The obsessive need to make meaning must be given rest. The labeling is the undoing of experience. And the experience of the label. To just be, to do, not think or rationalize. Before or after. To not build a narrative. To quell the story teller within. To tell her to look elsewhere. Or perhaps to resign. Retire. voluntarily. Why wait for it to be forced? Which in the mind’s world follows no temporal rules. Or spatial. Everything is in the now that has slipped into the then in the saying of it. Or the experiencing. Ask her to travel, look around, take in, but keep it all there. With nothing to spew in hypocritical false sounding high falutin vocabulary, borrowed jargon from acquaintances in high places. Originality could finally be there. In silence. It doesn’t matter if someone got there first. Its worth a shot.
She may argue. Or protest. Or as is more characteristic of her, agree, and do as she wishes. Much like you. But so unlike you. A life of turning, and turning. A deaf ear. A blind eye.
You. Dancing to folk songs in your aviators with a tee and a dupatta wrapped around as a skirt and osho chappals, with the village mela amused by you, you laugh. Walking barefoot along manicured gardens of the urban rich, braving the summer sun and the guard charging with a lathi for trespassing, you laugh. Desire, adventure and laughter are your constant companions. And music.
She. Yes, there is music, and adventure, and desire, and laughter. But misshapen in their mirrored state. For she must think. And then some more. The silence of the nights is hers. She feels lost in the frenzy of daylight. She hides from the sun but shadows you. She collects the bruises and the kisses you gather through the day, and by night she knots them in an entangled mesh of pain, regret and lovelessness.
Every morning she expects you to give in to her stories, but you pick up her work in ecstasy and hang it around the house.
Unknown to you, the nights have become difficult for her now, surrounded by her works. As you sleep peacefully, she hears screams that paralyse her and as her own works come to life, she finds herself unknotting her last piece. Lying in a corner with her ears shut tight, she sees the kisses flying out and knows you will rejoice in the morning dew. She sees the bruises go up to the stars and heal themselves in a winter night’s breeze.
You wake up and find her gone. You wonder, but the possibilities of a brand new day quickly take your mind off your worries.
Meanwhile, she had walked out by herself in the soft morning sun. Unafraid. She had looked back to twilight when sitting in a corner thinking about kisses that couldn’t hurt anymore and bruises that could heal, knotting up her fingers without a story, she had found a sudden tedium in the thinking. Thinking that was the means to an end, and the end in itself. The journey and the destination. But could she weave stories if she didn’t think? Who knew? She didn’t. She had set out, in a rare moment of un-thought, and started walking. As she walked, she drank the dew off the leaves, and decided to let go of the stories. Let them be with who they belong.
The neighbours don’t find the lights on at night now. They see you every morning stepping out in the sun, shadowless, drinking the morning dew, opening your arms out to the breeze. They don’t see wall hangings in your rooms through their windows anymore, and find themselves at ease to come over for tea. You are inundated with invitations. Life is good.
She is traveling. She does not weave anymore. She occasionally buys postcards to send to you, but gives them away to children she meets. Letters are stories. The neighbours wonder at her quiet. Some wait for the dam to break but she knows there will be no rushing waters if and when it does. It flows. At its pace. The river of life. And thoughts float away in little paper boats. She still lies awake through nights, naming countries and cities alphabetically. She doesn’t make plans. She resists the urge to read. She dances sometimes when she is by herself. She sits down to write, allows herself to pen things down. But excessive thought makes her dizzy. She lets go, steps out and sleeps on the fresh grass. Life is good.
Turning and turning, meaning making must find a new address.
She may argue. Or protest. Or as is more characteristic of her, agree, and do as she wishes. Much like you. But so unlike you. A life of turning, and turning. A deaf ear. A blind eye.
You. Dancing to folk songs in your aviators with a tee and a dupatta wrapped around as a skirt and osho chappals, with the village mela amused by you, you laugh. Walking barefoot along manicured gardens of the urban rich, braving the summer sun and the guard charging with a lathi for trespassing, you laugh. Desire, adventure and laughter are your constant companions. And music.
She. Yes, there is music, and adventure, and desire, and laughter. But misshapen in their mirrored state. For she must think. And then some more. The silence of the nights is hers. She feels lost in the frenzy of daylight. She hides from the sun but shadows you. She collects the bruises and the kisses you gather through the day, and by night she knots them in an entangled mesh of pain, regret and lovelessness.
Every morning she expects you to give in to her stories, but you pick up her work in ecstasy and hang it around the house.
Unknown to you, the nights have become difficult for her now, surrounded by her works. As you sleep peacefully, she hears screams that paralyse her and as her own works come to life, she finds herself unknotting her last piece. Lying in a corner with her ears shut tight, she sees the kisses flying out and knows you will rejoice in the morning dew. She sees the bruises go up to the stars and heal themselves in a winter night’s breeze.
You wake up and find her gone. You wonder, but the possibilities of a brand new day quickly take your mind off your worries.
Meanwhile, she had walked out by herself in the soft morning sun. Unafraid. She had looked back to twilight when sitting in a corner thinking about kisses that couldn’t hurt anymore and bruises that could heal, knotting up her fingers without a story, she had found a sudden tedium in the thinking. Thinking that was the means to an end, and the end in itself. The journey and the destination. But could she weave stories if she didn’t think? Who knew? She didn’t. She had set out, in a rare moment of un-thought, and started walking. As she walked, she drank the dew off the leaves, and decided to let go of the stories. Let them be with who they belong.
The neighbours don’t find the lights on at night now. They see you every morning stepping out in the sun, shadowless, drinking the morning dew, opening your arms out to the breeze. They don’t see wall hangings in your rooms through their windows anymore, and find themselves at ease to come over for tea. You are inundated with invitations. Life is good.
She is traveling. She does not weave anymore. She occasionally buys postcards to send to you, but gives them away to children she meets. Letters are stories. The neighbours wonder at her quiet. Some wait for the dam to break but she knows there will be no rushing waters if and when it does. It flows. At its pace. The river of life. And thoughts float away in little paper boats. She still lies awake through nights, naming countries and cities alphabetically. She doesn’t make plans. She resists the urge to read. She dances sometimes when she is by herself. She sits down to write, allows herself to pen things down. But excessive thought makes her dizzy. She lets go, steps out and sleeps on the fresh grass. Life is good.
Turning and turning, meaning making must find a new address.
No comments:
Post a Comment