Not Since Then

MIRA

I paid for the coffee, my mind still reeling from what Cristi said. As much as I hate to admit it, she was right. Art was something that I loved. It connected me to my mother. I can't just give that up. It doesn’t matter if all of my college degrees went to waste, I’m going to quit my job and start up an art studio. Maybe I can ask that hijab girl for help. I think her name was something like Aliyaah. She will know a thing or two about managing a studio. I could help her financially. This could actually work. Hope surged within me.

Cristina was like an angel sent from heaven. I’m glad I met her.

“Can you do me a favour?” I asked the cashier.

“Sure.” The guy said, confused.

“Tomorrow when the girl who was here earlier, Aliya, come to work, give her this. Tell her to contact me.” I said giving him my card.

The guy looked at me curiously and nodded.

I smiled inwardly. It will work out. For both of them.

After paying we walked out.

We stood there looking up at the dark sky.

“Someone I used to love a lot once told me that if you have a dream while a shooting star passes by, the dream will come true.” I said.

Mom told me that.

“Clever.” She replied.

“Why so?” I asked looking at her.

“A sleeping person cannot know if a shooting star is passing the night sky above them. They’re asleep.” She said softly.

I tilted my head. “I never thought of it that way.”

“I stopped believing in superstitions a long time ago.” She said.

I wonder why.

“Cristina.” I called.

“Yeah?” She said, blinking.

“Do you want me to drop you off at your place?” I asked.

She nodded. She took out her phone and pinpointed her location in Google maps. She showed it to me and I looked at it for a while, committing it to memory. I nodded. I got on my motorcycle.

“Hop on.” I told her.

She hopped on.

I started my Ducati V4S.

The night air was refreshing. My family’s bond was destroyed on a peaceful night just like this. I was out. My brothers were all around the world. Dad was not home either. I was at a rave for the first time. I would never have gone there if I knew what I would be coming home to. I could still see her. Dead. Pale. Bloodied. I could still feel the slap my father gave me when I told him where I had been. That I had been drunk. I could still feel the moment my family decided that I was the cause of her death. It did not matter that my brothers could have been at home. It did not matter that dad could have been at home. None of that mattered. I was once my family’s little angel. But not anymore.

Not since then.

I swerved as I reached her apartment complex. It was a small one. She was not rich. I stopped and turned to look at her. She had fallen asleep. A smile tugged my lips.

“Do you always fall asleep on a motorcycle?” I asked, waking her up.

She woke up, wide eyed. I must have scared her. I looked at her and smiled.
“We're here, kitten.” I said sadly. I didn’t want her to leave yet.

“Okay.” She said in a parched voice.

She got off. Then she turned abruptly. And hugged me. I froze. It had been so long since someone hugged me like this. I relaxed and hugged her back.

“Stay safe, kitten.” I whispered in her ear. She stepped back and nodded.
She walked away from me. She did not look back, not even once. But I kept on staring at her. I couldn’t help it.

She was depressed. I could see that the moment I looked into her eyes. Anyone could see the way her eyes lost focus at times, the destroyed look in her eyes.
When I saw the glass shards in her hand, I knew that it wasn’t from a fight. She was hitting at a mirror. I did not know why. And I didn’t try to find out either. I know that she was a depressed and weakened girl. I know that no words of mine can change her. Call me selfish, but I did not want to be hurt or left behind.

Like she did.

My mother.

My mother, Maria Vivek. She married my father when he was still beginning the business in India. She was an artist.

To say that she loved art would be an understatement. She lived for art. She would give up anything for art.

For her painting was a way to express her thoughts, her emotions, her life. She drew to create a world, to destroy a world or to become the world. When an author write a book, they create a new and different world. They make new people, new places and new cultures. That is what drew people to reading. We all want an escape from the harshness of reality every once in a while. And these books manage to provide us with the much needed break. When we read we actually travel to a world that exists only in ones mind and live different lives that we can only dream of.

Similarly, when my mother painted, she created a world in her paintings. That’s what made her so different from the other artists. She showed a story within her paintings. It maybe as simple as me and my brothers fighting, or it maybe a glamorous one like a story of angels and demons.

Ever since I was three, my mother used to show me her paintings and make me tell the story present in it. I was always good at it. I was always good at painting. It was something that I loved.

Something that I still love. Cristina made me realise that.

I never expected her to talk that much. And it seemed like she was surprised at herself too. It was easy to understand that she was talking from experience. A harsh experience. She was so young and so small. But life had not been easy on her.

Life was not easy for my mother too.

I did not know. I was not aware that she was going through a severe case of depression. That she was struggling to breathe sometimes. That she had panic attacks. That she felt like she couldn’t paint. That she felt worthless.

