Flashback Forests

Remember

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Tue, 28 Nov 2017 01:36:00 +0000

You know nothing.

Everything is a lie.

Whatever you are holding on to for dear life, it can quite possibly collapse.

Remember.

On Desires.

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 24 Feb 2016 15:11:00 +0000

I often check my desires. They are often indicative of things I do not want.

This desire to leave everything behind stems more from my need to run away from things, people, than from a need to actually be in a new place.

That can't be right, can it? It's like wanting to marry so you can leave your parents behind. It can only go wrong. Or wanting to flirt with somebody you don't dislike so the person you dislike can leave you alone. Where is the love? Where is the enamour? The twinkle in the eye, the high of something new that you actually desire for its own sake? All missing, replaced by escapism. Cowardly and short sighted.

I also think it comes from wanting to know if I can, actually, leave things behind. The little things I am used to , that I love. It's a bit like a test; can I do this? Will I fare well? Will I be able to detach from what I thought I could not live without? Will I be able to leave this faucet behind, which only I know how to stop from dripping? Will I be able to leave this friend behind whose voice is more familiar to me, now, than my own?

Will I be able to leave behind people who I thought meant everything to me even if, now, I mean nothing to them? How tough will it be? How much will I pine? Will I get homesick for a place that may or may not be mine?

It's a test too. Push push push. Bleed bleed bleed. Sew sew sew. Mend mend mend. See how you can go until you cannot.

I often check my desires. They are often indicative of things I will carry within me even after I escape.

New

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Sun, 24 Jan 2016 15:19:00 +0000

Today,
I shed a tear,
For that child
Who shivered,
Cold in her shoes,
Lanky in her clothes,
Terrified in her errors.

Today,
I shed a tear,
For the parents,
Who, in their hurry,
To protect their child
From what the world could
Do to her, forgot what they could.

Today,
I told myself,
That tears can forge
Bonds, chains of reactions,
That we set in motion every day,
Or dissolve, dissolve, dilute and cut
What would otherwise bind you for life.

Today,
I left that child
Far behind in the past,
With unforgiven parents,
And decided it was finally time,
To embrace adulthood, however lonely,
And this here, now, this moment, I am new.

Watching Monday Go By.

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Mon, 17 Aug 2015 08:48:00 +0000

Of course,

I have a favourite spot,

In that little bistro

It's right by the window,

In a corner,

Precisely one ray of sunshine,

And if I sit

With my back to the crowd,

I can pretend I am

Alone.

One cup of coffee,

Filtered,

Two sugars, demerara,

Milk, a touch of cream.

Hot.

Very hot.

A chocolate croissant,

And a phone

That will not interrupt,

As Monday hustles by

Dressed in raincoats, gumboots,

Flyaway umbrellas

Most unromantic puddles

Of brown.

I can spend an hour

With my croissant,

Maybe a book,

Or pointless social networking.

I can watch

Clouds go by

In said unromantic puddles,

Just fine.

Watch you seethe,

Grit your teeth,

Such luxuries are not to be allowed,

Unless you are born

With a silver spoon,

Only then,

You can envy me,

Not hate me.

But here I am,

With my croissant,

My book (electronic),

A drag of coffee to go

One leg tucked under my bum,

On a warm, velvety armchair,

My other leg on a pouffe.

Pouffe.

How does it sound to your ears?

Pouffe, pouffe.

Much like how you disregard,

That I am here,

No thanks to you.

(This poem is dedicated to that obnoxious ex-friend who had a problem with my saying that it's okay to sit and watch the clouds go by and the bills get figured out)

Parents Know Best

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Tue, 02 Sep 2014 03:54:00 +0000

It was a dark and stormy night. Expectedly, there had been a power failure in the neighbourhood. A few houses were quiet while raucous singing erupted from others as each little family dealt with the situation in their individual ways. Transistors belted songs from old Hindi films and the sounds and smells of cooking became more prominent over the general quiet that falls when television sets collectively fall silent.

This house was among the silent ones. A child sat by the open door clutching her book. A solitary candle cast shadows on her face as she tried to finish her reading exercise. She was muttering under her breath, reading out lines from her textbook. She could hear her mother in the kitchen, the sharp sounds made by the ladle against the metal pot as she fried pieces of fish. It should have made her hungry, but it only terrified her. She knew that ladle too well. It had cooked more than fish - it had left bruises on her legs. The parents had always agreed that the children must only be hit on their limbs. The morning before, the ladle had made contact with her arm because she had spilled a glass of milk. Her mother had not spoken to her since, using silence as punishment, an art the child would perfect later.

