That Woman and Her World

‘That Woman and Her World.’

– The story of a common woman and her simple world and how she used Her AND.

Like the broken wings of a butterfly, that woman has countless shackles that ties her down. She still tries hard, to fly. To fly away from the knots. To reach the sky.
Like the twisting paths of the river, that woman has hundred obstacles that hinders her progress. She still resists them, and flows. To flow until the destination. To reach the sea.

Her story starts here, there and everywhere.

She is so many thing. But…
When people ask her what she is doing, she always has to say, ‘Nothing.’ Yes. She doesn’t go to work. No job, outside her home. However, that ‘nothing’ she says has many things underneath. Many a things, fizzing beneath, unsaid, but needed to be said. She wants to fill that nothing with a million little things she do. Million little things that make her life. Million little things that make her who she is. Real. Human. However, in the passing, the time granted for her is only enough for that ‘Nothing.’ That woman… She isn’t nothing, but to everyone, she is. Nothing.

She doesn’t believe it, though. No. One day, they will realize she isn’t a nonentity. That she has some credits. That she is one point greater than a Cipher. That she is at least a 0.1.

So who is she? Of course, just another traveler in this jerky, abysmal world, trying to find her place. Trying hard to fit in, yet stand apart. Her world is comprehensible. Familiar. For all. Easy and simple. She is a simple girl, with simple dreams, with hope of achieving them, one day or the other.

That woman didn’t believe in herself. Once upon a time. She had countless doubts, started by the bystanders next to her. By some people who doesn’t understand her; they poked at her, about her stupidity. Like the starless night sky in a new moon day, her life was dark, but… then there is a light. The light she finds out of nowhere. From within. A small burning ember of long extinguished fire. A pole star, that guides her through. A hand. Her God’s hand.

That woman now believes in God’s judgement. She believes that God had created her for a purpose. A reason. Not life-altering, may be. However, that small reason is more than enough for her to strive. To move on. Forward. Determined. Now… She believes. She is a ardent believer. In God. Of God.

That woman has many places to go and find where she belongs. An endless journey. But, she is sure that she doesn’t belong in a single place. Her dreams bring her to wilderness of the jungle…to the quietness of the evening sunset… to the chaos in the large city… to the buzz of the sandy beach. She belongs in everywhere and nowhere. She belongs to the beginning and the end.

So? Where is the place for her? If she is in a menagerie, she can’t be caged with birds; nor can she be caged with animals; nor with the humans. She can’t be glued with a single label. The girl within her, the woman defining her… She has many facades. Dimensions. Like the multiple cuts of a diamond, reflecting lights — yellow, orange, red, blue — she has many colors inside the whitewashed exterior. Hiding under the boring, lacklustre outside.

That woman, she may not be significant, but she isn’t insignificant, as well. She is a bridge between two. A half of this and that. A half of darkness and light. A half of the meaning and the meaningless.

A daughter. A sister. A friend. A wife. A daughter and a sister and a friend and a wife. That woman enjoys it all. All parts that make her life. All simple parts, but beautiful ones. She loves those roles. Those roles, which make her the part of other people’s life.

That woman did Engineering. It was a mistake. She didn’t fit in that world. She should’ve studied literature. Or creative writing. But…why not? Another facet of life. Some more lessons learned. Electronics, resistors, capacitors… Power line, microprocessors… She speaks some new terms. Learnt some new world. She is an Engineer, though she is a misfit.

Her life was so simple at the beginning. So very simple. Without any proper design. Or a prospective reach. She moved, wherever life steered her. Or wherever people behind her pushed. Like the herd of the sheep, following blindly — she followed. An object, never realizing its purpose. That woman often Gave in. Gave-up. That woman often cried Quits. She was a quitter. A coward.

She had many dreams. Dreams that could mould her. Cast her. Dreams that had the power to bring a new meaning to her mundane life. A new light in her evening sky. A dream of creating a new life and a new world with her words. Dream of writing bits and pieces that could bring light for at least a single person. Dream of writing a novel, which could bring a little smile on faces. People around her scorned. Mocked. Pointed fingers. Amongst the crows, a peacock looked different. An outcast. She thought she should give up writing. Who was reading, anyways? She is a dreamer. Always dreaming. Only a dreamer in the beginning.

Then she realized…

Giving up is easy. Fighting for what is hers is difficult. She chose the difficult path. She started to fight, slowly. Baby steps toward battling for her dreams. She becomes a fighter. She toiled. Hard, harder. Some people still laughs. She ignores them, now. She becomes a writer. She conceived her first novel. Creating her second and third and fourth and it won’t end there. She will give birth to more. She wants to. A dreamer & a fighter & a writer. Finally becomes an author. Her life starts to feel meaningful. Feel like it has some purpose. A semblance of significance. A small thread of light.

