Saturday, March 28, 2009

Journey

I confess. I saw eternity the other day. In the bustle. In the grey platform. In the bird-like animals along the high rising over bridge which must have been men and women in reality. My eyes were moist with silhouettes. I couldn’t see anything… only voices and noises flew along the heating air. I felt the dirty water licking the hemline of my long, flowing skirt…

The train was rushing in…
The world was spinning fast…
I gasped for breath…
My stomach gave a lurch…
A farewell smile blurred out of view…
The whistle could burst my ears…

I wanted to look away. But anyway, I couldn’t see anything… only sounds resonated inside my throat. I was dry and full. So I decided to keep still. Okay, I admit, I couldn’t have moved in any case. Roots, strong… adamant… rowdy, kept me fixed to the spot where I stood.

Did I stand at all?

And then the train came… Chugging and shrugging into a slothful halt.
Finally, I saw countless moves… the sea of unleashed colours which must have been men and women in reality.

The chocolate was melting inside the warmth of five clutching fingers…
My jaw was stiff with ache…
My cheek-muscles twitched…
And then…

Nothing happened. Only that I became deaf. Blank. Numb. It was an age before I discovered a change. A slight change. A beautiful change. A change that was not a change at all. It was all the same… the crowd… the fading sounds… the smudging colours… the ash jeans and black skirt… only that another five fingers clasped the melting chocolate over the previous five. It didn’t feel like a change, in fact. It was an end. A completion most obvious. A gift. An eternity.

One more shrill screech, and the train slowly left the station. I wanted to crane my neck for a last glance. But I was too full. Too heavy. Too captivated to move. The blue kurta and ash jeans still hung loose inside my skull… a smile that I tried to recollect couldn’t find a way out. My lips were parched and dead. Yet the train gathered speed… yet the crowd was scurrying about… yet the blue bench stared blatantly into my eyes… yet a waving hand disappeared among a thousand businesses...

Only I remained. Rooted. Quiet with inertia. Frozen with light. I wanted to close my eyes. I wanted to cry. I wanted to flee… to die…
But there I was! Standing amidst distorted images of reveries, realities and dreams. The whole of my consciousness was flooding with a glow… the beam was drenching my soul… liberating my pains… sweeping away all shadows of dilemma and doubts.

I knew at the instant, that I’ve undergone a journey... it was a religious cruise down my psyche. I felt it too deeply to deny.

I didn’t care whether my eyes were red… whether my hands were sticky with the remnants of melted cocoa... all I could manage is to utter “Happy Birthday”…
I needed it.
I was indeed born again.

Saturday, March 7, 2009

Questions and Answers


But of course some questions do not have any answer is all that I manage to convince myself. Finally. No, convince will be incorrect to use. Argue would be better. It shocks me every time I realize that questions and spring are independent of each other. The temporal similitude of origin disturbs me. The co-incidental complement between the two seems extremely vexing. May be its only my unimaginative nature that refuses to accept any impediment to the linear flow of sense.

Or may be, I’ll say, I imagine too much. That is what makes reality all the more incoherent and illegible. Images simply swim inside my cerebrum. Sounds flutter and then fade away. All what remains is a set of questions that seems to have no answer. Bloody shimuls rain over my shoulders while the answers that never were lulls me dead.

It’s weird to die everyday.
It really is.

I have a fetish for communication. For touching finger-tips instead of kisses. For phone calls instead of Bournvilles. It might make me odd… but one can hardly deny one’s dislikes. And likes, of course. Communication leads to lesser questions. Better answers. And bonding. The attachment that I am always deprived of.

Am I complaining?
Do I know what satisfies my queer needs?
Am I still the child that Mom tries to spot in me every time I get out of control?
Can unconditional love exist but for in myths?
How long will I be able to persist with this search?

Questions never fetch me any answers. Instead, they take me to mellow winter afternoons of orange dust and dreamy smokes. Of the telebhaja breeze. Of the chill making my nostrils arid. Of the golden light trickling down my ruffled hair. Of gutters blocked with empty Pepsi cans. Of the cozy constriction of the Cornfield Road. Of ripened suns and neon lights.

I no longer feel too tempted to stop seeking answers. I dig into myself. Into others. I go on trying… and trying… and trying…

I’m a creepy creature, eh?