The child sensed her mother enter the room. Her body tautened involuntarily. She heard her mother place bowls on the dining table. At the same time, she heard her father’s bike pull into the courtyard, the dull hum of the engine dying. She knew his footsteps well. Her heart was beating a wild tattoo against her ribcage and she quickly got up and fled into the house to keep her Math books ready. She’d be quizzed on those after dinner and her father disliked her being unready.

Dinner was a quiet affair. The child’s parents mostly ignored her and the family sat at the table and finished their food by candlelight. The child had goosebumps on her limbs and fear rose like bile in her throat. She hoped desperately that there would be no silly mistakes in her quadratic equations. As soon as the dinner table was cleared, she brought her books and placed the candle close enough for her father to see her work. She sat quietly, trembling, while he examined and looked for errors.

The child relaxed. It had been ten whole minutes and the father had not found a mistake yet. She felt she would make it this time. Her heartbeat returned to normal and she looked away from him for a moment. Like a deafening clap of thunder, she heard the slap before she felt its sting. His palm had made violent contact with her skull and she fell off the chair. The mother rushed into the room and raised her voice. The child heard her say that there was no need to be so harsh. She then heard the father’s voice respond harshly, something about making silly, repetitive mistakes.

The mother retreated. The child scrambled back into her chair, wiping tears and clutching at a pencil to fix her mistake. Her father glared at her. She caught a glance at her mother, ladle in hand, also glaring at her. She erased the equation and started again.

Later that night, the child heard her parents talk about how disciplining is a necessary part of growing up. She heard her father confess to the mother that he felt bad about it but it must be done. She heard her mother consoling him. She silently wept herself to sleep.

Homeward

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Thu, 22 May 2014 00:48:00 +0000

I have imagined, often, what it must feel like, to die. Do I gradually lose awareness of my body, one part at a time and slip away? Do I become excruciatingly aware of it as the mind recedes and the life force that I am makes it's presence known? Is it painful? Is it relieving?

I do hope I will remember death clearly, though. At least this time. Unlike my birth, of which I have no memory, a memory lapse so acute that I believe I never really was born. Is that why I am not palpably aware of how easily I could die this very minute? People do it all the time.

In this sea of questions I bring up about death, I have never had any doubt about one thing; how much I look forward to it.

Imagine you have three days left to live. You are acutely aware of your every action, word, the grandeur of what is about to happen to you. In face of that magnanimity, details stop mattering to you. That guy on the road who leered at you, that pathetic little raise at work that is so demeaning, your spouse who keeps forgetting to put the toilet seat down, and your constant guilt about skipping gym.

Imagine that you have two days to live. Your conversations change from talking about people to talking to each other, from waiting for your turn to talk to becoming one big, personified ear that just, truly, listens. A lot of it revolves around gratitude and forgiveness, perhaps resulting in peals of laughter and tears you never thought you would shed. What you look for with every glance shifts; getting a window seat on a train ride home is more important than glaring at the person who stubbed your toe on their way out.

Imagine you have one day left to live. A great wall of quiet descends on you. You are here. You are now. Every breath is so important and you know, for the very first time - not because somebody told you or because you read it somewhere - but because it's happening to you right now - that this breath is what's connecting this whole universe in one continuous thread. Your thoughts are not scuttling like roaches anymore. There is, for the first time, a silence inside you, a silence so thick, you could slice it with a knife, like butter.

Unrelated, disconnected and unnecessary details recede into non-existence. That may probably explain why they say that the devil is in the detail. Because the details are where we get caught and the details are what convince us that it's normal to waste whatever precious time we may have here.

My home is this promise of death. This promise of closure is why I live my story. My journey may be important, but my destination, I truly, deeply desire. It is my rest, my solace. I have my home in this promise of death.

To The City That Loved Me Most

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Sat, 05 Apr 2014 17:26:00 +0000

Some cities are motels. Others are luxury suites in a fancy five star hotel. Then there are those that are just waiting rooms, a place where you can sit down for a while but you know inside that you are going to leave any minute.

