AYIN HARSHA (Evil Eye)
The funeral had already taken place. A quiet formality that had been a fair reflection of the life lived and now no more.
Some lives can be full and extraordinary and yet short, Mum had lived a long life, a long uneventful life. As long as I had been aware she had been housebound, nothing physical, but a crippling mental shadow that had closed the doors on her life- literally. As long as I was able to remember, Mum had been an agoraphobic.
The word agoraphobia is derived from Greek words literally meaning "fear of the marketplace." The term is used to describe an irrational and often disabling fear of being out in public.
For the last 40 years she had never left the house. As a young child I had accepted this without question, dad or friends meeting me from school, running the odd errands to shops or friends on my return home from school. It was only when I became 10 or 11 that I really noticed how different my family life was. No day trips with Mum and Dad, no mum and daughter shopping. Teenage angst made me feel angry not having a ‘normal’ mum but as I grew older my anger matured into more sympathetic feelings.
As far as I was able to tell Mum had been a normal child. I had seen the faded and creased black and white photographs from the mid ‘20’s and early 30’s. She had transformed from a shy smiling toddler, to carefree pre war teenager to a beautiful woman. Yes, Mum had definitely been a beauty. Her heart shaped face, dark hair and blue eyes would have made her a classic beauty in any era. Like her mother before her, another great beauty of her time. Pity I took after my father!
Mum had been courted and married by my father by the age of 19 coinciding with the close of the Second World War. He was a handsome and charming young man who had served in the army and seen the last few years of the war unscathed, returning quite easily to civilian life. They had met at a dance whilst he was home on leave and within 18 months they were married. They had managed to buy a small house on my father’s accountant’s wage and lived life happily in post war suburbia. The only blot on their seemingly tranquil world was the lack of a child. It would be 17 years later, when they had almost given up hope, that I was born.
Those early years in the 1960’s with a baby seem tranquil, reflected in the camera’s gaze. Dad had been successful in his career and the small house had now become a large detached rambling pile in the country. There are images of picnics on the lawn, birthday parties and Christmas’s and most of all love.
All of this seemed to change when my Mothers mum, my grandma died.
Up to this point there had been nothing to suggest any mental health issues with my mother. Of course there had been family history. My grandmother started with mental health problems following her early marriage in 1903 at the age of 18 to my grandfather, 20 years her senior. Grandpa had been serving in India in the 46th Punjabis and an illness had forced him back to England. He had been friends with my Great Grandfather and met my grandmother on a visit to the house. He was immediately smitten by this young beautiful creature and she, flattered by the attentions of an older man, along with encouragement from her father, she was married within 6 months of their meeting.
The wedding by all accounts was a lavish Edwardian affair, my great grandfather being a respected doctor. Having never really known my grandmother I had often scoured her few wedding photo’s, looking for a clue of the life captured in that sepia suspension. The beautiful heart shaped face framed by lace looking eagerly and expectantly into the future. My grandfather older, with some of the Victorian stiffness and sternness etched on his face. I never knew him. He died 7 years before I was born. I often wondered what he had been like, had he driven my grandmother to some kind of breakdown? My mother had spoken of him as a kind and generous man, both proud and possessive of his beautiful young bride. He had been a good father, bringing her up acting as both parents. Grandmother had been around but mainly confined to her bedroom. Within a few months of their marriage, grandmother began to suffer paranoia and delusions. My mother said that she was frightened that she was being watched and a slow reluctance to socialise and undertake normal daily tasks led to a hysteria and aversion to stepping into the outside world, eventually even outside of her own bedroom. The birth of her daughter served only to pull her more deeply into her confinement.
That’s how I remember my grandmother, a prisoner in her own bedroom. She was usually lying on her bed with the curtains closed, too tired for life, too afraid. I was brought in as a child sporadically when she was feeling ‘better’ in an attempt to lighten the mood. All I can clearly remember is being set down on the floor to play whilst my mother spoke in soothing tones to her own.
I barely remember anything of those times. The only lasting memory is of the beautiful Persian carpet set at the foot of the bed. As a young child I had been fascinated by the exquisite colours, lost in the jewelled spectacle and softness of the wool. My grandfather had once explained that he had the carpet brought all the way from Arabia as a gift to his bride as a wedding present. He had been keenly interested in Eastern folklore during his army days and he had once said that the design on the carpet represented fidelity in marriage and showed his love and commitment to his new wife.
Grandfather did not have to worry about the faithfulness of his young and beautiful bride. Her mental deterioration would keep her indoors and away from admiring glances for most of her life.
The cause of my grandmother’s illness was never explained or fully explored. Doctors had wanted to commit her to an asylum from an early stage, but my grandfather could not think of his precious package subjected to the known horrors of the Edwardian Asylum, so he tended for her at home.
