All the light we cannot see: A brief book review

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All The Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr, book review, Books

“The brain is locked in total darkness, of course, children, says the voice. It floats in a clear liquid inside the skull, never in the light. And yet the world it constructs in the mind is full of light. It brims with color and movement. So how, children, does the brain, which lives without a spark of light, build for us a world full of light?”

Anthony Doerr’s book creates a poignant and beautiful tapestry of the World War II, the stories of the lives of victims and the conquerors alike. It revolves around Werner Pfenning, an orphan from mining town of Zollverein, near Essen and Marie-Laure Leblanc, a blind girl living in Paris with her father. The compelling visual component of this book allows the reader to instantly connect to the white-haired Werner wrapped in the magic of science and the tall freckled Marie-Laure discovering her world in books gifted by her father.

Werner’s life is sparked by an old radio and the voice inside that tells him about the world of science. A world of light which cannot be seen with naked eye, but is all around us, reflecting from each corner. Werner and his sister Jutta find solace in this voice, for a second they feel transported out of the mines, to a world filled with light. Werner’s talents at fixing radios and his curiosity to learn the ways of science earn him a place at the Nazi boys training camp. From Frau Elena’s white flour covered hands, his friend Fredrick’s unresponsive eyes, and finally his war companion Frank Volkheimer’s meeting with Jutta show the gradual transformation of Werner from a curious science enthusiast to a disillusioned guilt-ridden soldier seeking redemption. Doerr deals with the character of Werner in the most profound way to explore the dilemma of morality versus science and the place of humanity in all of this. The haunting metaphors used by Doerr show the way grotesque glorification of Nazi Fascism brainwashed children and stole their humanity from them. Jutta remains to be the only voice of conscience that Werner could hold on to as he passed his days at the Nazi training camp for young boys.

Marie-Laure lives a life of wonderment with her father working in Muséum National d’Histoire Naturelle in Paris. There he is the locksmith and the keeper of keys. Marie- Laure’s curiosity and her excitement of exploring things draw us closer to the world of light she has made for herself. Her father, an ingenious puzzle-maker helps her navigate the streets of Paris by building her a miniature version of her neighborhood. The purity of their relationship is almost a reflection of the tranquility that livened up the streets of Paris in the Pre-Nazi times. The imagery created by Doerr with the help of Marie-Laure vividly describes the tension that erupted from the news of Nazi occupation of Paris. Her father has been entrusted with the safety of a stone popularly referred to as the Sea of Flames. Tucked away into a vault of the museum 200 years ago, the greyish blue stone with fire at its heart, is supposed to be the bearer of immortality and luck for the one who possesses it but a curse for his near and dear ones. Marie-Laure is fascinated but also wary of its powers, as she proclaims that it should be thrown in the ocean. Doerr subtly hints at the fact that power no matter how intoxicating ultimately needs to champion humanity and kindness without which it is as good as a stone in the ocean. Marie-Laure escapes Paris to Saint-Malo where she meets her great-uncle Etienne, a war veteran who still lives the horrors of the First World War. They read books together, traverse the world of Julius Verne together. Her uncle finally tells her about the radio he has concealed in his attic from where Marie’s grandfather would talk about science. The same lectures that would reach Zollverein and make Pfennings wonder about the light.

Werner ends up using his gift to aid the Nazi aim of occupying Russia. He is remorseful, but his guilt often gets disguised in the thrill science gives him. The world of radios, it seems is Werner’s only purpose, like them he has become mechanic with the eyes that now only seek the voice that reads Julius Verne’s book on the radio. The meeting of Marie-Laure and Werner is described in the most beautiful way, like a conqueror turning into an admirer and finally into a lover. Marie-Laure for Werner is a thing of beauty to be protected and admired from a distance, a simple analogy of Germany and Paris at the time of War. As she places the miniature version of her home in Werner’s hands, this gesture arouses in the reader a sense of a familiar warmth, for Werner a sense of redeeming himself and for Marie-Laure a sense of returning home.  

Doerr has evoked a graphic account of World War II and the lives that were disrupted by it. War truly serves no one, it only creates a pattern of destruction. Fascism in its essence, is short-lived for it renounces the basic tenet of humanity, which is kindness. The book takes time to form itself, the reader is forced to wait patiently, but once you are drawn into the lives of these characters, it is hard to pull away. This was truly a beautiful read, one that I would not stop recommending just for the sheer simplicity of the prose and the complex web of emotions it built inside me.

