The anatomy of a sorrow

Some days it is too damn hard to wake up.

And then to kick off blankets, sit up and rise.

It's comfortable here. In this red cloud, you think you're safe. If you stay here long enough, the day will pass and it will be time to sleep once more.

The floor is cold, the foot mat insubstantial and your feet hurt. You wonder if you should take a bath and postpone it as much as possible. That too, is such an ordeal. The soap, the shampoo, the many lotions and potions and silliness.

A comb passes through your hair and you pause. All this work has tired you. The blankets create a warm safe place and you willingly fold yourself into that.

The phone rings. Once, twice, many times. Whoever it is, is desperate for you. You turn over and shut your eyes. Draw the curtains, pull the blanket over your head and just breathe. If you do it slow and low, perhaps you'll feel better. Visualize, she'd said. Good air coming in, bad air going out. Visualize pain leaving you. Visualize meadows and lakes and waterfalls.

You do, you do. But you're terrified of water. And today, you feel like you're drowning. Looking up, you can see the surface as it closes in on you and darkness takes over.

Food is immaterial. It takes but little to nourish your body. It is not the one that needs healing. The heart and the mind, now there's a different story altogether.

Some days, poetry helps. You read your usual suspects. You write as often as you can, but even that is jagged and too raw. Music helps, streaming through your ears, voices soothe and elevate you to tears and just as quickly, let you down easy.

You live a double life. Work has to happen and it does. Compartmentalising is easy. Being committed helps. You give it your all. Just like you give this pain everything you've got.

The question of survival becomes paramount here. How can you get out of this blue funk?

As you ponder the question, cold fingers of deep hurt, stroke your arm and say, 'You don't want to. So just stay'. And suddenly, it is that easy.

And you do.

For now.

Captive

And slowly you learn to live in the present.

To..move on.

You do not remember.

The lunatic harvest moon does not make you recollect slow burning kisses on terracotta tiles.

The vast tamarind tree under which you walked, that spellbound night.

The rain.

The rain.

The rain.

The waltz that you stood still in.

The touch that was so fleeting, it was the heat you felt that told you something magical had happened.

You forget the fragrance of skin. The breath of shoulders- and laying your head on them. The feel of cotton on your fingers. Finding warmth in held hands.

You forget his smile. His eyes, as they’d seek you and then go still when they’d find you.

You forget feeling good.

And feeling alive.

You forget the butterflies. In your stomach and otherwise.

Coffee in the rain. And movies in the noon.

You forget the play of shadow on walls and the symmetry of light and dark.

No, you do not recall long conversations and midnight philosophy. You get used to long days and nights, all to yourself. You don’t open your eyes expecting to find him looking at you, with open, naked need.

You forget colour. And then, you forget black.

You live. In the present.

But the past lingers.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Colour

My skin is dark, stained with the experiences of my short lived life. Thirty three is hardly young, but hardly old. Arms are brown, my feet too. Inked by the pain I have seen and the suffering I have caused, created and contributed to. Some of that brown is the colour of my adventures. To be one with the earth, to be one with you. To love and not be. To want and not have. To seek and continue to seek.

Surely, our bodies take on the colour of our lives. Mine does, it has and will continue to do so. A line divides my hands into brown and white, a stark contrast. My palms are white, callused I think, from writing, not working. They feel smooth to the touch, like white often does. There are spaces, at the elbows and behind my knees and above my collar bone. I think these are purple, bruises from physical hurt, caused by my innate gaucheness.

My legs are cream and long- it takes me a while to reach my dreams. I walk in the shade and a bliss that is surely caused by ignorance. Or stupidity. Or naïveté. Perhaps, all three and then some.

The shadow between my breasts is painted gold. How can that not be, write as I do, from my heart. I think love is probably painted gold. But also a deep blue. And romance is magenta and silver. And turquoise.

My back is smooth to the touch and there runs a line between my shoulder blade. It ends in a hollow at the base of my spine. The line that runs between my shoulder blades is curved, not bent. And this is important, because it means I have learnt to hold my head up high, more often than not. it is important because I am not the sum of my experiences, choosing instead to be who I am, despite them all. The line is curved, but strong. It is the colour of polished steel. Grey.