He looked after her until his death, my mother carried on as the chief carer until grandma died at the age of 85 in 1970.
By the time of my grandmother’s death my mother was 45 years old. Up to that point she had no signs of any mental imbalance. Within 12 months of her own mother dying she was almost confined to her room, hardly daring to venture downstairs and never leaving the house.
And now she was dead too.
My dad was now in his late 80’s and although in good shape my mother’s death had hit him hard. We had both decided that it would be better if he was looked after in a nursing home with 24 hour care. With Mum only dead a month and Dad looking frail and lost I found it hard to keep strong and positive during that time.
I took on the responsibility of sorting out the house for Dad, getting it ready to sell. It took a couple of days to go through all the cupboards and shelves, boxing up books and knick knacks. A lifetime of objects, papers and photographs rifled through in haste. The fate of once cherished items decided in seconds; some to be swept away to the charity shops or worse still taken to the council tip.
After a particularly long afternoon sorting through boxes I went upstairs and sat on my mother’s bed. The room had been her world for nearly 40 years. I glanced through the window onto the long lawn and rosebushes that must have brought a great deal of joy during her confined years. My eyes drifted along the walls, past photographs and pictures, along the dressing table, her brush and comb, mirror and jewellery box gathering dust in the afternoon light.
The dressing table mirror caught my reflection. At 47 years of age I was greying at the temples and looking tired. Without my mother or grandmothers looks I looked middle aged and frumpy.
Something bright caught my attention in the corner of the room; the Persian Carpet. Unlike me the carpet looked as bright and fresh as the day it was bought, over 100 years ago. I turned and brushed my hand over the soft pile bringing back memories of long forgotten afternoons in my Grandmother’s bedroom. After she had died my mother had brought the carpet back to her own house as an heirloom. And now Mum was gone the carpet would be mine. I gazed at the colours and the patterns weaving and winding in and out. I traced the patterns with my fingers round and round, some patterns like exotic flowers bursting in the Arabian heat. There was some uniformity, some subtle plan to this design. All the swirls and curls swept to the centre of the carpet. The individual detail seemed to be forming part of a larger more complex shape. I stood, stepping back to view the design from a distance. It seemed...yes I was sure...most definitely; the exotic pattern formed the shape of an elaborate eye.
As I looked deeper and deeper into the pattern the shapes and colours swam before me, sweeping me deeper and deeper into the hypnotic gaze.
And briefly, for a moment, I felt a sudden fear, as if I could never walk away...
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/21284/ayin-harsha
Some lives can be full and extraordinary and yet short, Mum had lived a long life, a long uneventful life. As long as I had been aware she had been housebound, nothing physical, but a crippling mental shadow that had closed the doors on her life- literally. As long as I was able to remember, Mum had been an agoraphobic.
The word agoraphobia is derived from Greek words literally meaning "fear of the marketplace." The term is used to describe an irrational and often disabling fear of being out in public.
For the last 40 years she had never left the house. As a young child I had accepted this without question, dad or friends meeting me from school, running the odd errands to shops or friends on my return home from school. It was only when I became 10 or 11 that I really noticed how different my family life was. No day trips with Mum and Dad, no mum and daughter shopping. Teenage angst made me feel angry not having a ‘normal’ mum but as I grew older my anger matured into more sympathetic feelings.
As far as I was able to tell Mum had been a normal child. I had seen the faded and creased black and white photographs from the mid ‘20’s and early 30’s. She had transformed from a shy smiling toddler, to carefree pre war teenager to a beautiful woman. Yes, Mum had definitely been a beauty. Her heart shaped face, dark hair and blue eyes would have made her a classic beauty in any era. Like her mother before her, another great beauty of her time. Pity I took after my father!
Mum had been courted and married by my father by the age of 19 coinciding with the close of the Second World War. He was a handsome and charming young man who had served in the army and seen the last few years of the war unscathed, returning quite easily to civilian life. They had met at a dance whilst he was home on leave and within 18 months they were married. They had managed to buy a small house on my father’s accountant’s wage and lived life happily in post war suburbia. The only blot on their seemingly tranquil world was the lack of a child. It would be 17 years later, when they had almost given up hope, that I was born.
Those early years in the 1960’s with a baby seem tranquil, reflected in the camera’s gaze. Dad had been successful in his career and the small house had now become a large detached rambling pile in the country. There are images of picnics on the lawn, birthday parties and Christmas’s and most of all love.
All of this seemed to change when my Mothers mum, my grandma died.
Up to this point there had been nothing to suggest any mental health issues with my mother. Of course there had been family history. My grandmother started with mental health problems following her early marriage in 1903 at the age of 18 to my grandfather, 20 years her senior. Grandpa had been serving in India in the 46th Punjabis and an illness had forced him back to England. He had been friends with my Great Grandfather and met my grandmother on a visit to the house. He was immediately smitten by this young beautiful creature and she, flattered by the attentions of an older man, along with encouragement from her father, she was married within 6 months of their meeting.