Echoes of the past

A numbing cold wind raced through her overdrawn coat, as she clutched on to her bag and hurried down the lane. She didn’t look at the clouds beginning to envelop the dim sky, somewhere in the bleak corner of the narrow path, tramps had begun to huddle themselves around a freshly awakened bonfire. The sun started its journey down the horizon, she stole a quick glance at the drowning red sphere and quickened her steps.
A letter had arrived three days back. There was no stamp on it. Apparently tattered and timeworn, it had been a gust of fresh wind from the past. She had held it in her hands tenderly, with effort as if it weighed her down. It was from him. ‘Him’. She couldn’t even bring herself to say his name. They had met by chance, bonded over their love for literature, she fell for his crazy imaginations about the world. He adored her strength and laughter alike. Together they lived Shakespearean love, and basked under its mysticism. They made each other promises, which felt real at that time. But Romeo and Juliet never had it easy for them either. She was in love but didn’t want to be. She was unconventionally scared of being vulnerable. She was scared to be shattered to the ground and be trampled upon. It had all seemed unreal to her. So, she had made it real.
Now standing at the doorway, in front of a beautiful English house with big maple trees ornamenting it, she struggled with her decision. She imagined his face. A gentle uncertain smile, intensely dark eyes staring right into her soul, he was not handsome but he captivated her with his unbounded love. Love? Yes, it used to exist. She rang the doorbell. And waited.
It had been a sunny day, all clouds seem to have vanished under the brightness of his smiles. They had held hands for hours. There had been a weak moment, where she felt she had everything. She felt that her life was worth living. She felt alive. It terrified her. One person could hold so much power over her. She had wanted to take her hands away, but it seemed that her soul had jammed on to his. She was brave, that is why she had ended it. Or was she a coward? She had thought about everything that made them different probably forgetting about one major thing that unified them. She had thought about countless people that are going to raise eyebrows, but not about the one whose eyes are always searching out for her. Yes, she had said, ‘It is over. I don’t love you.’ She had believed that, until now.
She could feel the letter tightly clasped in her fingers. It was dated twenty years back, the same day when she had broken up with him. With the letter, there was an address. It also contained an oddly shaped ring made from the thin copper wires used in mechanical workshops. The ring wasn’t heavy, but the words were,
‘You were everything I loved. Physics, my work, nothing seems complete without you. So here it is, a part of my heart, a reminder, a souvenir from the time when I had loved everything, because I had you. It can’t be undone. I will wait. Probably forever. Goodbye.’
She didn’t know how the letter found its way to her doorsteps. Even all the logic in the world, couldn’t stop her from taking the next flight to Paris. They had always wanted to live in this city. Now sweating with anxiety, she stood there. The door opened and a gentle looking 40 year old man stood facing her. She recognised him immediately, he still hadn’t gotten rid of that French style moustache she hated. A musical silence wrapped around them, bridging the years together, as his eyes twinkled with the remembrance. They did not say much, and just collapsed into each other’s arms. Perhaps the silence of twenty years had deafened them beyond speech.
‘I was expecting you.’
‘But you didn’t know whether I will come back.’
‘Your mother told me that she had finally given you that letter.’
The twenty years had finally spoken up. The words hung in the air, trying to fit into places. Oblivious to all this, she became vulnerable again.
-Nida Gul Niazi

Who stole my pen?

