Dr: Yes a baby girl. I Fear there is No Cure

I’d have liked it if my birth was an environmental event. Some pathetic fallacy that I could prop up against. Pounding rain was Mars’ herald. In marwadi fashion someone ran from our house to a relative’s beating a plate announcing his birth. Titania came with first light after a moonless night. Their entry on stage was cued with lights and sound, drama and romance. I came at 6.06 am. There is no adjective for my birth. I don’t know if the dawn was soft or bright or unusually dark. I was just born. And despite nature I was born with the love gene.

Jr. Kg. I’d staked out my territory. I defended when he stuttered and looked disdainfully upon the class hunk.
Class 1: I got punished with guy and tentatively thought about holding hands.
Class 3: My mind found itself instinctively understanding smarmy lyrics like “duniya maange apni muraade, main toh mangu saajan, rahen salaamat mera sajna aur sajna ka aangan.’ Yes really. All bloggers are on a blogger oath to forget this.
So you get the picture. I can not help this. I was born this way. Way before books and romantic movies got hold of me and worsened the situation. Some people are born honest. Others are born happy. I was born believing.
When I learnt words I asked “How did mumma and papa get married?” and I got the answer, “Mumma proposed to Papa at the airport.” That’s it. There was no going back.
The story grew yearly. Different perspectives were added. How Mrs. H waited 6 months while Mr. H came back from his conference. How Mr. H had gone on a fast unto death till his mother agreed. How Mr. H dragged Uncle Red from the horse races to enlist his help. How Uncle Red sent out the wedding cards so that the match could not be canceled. There was a whole real life film in the family. And testimony to it was the chemistry between Mr. and Mrs. H.

Now we’d heard the tale from every possible source but Mrs. H. It was generally acknowledged in the family that Mr. H is the more romantic and expressive while Mrs. H still plays hard to get. It just didn’t seem to gel with the image of a woman who proposed and then waited for an answer. No matter how many times we asked her how and why and what she was thinking all you could drag out of her was a “don’t remind me. The foolishest thing I did.” We’d all laugh and put it down to her dry character.
But recently Paris and I cornered Mrs. H. We decided that an answer must be had and that it was a mite suspicious that she never said a word. Was Titania illegit? Hehhe.

So we hounded and hounded till exasperated Mrs. H said, “oof… he promised me that he’d take me for a holiday every year.” Silence. I could tell she was serious. After all these years this was the truth behind the Great Love Story. Mrs. H hurriedly added, “and he was the decentest guy I knew. Better than the options my father was coming up with.” Suddenly it all made sense. My mother was not a romantic. She was practical. She got married for security and comfort and because the known devil also happened to be man about town.

I have been proposed to a couple of times. They were people I adored and rich and could have offered me the world both emotionally and otherwise. But I couldn’t offer it back. If I’d accepted them I’d have been Mrs. H.
On this issue I am never going to want to be my mother. I was perplexed. My ailment seemed even worse when I realized that the love gene was not inherited but actually something that was all mine. I couldn’t blame my mother for my irrational choices.
Then I was talking to Salvatore and he laughed and said, “but don’t you see…you’re like Mr. H. You’ve taken after him.” Ahhh.
I always thought that I wanted Heathcliff but now I have to think that maybe I am Heathcliff.