Sylvia Plath and I. Part-1.

I was getting worried about becoming too happily stodgily practical: instead of studying Psychology for instance or singing or tidy my table --- I go make a cup of coffee, or slide out to notice the clouds, or ponder about the electromagnetic spectrum and it's beauty. Whoa, I said to myself. You will escape into domesticity and stifle yourself by falling head-fast into a bowl of cookie batter.

And just now, I pick up Sylvia Plath's novel, "The Bell Jar." And she works off her depression over fighting the urge to travel to far off lands, for she felt suffocated at the thought of staying at a place for over 19 years, over Ted Hughes, (One person, I most hate) and still moves to New York and cooks sausage and breathes. Bless her. I feel my life linked to her, somehow.

Right from reading her poem, 'The Mirror' to following her works ceaselessly. I can still hear her voice in my head, that precious voice of hers that read her own poem; Daddy. The thought of which sends a shiver down my spine. But her suicide, I felt I was reduplicating myself in the cold monsoon of 2014. Only I couldn't drown. I suppose, I'll always be over vulnerable, slightly paranoid.

I was afraid of getting old. I was afraid of adulthood. Spare me from cooking three meals a day-spare me from the relentless cage of routine and rote- I want to be free-free to know other people and their backgrounds-free to move to different parts of the world so that I could ponder upon the customs, morals and standards besides my own. I want to think, I want to learn, I want to be hurt, I want to be cherished, to be omniscient. I want to be able to do a lot of things. But oh, I cry out loud silently. I am strong. But to what extent? I am I. The wires in my head had short-circuited long ago.

I advanced towards The Bell Jar. I played through the pages. The scent of a library book, a mixed scent, agitated by passing through hundreds of hands, worn-out yet beautiful. It tugs at my heartstrings. I want to own the book. All of Sylvia Plath's books. Are the coincidences listening? After all, everything in life was a coincidence, that is what I wanted to believe.

I stop at a random page somewhere in the middle of the book. I'm stunned. A chill down the spine yet again. Just one difference, now I had goosebumps too. I found my eyes constantly clinging to a paragraph. My thoughts had been penned down there. I felt happy. I wanted to be her. I wanted to be her. For once, both the mind and the heart wanted the same thing.

" I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life."- Sylvia Plath.

I spent my days listening to her read out her poems in absolute brilliance. And then, a documentary on her. And then, her books. And then, her interviews. And then, her personal life. And then, her fears. And then, her interests. And then, it continued. The window on my left let in a cool breeze on this cold-monsoon evening. That didn't distract me either. I was listening to a classic. I was silent. All my senses could notice was her works. I continue reading the book.. I know this woman. Some how. Her gaze is known. I didn't know how or why.