It’s a desolate place to be where the finger of blame and suspicion falls. Sooner or later you return to your fold and let them embellish their hand-pumps to use as the tipping bin. You no longer make allowance for the heaviness of heart, the pitch-blend, dramas that devour your peace. Your flesh crawls and you are apprehensive about the possibility of not choosing better or rather best choices.
A decade ago, back when I moved from the village after the enlightenment through the monstrosity in relationships, it was the phase when you scream but want to keep it under the wrap because no one would lend a sympathetic ear without malice. Malice quickly covers a long distance. Everything must be enshrouded in the thick blanket of haze. It was the time when the world is witnessed through rose-tinted spectacles because the truth is something you’re yet to acknowledge and accept before you overcome.
We lived in a rented house. The landlord had gone to meet his maker. He was bedridden for a long period due to cancer and had a son who was “over modern” in the traditional sense as he chose to marry an inter-caste girl and was employed in the technical field. His then yet-to-be-married younger sister who also went for intercaste marriage, tiddly after a peg or two during her brother’s wedding danced up a storm and some of them called some “funny” names for her dance in the wake. And these examples are rife as it is the only way to ginger up your listless days when there’s no chance to reach out for your dreams dangling from the sky or maybe stowed in the innermost part of your dungeon where you hide the coffee that only you can sip. Because you’re not addicted to it. A lot of people who don’t drink, invariably show tendencies and still feel inclined to get addicted. Such is the addiction to coffee. Then you root through the world map and suss something out from the Great wall of China.
Flocks of birds had littered the boundary wall with their droppings. Every flap of hair, every move, each dance, each song enshrined a story awaiting the storyteller in the world where divorces are gruesome and abuse is as easy as falling off the log. Each dot counts.
I don’t nurse ill feelings towards inter-caste marriages, drinking, any dress, divorce or dance. Lately, I came across a concept concerning our buying and selling habits that – you shouldn’t sell what you can’t buy, this is integrity. Even though I am not buying what you’re selling. I can’t be lenient to someone and rigid to another just because that makes it convenient to abuse someone. But there is little to be said for pebbles in your shoes for that matter.
It’s quite amusing to see that seasons still fall whether you’re there or not so you watch the world go by and observe the rising and falling, you do ride the waves. Thanks to the English language, you don’t have to pick up the fallen things and hoard them for future use.
A morbid longing has been compelling me to plumb the depth of marshes, and morass settled in the sand of time. A glimpse of the lass eking out living under the corrugated tin roof. That seamstress worsted by despair whose husband lives in another town, with another woman. Presumably, she is trying to keep the wolf from the door. The matron who left for the monastery and did not succumb to the ennui that stalked her home. Vociferous voices and thousands of hands clasping candles. A woman twiddling her thumbs, dithering over her career, women in politics and on the silver screen enfolded in a fusillade of questions, putting on a brave face. And men, of another gender, another race savouring tales on the edge of their lips. Clamorous nights fumbling for sleep and lonely feet slackening off. Slaughterhouses of skin colour, gender and nationality. I am not very keen on pulling them up and bring them to heel. Only taking my pick from them. I cannot tell their tears apart. Lately, a creeper peeked out of the fissure that never sat comfortably with me and it’s enough for the day.
” We are here to explore our potential, conduce to humanity rather than finding evidences to bear out our live-with-ability. “
To be as you feel yourself a good person and focus on doing what you want to do – is being a good person and is enough.
Sometimes being that un-live-with-able person is a blessing in disguise. For a start, if you remain latched onto the idea of life that is contingent on the acceptability or live-with-ability most probably the bubble will soon burst. As you can never live another’s wish, the damn thing will sink without trace. When you look around and reflect on whys, the dynamics will get clearer.
When you’re with someone who carries a sense of failure, just take a birds-eye view and most probably you will figure it out -unlike creatives, the focus is not on the self and it doesn’t grow.
In good conscience, just because I didn’t fulfill my ambition doesn’t entitle me to thwart another person. By the canon of responsibility, the person who is focused on the self will identify and acknowledge the discomfort, find ways to address and solve his problem as there is never any merit in announcing that someone is doing what you couldn’t and declaring the person as un-live-with-able.
Often successful people lurch from one crisis to another as success, for the most part, is a journey from failure to failure. But your identity doesn’t need to hinge on your failures or environmental conditions so that you do not dash off for pulling someone up and projecting it onto others. True measure of success is not how wrong/small/poor/incapable someone else is, but how you enjoy your dance, your lyrics. If your definition of success is festered with the former, most probably it will tinge all your achievements regardless.
Concocting your own definition of success doesn’t mandate to live high on the hog or curry favour with your bosses. Flatter yourself with everything that brings you home, instead. There is nothing wrong with being a journey that is still progressing.
A woman’s pen must be sheepishly compliant, subjugated and enslaved. She must duck and dive when it comes to writing Junoesque, voluptuous words. She must never bare them by putting her hard-earned dignity at stake and never ever ever use blood-red ink because in her untold herstory the gender of her words is invariably feminine. In the realm of unwritten laws, the streaks of superiority and rebellion lurking beneath her impertinent phrases are tantamount to monstrosity
in the eyes of a totalitarian.
Things take turn for better or for worse but reading always brings its own rewards. You don’t just write stories and dramas, you learn and grow with it and it grows on you. You learn to be grateful for small mercies yet you don’t take things lying down. You don’t get carried away by things that never amount to a hill of beans. You might turn from xenophobic to xenomanic and you come to know how little you know. You don’t look over your shoulder if a hair is out of place. You see through dodgy characters and don’t abide by prejudices, learn to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. You start giving a wide birth to unrest and unhelpful ideas, learn to rest your ores instead of turning tail to save your bacon every so often. You see the world in all its tainted glory and still relish it, still be happy to be alive.
The unheralded sojourn of blooms and silky pollen dust, the accomplice, ever so often tugging along with your thoughts, tiptoed from beckoning byways of a distant past and moved to my quiet forsaken nights. Life had issued an edict ordering your permanent tenancy in my heart.
A hushed song poking through blossoming bougainvillaea hanging across my windowpane furling and flourishing in an exquisite dance meandered and rattled about my house.
My resistance fell by the wayside. Devoured by it, having been unable to set my face against the temptation, I plonked on the cobbled path. There was a fat chance to abolish the laws of dreamy ornate seasons. I ducked and dived. In process of time, with each passing day, the ambrosia of the inevitable scented season grows more on you.
Photo courtesy: dipositosantamariah.blogspot.com
Fall is unduly tanned and it goes against the grain to truss up its bronzed limbs when they wiggle gracefully in an easy-breezy manner as though seasons have a skinful, gliding in the crisp, parched air, rampaging past me, stumbling and scrambling up to their homes.
Photo courtesy: Pinterest
The spectacle of unseemly fuchsia gowns
obversely thawing in soft pastel towns
And that scraggly-beard looking for sex
Who tagged me in his post to vex,
slaving to put a hex
While I am having my nose in books
And give it a dirty look
Placidly putting my feet up
Filling my idyllic cup
These all are gods in human form
Who weather myriads of scalding storms
Denying our magnificent humanness
We scramble up to churches and chapels to confess
The bench farthest from the altar
Kitschy profiles in pubs and bars
Sometimes we lose those fine threads
And deal in ebony unseen dread
But I have walked in his benevolence and grace
Through nameless companions, I could never trace
Our gaze meshed
and hearts bounded up together in harmony,
Yawning days, plodding their ways
left behind the hegemony
of gust that thumped and slashed.