heart of darkness

It is not unexpected…this eventual outcome of events follows the age old pattern, and yet there is disappointment. damned hope refuses to budge, to adhere to the ritual…rears its optimistic head until clobbered down once again and shown its rightful place.

there is no fighting the inevitable. you could retract into your shell, which you will. if not now, then all of a sudden, in the most seemingly social of your moments you will withdraw. when all the sadness of the world will decide to pierce through your chest and fill your heart. but even then the saddest lines will elude you. the silences will linger. as always, memories of happier days may give momentary respite but will never weigh on the despair. even so, you will seek such respite. you know it will have to be induced, for it finds no energy to come by itself. 

but as you grope for familiar trails, you will falter and all roads will converge and lead into the heart of darkness in all its stark violence and disdain. you will hope to disintegrate. the wrath of love will not spare anything, whether in its way or otherwise. and in such power it could redeem you. but it won’t. it will burn down all that was good, all that could have dispelled the corruption. but it will let the darkness in the centre stay. and breathe. heavy breaths that will repay their debt, spewing smoke on the ashen remains of what was good, efface what even the onslaughts of a raging love could not touch, that which is recorded in no memory but flows in the veins, with the blood. that which is enmeshed with the heart beat, with those breaths long before they became so labored. the light that was and that never did die out despite all the darkness.

and you wonder which of these loves left you the legacy of hope…the one that gave and gave even when there seemed nothing to give. or the one that consumed it all in an unparalleled moment of fury. and even as you wonder, you are only too aware of the final outcome. the incorrigible seed of expectation. its unavoidable murder in the most heinous of ways. the expected withdrawal into the heart of darkness in a desperate but vain bid to stop it from spreading. the cycle will go on and even as you slowly begin to lose yourself in the darkness, bits of you will remain. refuse to surrender. despite all odds. the legacy of hope after all is the curse you are meant to live with. and death will always be the luxury you cannot afford.

the fallen self - diary entry of the dying word

The silences have seeped in...driven us out...and fortified themselves...brought with them their inadequacy that has attached itself inextricably to the self...the self, or more appropriately, its remnants, gave up their struggle when the mirror cracked open the carefully built veneer...the sighs have tired of their own echo and surrendered...its uneven pace has surprised time itself...the sullied hands have screams painted in crimson, screams that await a hand willing to taint itself...the cracked feet might have had a story...which will never be written now...and so they languish, and crack some more...in our hurry though, we forgot the shards of memories we had tucked away...and so, sometimes they are ploughed out, at others they pop out of their own will...and through the frosted glass of quiet, they tell their own story, however much they can, or are allowed to...of a time when laughter did not ring hollow in the entire being, when treat could save one from the trick, when one could lose oneself knowing one would be found, when nightfall didn't fill one with fear...when the rest of the story wasn't a blur...even as the glass shatters, the frost remains...the eyes see, and see through, to an endless gaze that knows not where it started or where it could be headed or even bother about what is on the way...the mind wanders, terrain after terrain of muted nothingness, at another time it might have recognized or even recreated, at another time...hunger has learnt to relish starvation, or at least appears to have made peace...every once in a while, the torn self dares the ruthless mirror, foolishly...ever once in a while it hears a voice and responds with all it has (which is but silence) and then is returned the favor...every once in a while it finds the word "dream" written with a shaky hand on a frosted glass of memory, only to slip out of its hands and become disfigured beyond recognition...every once in a while, a miniscule sigh challenges the mighty silences, if only with one fleeting breath, and is met with the iron clutch of a well fed opponent that first makes the self gasp desperately for breath, and then lets go right on the brink of absolute freedom...and so life, or whatever it is they call it, or don't, in this mute world, goes on, in the now familiar shadow of silences, the self, with failings upon failings leeched on to it, gnaws at its own flesh...from afar, we watch and speak in murmurs now, we know the inevitable, we have known it for some time now...indeed, we could have kept trying, drawing out memories, writing out dreams, calling out with all the strength we could muster...but when we saw a debilitated spirit collapse at the threshold of our camp that day, we knew. We might have been able to save her, nurse her, but not with a leech sucking everything out...we were powerless against the leeches...only the spirit could have destroyed it, but she was too weak...and the leech never allowed her to regain strength...and so we knew. Now it was going to be but a matter of time. Time – the unwilling traitor, whose jagged edges were wielded well by the enemy, and still are...resignedly, as we formed ourselves into a eulogy, we realized, alas! the self would not be granted even that privilege...and so we wait, by the ocean, when the time comes, we, my comrades and I, shall hold hands and walk into the water.

