Wednesday, November 14, 2012

Watching, Waiting, Writing

I could give you an account of my last six months and it would read like a grocery list. And I promise you it would make sense.

* Cities -4
* Suitcases - 4
* Heart broken - 1
* Heart recuperated - 1.5
* Resilience - 2.5
* Clothes - Too few
* Shoes - Too many

And I told myself I would take some more time before attempting to summarize. Because I'm always in a hurry to make sense, to be precise, and to articulate. But the will is weak and the pen restless. So tonight I must write.

Chennai spills over with excess. Crackers resound. People fall over themselves in the streets, mere multitudes that must be loudspeaker-ed and shepherded. I watch from the wide open window of a bus that goes by the numerically reassuring and repeatedly repeated moniker 47A. The dust thrown up by many scurrying feet settles into skin, nails, hair, and cloth. Humidity and breeze alternate to dance around my pores. Together they scrub, clean and dry. I experience the light as either too dim or too bright. Somedays I sleep in incoherent tiredness and wake up even more so. Every day I am asked if I am a student. And if I am single or married.

I do understand and yet loudly and vociferously stake my claim to not understand. The ways of this world are not mine. I wonder if they ever will be. I am even more worried when I think that they might.

Tomorrow I will write about language, deer, beaches, and friction. About having to experience relationships in their entirety. About a subjectivity I had forgotten to inhabit. Tomorrow I will wake up to ritual and other such remedies to anomie. Tonight I have written and tonight I will sleep.

The lights are now dim. We will all wake up to the already accomplished promise of light. Happy Diwali.