Wear Your Love Like It is Made of Hate

It's funny how memory can work. It truly is funny how one person can have a memory of let's say strawberry ice cream from the local shop and the other can have a totally different memory, even though the shop that sells the ice cream doesn't change. 

My mother (yes folks, here I go again) was in a lot of ways in my memories. She was also in my father's. Some of these memories were shared ones, others private. With my mother, there was a time before and a time after. Before what and after what? That is a good question. Some would say my mother was different before the depression came for her, others only knew the version of her that had the depression. My father and I knew the part of her that had a third phase- the part that gave in to the depression.

I freely admit that I am jealous of my father because he has memories of a depression free Banu, which I do not. In some ways, maybe my father also has worse memories than me about my mother because as it so happens, he was abused by her on levels I can only dream of.

So here we are then aren't we, in a pretty pickle. What does the man who has a memory of someone without illness tell the man who has memories of her which have only illness? How does the man who only knew sick Banu expect the man who knew not sick Banu to understand? And when sick Banu decided to abuse both these men, who guards the guardians?

My mother died in 2021. Her last words to me were "I regret giving birth to you." Was this real Banu or sick Banu? If it was real Banu, then I've been a failure as a son haven't I? If it was sick Banu, then she went to her last rest having sinned and therefore lost access to Death's Dream Kingdom. And what she left behind was a memory that haunted both these men who loved Banu, in sickness and in health, in their own fashion, to the best of their ability.

Now tell me, how do these men act on Banu's birthday? When the hue is clearly blue, does it make a difference to these men that the sun is shining? 

I told my father this today. I told him I was jealous of him because he remembered what Banu was like before she was sick. As the words came out of me, I suddenly started to cry. The tears of a clown, who laughed off his misfortune and spent his time shedding tears in the bathroom for years, because boys don't cry, or at least the idea of Banu producing a son who cried was sacrilege, those tears came gushing out of me while my father held me. 

But let us be clear. Banu the abuser, Banu the evil woman who beat me and didn't give me food will never deserve tears. She only deserves pain. I did not cry because it was Banu's birthday. I cried because it was time to forget Banu. I cried for me. I shed the tears that had been welling in me since 2021.

Then, my father advised me to go buy a book. And so I did. Inside that book, I have simply written; "Dear Ashesh, it's time to forget Banu."

I have written this because it is.

That is all.

The Bilge Master