“life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take away our breath.”– Maya Angelou
On my 42nd birthday on 1st April, 2019, instead of counting the candles on cake, it kept me busy counting on blessings and greetings. I may not have earned crores but I pocketed crores of wishes.
Heartfelt thanks to all my friends for the love and care you have showered. My Facebook fans, Instagram friends, Orion family, IWC friends, Akriti beloveds, J2R family, friends from Roanoke Rapids USA; RTC, Bhutan; SSP, Jalalabad; Sikandar dance academy, Ek pahel, Daan foundation, Shringarika boutique, DLA and Dazzling! My parents family Gujral’s, oberoi’s, lamba’s and Maini’s. In laws family Bhatia’s, Ahuja’s and Nangia’s. My sisters and sister-in-laws. Above all, my parents who gave me life. Special thanks to my husband to allow me make my dreams true. Last but not the least, my mother in law who supports me in having a purposeful life.
Love my soul sisters Erum, Aditi and Alka!
11th June is the most sad and tearful day of my life. It came as Tsunami and washed away all my strength and the teachings I have instilled in my child. I have tried to pen down my feelings several times but never had the courage to. I lost my son who was arevenound 20 years of age on 11th June 1992. He was 6 feet tall and we used to share our shoes. His black hair used to fall on his broad forehead. He was muscular and looked quite handsome than any other young boy of his age.
Since his absence, I have found myself in a whirlpool in which the waves of thoughts and blames from society make me spin around. The guilt feeling of not able to survive him suffocates me so much that I am not able to breathe even sometimes. On every 11th June, a process starts. A process of failed parenting, a process of seeing his death in my hands and that process I feel being dead slowly too- a process of unliving every moment while you are alive. I have been dying every moment since then, dear Anirudh. I can’t explain how the behavior and attitude of people change. The satire by people give the feeling of being razed head to toe. The path since 1992 is leading me onto such a journey which is full of cactus all around. There had been no celebrations so far. The purchasing of clothes is no fun at all too. I do make efforts to get out of the mourning. But as much as I try, I find myself more dipped and dragged into it.
It was a dark and unfortunate day full of storm. The storm was so dreadful that it not only washed away all joys of our life but also converted the day ( our life) into night (darkness). The place called Islam Ganj used to be a lively place. Kids used to play all kinds of street games. Oldies used to have their leisure time chit chatting sessions along with listening to Radio, street hawkers used to urge public through their singing skills. That day, the scene was horrible. The dreadful storm had washed away all our hopes. The street (our life) was dull and empty.
11th June converted the father’s day into a never ending moment of life. I had heard it somewhere
‘Sometimes life passes away in a moment, Sometimes one moment of life does not pass away not pass away even’
So, the life of the father has cling to that day although he didn’t pause anyone else’s life.