Lies of Love
“Everything about her was a lie,” that's what my daughter Anandi used to say about me as she navigated through life growing up. I was the architect of Anandi’s world, painting her childhood with strokes of fanciful tales and gentle lies, weaving a protective cocoon around her. My penchant for stretching the truth entangled us both in a web of illusion. My lies were like colorful sarees in a local market, each spun from threads of unrealistic imaginations to make something Anandi’s wasn’t.
“Maa, do clouds race each other to bring us rain?” Anandi inquired, captivated by the grand assembly of monsoon clouds.
“Absolutely,” I replied with a straight face. “They're fiercely competitive. Thunder, you see, is their heated debate about who’s the fastest.”
Anandi’s youthful naivety once made her laugh at the idea of chasing clouds. Yet, as she matured, her inquiries delved deeper into the stark realities she encountered, teaching her that the only way to win in life is to race fiercely, regardless of personal preferences.
It wasn’t just the tales of magic and whimsy that I spun. There were also the necessary lies, the ones that made motherhood a complex fabric of love and deception. When Anandi found her pet fish still, I crafted a tale of its preparation for the Fish Olympics’ floating competition.
Or the lie that I, like Superwoman, would forever guard her against life’s unbidden shadows, even if it meant disputing with Yama himself.
Yet, as Anandi grew older, the boundary between the fantastical and the real began to blur. Despite her heart leaning towards the worlds unfurled in literature, I enrolled her in coaching classes to prepare for medical entrance tests.
“You're born to heal others,” I crafted another lie.
The dream was mine, not Anandi’s, yet revealing this felt impossible. I invested deeply, nurturing the lie of Anandi’s medical prowess, while she gasped for air, longing to escape the confines of those coaching classes.
Then, one day, while coming back from coaching classes a little late at night, a few rowdy boys came after her with harsher realities of the world than I had tried to paint over with my lies. “Maa, why didn't you tell me the world outside is so bad, and you won’t always be there to save me?” Anandi asked me.
My silence spoke volumes. My assurances were my tales of lies, spun to shield Anandi from life’s harsh realities, which taught me to seek refuge in falsehood.
The revelation hung between us, a chasm filled with unmet expectations and unspoken dreams.
In that gentle confrontation, a mother's true character was revealed. I didn’t lie to deceive my daughter but to narrow the gap between reality and my vision of a better world. My lies weren’t a defense against the truth but means to challenge and transcend societal expectations.
Anandi realized then that my lies weren't my deceit; it was the society demanding girls mute their brightness, shrink them into acceptable forms of femininity.