Something of Myself

Dis-connected Thoughts

It makes sense to hold back sometimes. I have always found an uneasy comfort in holding back; in masking the truth. This of course, does not mean that one lies, but, just that the truth is masked. A layer in front, layers beneath - we need onioned lives after all! Who knows how many years it will take to uncover each and every layer to get to the core of myself. Something of Myself.

These times are strange, a sense of deja vu. Familiarly unfamiliar. Fear of the unknown. Terra Incognito. I will be home soon. I become the place where I live in, and I find it incredibly difficult to reconcile the differences. How often can I change one's self? Something of Myself.

I would have to do so much in so little time. Promises sprinkled all over the city, for I do not wish to disappoint anyone. But then again, promises are usually associated with disappointment. I feel guilty when I let someone down. I feel burdened when I have to surrender because I had said so. Why do words weigh so much on my self? Something of Myself.

I feel tired. I need to hide. I do not want to drink. I want to sit on the highest peak of some mountain range, and just breathe. That would give me a sense of peace. Lying on the grass, watching the sky, saving my eyes from the sweet sunshine, I know I would be able to decide what is it that I want for my self. Something of Myself.

There was a time when I was academically obsessed with the idea of 'identity.' Auden's muse stirred me inside, but in a cathartic way. Then I became obsessed with 'death'. I wanted to know everything about it. The whys and the whats and the hows. Today, I am obsessed with finding a quiet place, empty of feelings, devoid of passions, and just full of tranquility. I am searching for it, constantly, with the belief that soon, very soon, I shall identify the spot, the Bodhi tree, the shade, the calm breeze, the smell of red soil, rain and then finally, a consciousness that drives my being, my inner self. Something of Myself.

She was looking beautiful. White saree with larger-than-life-size floral prints. Her goggles reminded me of a legendary Bengali actress. If this were a profile shot, you would have easily mistaken her for Zenaat Aman. She was sitting on the rooftop in Hauz Khas; holding on to a copy of Jane Eyre and from the photograph you could tell that she was actually clinging on to it. Something about Jane fascinated her.

I instantly fell in love. The marriage of beauty and art. Of flesh and letters.

He saw the same picture too. Her hair, at that time, kissed her calves. It was that long (free-flowing?). Obviously, he could not resist.

They married after dating each other for 10 years. Uh, she tells me it was actually 11. Uprooted from the sophistication of Delhi, she was now living in a pocket in Calcutta - where incessant addas, football fanaticism, hero-worship, political rallies and intellectual conversations defined the idea of sophistication. She took to it rather well, after struggling to make room for herself in a 3-bedroom flat where grandparents and in-laws and cousins and guests all stayed together.

The love between them kept her going. Sacrifices were made. After all, if you have been having aloo ke paranthe for breakfast for some 28 years of your life, it is not easy to have muri and chocchori. But he was equal to it. He stepped out of the house with her when it went unbearable for her and stepped into the world of nuclear families.

She stuck with him, like she did to Jane Eyre. The copy has yellowed over the years. The lines remain. She cannot even see properly these days. Her fertile days are over.

He breathed his last sometime back.

But amidst all this, I wanted to wish her Happy Birthday today. She might not even read this but I will know that these words stand as a testimony to a figure who has been my mother.

Ma.

Here's wishing the very best that remains to the Jane Eyre of my life.

I am thinking of you today. Since morning, I have been smelling you. It's past midnight now, and I know you must be asleep but I wanted to tell you that I remembered you.

I think I grieve you better these days. I do not break down. I do not falter. I do not miss steps. I do not skip beats. I just carry on, with an infinite longing tucked underneath the bottom-right valve. I feel a sudden throbbing pain in my chest of late. No, not where the heart is. On the other side. It's probably just acidity.

You remember the last poem you wrote? Describing yourself, and our relationship. I do not have it with me, but the lines ring in my head. I remember you.

They said with time, your farewell would be easy to make sense of; it never happened. It is as green as it ever was. I tried explaining this to one of my mates the other day and she did not fully understand. She kept saying, 'It's over. Get over it!'

I wonder if they will ever understand. The meaning of being loved. The meaning of being cared for. The meaning of being in a relationship devoid of selfishness, of self-fulfilment, of things beyond flesh and blood. They see you in my poems that I hardly show. They see you in my real self that I hardly show. They hardly know you. They don't even know me. How will they understand?

Will they ever know why I never smoke a cigarette until the very end?

Will they ever know why I still buy gifts for you?

Will they ever know why the first toast of the evening is always for you?

Will they ever find out how we were? How we still converse? How I can still hear you? How your dreams leap into my mind? How my pains swim across to your being and then comes back to me, relieved and empty?

Question is, do they need to? I am happy with you, and so are you. Nobody will understand the pain we have inflicted on each other. The half-baked lies we have told each other. They will remain with us. And someday when my epitaph is being written, I will visit you and have a large peg of Glenn Malt. Keep the crystal glasses ready. It will be a costly affair!

She was what he had never been. That is almost always the most reductive way in which men and women, all over the world, on hindsight, seem to rationalise their liaisons.

She was 18. He was only days away from being 30.

She was 18. Naive. Elegantly naive. There was a spring in her step that is not-so-common to all 18 year olds. The singular quality that seem to distinguish her from all mortal beings around him was that she was un-corrupted. Unpretentious. Unworldly. Uncomplicated. Unsuspicious. But not unsophisticated.

This was another quality that attracted him to her. Her elegance. She was born with it. It is an inner quality you see, and you can become fashionable, you can clothe the exterior but your elegance is something that is born from the insides of your inside. And she just had it.

How do you capture the essence of someone like this? What is the word? Can you paint a picture? Perhaps the only thing that comes close to describing 'elegantly naive' is music. Imagine your favourite musician. Close your eyes and play the tune in your mind. You will feel an inexplicable sense enveloping you. That fine moment of engulfment is 'elegantly naive.' She was that.

He lost himself in her naivety. He lost himself in her smile. The extended blink, the clandestine look, the furtive glance, the assuring touch, the familiar smell...

Decades later his wish was finally granted. He brought her home. His impotency gave him an excuse to father the orphan who was and still is elegantly naive.