It vanished into thin air. It was just right here, just by my favourite pride and prejudice hard bound edition. I can swear I saw its little blue cap sitting elegantly on its back, waiting for me to put it back to the crown of the magnificent body. It had cost me around ten bucks, but it was more valuable to me. Imagine Picasso without his paint brush, a physicist without the general theory of relativity, a chef without a gas burner, that’s how I felt. I felt stripped of my basic necessities. In short, I was devastated.
I sat down, working theories, thinking who all my arch enemies were. I made fair list of about a hundred people, then I remembered the guy from whom I had borrowed the regal box edition of Harry Potter series and had yet managed to dodge him at every encounter. I was just about to devise a plan to discretely murder him, then my rational mind warned me that I should revisit my theories again. Once again, I wore my detective cap and traced the course of events since the past twenty four hours in my awe-inspiring brain. The suspects’ list now became narrower, my best friends, and 276 other hostel inmates. Time was ticking away, I had a deadline to meet and a theft mystery to solve. Another brilliant idea popped out of me, the bulb glowed as brightly as ever and out flashed on my laptop screen the latest episodes of BBC Sherlock Holmes Series. I thought I could use some help from a fictional English detective. After three hours of serial marathon, I laid back, put three fingers on a chin with an intellectual frown on my face and thought of all the clues that were found on the crime scene.
Jane Austen’s book sat as innocently as ever, alongside a very inoffensive looking leather bound red diary with its bare pages open to the world, my fake cat-eye specs tried to hide all the pretence and the coffee mug sat as solemnly as ever. Clearly, finger-print analysis was not an option. I gazed at the witness’ list and it contained only one name: GOD. What if the witness was involved in the crime somehow? , I wondered. The motives of the crime were as obvious as ever. Clearly, someone was bent on giving me a writer’s block. But I was not going to give up so easily.
I took out another pen. A similar one but different in a whole new sense. It bore the mark of a warrior, a creative rebel. I let it run through the blank pages of my diary, letting the weight of words smash the reality and alter its course. I did not pause, did not breathe and let the letters run amok on the lines of a new idea. In the end, I took a breath of relief, looked up and thanked the witness. As I was about to grab another cup of coffee, I found myself unable to tuck the pen at the back of my ear. Why, you ask. Well, I had solved the mystery. There rested my lost pen, quietly tucked away at the back of my head.
-Nida Gul Niazi

Disconnecting

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#justsomemusings #poems #lostlove #random

