Everydayness

We seem to be finding comfort in the mundane, in the mediocre. We seem to be  blissfully disillusioned by all the luxury we're amidst...

"New year sales are here. I'll finally buy that dress!"

"He's online, why isn't he saying hi?"

"Treat me at least now, for your new job, car, house...!"

"I'll beat the traffic today and work from home!"

"Damn, the hangover!"

May be there'll come a day when we'll begin to find the mundane fascinating... May be our eyes will gleam at the everydayness of the violence, pettiness, negativity, backbiting, deaths.

When, then, will we start fighting the bigger fights?

[Context: 

http://www.asianage.com/opinion/columnists/040118/the-year-of-the-missing-wheres-our-humanity.html]

When the Mountains Kissed the Skies

The little Birdie insisted that I hear its tales – Apparently the Mountains and the Skies are green with envy. Watching you and me meet and greet, bicker and unite, gossip and laugh. They seem to be apart, miles and miles away. On some days, when the Birdie flies over the Mountains escorted by its lovers and then up in the Skies, I hear they plead to be linked… to rekindle old love. They plead with the Birdie & Co. to draw lines by their flight, by flapping their wings, creating ripples in the air, just to join the dots between the love-sick Mountains and Skies. Just to bridge their gap and draw them closer. But the Birdie told me it just smirks at their desperation and mocks their interspace. Mountains can kiss the Skies only in romantic poems and fairytales that humans pamper themselves with, yes? 

The Mountains once groaned to me, the Skies wept. They asked me how we meet so often, talk so much… How we hug and part, only to meet again and again… Is that even possible? That fortune? That proximity? The estrangement had made a cynic of the Mountains and the Skies. They now choose fear over hope, dusk over dawn, dissociation over warmth. But you and I! We are basking in hopes, dawns and warmths. But you and I! We are basking in passionate love. Is that even possible? That passion? That love?

May be on that inevitable day, when our lives tumble into that dreaded oblivion, we too will become like the Mountains and the Skies – distant, love-sick, envious. We too will drown in fears, dusks and dissociations. We too will yearn for rekindling zealous loves. Then we will look in awe at some foolish young lovers and wonder, ‘When did we turn so old?’

Avva

A tube splits its way through her nostrils, another disappears into her hospital gown to connect to her heart; tens of them enter and leave her body. Connected to her heart, lungs, kidneys, brain, tugging at her for dear life. Fluids of every kind, smells and tastes of which she abhors, bombard her veins. But there she lay, unaware of the in and out, unconscious to the life-giving and the life-draining. Avva - soft, kind, good-hearted. Our Avva.

Everything and everyone looks the same from the hospital bed - dull, dreary, lifeless, unexciting. The doctors are nice but she quite can't say why they keep shaking their heads all the time. She also can't say which is more painful- feeling the tubes piercing her skin or sensing that look of helplessness in her doctors' eyes. She wants to get up, tear away the tubes and make kadlepuri, chikki and ragi-mudde... But her skin is sore and red, her body swollen, her brain dying and her heart aching. Her heart, aching, to see some love on a familiar face. Perhaps that's why on seeing her grandson, she fought hard against dysfunctional nerve cells and splitting pain from every part of her body, and... recognised him. The fastest recognition goal she'd scored off late - she was ecstatic! Her heart leapt, so much so that the cardiograph lost its way. Tears rolled down their cheeks - his first or hers? - as they held hands and sat in silence for a while. Our Avva.

Familiar face - tick, love - tick, pain - double tick. Kadlepuri, chikki, ragi-mudde - zero.

The disease is mercilessly parasitic - feeding on her bit by bit everyday- gland by gland, nerve by nerve, organ by organ... To test her again that day, the nurse persisted, "Who is that? Do you know her?" She strained eyes to focus on her granddaughter's face and mumbled again. This time it and out a wee bit clearer - "Av-vi-ni". Yes that's her name... Right?... Yes... No?... Of course!... Uncertainty, fear of failing her test, despair in my eyes, splitting pain, the tube through her mouth - none of them could dampen her conviction to recognise me. She wants to ask me a hundred questions - How is thatha? Are you eating properly? When is Anna getting married? Are Appa and Amma still waiting outside? "Av-vi-ni", she called me that day. The sweetest my name has ever sounded. Even with the super-annoying nurse, even with that damn tube through her mouth. Our Avva.

