She was a Mirage.

PART 13- Hidden Scars..

Once we had calmed down a bit, I asked Maha Appi to take me to Zaid Bhaiyya and as the frown on her face increased I realized that he must be in a worse position than I had really thought about. She led me straight to the 3rd floor, to the Ayesha's playroom. It was a small study room where there were tall shelves filled with thick spine books and old leather back novels. The thing about Ayesha was that she liked any genre of book as long as it kept her entertained. Hence she had many copies of old classics and most of the newer novels that she collected were in their library condition. She obbsessed over the smell of new and old pages and loved the crackling sound from yellow pages. I wasn't a reader,ever, so I never shared the passion with her but then again we didn't have many hobbies in commmon like her love for technology and mostly all things computer related.
Standing at the mahogany wood door,I recalled ;it was Ayesha's favorite room. It wasn't even the size of a good bedroom. Just big enough to house the bookcases, the 2 tall locked cupboards and the study table with the long back chair.
One entire wall was a window where the window sill had been converted into a cusioned seat, something Ayesha had requested her father to add into the study at the young age of 8. Of course he had listened to her and even offered to convert the entire room to her liking but she had stopped at the first and last request. He had gotten a mini window air conditioner added in the corner when she was only a little baby and didn't know about the study just yey because he had intended to use the room but had never gotten around to actually use it. When she wasn't with everyone enjoying, she used to hide in the study, painting, reading, listening to music or just watching the day turn into the night and vice versa.

We reached the door of the study and Maha Appi left me there with a pat on my shoulders. I opened the door to see Zaid Bhaiyya sitting on the window sill seat with his back to the window from where harsh sunlight was brightening the room. Ayesha had always hated the idea of having curtains in that room for what reason I never found out. A plate of rice and and vegetable curry was kept on the clean table nearby.

His eyes were out of focus as he stared at the painting of a lighthouse and purple skies in the background on the wall opposite to him. That was the first painting Ayesha had agreed to put up for display in the house and after that, all walls had been decorated with at least one masterpiece. He didn't seem to have noticed my entry into the room as he didn't show any sign of acknowledgment. I went and sat next to him slowly while drying my own wet cheeks. I followed his lead and took the same position except while hugging my knees.
Then suddenly his hoarse voice spoke.
"Adaab she wasn't ill. She was healthy and happy, atleast that's what she wanted us to believe and we did.She showed everyone she was perfect when inside there was a storm gnawing at her. She never let anyone know what she went through. Never let anyone console her. She always stood strong. And for what? Why she did she do that? Why didn't she ever share her pain with us? No. Why didn't we ever guess or understand that inside the brick walls, her glass like heart was hurting?"

"Bhaiyya what are you talking about?" I asked him. I knew that there were many things that hid behind the bright surface that was Ayesha,but I just always imagined her to be a private person.

He replied by simply pointing towards the lone book that sat in the middle of the table. It was thick and had a black covering. Her name was engraved in silver on top with striking indigo blue lining it.
I sat on the chair and started reading its contents to realize that the contents of the journal was poetry inside.
Written in the same manner as she had written the other pieces I had read and learnt to love over the years. I was confused.

"Bhaiyya,didn't Ayesha have another book for her poetry?"

Saying her name out loud in her favorite place seemed to send chills through me for some reason.
But it was true. I had known her poetry book,in fact I loved it. Her grandfather, who she enjoyed spending each second with had bought and gotten it engraved for her.
It was also black but had her name written in calligraphy writing with white. The poetry she wrote in that book was the one she posted on her blog so the spiral journal in my hands seemed so foreign to me.

"It's her secret one. The ones she didn't want other people reading. The ones that showed her vulnerable side. The ones that portrayed that she was human and things were hurting her."
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