That woman still knows she is insignificant, but she believes that in her insignificant self lies a significant part. A tiny seedling, which can spurt into a new tree. Even as big as a Oak. That woman trusts that she can make some difference. A teeny-weeny difference. In the society. In some people’s heart. In someone’s life. She wishes to become a light, guiding, holding hands, of a single person. Be their support. All with her words. She aspires of that. Dreams of that. Yearns for that.

When life gets bigger, she shuts the door and reads. Until it grows down to a manageable size. She doesn’t quit, but she waits for some time. To bear the pain. The misery. Reading heals her. Fix her up. Makes her whole, again. She has loved so many times. Lived so many lives. All inside the magical pages of the books. She is a voracious, hungry reader. Ravenous for words. For a new dawn. Books are her harbour. A place she belongs. A place that belongs to her.

That woman cries for silly things; but has the might to swallow the tears when bigger problems supervene. It is a gift from her Lord, she supposes. She smiles for useless things. She cherishes even the worthless things. She loves the night and the moon. The tree and the grass. The earth and the sky. The rain and the sun. The flowers and the bees. She loves watching a little child and its antics. She loves watching rain kissing the flowers. She loves chocolates. She is a lover & an eater. A lover, who loves endless things, from morning to night. And an eater, who is addicted to chocolates.

Apart from her dream of baking tasty words and endless hours of reading the baked words, she loves to do the real baking. Food for the soul, great. But her tummy often complains and groans. Food for the stomach. Food made with love and smile and more love. She cooks, but bakes better. A cook(er? ;)) & a baker. Adding flour, breaking eggs, pouring vanilla essence, grinding sugar, melting the butter, stirring the batter – that woman enjoys making cakes. It is a kind of music to her. A timeless melody and a dance. A meditation, in the early morning, with the hums of the birds and the warm glow of the golden sun — baking feels like that for her.

At times, that woman stitches. Not a grand tailor, but she loves handcrafts– making pillows. And she paints on glasses. She isn’t a painter, but she paints, all the same. A little bit of a tailor & a painter. No, not an artist. Far less than that. These are a part of her. An atomic part, but a part nonetheless. She stops things halfway, but she likes those things. She likes it when she does it.

Of course, life often throws curve balls when she least expects — a rejected manuscript here, a lost child there, but she has learnt the way to stand a safe distance and catch it. She doesn’t master it, yet. But, she is progressing. A slow paced tortoise, hoping to win the feral race against the proverbial rabbit.

Yes, there are times when that woman stagnates. Like a pressed biological preserve. She’d lose the purpose; the significance. Become microscopic. Nothing. She’d feel the thrum of doubts and the pungent smell of lost hope, but then she’d break the gyves and liberate herself from her own mistrust. She has grasped that trick. Have used it. Survived her doubts. Overcame the fear of what would happen next. Withstood the pain of losing her child. Resending the failed manuscripts again, until it gets accepted. She learnt not everything is easier. She also learnt she is made of sterner material. A survivor, of sorts.

With some better friends that came into her life later on, she understood the value of her words. With two best friends that stayed after what feels like a hundred years, she understood the value of love. With great parents that feeds to her ego, she understood the meaning of adoration. With siblings that fight with her for useless things, she understood the meaning of bliss. With a grandma who dotes on her, she understood the meaning of care.

That woman, to consolidate, is an array of unconnected things, which connect the dots and make her the ‘whole’. She is beyond a single tag, banded in her neck. More than that sticker pasted on her forehead. She isn’t a nobody. She is somebody. Nothing better, not worse, as well. She is a daughter, a sister, a friend, a wife. She is a baker, a painter, a tailor, a cook. She is a dreamer, a lover, a fighter, a survivor. She is a reader, a writer, a poet.

That woman is still learning, though. Learning better things in the world. Learning life. She knows she is still lacking. Insufficient. Her knowledge is deficient. So many things to learn, she tirelessly moves like the stream, finding things. Educating herself with the new and the old. She seeks for the unknown. Tries to unearth the secrets scattered around. Above everything, she is a learner. Always will be. A learner.

However, she is getting better at the art of loving and caring. Better at baking and eating. Better at crying and laughing. Better at dreaming and doing. Better at writing and reading. Better at fighting and surviving. Better at learning. Better at living. Better at BEING her.

>> $©me Beautiful thing in That Woman’s World <<

# Making things. It interests her.

# Enjoying and loving nature and everything around her. It brings her happiness and serenity. Calms her.

# Baking cakes and cooking. It is therapeutic. She enjoys the warm aroma drifting from just-baked-cakes.

# Eating chocolates and anything chocolaty. It helps her heal. She is a chocoholic. And a glutton.

# Spinning the stories. Writing. Reading. Weaving poetries. This makes her world wonderful. A better place to be.

 

Her story doesn’t end here, but…. Adieu. For now!
~~~
This post is a part of #UseYourAnd activity at BlogAdda in association with Gillette Venus“. Thank you for the great opportunity to share about a common girl like me with the world. Thanks Gillette for the grand opportunity.

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Ps. All the pictures in this post are mine and are copyrighted and owned by ©Ada.

© Ada