In Truth, Who Isn't a Showgirl?

By Sudeshna Chandra

Am I so skilled at pretence?

Such a terrific mask bearer?

An asymptomatic anomaly to the norms of happiness?

I am, perhaps.

Or else how could you make sense of the normalcy

I enrapture humans with,

those who have seen me bloom and blossom,

and who seem to know me with every vein of their being?

Except that they have only seen me at my pinks and greys,

not my blacks or my reds,

not walked to the furthest ends of the spectrums of my subconscious

and explored the hues I can manifest.

I drape around myself

a plush velvet fabric of make believe,

and drown myself in this illusive web of sewn embroidery,

while others festoon me with lilacs and gaiety.

I am tempted sometimes to rip it off from on my visage,

unravel the drapes of my complexities,

and let my vulnerabilities stride forth,

whole with all their eccentricities.

But then I catch myself fearfully,

for heavens would shatter

if I let my heart, so evil,

take over.

And so I hand over the strings of my personality

to this authenticity averse society

and let them play puppeteer to their favourite drama,

which happens to be the life of not a person but a persona.

And now everyone is happy plenty,

except not really.

And now when I am melancholy,

startled, I find a string pulling at

my lips laterally,

and I smile again.

………

By Sudeshna Chandra