Disconnecting, beep beep beeeep…..
The earth shook with tremendous power, the ground was sliding away. I could hear it, my face trembled, my hands shivered. This is the end, I shuddered at the thought of the unknown advancing towards me. It became stronger. It is near now, at my face. It will engulf me. Buzz Buzz. Buzz Buzz. I opened my eyes and struggled to look through the narrow crevices of my eyelids. One WhatsApp message, it said. I was forced out of my deep slumber by the most insignificant and indispensable gadget called the mobile phone. Clad in a jet black suit with “my life my rules” engraved over it, its cover seem to mock at me. For years, what my parents or for that matter any other super power hadn’t been able to accomplish, this small piece of metal with its intricacies, manages to do every single day without fail. It wakes me up!
“Hello, who is this?” I spoke drowsily.
The voice at the other end spoke in a very mechanical and disinterested way. From what I could infer, it talked about something related to an exciting offer which would entail some amount of expenditure from my side and if I happen to be lucky, will get me a nice car. No one would have felt as murderous and homicidal as I felt. My sleep, something I prize over my life, was broken by some utterly ludicrous phone call by some random company. It is usually the case. My Boss calls, my friends call, an emergency call, everybody and everybody else calls me. I don’t remember how life was like before the conception and invention of these little metal monsters. These are monsters of a vicious kind. They sidle into your daily life, make a place so consecrated in your heart that your sense suffers and your mind longs to be used. The cobwebs that settle on your nervous system make your brain absolutely redundant. And a paralysed existence supported solely on gadgets working on transitory batteries is what comes into play. Life speeds by you, and you forget to hold on to moments because you are too busy taking selfies.
I woke up, got dressed while my phone kept buzzing on. The laptop resting on the table blinked its light, reminding me of a late submission. Today is the day, I decided. I will finish my research paper. No power, no calamity, no God can stop me from completing this work. The ground was laid, trumpets roared and my fingers were ready to run across the protuberant set of alphabet keys. Word file opened. And as I was relaxing my fingers, they went out of control. Before I knew it, I was staring at my Facebook page. The aim of life had just transformed itself. More “likes”, my brain echoed. My conscious had slowly disappeared. I browsed through numerous pictures which were not in any which related to my actuality, skimmed through countless pages which didn’t mean a thing to me and finally commented on the most arbitrary thing I could find. Nihilism with its paramount power was gazing me, clawing deeper into my flesh, strengthening its hold so much so that now I couldn’t even notice its nails penetrating into me.
WhatsApp again snarled. I knew I can’t ignore it for long. And what work was I doing anyway? Facebook to WhatsApp won’t be that big a change. So I glanced on to the perfectly finished capacitor screen of my cell phone.
“Congratulations, you are an aunt now. Zaisha is her name.”
It was a great news. A smile lit up my gloomy robotic face. My muscles clenched and relaxed at the same time. Ecstasy boiled up inside me. I tried to call up my brother-in-law. Sister would still be unconscious. I couldn’t get through. Cursing my mobile, I tried texting people I knew would be there. If they could just send me a picture, or maybe just some more news about her, or maybe a little voice recording of hers. But first I had to do the most important job of all. I had to post a status informing people who didn’t care, people who did care and people who didn’t matter to any morsel of my existence, about the new-born baby, Zaisha. Uh-oh! I didn’t have a picture of me holding her. It won’t get as many likes as I would want. I tried to connect through Skype. The frustration of a slow internet can only be understood by people like us who can forgive a murder but not telecom companies offering slow speed internet. I was getting anxious by each passing minute. Chaos, confusion and a bedlam of innumerable thoughts throbbed my head. Mobile wasn’t responding, skype wasn’t working. It seemed as the devil of technical communication was showing me a sneering face.
The wait was just getting tremendously long. Patience is only for the noblest kind, I could never afford in desperate times like these. I shut my laptop, grabbed my keys and made a dash for the door. In my frenzied movements, I left my phone in the home only. Nothing mattered now. I had to see her. I put the key into the ignition, the car roared to life. I zoomed past the inanimate to see life. Frantically, almost out of breath, I enquired at the hospital reception, “Will you please tell me Mrs. Khan’s room number? She just had a baby, I was told.” I managed to say through my heavy panting. “Just around the left corner, third room.” The receptionist said as she tried to juggle phone calls and exasperated patients. I practically ran through the corridor. And found the room.
The most angelic scene awaited me. In the cradle of life lied a delicate flower of love and innocence blossoming, filling the whole room with its enchanting aura. The little scarlet cheeks and the tender white skin, almost caught me in awe. I gently held her in my hand, her tender body rolled inside my arms. For that moment, I was basking under a happiness which knows no bounds, a bliss so profound that my life dazzled under that new born. Nothing can replace it, no Facebook, no phone call, no WhatsApp message. I felt it. The touch of human life. I looked around me, my whole family was there, all shuffling and trying to fit into that small room. They all bore a smile, a calmness, a tranquillity had settled inside each one of us. I once again looked at her, Zaisha. She was reflected a serenity borne out of pureness.
That day I realised something. No matter how much you text someone, call them on phone or stalk them on Facebook, what guarantees love and understanding in this world is a pure and simple human touch which whispers through pure heart and doesn’t need an emoticon to be understood. You know the best part about all this, now I know how life is like without phones.
It is humane.

– Nida Gul Niazi

Say nothing

Today is quite an unusual day since it is Monday and for once I have nothing to do. Electricity has betrayed me and my lethargic attitude is a force to be reckoned with. Lately, I have been wondering about a lot of things. The weather outside is going ominous, with pale orange of the pollution sky along with the wool set the perfect background for a mystical intervention, probably a long endured prophecy. Who knows maybe it’s just an old man’s way of saying, “There, there”. Or he heard the sobbing of my charred scars and secretly conspired to soothe them. Whatever may be the case, here I am writing in the dim saffron on a canvas now pale, searching for brightness to form the shadows around my letter to situate them, to provide an ephemeral existence to stillness of my words.

As I sit in front of a half opened window, oblivious to the gaze of the people outside, my only concern is the moving curtains and the breeze bringing respite. How strange everything looks in this hue, where shadows and light merge, dissolving distinctions but preserving me one side of my bed is illuminated by the light that escapes my narrow windows, while the other in its silence sufficiently resigns from existence. Is it the dichotomy of my solitude or the curse of loneliness, yet to be defined.

This weather is treacherous, for the breeze does not kiss me anymore and the trees do not rejoice for me. The earth is too engulfed in its own chores and clouds seem to have lost their purpose in the deafening silence, in the numbness of this chaos.

