Piero Fornasetti painted her over and over and over again. He was haunted, consumed, inspired. . . filled with the magic that infuses the artist's soul to create the images which eventually become their legacy. But Lina Cavalieri was just one woman. Back to a man recognizing a single woman can have many faces, many stories, many dimensions.
Back to the home I left years ago. . .
Lina's face captivated me from the moment I laid eyes on her. I saw the single woman, but I also saw the multitudes of women that comprised that single face. I understood Piero. I would be a collector always. For me, home will always flourish with the blossoms of first love. Back to always being a romantic, and never giving up hope.
And just like Harold Moscowitz, the love of my life, I learned that the things we hold on to, the things we carry closest to our heart, are ephemeral. Easily shattered, fluttering on gossamer, a fragile whisper away from broken. Back to learning that the man I married, against my parents' will, against all odds because I thought he was good, would not understand the love of one woman. He would cheat for seven years and A would never know. But back to the woman who loves life, loves her friends and her family, loves teaching, loves children, and above all else, her dogs. (and pizza).
Back to learning a law I never knew until. . . I had no choice. Back to New York's No Fault state. No loyalty to a single face, and no repercussions. Back to leaving with my pride intact, and my baby boy Harold Moscowitz held high. Back to knowing who I was, and knowing integrity can never be purchased.
. . . but also back to the days when I learned the hard way that abandoning an apartment, and a home, can also result in a legal goodbye. The hours you spend working to purchase the things that made your home your heart can, by the casual flourish of a legal pen, vanish. And so. . . back to taking what only one suitcase can fit.
I took her. And I reinvented her as Piero would have:
And like Piero, I transformed her, over and over, in each new home.
There would be losses. The now priceless Tower of Babel scarf my mother gifted me when I became English Chair at The Dalton School that he would take, but never understand, appreciate, or value its meaning. The books I collected over a lifetime, the apartment I furnished with my time, my heart, my own money. Back to accepting the losses, and trusting in the legendary curses that hurt only those who do not understand. Back to my mother saying, "Let it go. It will always be yours in your heart."
Back to my mother adding to my collection:
And then. . . the name. Anisha Lakhani. A name I wrote my first novel under. . . sold my first original screenplay, wrote and sold and published all my articles. . . my life's work. Back to going back and forth. Understanding when my family asked, "But why?" yet clinging to my pride. Back to changing back and forth on social media, back to wrestling with the demon I have always fought hardest my entire life: vanity. Back to always reverting to Lakhani because it represented all I had done in my life. . .but now, back to knowing none of that matters more than my real name.
Back to Anisha Ahooja. Because Lakhani was the dust I walked on, the lies none of us deserve, the name that represents everything Back to A would rather die than ever be again. A is for Ahooja. Back to the small family of four who immigrated to the United States in 1980 with every pure hope and dream in their heart. Back to living on $20 a week. Back to the genius that is my father, the grace and dignity which define my mother, the humor and loyalty underscoring all my brother represents. Back to who we were then, who we are today, who I am and have always been... and who NO Lakhani will ever be no matter how hard they chase the American dollar they so badly crave. Back to knowing the dream was never about the dollar. Some things can't be bought. Duh.
Back to loyalty, and the belief that one love can inspire a lifetime. Back to Ahooja, because L is for liar, and A is for awesome and always and above all, Ahooja. Word.
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