the truth she recalls every night. A dying man's promise to serve just as he did, that keeps her alive. She was a soldier's maiden once but that was long ago, another lifetime.

iv.

She's the picture of sophistication and style. A spearheading career woman who has made every designer's list in recent times. Suddenly burst on the scene and revolutionized ethnic wear as they all claim. With her knowledge of traditional threadwork, she's carved a niche and it's what gives her that winning edge. Plus she overlooks each designer piece herself. And though she's a recluse, elusive about her past her future looks bright, paving way for great success. Her story is the classic Cinderella tale sans Prince Charming, a rags-to-riches saga that sells tabloids. She got a pretty face but her eyes look distant and haunted, tell stories they haven't learnt to read yet.

v.

In his company, she awakens and comes alive. Becomes a formidable force that can't be stopped, finds a voice she has repressed all her life. The change is gradual, the transformation doesn't happen overnight. But one morning she wakes up in their shared quarters and is surprised to find her skin fits her just right. She starts to carry her entire body, using it as a tool, a device no longer servant to it's whim and wills, no longer restricted by it's contours, no longer weakened by it's preconceived vice. She feels at home in herself and even in confinement finds she has a purpose and has never been more free, felt more alive. It scares him (she scares him), she can see it in his eyes. Her new found comfort and strength and it makes her grin wide. She is the harbinger of change, the deep running stream that will make way through his terrains, will slice through his silence, his rage. He pushes her back and she keeps coming back - stronger and fiercer and more intense. His salvation lies in her. Even if he doesn't know it yet. She just needs to break his walls and get him to see that. After all, it is what she desires and a muse never returns empty-handed.

--

no kith nor kin, no familial ties,

a muse is born in each age,

a gift for a warrior,

who deserves a reward,

has proven himself worthy,

and has earned her right.