Familiar face - tick, love - tick, pain - triple tick. Kadlepuri, chikki, ragi-mudde - zero.

The Idea of You

The wind that accompanies Your spirit gushes past my soul, fills it with the strongest of passions to brace the uncompromising terrain. A triumphant tale of undying spirit - the Idea of You.

The balm Your spirit smears across my cuts and bruises, soothes also the burning insides of the heart, scraped mercilessly by tempests of aches, era after another. The tranquilizing calm of anesthesia - the Idea of You.

The melodies of celebratory exaltation that traverse miles from the spaces of Your flute illuminate the darkest tunnels of my veins and arteries, make the oxygen in my blood come to life. The expanding aura of positive energy and unending adulation - the Idea of You.

You are but a stranger, of origins and purposes unknown. You may have traveled unknown lands, carrying a glowing ambition in your deeps... You may have touched many a lives, turned rags to riches... You may have helped answer a million questions on wars, peace and love. Yet, you remain a paradox of who may or not exist, like an elusive phantom in the dark.

But, the Idea of You lingers, as tantalizing as ever. The flutters of warmth the Idea of You evokes in my bosom equalizes the unfamiliarity that marks the being of You. The phantom of You is merely an enigma of existentialism... But the Idea of You, the very essence of my psyche.

Postcards

I still remember how your distinct calligraphy, lovely descriptions and beautiful stories could inspire awe. Do you still use those metaphors, still melt hearts? Yesterday, I frantically searched for, and located, the postcards you sent me. Yes, my routine exercise these days.

“Path”… “Flight”… The more I seem to try, the more they never seem to get lost.

***

“Path”. You had taught me that the path isn't supposed to be familiar or complete. For familiarity repels challenges. For the ends are never supposed to meet, it is we who can make that happen. I had prodded along, swimming against the tide, fighting the wind, dashing against gravity. Just so that I could prove you right when you repeated that I'd fall in love with passion en route.

Now, I scorn at familiar paths; I feel an unusual calm when paths are incomplete and ends don't meet. Now, I follow the religion of pure passion.

***

“Flight”. Back then, it had sounded so bizarre to me, when you asked me to see beauty in chaos. I had watched the pigeons fly for days on end. They flew from one feeder to another, across the lake, among people, above everyone. Ruffling feathers, pecking on food, flying in confused aimlessness. Chaos, I see. But beauty? You told me that's a state of mind... We see what we want to see - Chaos in beauty? Or beauty in chaos?

Watching the birds, I think I've been trying harder to see that beauty, to rise above things, to soar.

***

I've fallen in love, with the stoicism of the lake, the chaos of the pigeons, the resistance of the wind, the incompleteness of the path... because these postcards from you still inspire awe, still melt hearts.

Eyes

The last time the eyes met, how long ago was this? Those were full of life, brimming with joy! Perhaps it’s too difficult to see eye to eye now, perhaps doing that makes your eye flicker, again. What is it? Why does it flicker? So steadily, so beautifully.

*flicker*

Laying in arms, dreaming about the world’s fairy tales, thinking how quickly today might pass- this moment might pass, then looking eye to eye and then reassuring that such joy is meant to be… How long ago was this?

*flicker*

There goes another flutter inside. I hold my breath one more time. Yes, I’m waiting to hear why some things can’t last. You said that once, I wasn’t convinced. You said that again, that some things aren’t meant to be. Looking in the eyes, realising how painful that can be, we lay still. Calm, finally.

*flicker*

Why should all nice things end? I demand to know. Silence can’t be the answer! I’m terrified that a phenomenon is on the verge of death. May be that’s why the eyes look emotionless now... they can’t flicker anymore. Silence, again? The stillness can hear my heart racing. The words your silence speaks are far too many. I’m nervous. Love just died, the flicker succumbed. 

Still Breathing...

In a casual conversation with a friend, I broached the topic of creative writing- about how well people can write, how much people can go on writing, why people write when they are most affected, so on and so forth. People write when they need to vent, we said, and then it struck me- I hadn’t written in a bloody long time. This could be because of only two reasons (being busy hardly counts): (a) no time to feel, (b) no time to vent. I can’t decide which of the two is more dangerous, but yeah, they’re here. If you say I should choose the better of the two evils, I need the time to; that’s too precious to afford. 

So what if I don’t say “I miss you” or sigh “Ah, those were the days” anymore? So what if I can’t post on my blog? I’m still alive. Sorry, still breathing.