Embracing My Journey: A Reflection on Love and Healing

And the Durga Puja continues.........................

Thakurmoshai's words sent a shiver down my spine. My world came crashing down. I long for love, and that weakness exposed me to a wide range of vultures. The last man I had feelings for, who was in Kolkata, lied to me about being in Hyderabad. He was checking on me while lying in WhatsApp messages. I kept quiet because I wasn’t sure about my feelings. I would have accepted a man cheating on me rather than lying about his whereabouts.

A Year of Detox and Reflection

This year, my detox was a final decision. I couldn’t change my past, no matter how much I tried.

I see the mishti doi on the platter given to me by a milkman at Maa Durga's Mandap. I visited him as well. I was his customer only once or twice as I walked near his store on the way to the office. Once, I was walking in heels when my foot sprained. I stayed at one of my friends’ places last night. He called me inside the dingy store with black stains on its walls. The wooden benches were discolored with blue and black stains.

“What has happened to your feet?” the milkman asked as I opened my shoes. He took out a balm from his shelves and massaged my foot. He urged me to visit a doctor immediately. I kept quiet, possibly shocked by the gentle care he offered me. For the first time, I was not uncomfortable being looked after, just like the things back at home. The sweets on the counter remind me of the time I spent in my grandfather’s sweet store. Everyone in my family makes sweets and singaras with molds to create sandesh of different shapes. He gave me the mishti doi for Ashtami and a free lassi during Durga Puja. I gave him the leftover cold drinks from my bottle. The sounds of the loudspeaker still ring in my ears with shenai, like the ones in Bengali weddings. It feels like they dissipate in the air, as if they don’t exist anymore.

The Warmth of Community

As I returned to my room, another man named Nathwarlal invited me to lunch since I had given Anjali. I wasn’t invited, but I couldn’t say no to him. Awareness filled me as women whispered about me to those who knew me. I kept quiet, praying to leave. The food was served while the members in the pandal asked if I needed anything.

“Don’t be shy. Have some food, water, and enjoy,” said one of them. It has been a year. I never knew anyone’s name except a few. The people in the pandal knew me but not my name. I am referred to as the “Baccha Meye (little girl)” who is always offered food packets and checked upon every time I leave for the office in the morning and return home in the evening.

Even if I start to write about my blessings, it will never end. I was not one amongst the people in the pandal, yet they made me their own. They served food themselves, filled my glass with water when it emptied, and asked caterers to give me extra luchis. We meet once a year, but these gestures are now a part of my blessings. The wounds are still raw with the arrival of my baby brother and the fight that lies ahead for him. I never understood why I behaved the way I did for the past few months.

The Weight of Expectations

“I wish I didn’t have to spend money on my son’s counseling sessions,” remarked one of my friends. “I wish I could spend that money on my whole body checkup. It would benefit me in the long run.”

I kept quiet during the conversation, possibly saddened by the remark. Once again, I remained silent, forcing myself to build a wall of resilience around me. In search of home, I lost myself to these people. In search of home, I forgot the woman I am. As a daughter who has suffered so much because of her mother’s actions, I refuse to accept women negligent of their children. As a daughter who has endured years of abuse, I refuse to fall into the trap of toxic men filling my void for the time being. As a daughter who has had to suffer endlessly due to financial constraints, I refuse to be exploited once again. As a daughter who has tried to be molded in so many ways, I refuse to be shaped based on others’ convenience. The loneliness may stab my fresh wounds repeatedly. Freedom may result in sacrifices. The right decision may break my heart and health into pieces, yet once again, I survive the water in the middle of the lake, trying to choke me to death.

Choosing Authenticity

I choose to remain misunderstood, judged, and shameless for being my authentic self this time. I choose to be depressed, cry, and embrace my mistakes and the clarity gained along the way. I switch off the light as I put on my ear pods and listen to the song:

“Acintya-Ruupa-Charite

Sarva-Shatru-Vinaashini

Ruupam Dehi Jayam Dehi

Yasho Dehi Dvisso Jahi

Natebhyah Sarvadaa Bhaktyaa

Ka-Aparnne Durita-Apahe

Ruupam Dehi Jayam Dehi

Yasho Dehi Dvisso Jahi”

I embrace the darkness against the background light from the nearby building, showing off my curves. My hands and waist dance like a belly dancer, reminding me of the peace I have now, with no direction of what lies next.

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