The Fallen Self – diary entry of the dying word

The silences have seeped in...driven us out...and fortified themselves...brought with them their inadequacy that has attached itself inextricably to the self...the self, or more appropriately, its remnants, gave up their struggle when the mirror cracked open the carefully built veneer...the sighs have tired of their own echo and surrendered...its uneven pace has surprised time itself...the sullied hands have screams painted in crimson, screams that await a hand willing to taint itself...the cracked feet might have had a story...which will never be written now...and so they languish, and crack some more...in our hurry though, we forgot the shards of memories we had tucked away...and so, sometimes they are ploughed out, at others they pop out of their own will...and through the frosted glass of quiet, they tell their own story, however much they can, or are allowed to...of a time when laughter did not ring hollow in the entire being, when treat could save one from the trick, when one could lose oneself knowing one would be found, when nightfall didn't fill one with fear...when the rest of the story wasn't a blur...even as the glass shatters, the frost remains...the eyes see, and see through, to an endless gaze that knows not where it started or where it could be headed or even bother about what is on the way...the mind wanders, terrain after terrain of muted nothingness, at another time it might have recognized or even recreated, at another time...hunger has learnt to relish starvation, or at least appears to have made peace...every once in a while, the torn self dares the ruthless mirror, foolishly...ever once in a while it hears a voice and responds with all it has (which is but silence) and then is returned the favor...every once in a while it finds the word "dream" written with a shaky hand on a frosted glass of memory, only to slip out of its hands and become disfigured beyond recognition...every once in a while, a miniscule sigh challenges the mighty silences, if only with one fleeting breath, and is met with the iron clutch of a well fed opponent that first makes the self gasp desperately for breath, and then lets go right on the brink of absolute freedom...and so life, or whatever it is they call it, or don't, in this mute world, goes on, in the now familiar shadow of silences, the self, with failings upon failings leeched on to it, gnaws at its own flesh...from afar, we watch and speak in murmurs now, we know the inevitable, we have known it for some time now...indeed, we could have kept trying, drawing out memories, writing out dreams, calling out with all the strength we could muster...but when we saw a debilitated spirit collapse at the threshold of our camp that day, we knew. We might have been able to save her, nurse her, but not with a leech sucking everything out...we were powerless against the leeches...only the spirit could have destroyed it, but she was too weak...and the leech never allowed her to regain strength...and so we knew. Now it was going to be but a matter of time. Time – the unwilling traitor, whose jagged edges were wielded well by the enemy, and still are...resignedly, as we formed ourselves into a eulogy, we realized, alas! the self would not be granted even that privilege...and so we wait, by the ocean, when the time comes, we, my comrades and I, shall hold hands and walk into the water.

the self

I

time does not concern itself with expectations anymore...the days are happy losing themselves in one another...status quo is finally adjusting to the prolonged moment of crisis...resignation is metamorphing into resolve (until cinderella time)...dreams are blaspheming against reality...hope is back in fashion (with the world)...silence continues to be overrated...the myth of love stays enchanting...weather still makes for conversation (and how)...smiles on so many of these faces seem cheesy... the picture is moving out from the frames and settling elsewhere...make believe happens all the time...a room of one's own remains worth it (whatever it takes)...age shows itself in the cracks of the heels...(grey hair doesn’t count anymore)...health insurance is definitely a good idea...too much comfort is not...settling down has got to do with state of mind...rather than marital status...winter smoke is recommended...summer...ummm...maybe sunscreen...taking the easy way out was never easier...15 seconds are still tempting...apparently 140 characters is all it takes...less may be more, but its still about "more"...deadpan is acceptable...nay advisable...veil the void by choking up spaces...for empty spaces will find mirrors...and reflection is an absolute no-no! meaning is constantly being dissected...but not deciphered...the choice to not make a choice is still a choice...television is enlightening (self discovery within and outside of the labels is possible… much practiced…nevertheless Faustian)...the self is shifting...

 II

the koyal’s at it all day long…drowning noises never quite do…there is still comfort in the written word…the spoken remains suspect…golden silence has considerably gone down in market value…it is imprisonment, either way…uplifting, the thoughts of men (and women)…your apathy is much unwelcome, but accepted nevertheless…flossing never quite caught on in this part of the world…the in betweens never tried the datun either…didn’t think they missed anything… loss of the real needn’t be couched in theoretical terms…look away…staring at the phone won’t make it ring…shutting your ears won’t make it stop…never act despite yourself…don’t be too hard on yourself, if you do…freedom will remain elusive…love, illusive…reading the constitutive document of your country is a good idea…whether it enchants you, or not…must one believe in something? (after the post modernists’ tryst with metanarratives, is it even possible?)…empty words flash on a screen...erased once the favor is returned…its alright to be a bit slow on the uptake…keeping pace is good, if only with yourself…or perhaps, most importantly, with yourself…agony aunts need no qualifications…the reward principle might need reworking…appealing to reason is passé…appealing to emotion, more so…do you find what you look for in the mirror? Its easy, when you define yourself according to another’s dictionary…then all you are looking for in the mirror is acne…once again, the self is shifting…this time…into the mirror…