I was too busy studying to notice. I left for college when I was 18. Since then my main focus was studying and delivering better results than my brothers. I did not see that my mother was not well.

But I’m not the only one to be blamed. She and I had lost our bond when I was 16. I had decided to study commerce and business like father wanted me too instead of pursuing my interest. Mother was disappointed.

We both knew that I loved art. I was good at it. I could create tales and stories with my paintings like mother could. I used to paint all the time. I had my own studio. It was still there. In my family house. The house was locked up since her death. No one ever went there.

She died voluntarily. By her own will. She took her own life. She left us. She left me.

And I was mad at her. I was so angry. Tears dripped down my face. I forget that she was a human, just like me.

I was so furious at her, that I did not think why she left. Why she had done that. She was not a weak woman. She was by far the strongest woman I had ever known. I loved her. We all did. She was the glue that joined us. After she died, we all drifted apart.

She was hurting and needed my help. But I was not there. She wanted me to pursue my dream, art. But I did not listen to her. She asked me not to move out to the dorms, to stay with her. But I did not obey. I left her. She asked me forgive her. Instead I was angry at her.

Tears flowed down.

If I had spent more time with her, she would be alive. But I did not. I was too busy studying.

A sob came out of my mouth.

I’m sorry, Mama.

I was too busy studying, for a better life. But no life can be good, without her. My mother was not weak. She took her own life because she was tired of being too strong. When my father went through a major business loss, she was there. When Dhruv, one of my brothers, lost a football match for the first time, she was there. When Jeffrey got addicted to drugs and stole money from the company accounts, she was there to help him and guide him back to life. When Jordan lost his fiancée to cancer, she was there to wipe his tears. When I got my heart broken by a boy for the first and last time, she was there to advise me.

My tears were flowing faster.

We all went through so much. None of us had a fully happy life. But my mother, she helped all of us rise from our sadness and return to life. While she was struggling with her own despair and slowly slipping away from life, from us.
I cried there. A full blown ugly cry.

This should have happened sooner. But I kept it all bottled up.

Cristina. I murmur her name. She helped me face my past. She was a lost girl. And really young too. But she helped me, a woman older than her, realise that life is worth living, not just existing. Something I should have known.

I took out my phone. I went through the details of today’s appointment list.

I found out what I was looking for. I dialled the number and it started to ring.
It rang for a while. Then she took the phone.

“Hello?” A timid voice belonging to Aliya answered my call.

“Hello. This is Mira Vivek.” I said. My voice sounded weird from all the crying.
“Huh? Miss Vivek?” She asked.

“I know it’s late. But I wanted to ask you something.” I told her.

“What is it?” She said, curiously.

“Well, are you free tomorrow...... at 10?” I asked her.

“Umm... I think so. Why?” She questioned.

“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to meet with you. I wanted to discuss something about your art studio.” I told her.

“What! Really! Masha Allah! Thank you. Thank you so much.” She ranted.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow at 12pm sharp.” I told her.

“Yes, Miss Vivek.” She said excitedly.

“Call me Mira.” I said, and hung up.

Next I dialled another number. I knew this one. It was engraved in my mind. This one rang on for a longer time.

Then he picked up.

“Hey Dad.” I said, swallowing deep. My voice sounded even more weird. I was close to tears.

“Mira? What’s wrong?” He asked.

Tears welled up in my eyes. He was concerned for me. He cared.

“Daddy.” I sobbed.

“Are you alright, Jelabi?” He asked.

My heart squeezed at my childhood nickname. Jelabi is an Indian sweet. Dad used to call me that, kind of like an Indian way to say cupcake.

“No Dad, I’m not alright.” I sobbed.

“Where are you? I can hear vehicles behind you. Text me the location. I’ll come and get you.” He said. Now he sounded panicked.

“Dad.” I started, a bit more composed, “I want the whole family to meet here tomorrow. I know its the pandemic and all. But tell them to come, Daddy. Tell all my brothers to come.” I said.

“Mira,” He started, but I interrupted him.

“We need this, Dad. We need a closure after mother's death.” I told him.
“Mira,” His voice broke. He inhaled deeply. I knew that he was thinking. Thinking over my words.

“Please, Dad.” I pleaded.

“Fine. Is 4 in the evening okay?” He asked.

“Yes Dad. Any time is okay.” I told him. He was doing it. We were moving on. The sadness will always be with us, but we were finally starting to move forward, to the future. Together.

“Fine the. Now go home, sweetheart.” He said softly.

“Love you, Dad.” I said, choking up again.

“Love you too, Jelabi.” He said.

And I hung up.

I looked at the building where she lived. An angel. A fallen angel.

Thank you, Cristina. Thank you for fixing my life. I hope that you will get a happy life as well. You deserve it, kitten. You deserve the world and-

I blinked. Was the world tilting? What the-

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