The city had not been kind to her. Not entirely unkind either.
Just as it tried with all possible decency to sever the umbilical bonds she had with hand painted walls of a house near the posh golf courses, it spoke to her, in the initial months – with the same decency.
Then the language turned harsh. The cajoling was gone. The requests turned in to absurd orders at the oddest times. The touch that sometimes soothed became that loathsome hand of a violator – trying to touch her inappropriately as she tried to rush about life.
And while she struggled to learn how to walk in the labyrinths – the city dragged her unceremoniously to t-points of heavy traffic – leaving her there – telling the people- “Look! She has NO clue about life! Or in that matter bout anything in general…”
Stumbling around graceless, she appeared to others covering ground with a confident stride. But sooner or later this echoing emptiness would fill her insides and wiping away left over tears – fingers would reach out for a pen. Or tap on the keys of a steel machine – absent mindedly. Or hunch over a note book in the busy heart of a metro.
She was convinced now that writers were inordinately insane. To want to shake the world for what it was worth was an intense form of neurosis.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
The Kingfisher
I think of those orphan moments when I feel content loving you. Feel that everything in the universe is exactly in the right place. But only in a few orphan moments. The days we come face to face there are no qualms, no bad feelings. Just two individuals rushing towards each other with this speed of love. So perfect.
Then morning comes and we go trudging towards borders and daily duties. I feel like I am walking away the thing I love to oblivion. To the edge of the city. Then standing there to wave him good bye. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.
When I was really tiny, someone had got me a kingfisher. The bird sat scared and stubbornly on my father’s camera kit. He refused to budge, he refused to eat. My mother was scared it would die. Kingfishers are not meant to be tamed or kept as pets – she told me. I had no particular affection for the bird – I was too small. It held as much concentrated interest in its stunning colours as any of my other toys did.
Then one day my mother took me by the hand and took the bird to the edge of this lake. Where the road ended and all that lay ahead was putrid, marshy path of rotting carcasses of hyacinths. The stunning lavenders bloomed a few feet away. She held my hand tight so as I would not be encouraged to venture further. She asked me to hold the bird for one last time. I looked at her and then looked at the hyacinth covered lake edges – “Why? Isn’t he coming home with us?” – “No. We are setting him free. He’ll go to his family now.” – “ Why was he with us? Where did his family go then?” – “ I don’t know,” Ma said…"...Perhaps they missed him..."
She let the kingfisher fly away. When it took flight and never looked back I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than the new toys. More than the fish shaped peppermints, more than the new hair clips which matched my shoes.
To see it fly away like it was waiting for the feel of wind and Calcutta moisture on its stunning wings for eternity – made me want him.
I looked back once on the walk home. Perhaps he liked my dad’s camera equipment case more than a stray electric wire or his nest. Or even more than his family. Maybe if he had stayed I would have convinced him to eat my share of the fish.
Sometimes, I feel that you are that kingfisher.
Then morning comes and we go trudging towards borders and daily duties. I feel like I am walking away the thing I love to oblivion. To the edge of the city. Then standing there to wave him good bye. Lord knows when our paths will cross again.
When I was really tiny, someone had got me a kingfisher. The bird sat scared and stubbornly on my father’s camera kit. He refused to budge, he refused to eat. My mother was scared it would die. Kingfishers are not meant to be tamed or kept as pets – she told me. I had no particular affection for the bird – I was too small. It held as much concentrated interest in its stunning colours as any of my other toys did.
Then one day my mother took me by the hand and took the bird to the edge of this lake. Where the road ended and all that lay ahead was putrid, marshy path of rotting carcasses of hyacinths. The stunning lavenders bloomed a few feet away. She held my hand tight so as I would not be encouraged to venture further. She asked me to hold the bird for one last time. I looked at her and then looked at the hyacinth covered lake edges – “Why? Isn’t he coming home with us?” – “No. We are setting him free. He’ll go to his family now.” – “ Why was he with us? Where did his family go then?” – “ I don’t know,” Ma said…"...Perhaps they missed him..."
She let the kingfisher fly away. When it took flight and never looked back I wanted it more than anything in the world. More than the new toys. More than the fish shaped peppermints, more than the new hair clips which matched my shoes.
To see it fly away like it was waiting for the feel of wind and Calcutta moisture on its stunning wings for eternity – made me want him.
I looked back once on the walk home. Perhaps he liked my dad’s camera equipment case more than a stray electric wire or his nest. Or even more than his family. Maybe if he had stayed I would have convinced him to eat my share of the fish.
Sometimes, I feel that you are that kingfisher.
Delhi-Noida-Delhi
The angry rising heat
Separating its weight
From the naked, violated earth
Screaming profanities at the half sickle of a faded communist moon.
The numerous wheels
Shouting and shuttling between lives
The human and the half-beast.
Smells burn
Wipe their ash streaked limbs across expectant, hungry faces.
Sometimes when the metro hurtles over the pregnant waters
A deep desire arises for an unexpected halt
And the shrill sound of open gates and alarms
So as the muddy purity can swallow some more detritus
Add some more relieved carcasses to its womb.
Amen.
Separating its weight
From the naked, violated earth
Screaming profanities at the half sickle of a faded communist moon.
The numerous wheels
Shouting and shuttling between lives
The human and the half-beast.
Smells burn
Wipe their ash streaked limbs across expectant, hungry faces.
Sometimes when the metro hurtles over the pregnant waters
A deep desire arises for an unexpected halt
And the shrill sound of open gates and alarms
So as the muddy purity can swallow some more detritus
Add some more relieved carcasses to its womb.
Amen.
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