 III

never underestimate the power of a hug…or a kind word…timing is everything…there will always be one blanks too many, that will never get filled…the disconnect will grow out of seemingly inconsequential things…drink plenty of water, irrespective of season…appreciate its availability (think of some famished African country with no drinkable water, if you want to go by popular western imagination)…marvel at the ingenuity of the neighborhood slum kids…or your mother’s, when she churns out delightful supper despite being out of groceries…keep talking, even if it is to yourself…you will save yourself the shock of helpless muteness when the world reaches out to you…sometimes it does…know however that reaching out is not a sign of concern…practice choice…start with choosing what you want to eat from the menu…don’t be afraid of getting it wrong…slowly move on to informed choices…try all ways of preparing eggs, and decide which one you like the most…its alright to stick by preferred choices, but every once in a while, explore…traveling is not about the daily commute to the work place…get acquainted with your own history…you will always be under-read, don’t let that bother you… don’t be apologetic about sentimentalizing…your past will never get unhinged, learn to live with it…its alright if you can’t sing, or dance, or play something…eventually the mosquito repellant becomes ineffective…but the illusion is still comforting…move out of your comfort zone…think of the other…as you walk in his shoes, you will find, the self is shifting…

 IV

television will not come to the rescue, every time…light will hurt just enough…people are getting used to suffering…distance is being measured in chewing gums…silences are speaking up…and talking down…everyone likes being proved right…you will invariably be proved wrong, even about yourself…fantasies have filed for bankruptcy; their flight operations have long since ceased…khichdi – mom made – is still the best…there’ll always be that one song you don’t want to hear when someone decides to play it all over…when you look back, life is just that handful of stories…the ones that stayed, and with which you will regale your grandchildren someday…there’s no going back…forgetful time feels the need to leave its imprints…you can trace, but never return…you will lose what kept you afloat all of your life…habit will replace passion…words will stop vying for depth…blabber is the only conversation you can have with some people…childish meaning is still hung up on hide and seek…dire straits will always be a rock band for some…there are no free lunches, but unsolicited advice is free and floating all around…loneliness will have to be lived out…solitude better be got used to…words will fail you, like much else…the world may be prettier in black and white…color may begin to offend…every discovery is but a self discovery…essences may be comforting, but long undone…no wonder then, you will find, the self shifting…but always…always already…

madwoman in the attic

The madwoman in the attic is at it again…once again trying to find herself in words that make no sense to them…words dismissed as easily as her existence…diminished…the loss of an entire being means nothing to their world…she was not ever one of them…though she tried…but little did she know that once condemned, perhaps the Gods might still reconsider, but there is a reason men are not Gods! 

And so it must be…the solitude must be lived with…the questions, the cries must be stifled…the fears, the anxieties must be hidden from their ever suspecting, cruel eyes…the onslaughts of love must be borne…acknowledgment there shall be – but only of a certain denial…weave your stories Bertha, for that is all that you have…to call your own…absolve them, if you find it in your crazy heart…fight, if you so choose…without the expectation of victory…they will get you…for your silence, as for your voice…but never, never Bertha, think of why you are in the attic…you will never know…for they will not tell you anything, except that you are mad…you scare them…madness in anything and almost everything…your violence will be the manifestation of that insanity…but their ways of holding your violence will always be looked at sympathetically...for they are ‘sane’, remember? They have judged you, and their verdict is all that matters…blood isn’t thicker than water, you realized the day they said ”She sucked the blood: she said she'd drain my heart”…if only they knew what that truly meant…they never ask you how it is in the attic…if you are lonely…and you wonder are monsters afraid of anything? If not, how will you tell them you are not the monster they make you out to be? 

The doors were closed and locked years ago…there is no way out…except a forced one…when you will burn down the walls of your prison…and fly away…amidst expressions of seeming affection and care…where were they when you needed them? You know the madness (their version of it) will need to come to an end…and you will give in for them to go on…their redemption will always be in your damnation…you will let them believe so…and give them what they want…they will not understand it, so give up that very last expectation you seem to have hidden in your closed fists…palms open, arms stretched, as you fall, remember, even in your death my dear, you shall, but remain, the madwoman in the attic. 

p.s. - Forgive me Antoinette...i call you by the name they gave you...but the prison walls never knew you, for you...the attic had always imprisoned the Bertha in you, never the Antoinette...

roads taken.more or less.

