I couldn’t believe it was 10:30 in the morning as we drove along the winding roads from Baghmandala towards Pannathur. It was all a forest area and I had passed through the same road during different times and different seasons but never in the morning and never on an unusually rainy day in September. The road was hardly visible except for about eight feet ahead because of almost fog-like conditions and it was winding along in a decidedly curvaceous manner. I was craning my neck trying to spot any possible vehicles speeding from the opposite side in an attempt to aid Sushant but was failing miserably because I was so enchanted by the surroundings.
The road was narrow and a steep drop marked the left side. Tiny little cataracts had magically transformed into beautiful waterfalls cascading from the mountainous side to the right. Greens of every hue that beggared description greeted the eye from all sides. Bamboos formed shady archways. Impossibly tall trees broke the skyline. Mist hung in the air and a fine drizzle showered on us throughout. Mountains were visible in the distance shrouded in mystery and the very sights that I had gotten used to after innumerable trips looked like they had been magically transformed.
The air was so invigorating after the stale air-conditioned stuff we normally inhale that my fastidious husband actually let the windows be rolled down despite the mild showers. The children were enjoying the scenery in a way I have never seen before and they were so pleased at seeing the mini-waterfalls that we had to stop and try to take pictures. But no picture can capture that moment of hushed awe at beauty so sublime it just takes your breath away. I can’t find the words to explain how blessed we all felt at that moment – one of those precious moments you can lock away in memory and take out to relive over and over again ...
The rain is most insistent. It will be heard. I sit by my window listening to the raindrops fall where they would. I have varied reactions to the rain – some days I cannot get enough of it and I can dream away watching the rain. Some days, however my spirit is bogged down by the sound of continual downpours. Today is one such day. I need to see the sun out after a period. I need to get out and go for long walks in the evening. I need to see the newly washed greens and smell the delicate perfume of the soil. Having to sit out the evenings at home makes me rather cranky.
I recall my childhood in Kerala (well, part of it anyway) when the monsoons would herald what seemed like endless dreary days. We would have a tough time getting clothes dry or going to school, for the first day of school always marked the first day of the monsoon as well. I remember squelching through muddy roads to get on to overcrowded buses where we were prey to any wandering and probing fingers. I remember being schooled by my more experienced friends about how to use my elbows and rolled-up umbrella or as a last resort, a safety pin in order to deflect the single-minded hands. The last phase of our school commute involved walking beside a busy road and occasionally getting splashed with dirty water sent spurting by over-speeding buses. I did so hate the monsoons.
In college I stayed in a hostel and so the rainy season was less of a bother – we would get wet inevitably on our way to the mess hall and back to class (despite the umbrellas) but we could always find ways to manage. During my engineering college days, the hostel and the college were a lot farther apart and it was also a co-ed institution and getting wet did have a lot more repercussions than I bargained for :-). Looking back on the endless monsoon days I truly wonder how it was that all of us adjusted so easily. We would even get out on the terrace in the pouring rain and dance just for the sheer joy of being young and together. Now I am so picky that a drizzle will send me scurrying back indoors. I feel that the change is not merely due to an increase in inflexibility – rather its more to do with the loss of a carefree spirit. One day I might yet feel young enough to dance in the rain again ...
The hours pass slowly but then the hours of pre-dawn pass slowly for anyone who cannot sleep. I lie on my side trying to close my eyes and shut down my chattering mind. All that I do during the day to avoid thinking really doesn’t work in the dark. But then I am used to this lack of sleep – what I find difficult to cope with is the fact that the number of worries that plague me seem to be growing and not diminishing.
I am not a passive acceptor of this entire scenario though I am guilty of worrying more than can be good for me. I have embarked on a process of self-discovery in the hopes that some inner core will give me the strength to simply get through some days. I have often wondered whether having an escape valve of sorts would help. If I had but two days to be just about anything, to do just about anything with no lines drawn and no one to look over my shoulder even metaphorically, would I feel free? What would I do given the freedom to simply be? Knowing my routine-bound self, I would probably read a book and not go over to the wild side but the idea that absolute freedom, at least for a little while, now and again, might be in my power opens up possibilities I have never considered.
