No two days are
exactly the same. Sometimes, there’s a difference in the way the sunshine
scatters the dust on the window ledge. And sometimes, it’s the stare of a
passer-by on the street that hadn’t pierced my home yesterday. Today, I spotted
a beautiful coppersmith barbet in the overgrowth surrounding the ruins of a building
that never saw the light of day. The one other time I saw this little green
bird with black markings and a bright red forehead was outside the bedroom window
of my mother’s home. Back then, tall trees had their own wild way with our
courtyard. Today, they’ve all been hewn and the rare birds have become rarer
still, rather like the moments of euphoria in my home-bound life.
If there’s one thing I
always look forward to, it’s making tea. The way the froth bubbles over the rim
of the saucepan, emanating an intoxicating aroma of cardamom and masala infused
in tea – it never fails to press a refresh button on my senses. I like the
taste of tea too, but it doesn’t come close to the magic of experiencing its
preparation. The process of tea being prepared is like the unfurling of a new
day – I know the day will never live up to the promise of its glorious morning
and yet, that doesn’t stop me from revelling in the promise itself. Seated on
the very same window ledge we discussed earlier, I romance the cool morning air
and imbibe the sight of fluttering leaves and the sound of twittering birds
into my thirsty soul. My spirit doesn’t seem to thrive on things that enliven
many of my peers – events, chatter and religion. Rather, it seeks the peace of
unfettered nature, the freedom of religion-free godliness and the perfection of
silence and solitude. These aspirations don’t exactly endear me to other people
but what can I do – I shrivel when placed in the glare of social and cultural
demands.
Sometimes I think that
all of my soul resides in a mug of coffee had on a quiet, solitary evening enhanced
by golden sunshine and pre-dusk birdsong. And at other trying times, my spirit
hides inside me, in a phantom mug of coffee on an evening I cannot reach. I love
art and good music and to dance but I love stillness most of all. The
raucousness of parties and celebration, the strange and inescapable
requirements of being an Indian, a woman and a daughter-in-law – they feel like
echoes of a world that doesn’t really exist. All I know, is that I’m alive in a
moment that is perfect, if only it was untainted by the illusory trappings of
an unfair and rigid society.