But every once in a while, you arrive in a city that feels, instantly, like home. For most of us, that city is the one we were born in or grew up in. It’s familiar, it’s clogged with memories and there is a lingering sense of nostalgia around it, however unpleasant. And often, like a victim who is afraid to stand up and say no to his victimiser, you remain in its familiar shelter. Or maybe like a lover, who has no space in his heart for a new love, you return.

But you...you were a strange, new, unfamiliar place that drew me in like a moth to a flame. Your streets became all too familiar within days, your little ways and alleys did not feel foreign. I told myself that it’s just the people – they are so warm and welcoming, you cannot help but fall in love with the slow, lazy unfurling of morning chores, of colours that brighten with every passing hour, of aromas that waft through unknown doorways but still tease your palate.

I thought you were my home. I found lost branches of my family tree in you. You grew, gradually, from a city that somehow, inexplicably, fascinated me to a city that I hoped I’d call home one day. To the world, you were the Venice of the east, the city of lakes. To me, you were the certainty of home on Shastri Marg. To the world, you were an oasis in a desert. To me, you were the sound of the dhaak, the face of a goddess, Doodh Ke Laddoo and scratching the tummy of the world’s best dog.

But he died, the man who turned you from a strange, magical city, into a home, comforting, and familiar. I lost sight of everything inside you that was turning you into my home. I raged at you, I wanted to abandon you, I blamed you and I told myself that I’d never fall in love again. Not with a city. I tried so much to keep away from you; I tried so hard to weave my life into a secure, safe cobweb of logic and practicality, away from you.

I tried. I may have partly succeeded too.

But I have seen you mourn with me. I have seen you, stripped away of your colour, glory and royalty. I have seen you break down, shatter into pieces, arrive in hordes at my doorstep because you had more tears to shed at my loss than I did. You attempted to recover. Your ability to take time out to mourn, to take a step back and look deeply into the level of trauma the death of one person can cause, threw me. Isn’t mourning the first step to acceptance and recovery? To my surprise, you also dragged me along that path to recovery too. And I found myself coming back to you, between every few breaths. All my promises to never see you again quietly dissolved.

To the world, you were and are an oasis in a desert. And now, you are that to me too.

Love Is Matter

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 02 Oct 2013 08:07:00 +0000

Love is a need like no other.

Love is matter.

The terrible, unstable kind, yes?

The wild, sweeping kind that rips every notion apart until only nothing remains. And you weep, your tears are diamonds.

Or perhaps the luminescent, sublime kind.

The soothing, balmy kind, that caresses every scar, contains tides until only stillness remains and your smiles are rainbows.

Ah, of glorious hurts and shimmering pools of blood. Of nightskies dark with longing and days bright with impudent hope.

Of quiet acceptance that every drop of blood and sweat is mine, is thine, is ours.

Of every kiss that proclaims the tongue and every ache that screams for a union.

Of shivering limbs that crave steadiness from firm but gentle arms, but alas! Love must steady itself in its own whirlpool of collapse.

Of looking for answers in a beloved's eyes and the stoking of yellow embers that burn beneath the lids all night.

Of finding yourself staring back, a splash of white in every black; wind chimes tinkle in solitude and hearts splinter in gratitude.

Of blue cowherds and song and milkmaids and dance.

Of a day that won't see dawn on the banks of a swollen river, forever in spate.

Love is so many things, yet I know only your face.

I love so many things about you but all I can do is look at your face, helplessly, hopelessly.

(Co written with @URM1 - also on http://karma-and-some.blogspot.in/2013/09/love-is-matter.html)

Listen

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Mon, 08 Jul 2013 15:51:00 +0000

When you are silent inside, you have very little to say outside too.

Have you wondered why the world is so noisy? Because behind the noise, there is silence that makes it possible for us to hear it all.

Can you tune everything out and listen? Try it. Listen anagrams to silent, after all.

Stopped Clocks

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 10 May 2013 09:52:00 +0000

(Author's note: This is not a work of fiction. But then, who can define reality anyway?)

I was eating a cheesecake and a banoffee pie with my husband when one of the most important people in my life was on the verge of suffering a massive stroke.

I was making one of my favourite sambars when he went into surgery. It's my husband's favourite sambar.

I was planning a pasta dish when he died. Fusilli in a nutmeg tomato cream sauce to be precise.

My husband and I had just finished our dinner when we got the call that changed our lives.

I was halfway through washing the dishes. He was working on his laptop. The TV was on.

