I stare at women (Alternatively; Convenient, self serving denial)

I see them and I want to be like them. Like them, mind you, not in entirety anymore but, though that would be part of my wish list three years ago, just aspects of their life. I now realize that nobody’s life is perfect; well I’m mindful of that most of the time at least. But they’re there, and every moment I see them I feel myself shrinking in comparison. Perfect looks I’m drab by comparison to. Amazing opportunities, those I almost, but not quite have. I tell myself I can’t do much about that, they were born lucky, but maybe, I was just born lazy.

I don’t think about it. 

I see so many women when I drive to and fro from university. Weather beaten and leathery skinned, loads on their heads and children slung around their waist, in and out of my view as I zip ahead to get to class in time or home afterwards. Everything I’ve read about them comes to mind, a reluctant admiration when I see occasional smiles and wonderment when I see their defeated expressions. I see them for a few seconds. Wonder about their stories, feel my troubles to be petty by comparison. That is disturbing; I make excuses for my own ineptitude at life sometimes. But mostly, I try not to think about it, it makes me uncomfortable. 

And there she is her present life in some ways easier and in some ways much harsher than her younger years. She’s lived through physical hardship in her youth, and become bitter for it. Yet her years now, are far from ideal too. Both her sons provide for her adequately well in terms of material wants, but she’s lonely. She pushed away so many near to her and now, after the loss of her spouse she’s got no one but herself. She makes up in attachment to the room he spent the last years of his life in, plugged into various machines progressively drifting into a vegetable state, and the house in which they lived the last of their married years together. What she’s seen in life made her hard and difficult, nobody wants to be with her, she is a rich woman but wouldn’t even spend on herself till so much of what she had either went to dust or got stolen. She’s still stubborn, a trait that decreases with the loss of mental capability that the advancing years bring. 

That could be me given enough time. She’s 76 according to a withered document. I wonder of the merits of a long life over a shorter one. Maybe it’s better to die younger. But then, who am I kidding, death scares the crap out of me. It’s the elements of unknown and pain associated with it. I don’t know how someone can be ready for death, let alone embrace it, but those are probably people better than I. our realities start from when we start life, who’s to tell what’s after that. Yes the answers in religion, but I’m too flinty to concentrate on that too. I’ve read all the books, but that’s about it. 

I’m not a saint, far from it. I wonder what will become of me. People take care of her out of a sense of inbred concern and responsibility. With the decline of collectivism in our society, honestly, I don’t think I'll get the same attention. I don’t even know if I'll do the same for my parents. Sure, right now I’m adamant I will, but I’ve seen the world, albeit very little of it, people change, and knowing me, I’m not above that either. I’m more concerned about my fate here. It’s disturbing. I’d rather concentrate on being young and not think about it. 

And then its her. Face lined but not heavily so, concessions to vanity evident in her dyed hair and stained lips. She’s all over the place, caters to everyone, but she’s so tired. She’s lived out her rebellion and most of her zest, now she’s living out her responsibilities and debts. She’s grateful and content most of the times, but bitterness does creep in. So tired she is. Her body serves her as faithfully as it can but it breaks down once in a while too. Little things make her smile and her laugh is loud but only she knows how true it is. Time has taken its toll on her but she’s still able. There’s life to be squeezed out of those bones yet. Wisdom must be passed down and services rendered. She commands respect but puts herself down. She doesn’t know how amazing she is. I’ll probably never tell her that as much as I should, and she’ll probably brush it off the way she always does. I don’t even try to repay her, I know I never can. But I don’t even try; it’s too much of an inconvenience. I do feel guilty and disturbed but I push it to the back of my mind. 

There is this girl I see. Blessed in so many ways. But she makes mistakes, is ungrateful and petty. Her shortcomings are intense. One of them being her denial of them and the reluctance to pen them down, because that’s a reminder of them, and because the tendency of being publicly acceptable has been ingrained into her. 

That girl is me. 

 

I don’t think about it.

(Image courtesy: Google images)