You go chasing a dream that can never be and lose sense of the realities that tether you to the very safety net you scramble for. You know the inappropriateness of your pursuits, and the heart is so many chambers, they never told you which part of it to follow… the road less taken was always the one the moral part of your head or heart or whatever that be is fine with…this base immoral fragile existence will not last forever you know that, but it will last long enough for you to shatter faith, to live a seasoned lifetime of guilt, and to hold yourself in perpetual contempt. The road less taken could be anything. It could be this guilt-ridden road. That the majority fears to tread… and you say this, despite the echoes in your head of – “fools rush in where angels fear to tread."

Many of us live our lives like there is no tomorrow. Many of us live it knowing there is one, and we are answerable for what we make of it. Some of us have the comfort of forgetting. The luxury of remembering just what they want to, and consigning the rest of it to the domain of fiction, the oblivion of non-existence. Reducing truth to the version that they choose to believe in. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

But somewhere on a lonely stretch, with no music pounding in your ears (maybe you always knew why it had to be so loud), or little yellow flowers on either side to distract you, or pending chore occupying your mind space, somewhere in between the silence and its deafening echo, maybe you would acknowledge, for a split second, if not more, of what really happened. Not what you choose to believe happened, nor what they thought happened. Just the fact of the matter, as they like to put it. That wasn’t a version. Comfortable or otherwise. Comforting or otherwise.

You can never avoid the truth, but you can avoid those who remind you of it. You can look away. Ignore. Pretend they don’t exist. For in the absence of witness, maybe truth will disintegrate, or in any case would be easier to dismiss. In the denunciation will be the freedom to choose belief, and circumstances, to draw up the canvas of memory with the colors you like. And then, there will always be more important things to do. More that demands, and perhaps would deserve your time, your attention, or even that split second glance. As yours lingers for just a second longer, you find yourself, yet again, on the verge of losing a grip that is so important to be held, and find yourself saved, if at all, by their decided denial of the fact of your existence. There is hope. In this anonymity. In this invisibility. In the knowledge of truth. Of both versions, theirs and yours.

And in the end, it never happened, they would say. Or perhaps, more appropriately, that nothing happened. The eyes might betray but in words, and intent, they will find you in agreement, with whatever is said. It will cease to matter perhaps, with some effort. Maybe more. Over time. In the course of things. With the repeated denial of your existence. With the benign and eager acknowledgment of other, new ones. Life will, slowly, go back to the way it was, in some ways. But only some. The losses will hurt. Was it worth it, you might ask yourself, for the hundredth time.

In the final analysis, its all the same.

post Wide Sargasso Sea

Sometimes even the stories don’t redeem. Leave you with memories of all that you wanted to forget…and lines that echo – with a meaning of their own… 

“I too can wait – for the day when she is only a memory to be avoided, locked away, and like all memories a legend. Or a lie…” 

“If I was bound for hell let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing.” 

“As for my confused impressions they will never be written. There are blanks in my mind that cannot be filled up.” 

Perhaps it is always the same story. Who knows…who is to say, what truths you bare, what lies you hide. I know of you what you tell me. But I know you not. All of the fears come back to haunt you. 

The lines on my palm – hold the secret, I’m told. No matter how intently I look, I fail to decipher. I find myself believing that the secret keeps changing. Perhaps it passes on – with every handshake. 

I think I will turn off the dazzle of the lights – and find what I am looking for in the darkness of the night…bereft of the stars. The full moon would perhaps be too bright…so I will allow the clouds. Sometimes, they become rebellious. All of them. The lights shine brighter than usual – hurt my eyes. Even when they are closed. The stars and clouds collude. And conspire. Not the moon. I know. I have a friend in him. It could be a figment of my imagination – who is to say – there is much I say to delude myself. We are never so completely fooled, they say, as when we fool ourselves. 

I am not sure where the scratches on my body came from. The scars have held on to their memory though. They may fade with time, like the faded colors of the gold fish in the aquarium. I wonder if she recognizes herself anymore, patches of the resplendence could have served to remind of a colorful past, if they weren’t ugly. Is she sick, someone asked? No she’s not, I want to tell them. They knew her only in her glory, but the ignominy is her own. She swims, together with the others. All day. Perhaps they understand her. Or perhaps she has let all expectation fade away too. 

Much else falls into the theme. The chipped edges of the walls. The seepage on the ceiling. The pile of un-opened newspapers. 

Much else defies the theme. The fresh paint on the feature wall – textured. And deliberately red. The pictures, mostly of the past, but too alive to stay there. The painting of a rose – framed, gifted, cherished. The song playing on the laptop. 

There will always be much. On either side. Sitting on the fence, I am yet to decide which way I go.