We knew we had to pack up and leave. I spent the next half an hour packing. Finishing those utensils. I remember every detail, every bit of cloth and toiletry I packed. I remember everything I said. I remember every call I made. No, it did not pass in a daze.

I was acutely aware of the things we would need, toothbrush, toothpaste, oil, towels, slippers, cotton, shampoo.

You know, you have to take a head bath after you come back from the cremation ground.

So, shampoo.

My husband told me to not bother. But I did.

Because while this breath is passing in and out of the body you inhabit all the time, gloriously unaware of its fragility and transience, you are life and your grip is tenacious. Strong, immovable because right now, it's meant to be here.

But when you let go?

When you let go, you slip away so quickly, it probably shocks even you. You forget names, numbers, places, faces and every little detail you felt was a part of who you are.

Do you know why? Because they are not who you are. So it's easy to forget. It's easy to let go. It's easy to drop it, like a hot potato. You know it's over and you jolt it away like it was never yours. Your body perishes. You slip away. The rest of them are left coping with the screaming, silent vacuum that you left behind.

I know death is painful. I know you think you will never get over it. I know you think life is going to be an endless journey of coping, of remembering and hoping that one day, you will be able to smile at their memory. Not break down like you do now.

That's what my uncle also thought.

If you had exactly 24 hours left to live, what would you do? Because you know, one day, that will be the truest thing anybody has ever said to you. Even the clock that has stopped is right, twice a day.

Disowned Cakes

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 19 Apr 2013 07:21:00 +0000

An unbaked cake
Eggless because you
Carry odd allergies.
Deprived of pastries,
Imagine that!

But perfected cakes
Now arrive
To a disowned platter,
Spoons and forks, knives
No tinkles and clinks.

This oven is rank
Stale and old and rusty,
From all these
Years of waiting
Mostly in vain.

Do they have cakes
In heaven or it's gates?
Is there a mailing service
To send these things
Your way?

Haunting The Dead

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 22 Feb 2013 13:23:00 +0000

Death used to a simple matter some years ago. People died. We gave away their belongings to needy people, framed a photograph and hung it up the wall, sometimes with a garland dangling around it. That was it. Perhaps a shirt or a saree was kept, in remembrance. A watch, probably a ring they wore.

Which always brings me to the question, the person who removes the ring from the dead body, or a necklace, how do they bring themselves to do it? I'd bury or cremate everything on their person. It's mysterious, the tenacity life holds us with.

And then people moved on because life went on and surrounded us constantly.

Things are different now.

We are no longer constantly surrounded by life. We surround ourselves with gadgets and solitude by default. We live online. Suddenly, the dead have social profiles that they have left behind and you can still see what they said on October 18, the argument they had with you and another friend freezing over in time. You can always go back, you can always relive bits of it, there is no full and final closure.

You haunt the dead. You never get over them. You keep going back. Their face still comes up when a social site reminds you it's their birthday. Only, you have a void staring at you where a person once was, nobody left to wish. You cannot get yourself to unfollow them, you cannot get yourself to unfriend them either. Every now and then, they pop back, like an indecent tease that will never come to any fruition.

In our world today, death is still a norm. Only, more painful. But just like it used to be, you never quite get over it.

It's mysterious, the tenacity death holds us with.

What Is Rape?

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 05:38:00 +0000

Women can be very Zen about the fact that men don't ask before making plans. It is the spiritually upright way to go about it.

Or women can be deeply disturbed that men don't ask them before they plan the simplest course of action.

Because women always do. It is the emotionally right thing to do, as a woman. To check. To ask. To know. To ensure they have provided for, before they can go seek their own little dreams.

Because by saying that it is okay to let it be this way, women submit to the way their twisted society is wired. That a woman must ask, but a man can get away with informing.

Women of my world who burn other women to death for money, who kill girl children, or who are less obviously harmless because they give preferential treatment to the boy child over the girl, to the son-in-law over the daughter-in-law, will tell you that men are simple beings, they don't complicate things, they don't "overthink".

They are right. Men do not "overthink", or for that matter, don't think at all about how the smallest of things can demonstrate who the boss is.

If this blog is being read by a man at the moment, please ask. Ask if your decision concerns a woman in any way. A violation of this basic dignity in its cruelest form is called rape. Often, men do this without realising they are doing it. And women take it thinking it's normal.

But just because something has been done in a certain way for centuries, does not mean it is right.