The dispassionate lull is disrupted by the rub of this nib against the crevices of this paper, where the ink resides in an attempt to let the placidity speak, the doldrum to betray a vow. The hand weilds the pen, much like the impassivity wielding the intricate and the delicate.

Patience seems to near depletion with anxious sweats racing down the necks of the labourer, the backs of the mother and the cracks between two lovers. So used to the noise and passion, the saline water finds itself unwelcomed in the quietude, for the liquid glazes down the body, shining the face of my being. The stillness once serene is now drenched with confrontations of you and me, gnawing into the helplessness of this once evaded vanity.

Sit down with me, for this weather is too still and the recklessness inside me doesn’t cherish tranquility.

-Nida Gul Niazi

Ernest Hemingway: Who wins wars?

Ernest Hemingway’s brilliant response to the utter dehumanizing nature of the war.

For peace, against war: literary selections

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Anti-war essays, poems, short stories and literary excerpts

American writers on peace and against war

Ernest Hemingway: Selections on war

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Ernest Hemingway
From A Farewell to Arms (1929)

“What do you think of the war really?” I asked.

“I think it is stupid.”

“Who will win it?”

“Italy.”

“Why?”

“They are a younger nation.”

“Do younger nations always win wars?”

“They are apt to for a time.”

“Then what happens?”

“They become older nations.”

“You said you were not wise.”

“Dear boy, that is not wisdom. That is cynicism.”

“It sounds very wise to me.”

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Listen…

Listen….

Listen…

The morning sun rose out of negligence and the saffron sky unleashed its dominance. A distant chirping of the birds and the fading barks of stranded dogs seem to herald the beginning of a new day. Somewhere a little sparrow yawned and a flock of bird adorned the sky. Sipping through the morning, she made a delightful distasteful sound and exhaling a little steam proclaimed, “Aah!” I turned towards her, the clanking of the cup against the sauce is well considered in our house as the customary start to the morning. But today, her hands were shaking restlessly and the sheer silence of the house seem to aid this unmusical cry. She looked at me and I smiled. It is amazing how reciprocity amongst our species and the exchange of broken ceremonial greetings speak the pretense of uncomforted minds.

I looked at her again, this time, in reverence. Her alluring aura and the sickly pallor created a mosaic of a beguiling veil. Tranquility was just a mask, I knew, turmoil inside her head must have thrashed her senses around. Have you ever observed the snowy white hills and wondered why they enjoy an untroubled existence, a serenity a majestically divine? You would be surprised to hear what they would say. You would know that calmness is a deception, chaos underlies the basis of this seemingly stationary world. Hailstorms form sparkling ice crowns, landslides form the plateau of varied life, and without noise, and how do you expect to appreciate peace? I rose to keep the crockery back in the kitchen when I felt her cold hands urging me to sit down. Her ashen face folded in a request and I once again sat down to hear the music of her quiet breathing. This time, I noticed it. The atypical sight of the exquisite blue sari draped around her made me realise that the off-white piece of cloth adorning her body was gone. I wondered whether she had forgotten about it, but who can forget the loss of one’s identity. Nobody can ever forget the pang of losing one’s home, the twinge of social stigma and a gnawing unworthy existence. No, a widow can never forget it. Yet, she had tried everything she could, to give us a home even after she had lost one. She was able to transplant her soul in a world of serenity, an oasis filled with extra-ordinary love, lasting an eternity. Her son would always remark, “the goodnight kiss that you plant on my forehead mom, makes me fight the boogieman I meet in my sleep.” So the little human soul would be filled with unmatched strength by his mother’s gentle touch. My train of thoughts was suddenly broken by excruciating stridulation of a cricket. The morning was so quiet that a little insect could be heard a mile away. I took my slippers out to hit it. Out of the somewhere came her hand, and stopped me.

“Don’t.”

She looked at me sternly. I sat back puzzled. She closed her eyes and rocked her chair gently. I looked at her baffled. What is wrong with her? She doesn’t seem to be a least bit affected by yesterday’s events. Has the pain not affected her at all? Not a tear dropped from her eyes, the arid listless eyes spoke of nothing. She quietly whispered, “You should try to listen.” Listen to what, mother? “Listen to the chirping of the cricket, the whistling of the trees, or maybe just listen to sound of silence” I could not believe this! She doesn’t care! I couldn’t contain it any longer. I shouted and my lungs exploded, “Listen to what? Stop being a lunatic. Your son died yesterday and you are enjoying the morning, basking in the lovely aura of the morning sun, sipping tea wearing this sparkling sari! What kind of a mother are you?”

