i never wanted
to live blistering, angered.
but what use, this peace?
4/12/2008
4/06/2008
someone to bruise and leave behind
How do you cope with loss?
Loss of innocence, loss of love, loss of a memory, of a fairytale that still blur your eyes; two days, two years, fifteen years ago; still you hear the laughter that chased you weaving through the fat stone pillars, the bells that tinkled in the vibration filled peace, the hiss of frying brinjal and turmeric, the rhythmic grating of vegetables in the steamy kitchen and laughter, love, advice, togetherness in the bright sunshine of the courtyard as the wet flour dries into crackles to be fried. How do you cope with the loss of belongingness?
How do you hold on to a smile that is lost? A smile that reassures your childish fears, one you thought was your constant, your come-home-to; beaming happily at seeing you again, so long it has been, the big bad city that had snatched you away from them. Mischief at being alone in the house, time for crazy adventures and stories and experiments and smiling in exasperation when the house is a mess, afterwards. Smiling to reminisce, the stories that are fresh and still alive in your hearts, flashing vividly as you recount them, sitting around cups of steaming tea and creating yet more memories. How can you bear to think those smiles won't be yours to see anymore?
It's gone, all gone; your father is gone, your mother is gone, your house and your childhood and your history, your past and your family and your traditions, they are all gone - the paintings and murals and lampshades that proudly hung from the stone-strong walls and pillars, dusty bookshelves of assorted debris, huge vats that stored spicy mango pickles to feed a family of ten and assorted guests through six seasons, the stained glass panels that threw rainbows on the floor you stepped in while the scorching sun burnt itself up outside.
Your kin is scattered across the world now, they all live in bubble wrapped microcosms of self that they create around themselves to protect themselves from the huge gaping chasm of loss that the holes of their past lives are.
And you too, until a Sunday afternoon at the hissing kitchen stove and the laughter of your children punches a hole and you struggle to hold back the flood as you smile and look out at your drab flat lit up by the sun. You've lost a castle of your own. You must learn to tell stories here, now.
Loss of innocence, loss of love, loss of a memory, of a fairytale that still blur your eyes; two days, two years, fifteen years ago; still you hear the laughter that chased you weaving through the fat stone pillars, the bells that tinkled in the vibration filled peace, the hiss of frying brinjal and turmeric, the rhythmic grating of vegetables in the steamy kitchen and laughter, love, advice, togetherness in the bright sunshine of the courtyard as the wet flour dries into crackles to be fried. How do you cope with the loss of belongingness?
How do you hold on to a smile that is lost? A smile that reassures your childish fears, one you thought was your constant, your come-home-to; beaming happily at seeing you again, so long it has been, the big bad city that had snatched you away from them. Mischief at being alone in the house, time for crazy adventures and stories and experiments and smiling in exasperation when the house is a mess, afterwards. Smiling to reminisce, the stories that are fresh and still alive in your hearts, flashing vividly as you recount them, sitting around cups of steaming tea and creating yet more memories. How can you bear to think those smiles won't be yours to see anymore?
It's gone, all gone; your father is gone, your mother is gone, your house and your childhood and your history, your past and your family and your traditions, they are all gone - the paintings and murals and lampshades that proudly hung from the stone-strong walls and pillars, dusty bookshelves of assorted debris, huge vats that stored spicy mango pickles to feed a family of ten and assorted guests through six seasons, the stained glass panels that threw rainbows on the floor you stepped in while the scorching sun burnt itself up outside.
Your kin is scattered across the world now, they all live in bubble wrapped microcosms of self that they create around themselves to protect themselves from the huge gaping chasm of loss that the holes of their past lives are.
And you too, until a Sunday afternoon at the hissing kitchen stove and the laughter of your children punches a hole and you struggle to hold back the flood as you smile and look out at your drab flat lit up by the sun. You've lost a castle of your own. You must learn to tell stories here, now.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