Drown

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 11:47:00 +0000

Old, forgotten tales of love
Weaved by lowered eyes
Few of which you understand
Glances and gentle sighs.

Of eternal, afterlife promises,
Of bartering life with god,
Withering smiles awaken,
Pathways together trod.

Not destined to receive,
The love you hanker for,
That act demands largesse
And pain worth dying for.

Those lips may never touch
And fingers never weave,
Nights not turn to evenings
And breaths never heave.

But nothing less will matter
And nothing less will live
Drown you must to sail again
Drown and still believe.

Find you may in a person,
In a voice, a place, a song
Find you may in a mirror,
With you, walking along.

Waning

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Thu, 01 Nov 2012 09:17:00 +0000

Very recently, I met one of my grandmothers.

You know, I don't have just two grandmothers. I have several. My grandpa's sis-in-law, for instance, qualifies to be my grandmom. My grand uncle's wife would also be my grand-aunt and by that logic, sort of, well, grandma again.

My new grand mom is really tiny. When I hug her, she disappears in the hug. She has dyed hair so while the rest of her looks so old, the hair bit does not. She has wrinkles and crows' feet and everything crinkles up when she smiles.

She shouts. She is witty. She has a clever comeback to everything and is very thrilled if you can pit your wits against hers'. She called my grand father and spoke to him after more than four decades. She yelled at him for a straight five minutes on the phone while he fumbled and apologised for not staying in touch.

You have no idea how satisfying it is to know that there is still somebody who is qualified to yell at my grand father. I have never seen anybody shouting at my grand father.

Bengali grand moms are supposed to know lots of ghost stories. This one does not. When we asked her to tell us some ghost stories, she quickly quipped that she knows no scary stories, just real life stories which are usually more entertaining and bizarre than fictional ones.

She likes Kachoris secretly. She is a big fan of bread and butter. Toasted. And she is even more thrilled if you cut it up in neat little pieces and give it to her. She makes some seriously awesome Chhena Kheer.

She keeps herself entertained. But she says "Well, life is going on. Like it always does" when you ask "How have you been?"

Like a moon that is waning but must show on those last few days before the new moon.

It makes me want to die young.

On Love

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 10:32:00 +0000

Love.

And the incredible challenges it throws your way.

No matter who it uses to get to you, it will always, eventually, bring your focus back to the one most important person in your life.

And you, you will still not get it.

You will still not get why your insides melt in quietude when you see a heron take flight against a thundercloud...

...when a child digs his soft fingers into your palms, trying to hold on...

...when you embrace a lover...

...when your mother plates food in front of you...

...when your dog comes leaping, bounding at you after days of your absence...

...when a tree showers leaves on you while you walk under it...

...when the first drop of rain lands on your palm...

It is not these people, these animals. It is not how they are related to you.

It is not even that sentimental song you have been listening to.

It is the most important person in your life.

You.

No, there is no unconditional love between two.

Prem gali ati sankari, ta me do na samai - Kabir

Goodbyes

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 07:51:00 +0000

No new words from you,

No photos to paint blue,

Your pictures will grow stale,

Your memories slowly pale.

No wonky smiles to throw

At me across the road,

No hints about your muse,

No teasing can amuse.

Your voice on the phone

And how it always shone,

No promises now to keep,

No tears left to weep.

No place I can call,

To hear your laughter fall,

No bridges left to break

No quarrels left to fake.

No sounds remain to quiet,

No secrets now to hide,

No paper boats to sail

No words left to fail.

To Kushal and Rehab. Friends I lost in less than a week to death. As usual.

What You Left Behind

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Mon, 18 Jun 2012 06:37:00 +0000

You went in what they call 'an unnatural way'. They usually mean a murder, suicide or an accident. They mean you died young. Suddenly, even forty is young when you are dead. If you're alive, though, it is the opposite.

You went without a goodbye. You went leaving a trail of devastation behind you. You went without ever looking back, burning memories and traces, forever corrupting flashbacks that were once pure, happy and loved.

Your name is now uttered with trepidation, with a hint of deep agony in the voice, a quaver. Your name is forbidden. A swear word, not uttered.

You are mentioned specifically only when you appear in dreams, as a silent witness, like you truly are. Your possessions are now sold, they populate other lives, except two or three mementos that have been held on to, passed on as heirlooms. The watch you wore on your right wrist never worked after you left.

We are told it works on the heartbeat. Apparently, just yours.