My hair carries the tints of many a bad decision and a few good ones. It is red, copper, brown and black. I have felt light caresses on my hair, so light, that it is almost imperceptible and it is only because I remember it every day, that I know it happened. The many streaks of silver in my hair remind me that perhaps, thirty three is, after all, old.

The colours that make me.

The trail that your fingers have left stain, ink, sear my skin. And it does not wash off easy. At all.

But then again, I haven’t really tried.

Fragrance

My earliest memory of fragrance emanates from the pages of books. Old books have a mellow, make-you-sneeze kind of presence. New books are arrogant, they strut their new ink and paper. Both are wonderful.

No surprises there. I am nothing, if not a reader. But yes, I am driven by a strong sense of smell. And hearing. Perhaps to compensate for my poor eye sight. Fragrance is what I'm talking about today.

Riding the bus back from college, I'd always catch the scent of bread being baked. Even these days, I pass a little bakery everyday and sometimes, if I'm at the right time, I can deeply inhale the lovely idea of baking bread.

Chocolate of course is on my list. The Bournville ad? It’s true. Hear the snap, close your eyes, take in the fragrance and then bite into it. We tried it, certain family members and I. These family members will go unmentioned here- you know who you are. Suffice it to say, we were disciplined for the first square of chocolate. After that, it was tear wrapper and eat. But the fragrance of cocoa is many layered. My sister bakes every time I visit, and the house is filled with the delicious aroma of chocolate cake for days after. Okay that’s an exaggeration- the cake doesn’t last that long. But the fragrance lingers.

Sometimes when I take the turn in the road that leads to my home, the air carries the fragrance of jasmine and roses. There’s a temple at the corner, and a few flower sellers. In another home, the night is fragrant with night queen, a hypnotic scent.

And rain. Ah,the fragrance of rain is a life long love affair for me. I am fortunate I was gifted a little bottle of attar, that evokes the fragrance of rain. I take long breaths of it and feel happy. It carries the richness of loamy soil and rain raining down on trees.

I also associate fragrance and people. My maternal grandmother always smelled of old Cinthol soap. It is an unmistakable connection for me. Another soap, Hamam, reminds me of the time when my parents, sister and I moved into our own home, back in 1992. We’d spend the morning unpacking boxes and take baths in the afternoon warmth. A beloved uncle used to wear Blue Stratos, an after shave lotion. That deep blue glass bottle started off my perfume bottle collection that now numbers in the 100’s.

The world of perfume. Charlie’s Red or Sunshine. Estee Lauder’s Pleasures-My first ever sophisticated perfume. And then, Jovan’s White Musk. Burberry. Jasmine lotion and shower gel from Body Shop. Stores and their particular fragrance. Fabindia. Book stores.

And food. Mom’s rajma. Cinnamon. Coriander. The fragrance of garlic and ginger. The richness of milk boiling on the low, becoming thicker and thicker,golden brown. Turning a corner in a mall and being greeted with the fragrance of cookies from Cookieman.

Vodka.

Whisky.

Wine.

Perfume. Aroma. Fragrance. Bouquet. No matter the word you prefer, the end result is still the same for me. Powerful. Evocative.

Mystical, even.

Snapshots

Two colours of green. Shades of yellow gold. Turmeric . The vibrant violent ochre of marigold. On either side of the road, fields stretch as far as I can see and then give way,unwillingly, to stubborn rocks and hillocks. This is verdant country, lush and turgid. A study in contrasts, it is bustling with the activity of commerce, but also invitingly lazy. A mongoose darts across the road. The odd squirrel ponders the question. The inevitable cows and goats that seem to dot every rural tableau. A game of cards is in progress at the back of a little truck. In another scene, cows are being carted off, cattle class style. Trucks and trucks of these hapless beasts, foaming at the mouth, exploring the fast disappearing roads under them. As I write, the images tumble in my head. Bright red saris of the devout. Dusty black of the fervent. A ride, in a bamboo saucer, watching the river closer than I want to get. A trek that wasn’t a mere climb but more, much more.

On the road now, there are unexpected shimmering waters. A patchwork of earth and grass, arid and rich, brown and green, hope and more hope.

There’s music in my head and a smile on my lips.

I’m going home.

I’m going home.