She turned towards me and almost disinterestedly said, “So am I supposed to grieve and miss out on this beautiful morning?” It was unbelievable. A mother who had devoted endless nights tending to her son, had stayed hungry for hours thinking about him, how could she be so insensitive? I was shaking with tremendous anger, but her gaze was relaxed fixed on the scenery. My rage was brimming towards the danger level, “I hate you maa!” I stormed past her, on my way I stepped on the cricket and its music stopped. I collapsed in my room and cried my heart out. My brother had died the previous day. It was painful. I lost a part of my soul, but my mother? She lost a part of her womb, her existence. I don’t understand. The turquoise sari doesn’t make sense, nor does her calmness.

Everything at once started playing in flashback. “Maa, why do you wear this plain sari? I don’t like it.” My brother complained. Mother knew the answer to this was difficult to be understood. She replied, “Your father gifted it to me when he left for heaven, beta!” “Oh! Well now that father is not here, why don’t you wear a blue sari? Blue is my favourite colour you will look nice. Please!” innocent eyes pleaded. “No.” my mother chided him for being unreasonable. He persisted. Mother got angry and scolded him. For hours he cried unable to understand why a white sari would mean so much to his mother. He sobbed himself to sleep. Later in the evening he showed us a blooded handkerchief. Next day, he was diagnosed with cancer. It was only a matter of time, they had said. My mother wasn’t ready to give in. She filled us with a hope unhoped by herself. My brother gained courage to fight, mother was spearheading the battle. We won the battle but lost the war.

My mind was still rewinding events when mother entered my room. She gave me a weak smile and I ran to embrace her. Tears of pain and loss paralysed my words, mother gently stroked my hair. She whispered, “Isn’t it strange, when you are dead how people start listening to you?”

And after what felt like ages, the mighty heart broke down, and I heard the unmusical cry of a shattered soul writhing in the agony of loss.

Did you put on your mask today…

Did you put on your mask today….

Did you put on your mask today…

Once upon a time when the sun was very bright, the birds were chirping at the top of their voices and everything else in the world seemed pleasant enough, a teenage girl somewhere at a bleak corner of the world was holding her head oblivious to the finer aspects of life around her. No, she was not suffering from any kind of headache. This miserable child had just found out that a certain cousin of hers has scored more marks than her in the recently held boards examinations. Jasminder Singh was the flower of virtues, the ideal daughter, the doting child, the apple of everyone’s eye and the ever sweetness personified. There was no problem for nidhi as long as jass was what she appeared to be. The fact which was veiled from the other family members by the painfully adorable smile of jass was that she was a terrible devil in disguise. From the moment they opened their eyes to the world, jass had always outshined nidhi. It would not have troubled nidhi much and she could have endured the constant nagging of her parents, had it not been for jass’s fake attitude that endeared her to one and all but which showed its true coulours to nidhi. So, as if that was not enough for nidhi, god planted another wretched day in her life.

“beta, did you see jasminder’s marks? She scored 96 percent. That too, while she went for nationals in basketball. Such a wonderful child, she came here early in the morning to take our blessings. Her parents must be so proud of her.” Maa practically sung it out. Nidhi knew the last line was meant for her. She was so frustrated by now that she almost yelled, “Oh for god’s sake I scored 95.5 percent. It is not that bad!’’ “Nidhi, behave yourself!” with that maa withdrew herself in the kitchen and Nidhi again sank into her chair. Yes, the world was dark. What maa and other family members didn’t know was that jass was into lots of other stuff apart from academics. She changed her boyfriends with the speed of light and knew all the tricks to hide a foul breath, the one you get after smoking or drinking. She was flawlessly amazing with lies and could even turn a foe into a friend by blinking her eyes. The ever popular, no one dared to stand up against her. She was blessed with a cunning set of brains which she used to cheat in exams. Indeed she was a virtuous child! The worst part was that Nidhi knew the truth but even if she would shout it to the extent that would cost her a set of vocal cords, even then people would refuse to believe her. You see, jass was a natural performer. She was good.