The problems ahead do not faze me as much as the feeling of being tied down permanently by responsibilities that no other can share. I have wonderful friends who sympathize – some even have a considerable degree of empathy. I have siblings who are ever ready to reassure. I have a spouse who is wholly involved with the family. Despite this, there are days when no one else can do what I must or even feel what I do – it is a universal truth no doubt and not something that is exclusive to me. Everyone has problems and mine are as ordinary to others as theirs are to me – all I want is the power to distance myself from them once in a while so that the pain can ebb and flow instead of throb heavily every moment. That is not too much to dream of I think. When I was a little girl, I had lofty dreams and plenty of sleep – now even my dreams do not have the power to fly and sleep is as elusive as a good cup of tea in Bangalore ;-)
I can understand why a person who has led as sheltered an existence as I have would not be able to define true love. I even doubt its existence. I know security and a kind of love of course but I have never experienced the kind of magical, sweep-me-off-my-feet kind of love. I adore my husband and children but I have never been able to let go with anyone ever. I always seem to hold a piece of myself back which witnesses my interactions with my loved ones dispassionately. I have no clue why this is so and I don’t think there is another soul who even understands what I am talking about.
There are people who could not be more different in tastes, attitude, exposure or inclination compared to me but they too still seek true love. Some of the more cynical feel very superior when they declare that the majority of the world confuses love with lust. It is not that simple. While lust is a healthy by-product of attraction, love and lust need not always be mutually exclusive – they are separate entities but inextricably intertwined some of the time. Imagine an entire world full of people in search of their soul mates. What are the chances that they go beyond the immediate radius of friends, home town, state or at most country? Given the enormity of the population, what is the guarantee that the soul mate would be of one’s own culture or race? How is one supposed to actually find this soul mate? The sheer impossibility of such a task should fill one with disbelief.
So most of us settle for what we can be comfortable with rather than what would perfectly complement us. I see nothing wrong with that. It is not part of nature to endow soul mates with some sort of identification badge. The more important task for any living being is survival and of course procreation. Love isn’t necessary for either and so is not an essential part of life according to the laws of nature. Years of conditioning by means of stories of eternal love has left in every man and woman an inexplicable yearning somewhere deep inside. It is of course true that very few act on that yearning but yet it rules most of our expectations. Therefore whether we have arranged marriages or love marriages, we secretly yearn to know whether what we have is the love that dreams are made of instead of the routine sort that actually makes the world go round.
What is a person’s life without passion in it? I often wonder when I look around and see a number of people going around leading lives which to me seem purely mechanical. Everyone seems obsessed by a need to do something. Most often that something brings them neither happiness nor satisfaction. Of course they do make money but ultimately does simply making money satisfy your soul? It cannot. You can justify almost anything you do but if you are unhappy as a result, there really is no point.
Of course, everyone tells me that it is impractical to expect every single person to be happy at their respective jobs. I am also frequently told that many do not have the luxury that I do of simply taking time off and lazing around waiting for inspiration to strike. They are right. I have no clue where I am going in my life but I do know that I will find my way when the time is right. I could compromise like I tried doing off and on for years but I did not want to. It meant a smaller income. It meant frustration of a different sort. It also meant that I did not have the company of people to stimulate me for most of the day. It was not a very easy decision for me to make and I have always been tortured by self-doubt but in the end the choice had to be made. I had to follow my own star, vague and distant though it might appear now.
A passion is essential to live life to the fullest. Imagine getting up every morning full of vigour and looking forward to the day with joy. The idea that you are doing what you were meant to do, what you were born to do and what only you can do very well is compelling. It gives you a sense of purpose quite apart from the daily round of duties and responsibilities that fall to everyone’s lot. When you follow your passion, you are no longer merely someone else’s wife or mother or daughter, you are just you doing the thing you were created to do.I get that feeling only when I attempt to write – I say attempt because I have not yet been able to put down my thoughts the way they are in my head. They seem profound and beautiful in imagination and clunky when put down – I assume because of my inability to capture them correctly. Yet I continue to hope to have that passion rule my life one day.
