Sana Khan
You were the sort. Or so you thought. The one who knew things. The one who felt things. The one who could see people. The stiffening of their shoulders. The dip in the cadence of their tone. The tightening of their eyes. The compression of their lips. You saw. Them.
As if all their infinitesimal movements were attached to you via tiny invisible threads. Each move would pull on you.
It was okay for a while – wasn’t it? The knowing, the caring, the pleasing. Everyone was happy. Even you. For a while. You had it all sorted, tucked and snuggled in your mind. Your purpose, of course.
Meanwhile, the constant pulling of the threads began scuffing your skin. There were tiny abrasions, slightly pink, but tiny. It’s ok, you thought. It does not hurt that much, you thought. And you soldiered on. While the threads began to gradually gnaw on your skin because of the constant pulling you let them do. Yes, you. You would let them. The incessant itch, a reminder of something you could not quite understand.
Why am I itching? Why, why, why? You saw the doctors. They gave you medicines and ointments. But nothing made the damn itching go away. It was constantly there, underneath your skin, clawing, begging. Like a petulant child who just does not stop nagging. People would ask, what are those bruises on your neck, arms, face? – allergies you would say.
And one day, you looked at yourself, and you saw pockmarks, red, angry, bleeding like volcanoes that were dormant for centuries.
Why? Why is this happening to me you would wonder. Then you stopped having sugar. You cut down on carbs. Perhaps it was something in the food, you thought. Google made you buy oatmeal creams, scent-free lotions, non toxic soaps, multivitamins, and whatever else promised you a cure. You kept buying, but nothing would help, would it?
The itching was always there. Like a determined fly which would just not leave you alone. You would cut your nails, so you would not claw your skin bloody. You wore full sleeves so your bruises would be hidden.
But that miserable tingling always beckoned you, like a slithery demon living under your skin, showing its head wherever it damn pleased.
You lost sleep. The subtle tingling, tangible, constant, forever. Oh, your caring, and pleasing routine continued, despite your visible discomfort. The breaking of your dreams, the snuffing of your hopes. As long as everyone else was happy, you were happy? Right? For it was your duty, to bury the wisps of your soul and yearnings of your heart. Was it not?
Until finally one day, you looked at you. No, not the bruised skin – you looked at your extinguished heart and defeated soul. You saw them – and you finally acknowledged your wretchedness. Your heartache. Your broken dreams. Your lost self.
The demands of your role leached at your soul. Bled your heart. And you saw anew.
Iota by iota you would look at yourself, you would turn inwards and see your heart encaptured in the web of grief. String by string you would undo the web, gently, tentatively, for the web was a scary thing. As for your skin, of course the bruises and marks were there – the itching present, but not as aggressive. Quietened, as if watching, waiting, wondering if it had finally got your attention.
Sometimes a whisper from your soul would guide you, partner you before it quickly went back and hid again, afraid. But you continued to see – and tend to you. Gentle. Apologetic. Aggrieved. Hurt. Earnest. For you have finally begun your journey to yourself. To home.