Pious residues from my being
As a child, I always liked coloring and I filled the walls in my home with paint for which I got scolded from parents literally all the time. But they never forgot to buy papers and crayons for me. I would draw half-human figures, may be without one eye or a clearly defined structure. Whenever I showed by bruised figures, they would pat on my head and say that I am good, even though it’s not true. I started looking for colors everywhere, I collected color pebbles which I stole from roadsides and treasured it to heart. The wall paintings were beautiful, the sarees worn by the women got my attention. I looked for colorful flowers on way back to school. I had color bulbs in my room which I lighted sometimes. All I know about them was that it bought me joy and happiness. When I look back now, I realize I was a pity figure who fell for fake hope, promises and colors. I was told by everyone to see the ‘real colors’ of humans. “Oh, how I wish to retrieve back to my child self!”. I envy my own self who accepted anything that came along the way and don’t have to think much about anything. They say, I have grown up. Yes, that’s true of course. I no longer found the joy and happiness in those wall paintings. All I could experience is the realities of life which had little resemblances to those pictures I have drawn. I walked on and on. My parents found no time to appreciate what I believed to be true and honest. The wall paintings continued to exist in the nooks and corners of my room which I hardly paid any attention.
Today, I am a wife, a mother, I have a family to look after.
I am no longer the good old me.
Those wall paintings no longer existed.
It took a lot of time to realize that I faded away along with those wall paintings which is now reduced to a mere memory which nobody really wishes to remember, except me.
My son asked me, ‘Mom tell me about your childhood.’ I had no answers for him, I couldn’t find a way to define it. Because, my childhood; it is indelible and I always keep saying, ‘to define is to limit’.
With living colors give my verse to glow, the sad memorial of tale of woe
— William Faulkner
