The woman in the mysterious city

In the mysterious city, skyscrapers dictate the heights life lets you reach. 50 floors above, you realise the people below are a minuscule detail. Like in miniatures, the cars are buzzing and people move around quickly. From the top of the building, a luxurious condominium is visible through its big bright windows. The sun shines through, and you notice a lady sitting on the settee. What bothers her is unknown: She seems distraught and lost in her thoughts.

From one of the corners a man appears, and he joins her on the settee. His attempts to pacify her go in vain, and at last, he loses his cool. Ready to attack, he raises his hand. She catches it in time, swaying away before he can hurt her. She grabs her shawl, and is out of the door in no time. Her cries are silenced by the city's hustle and bustle, but her tears are visible to me.

She doesn't know I'm watching her, but I have been ever since I left this earth. I know her from a past life. Now that I've reunited with my old self again, I start moving from place to house or villa, for whatever purpose our need dictates. My name is Iyal and I am here because humanity needs us. I watch over the women of the mysterious city and I am watching over you too.

Remember when I said I was watching over you too? That came much later, actually. The only time I remember doing something else, is when I was myself part of the earth. Living there entangled in the daily rigmarole that is called life, I experienced my own odyssey. I grew up in a family where my mother was suppressed and my childhood a blur. With a father who became a tyrant, I first lost my voice by giving his too much importance. I started sketching war scenes without knowing how the domestic troubles affected me.  The dispute within was outside. I depicted the horrors of love and loss, of pride and shadows, of humanity and animal carnage. I became silent and observant.  

A child's mind is a piece of clay, like the ancient Sumerians used for learning with their stylus. My cuneiform had many symbols I couldn't decipher, even though I was writing them down subconsciously.

Now back to that girl. That doe-eyed, exquisite creature with a gaze that knows how to steal hearts. Last time, I found her waiting on me in life. Her ordeals not much different than mine, we lived and departed together.

She went back to finish something that left a burning mark on her life. I cannot watch her go through pain. I never could. Her tears pierce my heart even now, but wiping them would be too risky. She could recognise me and lose out on her work. Should I wait and watch till she asks for me again?

Her heart has always been kind. Unable to hurt even a fly as a child, she brought stray animals home, caring for them until they were healed again. Eyes hungry for love, she sought it in all places as a substitute. Alas, she encountered many thorns in that innocent phase. Ahh, home...what is that even? Do you remember yours? Or perhaps you are still blessed to live there, amongst those you can call your own? My feeling of home only started when she walked into my flat. I searched for a ritual to make her feel wanted and needed in life. When she opened the door, her eyes filled with tears. That was the first time she felt her presence made a difference.

'That is hireath, Iyal. Not home' she replied, whenever I asked about her parental home. 'YOU are my home' she'd say. Like a master spinner, her words would spin anecdotes in seconds. I'd lose myself in them, and through them, in her. Maira, the woman who has my soul. Her mother had cried the day she was born. Of course, a newborn doesn't remember that. Baba had related it to her when she was 5. 'She never wanted you. She wanted a boy' he'd said. Maira carried that weight for many years. Not realising that his first lie to her was only the beginning of a maze.

Three heartbreaks, a childhood filled with terrors and pain, and a winter in the northern hemisphere had sucked out all she had left in her. When I found her, she was barely breathing, barely surviving. ‘Iyal, had it not been for you, I’d not have continued’ she always said. I didn’t know then that she meant it from the deepest of her soul. She had a tempest inside her, and some days it didn’t let her live. Even after we were bound together in matrimony, she often found her past walking past.

She cried when thinking of him, the man who had hurt but also loved her the most. The man who had given her life but taken the force of living away at times. Yes, she was away, but his presence could still be felt. Like the needles in a pincushion: You could barely see them but they were there, poking holes into your skin and digging deep into you until you bleed out. She desired to be the child again, to start afresh, to have that clean slate and write life the way she wanted it. They way angels look down at the earth with compassion, with grace, with knowing of the hereafter. Ahh, but that, that grace was not always within her. Maira could be hurt like a little girl, crying for hours, inconsolable. On other days, she was a forgiving deity, mirroring the Boddhisattva of the holy books.

I want her always, for always, with me. She doesn’t know if she can give me that, she says. ‘I can survive from all dangers but myself, Iyal’. ‘How do you know you will not survive when I’m here?’ I ask. She looks at my reflection in the mirror with all her love. She is a shining star in her most beautiful gown when she utters her last words.

‘Because I know that when you become so riddled with pain, death becomes you.’