The Burden

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 23 May 2012 08:38:00 +0000

The air is still. Almost as if it has decided to see just how quietly it can creep, undetected, through her home. Not a leaf has moved. Not a sigh has escaped her lips.

Not a word of this article she has read has stayed back except one: raped.

The images swirl in her head. She remembers how just a day ago, she was walking back home. Not a great distance, just two kilometres. She knows how she walks. She dodges, she clutches her bag close to her, so nobody can snatch it away and run for it. So nobody can grope her. So nobody can snatch her chain. She keeps tossing her head, not just checking for traffic but also for people; for men who might try to touch her while her head is tilted the other way. Her eyes glance this way and that, she keeps crossing the road, zigzagging her way home so she can avoid threatening or shady looking people, innocent as they may be.

She wonders when was the last time she walked without worrying about the process.

She knows she cannot take those share cabs alone - women hardly ever get into those alone.

She thinks then, about this little girl who had been murdered after being raped. Kidnapped while she played. Raped and then murdered, her body chopped to bits. She tries to think about incident after incident, news story after story that she has avoided reading just so she can restore some normalcy to her own life as a woman, trying to accept the caution and defences as normal, everyday. She looks at the surge of anger rising inside her, almost as if it is not hers.

She hopes, hopelessly, that there is some justification behind what is happening to women. She hopes that she never finds out. It almost justifies another article in the same paper that reports a mother who killed her own daughter. And for the first time, she can completely accept that.

Leftovers

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 16 May 2012 13:04:00 +0000

(Another writing collaboration with the beloved Urmi.)

He undresses me. He turns off the lights. In bed, he takes me in his arms and I close my eyes. But I have not been able to close my eyes, and shut it all out. You travel the years, the darkness, and are there. Always there. I see you so clearly, it’s frightening. I don’t think I saw you then like I do you now. At the end of every day, when I lie in bed - alone sometimes, sometimes not - you are there. Hijacking my present, hijacking my all. You left long ago, but you never left, did you?

Because the other morning, when I turned away from the mirror, I saw a flash of red in my reflection. How did that happen, when I removed every shade of that colour from my life after you left? Because a few moons ago, I remember hearing footsteps climbing outside, in the corridor, your characteristic drag, that little tap against the wall with your fingers. Rat-a-tat-tat. Because just yesterday, I opened my cupboard and caught a strong whiff of your cologne. You never left, did you?

I catch myself snapping at my lover because he is not you. Then I bite my lip, and fake affection. He has no clue. He does not know of the strings attached. Strings so long, they have years for yards. Hooked to the nape of my neck, the small of my back, heck, my heart even, these strings traverse distances unknown and place their ends into your hands. You perhaps do not know. But you play me still, like you did in those days and nights of dirty love. I laugh thinking how you left, but never really did. My lover stops. He senses something odd - like a sheet of glass between our bodies. But he cannot see it. He never will.

So why leave at all if you had to continue haunting me? If you had to flash through my mind seconds before he loses himself in me? If you linger on, like yesterday’s perfume, in the crinkle of my eye, the lines on my palm? Why do you linger, half here, half wherever it is that you have gone to, your life at a standstill and my life...? Hanging on by threads that look like they are about to snap but they will not, they will not. They have frozen over, delicate, fragile beyond any bond ever formed, but frayed over time in the glare of your going.

He kisses my mouth, seeking my tongue, but the taste of your being interferes. I respond, but haltingly, reminding myself this is him, this is not you. He runs his fingers through my hair, down my back and my legs, but my pleasure is marred by the memory of your fingers. I respond, but haltingly, reminding myself this is him, this is not you. Not you. My love notes are not entirely his either. Words meant for you keep slipping in, and I crumple sheet after sheet. How you still punctuate the story of my life.

He can sense so much amiss. I feel terrible for him on days when I am alone. I feel terrible when I see his naivete, when I hear him tell his friends I am not easy to ‘get’. When I slip in and slip out, to him it is mystery. Mysterious. It fascinates him. He tells his friends I am not ‘that into him’. He is drawn to this, this lack of the real me, this lack of a total presence of me. Like a moth to fire, he does not see it is going to suck the life marrow out of him one day. But he can sense so much amiss. I see it flit across his face when I smother your name on my tongue before it escapes my lips. I see it reflect on his brow when I jerk his fingers away when he tries to find mine, almost as if a stranger touched me.