The wedding by all accounts was a lavish Edwardian affair, my great grandfather being a respected doctor. Having never really known my grandmother I had often scoured her few wedding photo’s, looking for a clue of the life captured in that sepia suspension. The beautiful heart shaped face framed by lace looking eagerly and expectantly into the future. My grandfather older, with some of the Victorian stiffness and sternness etched on his face. I never knew him. He died 7 years before I was born. I often wondered what he had been like, had he driven my grandmother to some kind of breakdown? My mother had spoken of him as a kind and generous man, both proud and possessive of his beautiful young bride. He had been a good father, bringing her up acting as both parents. Grandmother had been around but mainly confined to her bedroom. Within a few months of their marriage, grandmother began to suffer paranoia and delusions. My mother said that she was frightened that she was being watched and a slow reluctance to socialise and undertake normal daily tasks led to a hysteria and aversion to stepping into the outside world, eventually even outside of her own bedroom. The birth of her daughter served only to pull her more deeply into her confinement.
That’s how I remember my grandmother, a prisoner in her own bedroom. She was usually lying on her bed with the curtains closed, too tired for life, too afraid. I was brought in as a child sporadically when she was feeling ‘better’ in an attempt to lighten the mood. All I can clearly remember is being set down on the floor to play whilst my mother spoke in soothing tones to her own.
I barely remember anything of those times. The only lasting memory is of the beautiful Persian carpet set at the foot of the bed. As a young child I had been fascinated by the exquisite colours, lost in the jewelled spectacle and softness of the wool. My grandfather had once explained that he had the carpet brought all the way from Arabia as a gift to his bride as a wedding present. He had been keenly interested in Eastern folklore during his army days and he had once said that the design on the carpet represented fidelity in marriage and showed his love and commitment to his new wife.
Grandfather did not have to worry about the faithfulness of his young and beautiful bride. Her mental deterioration would keep her indoors and away from admiring glances for most of her life.
The cause of my grandmother’s illness was never explained or fully explored. Doctors had wanted to commit her to an asylum from an early stage, but my grandfather could not think of his precious package subjected to the known horrors of the Edwardian Asylum, so he tended for her at home.
He looked after her until his death, my mother carried on as the chief carer until grandma died at the age of 85 in 1970.
By the time of my grandmother’s death my mother was 45 years old. Up to that point she had no signs of any mental imbalance. Within 12 months of her own mother dying she was almost confined to her room, hardly daring to venture downstairs and never leaving the house.
And now she was dead too.
My dad was now in his late 80’s and although in good shape my mother’s death had hit him hard. We had both decided that it would be better if he was looked after in a nursing home with 24 hour care. With Mum only dead a month and Dad looking frail and lost I found it hard to keep strong and positive during that time.
I took on the responsibility of sorting out the house for Dad, getting it ready to sell. It took a couple of days to go through all the cupboards and shelves, boxing up books and knick knacks. A lifetime of objects, papers and photographs rifled through in haste. The fate of once cherished items decided in seconds; some to be swept away to the charity shops or worse still taken to the council tip.
After a particularly long afternoon sorting through boxes I went upstairs and sat on my mother’s bed. The room had been her world for nearly 40 years. I glanced through the window onto the long lawn and rosebushes that must have brought a great deal of joy during her confined years. My eyes drifted along the walls, past photographs and pictures, along the dressing table, her brush and comb, mirror and jewellery box gathering dust in the afternoon light.
The dressing table mirror caught my reflection. At 47 years of age I was greying at the temples and looking tired. Without my mother or grandmothers looks I looked middle aged and frumpy.
Something bright caught my attention in the corner of the room; the Persian Carpet. Unlike me the carpet looked as bright and fresh as the day it was bought, over 100 years ago. I turned and brushed my hand over the soft pile bringing back memories of long forgotten afternoons in my Grandmother’s bedroom. After she had died my mother had brought the carpet back to her own house as an heirloom. And now Mum was gone the carpet would be mine. I gazed at the colours and the patterns weaving and winding in and out. I traced the patterns with my fingers round and round, some patterns like exotic flowers bursting in the Arabian heat. There was some uniformity, some subtle plan to this design. All the swirls and curls swept to the centre of the carpet. The individual detail seemed to be forming part of a larger more complex shape. I stood, stepping back to view the design from a distance. It seemed...yes I was sure...most definitely; the exotic pattern formed the shape of an elaborate eye.
As I looked deeper and deeper into the pattern the shapes and colours swam before me, sweeping me deeper and deeper into the hypnotic gaze.
And briefly, for a moment, I felt a sudden fear, as if I could never walk away...
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/21284/ayin-harsha