She laid in her casket, eyes wide open, I didn't know how to react to her gleaming eyes inundated with elatedness. My aunt Maya was the most heavyhearted woman I have ever come across in my 18 years of life, yet as the flame on the burning log was about to burn her into ashes, she looked so content. I felt so haunted that a striking pain throughout my body lingered. Ever since I was 5, when my mom died, I had this strange delusion of this iron heart, yet the death of my aunt Maya, whom I didn't have a good relationship with, whatsoever, actually pained me immensely. She was a Leo, you know, she always acted like she was the sweetest treat on a plate, when I always knew she didn't like me one bit. Papa and I live in this rundown cement home in a small village not too far away from Delhi. I was just about to leave for Uni in London last week, but Papa needs me here, there's no one here for him. He needs someone to get the vegetables from the market, he needs someone to trim his hair, he needs someone to bring him his morning chai, someone who makes it just right with 1 1/2 teaspoons of sugar and almond milk because the cow's milk is not good for his stomach. Papa keeps reiterating that he doesn't need me anymore, but I know he yearns for me when I'm not here, he just doesn't want me to see him when he's weak, on the verge of death, but I'm strong. Papa was a writer when he was still in the right state of mind to actually function, now he paints. His art is devoid of all hypocrisy or pretense. His art is the most sincere I have ever seen. It scares me, his art is everything I neglected when I looked into his eyes. When I was a child he used to tell me folk tales; Palwahn the Wrestler, Gokul the Laborer, Garib and the Forty Thieves. But my favorite was always; Radha and Krishna's Love Story. Maybe because I've never been in love I have this fascination with love stories, like they are a mystery to me, an undiscovered territory of life. Death, agony, and sorrow seems so prominent in life, the love though is lacking. I mean, I love Papa don't get me wrong, I want to do everything and anything for him, but sometimes, this is horrible to say, it is a burden taking care of someone day in and day out and there is no love reciprocated back because they are in such a fragile mind state they can't think of anything but their own dysfunctional thoughts. I guess that's just how the human mind works, but of course I love Papa, but it's not the same as being in love, or at least I would think it's not. I remember my aunt Maya told me never to fall in love. She told me every man she fell in love with told her he loved her and then left her, they gave her false hope that love was sitting in the books, when really it was merely lust.
TO BE CONTINUED...