A Shattered Mold

Sixty-seven days! That's how long till the firm clocks 50. The buzz is palpable, one can feel it. It really is that thick. Everyone's excited. Everyone that is, except Drina. She winds through the marble lobby wordlessly, megawatt smile firmly in place, mutely acknowledging congratulations from the fawning employees, the expected accolades from industry peers, desperately wishing she were someplace else.

Only in the privacy of her home does she allow her true self to emerge. Keeping up a double image can’t be easy. Lately, it's as though she's slipping, lost in the quagmire that is her existence. She tosses off her shoes and makes a beeline to the low coffee. Here on the shallow bowl among the pebbles and rocks where I nestle, her secrets are safe. I am a true child of the desert, that harsh clime swallowing up moisture without trace. My prickly spines reach out, absorbing the sheer weight of her discontentment.

'A whole half-century! Some people don't live that long!' A ghastly thought but true. Only the business could have endured, she explodes. She can scarcely afford to share such dark thoughts with others. Certainly not with Grandpa openly preening, the smug look never far from his visage these days. A cold fish, that one! A manipulative streak bordering on ruthlessness runs deep beneath the charming demeanor. Like a dam bursting its boundaries, her childhood memories come flooding, unbidden. There are the treats handed out only if one bent to his will, the penetrating stare that has everyone in perpetual servitude and inevitably the casualties strewn about.

I sit and hear her out. An image of poor Uncle Leon, her father's oldest brother appears. She's probably the only one who cares about the bloodshot eyes and deeply-lined face. Leon has no head for the business yet he plods on, a dried-out husk lost in his own wilderness. Bess would rather have him drinking in the shadows than hear of him leaving. Her paramount achievement has been to marry into such an illustrious dynasty. No sacrifice is too great for the prestige of being recognized in high society.

Drina's father senses her unrest but is as helpless as the whole lot. He fondly recalls her entry into the world, arms outstretched, grasping at some unseen prize. From his viewpoint she and her Grandpa are much alike, two peas in a pod embroiled in a clash of wills. He’s had his fair share of compromises and goes about with a certain resigned pragmatism. Yet occasionally, a wistfulness surfaces as he looks up from the vast tomes on the mahogany desk, wondering what could have been.

There is indeed cause to wonder. ‘What gain is there in following a prescribed path to the detriment of one's soul?’

Those on this path find it has been firmly mapped out till kingdom come, one’s acquiesce fully expected and taken for granted. No reprieve is granted even during downtime. Dinner table conversations are punctuated with shoptalk, the mundane is subject to shrewd calculation.

To those on the outside all seems rosy in the goldfish bowl. They are blissfully ignorant of what it means to be stripped of choice, trapped by convention. They can only see the lap of luxury and the silver spoon. Unknown to them is the perpetual struggle to prove one’s own merit to one’s peers. Oddly enough they are most privileged yet oblivious.

On the flip side there are very real perils of venturing out into unknown territory, disconnecting oneself from what is safe and familiar. To the establishment it is tantamount to betrayal, a repudiation of all that they have labored to build. However there is a yearning deep within that refuses to be assuaged by substitutes. Those who attempt its suppression soon find they are saddled with an arduous and unrewarding task.

I have watched over Drina’s brood for years, a silent presence in the grand old living room long before the relocation to her quarters. They put me much in mind of miniature rubber-stamped soldiers. They go on at a horrific tempo, marching in sync, terrible in the precision that bears them to the very edge. An inevitable horrendous crash and a vacant space is made for the next hapless soldier.

Well, the winds of change have been blowing rather hard on these shores. Here among the rocks I too have held a secret for decades, waiting for a chosen one, a brave to come seeking.

Now I push a seemingly nondescript fragment towards her. 'Pick up the shard', I say. The chill wind stirs about and loosens the layers of dust, revealing an etching on the broken piece. Time has been unkind but with much effort one begins to make sense of the crude inscription. Apparently, it spells out part of an initial and then Drina's last name.

The sudden realization sweeps through like dawn’s first rays dispelling shadows of night. Somewhere along her lineage, a kindred spirit has attempted to break-out. Fueled with feverish passion, she makes countless trips to the old family house. Hours are spent rooting about for clues. Providence is on her side, her kin think she’s leaving no stone untouched to ensure the success of the upcoming anniversary celebrations. Finally in some forgotten corner in the cellar, she comes up triumphant.

A potter's wheel! Unheard of, practically sacrilegious in this clan of lawyers!

Questions, so many questions and not enough answers! Unsurprising, seeing that such things were hushed up. Not that it matters much now. The shard has become precious treasure, its mere presence a source of comfort. I observe as new resolve takes hold within Drina, deepening and spurring bold action. 

The day finally comes when it is no longer possible to adhere to the status quo.

Drina sets out into a new world, the fragment carefully wrapped in an oilcloth, tucked away in her belongings. She looks back at me once and I give a reassuring nod.

The mold has finally been shattered. I’m glad to have hung around long enough to witness it.