If we let it, this hard world of sharp angles and square blocks, straight logic and serrated edges can seep into us and concrete us from the inside. That must not be allowed to happen as it may be impossible to undo.
We, tender-fleshed people, need cushioning. We, supple spongy beings, seek preservation through rounded, silky, fluffy coverings. Our need to be nestled with tenderness inside the pliable delicate tissue of another’s compassion is primal. It must be recognized as the ultimate necessity for living.
To keep softness alive in a world so harsh is the job at hand in this moment.
In any moment, ever.
Secretly we’re all yearning for something that is warm, welcoming, and soft. Born into the young arms of our mother, held against her soft chest, we’re rocked gently to sleep, patted rhythmically on the back and hummed to. Lullabies ringing and sleep half-arriving into this space of trust and love. Remember how easy it was to rest into it, knowing all was well and would be well? Let it be thus again.
“Life is better when you surround yourself with people for whom kindness isn’t a strategy, it’s a way of life.”
For the last couple of days, I was in Bangalore, the tech-capital of India. From the railway station, I took the metro to my friend’s house. The stations were spotless and the staff helpful. I was surprised to find a seat in the ladies-compartment, at that evening rush hour. I was a village woman in a big city, curious to see how this place works.
At every stop, a few women came in and sat down quietly, making no eye contact with anyone, not saying anything or smiling. Most eyes and ears, firmly plugged into a device. It seemed like I was the only one enjoying the tree-tops in full bloom as we glided through this urban sprawl. I wonder, if there were no windows in the carriage, would anyone have noticed? Inside that dense silence, everyone was busy. It reminded me of my daily commute in London.
I don’t remember trains in India ever being so quiet. Is this the ‘progress’ we are so proud of?
In the middle of the carriage, two friends, who I guess were young mothers, stood, speaking to each other in Kannada. If I strained my ears, the fragile new neural tracks in my brain caught a few words and phrases here and there. But mostly, I enjoyed their soft, yet animated exchanges, colorful saris, traditional earrings and jasmine strings pinned into their long black hair. Their silver toe-rings beautified their very practical footwear. I was happy to witness the faint echoes of an ancient civilization.
I reached my destination and started walking toward the exit with my small trolley bag. At the top of the staircase, the young man walking ahead of me came to a sudden halt. His head was encased in a set of huge black headphones. I set my bag down, waiting for him to move forward. Like an automaton, his big head rotated through 180 degrees very slowly, waking up to the fact that he was surrounded by hundreds of people carrying hundreds of colorful pieces of luggage. After what seemed like an age, he picked up his suitcase and started walking again, as if in a daze.
I write this, as I sit by a window on the train back home, reminiscing my little urban escapade, riding through the green and serene countryside, happy to be reunited with my friends, the trees.
Wonder if they ever count how many trees are killed in a war.
“The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others, only a green thing which stands in the way… As a man is, so he sees.”
You must not call your husband by his name. Never. It is disrespectful.
(He is your master after all.)
Sunte ho? (Are you listening, In Hindi.)
Sonu ke Papa? (Sonu’s father)
E’ ji. (Here, Sir)
Rreeeeee (Something to the same effect, in Kannada)
These are examples of substitute names by which a wife may address her husband bypassing speaking his name.
Minoo was nineteen when she married someone, she had met only once. The handsome man in the photograph that she was allowed to gaze at, was now her husband. Meeting before marriage was not allowed. It was not considered necessary. In 1964, some thought it positively immoral.
Once married, she went to live in the house of her in-laws. The same rule applied. Except here, it was the law. She was prohibited from uttering his name. That was a problem.
She could have shortened Purushottam to Uttam, but his friends had already done that. So, that abridged name was taken by his equals. She had to find another way.
She had always liked the sound of the word, Sameer, which meant, sea-breeze.
“Can I call you Sameer? It’s not your name but will surely make life easy.” She asked him.
“Sure. I don’t mind.” said he.
That was that. Her mother-in-law could not object as Minoo called out to her husband by a strange new name that she had not heard before. Problem solved.
Over the years, Minoo became proficient at finding inventive solutions to many unforeseen problems, be it lengthening my frock or fixing a half-baked cake when the electricity went off partway through. She is my mother and although my father died three and a half years ago, she still thinks of him and loves him as her Sameer.
A father, on his daughter’s third death anniversary declared, “I am three today. I started my new life, three years ago. Now, I am a toddler. In a new world, I am learning its new language. Often, I make things up. Right now, I can only ride a bike with three wheels. I know only a few numbers. Some are etched on my memory. I can socialize but before long, must return to familiar spaces. There is so much I don’t know yet, and I am learning to be okay with all my unanswered, perhaps unanswerable questions.”
You cannot enter any world for which you do not have a language. I have been yearning for a better kind of language for as long as I can remember. I am creating my own in a new way. I simply make up words and sentences that I want to say and hear. They may sound silly to the world, but I am finding the balance between courage and fear, between confusion and clarity.
The violence within, frightens me. Sometimes I am very alone with it, and I wonder who I am. Who else can I be? This fear is a kind of intelligence I know but where does it live in me? What am I afraid of? How can I put a language to it? How can I create a friendship with it? And with the confusion, the unknown?
Saagar’s death will not become the primary definition of me, I say.
Does this happening seek my permission or has it already claimed its place?
