There is always a reason why certain people are born in a certain blood family. In all my views about life and death and everything in between and the ways I live them couldn't be more dissimilar to them. Hence, their/my inability to connect any longer in any meaningful way. Or at all. They are ordinary, and at the same time, extraordinary women as far as the womanhood goes: one, labelled a forever spinster despite her long-term marriage to my former brother-in-law, remains living in her tight shell of a life that is all about the past, the grievances, the hurt, the losses, the choices she was denied, never the present; the other, labelled a spiritual visionary and a meditation master par excellance, remains a poor copy-cat of the enlighted masters she worships. One unknown, the other a public figure with the spiritually minded who seek. And me, someone who had supposedly strayed so far from what is considered normal that none of his sisters even acknowledge him as a human.
When I heard of the heartbreak my older sister was going through since her ex-husband decided to get married to their university classmate, both well into their early fifties, I felt a huge pang of pity. She never wanted her ex-husband to be a part of her life, not ever since he went into a rage at her infidelity (that's another all too long story that is not mine to tell) and beat her up black and blue. She never wanted to be with him because he had denied her motherhood that she dearly desired, but she still felt so heartbroken when, after almost one and a half decades, he finally decided to remarry. I felt my guts wrench when my mother told me what her oldest child, finally in contact after a decade and more, was going through because I know that feeling, too. To know that you've been denied your heart's desire, which eventually ends any relationship, yet to still want that someone to be around for comfort is something that starts a vicious, bitter cycle of complacency, continued desire/continued disappointment (that one is fully cognizant of), frustration, anger, reconciliation, complacency, and so forth, ad infinitum. What hell! It is hellish.
When I observe everything that goes on with my next sister, I, too, feel pity. Mostly anger at the way she had treated me for the past 20 years, but still, prevailing emotion is that of pity. Despite her looks, her intelligence and her yearning for the higher self, she failed miserably time and again, with me, with her mother, with her son and her lovers. I was planning to do a film based on her mental asylum chronicle that she published as a book in 2013, I guess this is the year I will finally get to it.
As different as I am from my sisters, I realised a year ago I was, am still going through the exact same process of trying to reach that elusive state of love, of being loved, that we all somehow, inexplicably bear a karma of love. A karma that made us go searching for love in all the not-right-for-us people, not-right-for-us places and left us wondering why we even cared.