The faces on the cinematic screen scream thoughts accumulated in the human mind, unlike humans who hide prickly little lies from their family, friends, and partners to maintain a comfortable facade, except for themselves.
On screen, a blonde actor with glittering eyes declares, You're a monster and a liar.
Recently, my partner lied to his mother about his visit to Cairo, fearing that the dense heat would trigger his long-dormant allergy. When I asked him why, he protested that he wanted to spare her immense stress and prevent additional medication. I couldn't help but notice the irony.
I asked him the reason, to which he protested, for how her mother should be saved from immense stress by adding extra pills to her medicinal journey. I disliked the taste of truth at the cost of comfort but had to accept anyway. Our phone contacts break three times a week when his office shifts from learning language to accepting disrespectful colloquial terms from fellow foreign officers. I miss him here in India, and most of all, our conversation with Chai. Like some anonymous poet sings, ”Like the gentle clinking of cups, our hearts resonate, a soothing melody of togetherness." Egypt is an amazing country, rich in culture. Is it? I miss listening about Egypt on the old radio, which you gifted me as a souvenir of your childhood.
Did you get it from Kabadiwala?
No, Munazza, I... it's that..I care for you.
But I asked a different question.
From Dehradun to New Delhi to Egypt, the journey landed with tears in our eyes. His in imagination, mine near the new dehlia plant under the think rain.
He might visit India in Eid to take her mother with him when he gets settled. I envy the breeze his lips sing and the slow heartbeats his 2 a.m. clock discovers, I envy him completely, especially the distance he could handle where our morning (evening) prayers differ. The absence of somethingness.
He must be engrossed in his new meeting while wearing his favorite burgady tie. Here I lie with a tear-soaked pillow, wanting to run away from my grief grip.
“There's food on the table. Come and have it." I dislike Appi's tone when welcoming me to dinner while I'm in the middle of reading The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt. She lies about the dinner being on the table, while I lie about wanting to read another page. She savors the moment of placing food mats, dinner, and uttering last-minute phrases like "Namak kam hai" (needs less salt), "Ek glass kam hai" (needs one less glass', and 'Will someone have pickles?' while savoring each bite. Meanwhile, I'm eager to find out if my character survived the bombing.
"Why can't we just be truthful? All because I don't feel like wasting my precious time putting food on the table, and she sees me engaged in a book without helping her even once. We all ache at the thought and comfort of others, knowingly. Lies sugarcoat situations and creates a well-furnished surface for resting our malice—waswasas (satanic whispers), another term for unlawful self.
The advantage of manipulation is another term for destroying souls, with truth murdered brutally inside. The blood thickens, and clutches hold onto the same heart, shielding the bitterness that grows with lies. Justice, consciousness, and truth stench like rotten meat, screaming silently in the eyes of the person. We think we look how we pretend to be, indeed, a fallacy; we look how we think.
My mother says hiding one truth leads to 100 other pretentious lies, which later, lead to rack and ruin. So, it's bitter to confront the truth at the moment, but acceptance is contentment. So, much philosophical defense, which is easily understood in kindergarten poetry books, "speak truth, be kind."
Blah, blah, blah! Who cares about the truth when lies bring food to the table?" my therapist laughed once, resembling my deceased partner.
People say I lie about the death of my friend's husband. Oh, how do I tell them that he died the day she confronted him about the list of women on his lust list in one of his drawers? No, she didn't murder him. He murdered their only child with his illicit relations, built on lies. A house with rats, cobwebs, and cockroaches is better than a lying man of the house. If only he could have told me he struggled with lust, we could have confronted things with truth. Their child would have been at home, instead of struggling for space on the walls with lizards.
There are lies that saved my life:
My partner in Cairo told me he felt nothing for me when I expressed my feelings. The truth saves us from the imagination of unmade decisions. Vasudha would switch off her stove while preparing tea, just to listen to my random thoughts about absurd theater. She says I'm not wasting her time, while I know she could have read 20 pages by now. She has saved our friendship many times. Rigsby never wore the shirt I gifted, he never confronted me with the truth in silence; even I was infuriated at the thought of him lying, but I'm glad the other woman in his life knows the truth. Maybe the truth was too much to handle for me.
But the truth enlightens the reality of our lives. Lies distort it. Easy to manipulate, hard to replicate, like Rome. Truth is hard to speak, but it fixes puzzles in life beautifully. Life is already crude, with specialization in struggles in everyone's life.
Next time you feel it's hard to understand others, confront them with the truth. Sach ka sabak isn't for books, but for the comfort of hearts. Start to unravel your lifestyle with the pursuit of truth. It will cost you sanity and restlessness, but a comfortable sleep on the couch and floors, unlike lies lying next to you on the coziest of king-sized beds.
Too much philosophical defense led to my partner in Cairo learning Arabic as his language for service. I'll buy train tickets from Window to Allahabad, wrap a handmade bouquet, paint his favorite tea cup, and confront him about how I feel. Feelings are shared to be understood; the eyes never lie. I'll confront the truth of a happy ending—either happily ever after or it's completely okay, we're cool!
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