“Uh-oh! Here she comes.” Nidhi murmured.

Just then the front gate opened and jass came inside dancing like a nursery kid. She stared with her cute puppy eyes at Nidhi and said “hello, my dear cousin. Congratulations! You scored really nice. We will throw a party to celebrate that. Are you up for it?”

At this Nidhi managed a smile but her head was throbbing so profusely that she swore she could have murdered jass then and there. But the senses got better of her and she calmly asked her to sit down. As if on cue, maa came running from the kitchen, “Congratulations! I am so proud of you. I strongly believe, both of you cousins should hang out together, that way some of your goodness will be rubbed off on Nidhi also.”

“Sure maa, if you would love to have a daughter who is just months away from a criminal life” Nidhi amused herself.

“Aunty, you know, Nidhi is great in her own way and I promise I will help her in studies. Now, please stop worrying. I don’t like to see you like this.”

“And the award for best actor goes to Jasminder Singh.” Nidhi spoke in her mind.

While maa and jass chatted their hearts out, she excused herself into her room. “Whoa! That girl!” she thought out loud. For long, Nidhi used to think that nothing remains hidden forever. As a staunch believer in the strength of truth and honesty, she never aspired for an artificial life full of covers and layers. But now that she saw everyone trying on their masks on a daily basis, she thought, “Maybe, it is not that bad.” Being a rational animal, at least that’s what humans think of themselves, Nidhi thought of doing a certain bit of analysis. She need not go far, she could find examples in her own vicinity. So, first, she looked into the life of the perfect actor, Jasminder.

It was impressive the way Jasminder said lies making them always as good as truth. Most of the times, her acting skills had helped her turn any situation in her favour. But, Nidhi thought, this kind of existence where you are ashamed to show your real self to the world and choose to hide behind the layers of deception, is frustrating. What is the point of being, if you cannot be your true self? But, then maybe, Jass wanted to fit into this unfit world. Everyone is trying to do just that – fit. Most of the times, they forget that they are trying to please themselves only. Their ardent desire to be someone else is because of their inability to achieve the self they long to be. People like, Jasminder are just trying to build a bubble of lies around them, which to them is their world, but which is so delicate and fragile that it can burst anytime. This vulnerability and susceptibility is borne out of fear, a fear of revealing the true nature of oneself. Yes, truth, a necessary demon for the existence of societies. This monster lies hidden in vicious eyes, greedy hands and masked faces.

 

Nidhi, suddenly, reverted to herself and reflected. Isn’t it a fact that everybody has incognito traits of deception? Obviously, the degrees differ but the innate substance is the same. Jass may have been wrong but it is not entirely her fault. We, all are pathetic and miserable beings exposed to all kinds of weaknesses. The standards of idealism are set so high that not even angels can think of touching them. Overrated idealism coaxes people into the dark pits of lies and mendacities.

This realisation made Nidhi think if there is a way out, an alternative path. But maybe it is too late, the true self is buried very deep and is almost forgotten. Excavating it out is more difficult than procuring a diamond. Even if somehow it gets out, it will have a short lived existence. You cannot expect to be clean when you are standing in a pool of dirt. With every step, new stains are created. Covers can save you from those stains.

Just then Jasminder entered the room, her eyes were fixed on Nidhi. She knew, she was naked to Nidhi’s eyes. She had known everything all along. Jass held Nidhi in awe. She was perfect in everything. She had nothing to hide and her life was more pacific and peaceful than hers. She longed to be like her cousin but the covers that she had woven around herself did not permit her to do so.Jass was eternally in debt of Nidhi for keeping all her dirty secrets. It was true, Jass loathed Nidhi for being so nice but inwardly she was glad that there was someone who provided a stable ground to her, who accepted her with all her flaws and who she could trust with her truths.

Before, Jass could say anything, Nidhi got up and hugged her. For a moment, they touched each other’s heart and purified the environment with bliss. Weak, miserable, wretched, pathetic, yes, those are the adjectives that define us but those just make us more human. We are who we are because that’s the way we have been made. Reach out and grab that heart, everyone has it. Masks will never fall but people will become transparent to us. What do you think?