The Little Girl...
who was fond of Merry-Go-Rounds
The little girl thought they were cool, the merry-go-rounds in the park, an opinion formed long before she ever sat on one; no doubt, influenced by the others in the park: the seniors, the experts, the ones who knew everything.
The merry-go-round was “the best ride of all”. The most popular. Everyone vied to climb on it. The ones who did, didn’t let go.
So when it was her turn, she got on it eagerly, excitedly, expectantly.
It was everything she had ever hoped for.
The merry-go-round began to speed up. She held tight. Round and round it went. Up and up it went. She looked around at the others, sitting high and low around her, on horses and unicorns and elephants and birds. Were they all enjoying the ride as she was?
Not everyone could find a place on it. Only the chosen ones, she thought.
Some people dismounted after a while, looking rather wobbly.
Others fell right off.
Losers, she whispered to herself. She wasn’t one. She was made for this. Oh, how she had yearned for this!
The ride was important. Nothing else mattered. There was no life without it.
She would forever remain faithful to the ride.
Her life had different plans, however. When the next cycle came around, she was flying. Oh, the exhilaration! Had she attained escape velocity? She must have been promoted to the next level; perhaps she will get to ride the stars!
And then came the descent—the swift but inevitable tug of the earth on her dreams.
In a moment, she found herself on all fours, unable to make head or tail of what had happened.
“Was I thrown off?” she said to the Merry-go-round, in disbelief.
“You must have let go,” was the nonchalant reply.
“But I followed all the rules,” she whispered.
Life continued to revolve, for the others, not pausing, not caring.
She got back on her feet, brushed the dust off her dress, but the shock was not so easily brushed off. Had she made a mistake and taken her hand lightly off the handles? Or was she being manipulated?
What was she supposed to do now? Get back on the ride? The fall still hurt. The bruises did not hurt as much as her damaged self-esteem did.
She looked around. And stepped away slowly.
Her greatest strength was that she could pick herself up and adapt. Even when broken-hearted. Even when devastated. Even when she missed the adrenaline rush.
Eventually, she learned to love the other, slower rides in the park. They didn’t demand much of her. She didn’t have to hold on too hard. She could breathe. She could admire the flowers in the garden. She could take care of herself. In time she learned to appreciate them too.
Life was not confined to the high-speed rides. It was in the moments between the haste that life actually happened.
Once in a while, though, she would remember the path she took to get here, and a sigh would steal out of the depths of her heart.
But the slow life came at a cost... People stopped taking her seriously; they thought she had given up. They pitied her... She didn’t want anyone’s pity. Worse, they ‘advised’ her.
Condescension, disguised as friendly concern. No, she didn’t want any of it.
Every day was a battle to convince herself and others that she was content where she was, with her choices. Some days she gave up trying. They would never see through her eyes.
Besides, was she being faithful to herself? Didn’t she, every once in a while, want to get back on the merry-go-round?
She had selected from the choices in front of her, keeping herself safe, doing things right, following the rules, staying away from danger, from the rush.
Would she have done the same, of her own accord?
Perhaps not. What might have been, matters not anymore.
There might come a day when she returns to the best ride in the park, wiser, more experienced in the ways of the world, gazing at life with deeper understanding, no longer naïve.
But for now, it’s time to stand on her two feet.
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From the Archives
The Final Door
I had started packing at least two weeks before.
Packing, cleaning, removing all the garbage that had gathered over the years. So much—you have no idea. ‘They had gathered’—I make it sound like they had all walked in on their own. ‘I had collected’ is more correct—I had brought them all. Invited them in and allowed them to stay.
Now it was time to send them away—out of my life. Overnight, they had lost meaning, they had lost purpose.
When the door is in sight, priorities shift. All the unnecessary stuff we had been holding on to, begin to fade. It’s only a matter of time before we step across the threshold and close the door behind us. What do we want to do, in those final minutes? Leave some memories behind? Brace ourselves for the journey ahead? Say goodbyes? Take one last look?
It kept me busy, the clearing of my space. Kept my mind off things. Things that were thronging my head, jostling for attention. Secondly, it gave me a chance to stage my disappearance—slowly, without anyone noticing. Honestly, no one was interested anyway. They did not observe that every day I was wiping myself from their view. Erasing myself right before their eyes. Or did they not care?
Every day I walked out, taking stuff with me like Andy Dufresne in Shawshank Redemption emptying dirt out in the yard, little by little daily. Andy had all the time in the world. I had slightly lesser.
The door beckons, closing by inches. Too soon, too quick. Every minute it leaps closer. On the other side lies uncertainty.
I didn’t know what I was going to tell my friends. Yes I had a few. They didn’t know what to tell me either. We kept safely away from the elephant in the room. I spoke about other things, for their sake. Their embarrassment and sympathy would only make me more miserable.
On the Last Day…
I was ready. A handful of people knew—none of them my friends. It just happened to be their duty to know. They would much rather have remained ignorant. This was awkward for them. Seeing me made them uncomfortable. Avoiding me was easier. Their forced smiles said as much. I wonder if they expected me to make a big hue and cry of the situation. Did they even bother? Or were they relieved when it was over, quietly, just like the end of another day?
I don’t remember much of that Day. I have wiped it clean too, when I closed the door behind me. I must have walked around, bidding farewell in my mind. To things, to people. Touching the walls and the doors and the coffee machine for the last time. If I met any of my acquaintances, I must have said goodbye as usual. Some of them might have said, See you tomorrow. I must have smiled: I knew I won’t see them tomorrow. They didn’t have to know yet.
I turned my back on that part of life—with a vengeance. Pushed it out of my mind. Drowned it in my newfound independence.
Vanished.
Vanquished.
I heard them utter my name. Wondering, questioning,… finally comprehending. And then my name would fade from their lips too. The final stab.
Some memories are like quicksand. They just keep pulling you back in, no matter what you do. You remain still, and you tell yourself you’re out, you’re safe, but all the while you’re right in the middle of it. If you move, you sink. But they don’t take you in completely, they just leave enough for you, just enough to make you sigh over and over again, years later.
When it is time for you to leave, and if you’re fortunate enough to get ample time to prepare, would you take the time to look around? To say goodbyes? To hand over unfinished work to someone you trust?
We are mortal. But our work can be immortal.
The question remains. Did we matter?
Did I matter?
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