The overcast day always distracts me. The green outside looks a little more intense. The redness of the hibiscus deepens. There is a pensive quality to the air and to the day itself. I can sit for hours comfortable with the thoughts playing around in my head. It’s what I do best. I don’t need music to enjoy my mood – I am happy with the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind. The entire day weighs heavy with expectancy but not unpleasantly so. You don’t get days like this very often for the conditions have to be just right.
I sit next to my window and watch the sky that perfectly mirrors my soul. My soul is usually overcast or at least my mind is. The beauty beneath gets obscured by the sorrowing clouds. I have long ceased to see the blue and see only the grey. It is not a dreary unhappiness - just a subtly melancholic one. It may seem like a contradiction but it isn’t. No one can be perfectly happy. It is easier to be imperfectly happy. I take joy in some things but overshadowing it all is worry for my son’s future. It doesn’t go away and what frightens me more is my incapability. I cannot seem to help him – sometimes it appears I do not even want to try. A little centre of pain such as that can keep you from smiling your fullest smile. It’s been too long since my slender shoulders have been burdened and I cannot but wonder how his little shoulders will hold up. On days like this a certain sense of peace comes over me. A stillness where there is no expectation or thought or worry – just the satisfaction of being. The background noise of cars and people talking too loudly on their cell phones cannot detract from the essential beauty of the moment and I am calm and placid like a lake with only internal ripples.
The current times call for marketing in all spheres of life. You could create the best work of literature in decades and no one would bother if you are unable to market it. The same goes for practically anything. You could be a mediocre cook but if you can market yourself by licking whipped cream off a spoon suggestively enough, you have arrived as a ‘domestic goddess’. Similarly if you have no product worth the name but have aggressively marketed it as the only piece of must-have software in the universe, then you are a millionaire several times over before you can blink. In short if you don’t sell it, you get nowhere – its not what you have to sell that counts, its how you go about selling it that really matters.
I think there can be no one better at selling than the Americans. They have it down pat. They can sell you their lifestyles, their non-existent history and culture (three hundred years is a mere flash in the pan), their heart-attack inducing eating habits and their germ phobic obsessions. They can make you think that they are the most important things in creation. You are pulled towards them by their unbelievable confidence in themselves as the center of the universe. You are mesmerized by their devotion to themselves and only themselves. Its kind of like a mouse being hypnotized by a cobra. You go along with it , aping their movies, their accents and their methods of making money. They are the gods and you are willing to pay obeisance. What the Americans do best, however, is market their tragedies.
They haven’t had many tragedies. They actually had more embarrassments and unnecessary wars than actual numbing, heart-rending tragedy. So for generations they have been insulated from the ugliness of the world and feel themselves above it. That could be why they were shaken up on 9/11. They were clueless about the fact that their ridiculous and short-sighted foreign policy would have led them to be attacked by the very terrorist forces that they had secretly provided arms to. They could have acknowledged their mistake and moved forward toward a real resolution. Instead they resorted to marketing. They made sure that no one would forget 9/11. It became a brand, a logo on a t-shirt, a movie , a milestone. Their dead were more important than any other country’s dead. The tens of thousands of innocent civilians who lost their lives as a result of American incursions into Iraq are of no import. Our Bhopal gas massacre (for it was not a mere tragedy but sheer carelessness) that left twenty five thousand dead and uncounted blind was of no importance either. There was no accountability – no redress of grievance – even our own courts let off the American head of Union Carbide with a playful pinch on the cheek.
In India no tragedy can be on so large a scale that we cannot forget it.Maybe we should outsource out marketing of tragedies toa U.S company – they will guarantee us a tragedy no one can forget...