He turns away, sulking, his pride hurt. But his manhood won’t comply. I see his body has gotten used to mine, his heart to my love (or pity or sympathy). I take his hand to apologise without words, and can’t help but see how his fingers are nothing like yours. I’ve never quite gotten used to his stubby, awkward fingers. Fingers that don’t know what they are doing, where they are headed. I remember your hands, those beautiful, confident hands, even as I hold his, and juggle three lives. He is fast appeased, his eagerness most apparent. He begins to make love to me again, hungrily. I recognise this hunger. This isn’t much unlike what I felt for you. Not at all unlike what I still feel for you.

And so I wonder, sometimes, if that is why you left me. Was I too eager? Too hungry for you? Did I yearn too much? Did I hold on too much? Did I show you how vulnerable I was with you, how much I needed you, not just to love me, not just to make love to me, not just to tell me that you found me breathtakingly beautiful, but to be that tower of light to a ship lost on sea? Did I cling too much? Did I smother you and scare you away? And this, now, this odd, frighteningly clear presence of you that I have around me night and day, is it just me? Is it the idea of you that I am projecting on to every present moment I have? Am I killing my now because I want to hold on so badly to our yesterday?

Questions there are no answers to. It is like having to lay in bed with a million demons. Where are you now, I know not. Why you left without a word, I know not. What we could have been, I know not. Yet I must live in the shadow of your presence, wear it like my skin, breathe your memories like my life depended on it. I must love another (for who can live without love?), knowing it will never be the same, no man will be you, no passion so perfect. I let him nibble my ear, gush love-laden streams into them, and I find myself laughing. I am not pretending either. Pleased, he leaves. But I hear your laughter too, calling me a sentimental idiot like you did. I resign myself to him, and to you. Strange, aching threesomes. Perhaps I will learn to live this way...

But perhaps, I will not survive this breach. This rip in loyalty, this splitting of my spirit into two. Perhaps, I will not survive this choice, while I stand here now, on this ledge, looking down into this dark, grey abyss. Perhaps, in the mangled remains of my physical form, he will see that crack too and he will understand why I never seemed to possess my own body. Minutes away from now, I will not have to make this choice anymore. Minutes away from now, I will have forgotten my name, your name, his name. I will have forgotten these lines as I teeter on this edge, between life and death. This rush of wind and the quiet it brings is liberating. The numbness on my skin will be a relief from the memory of your fingers on my flesh. Finally. Finally, my eyes shall be able to shut it all out.

Trividha

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 04 May 2012 09:43:00 +0000

(Another writing collaboration. This time, a scene from the Mahabharata, when Arjuna arrives with his new wife, Subhadra, on Draupadi's threshold.)

Dusk had started its greedy journey of claiming real estate across the lands. Like a witch’s sinewy hands shadows grew, consuming a chunk of grass here, some trees there. Soon the land would be flooded with darkness. A darkness that perhaps no new sun would be able to erase again completely. The skies bore a hint of melancholy as she waited, patiently, for their arrival. But within her, behind the veils of reasons, a storm awaited.

The air was thick with incense. An everyday ritual in the palace, whenever the sun took a graceful exit. But that particular day she felt as if the smoke would snake across the gleaming floors, crawl up around her like an innocent creeper and choke the remaining life out of her. Such had been the impact of the news she had received. She could no longer see the poetry of the colours that had always been her one resort of solace. No more would the fragrance of flowers bring her peace. Not that day would the arrival of her heart’s beloved master and emperor, Arjuna, make her rush to the threshold to greet him into her arms. Everything was whirlpooling into a blank. A void. And she had started to ask questions that she feared she already knew the answers to.

He mused at the lightness and heaviness of the air. The breeze brushed past his arm as playfully as ever, fragrant like the new bride by his side, yet it was laced with a gloom, a cold, that he knew the palatial air would be like. He absently placed his arms around that warm nubile body as they walked, his steps light with anticipation, and heavy with guilt. Subhadra, that beautiful creature made of misty mornings, seemed to be floating alongside him. So different she was from Draupadi - that woman of flaming beauty. Yet how similar they were in their love for him. He sighed, his broad shoulders drooping under the weight of what was to be. “I should learn to live with paradoxes now,” he thought to himself. Even as a gale began to rise from the pit of his stomach, he wondered what was going through Subhadra’s mind, and let the chariot soar.

She repeated her name in her own head, over and over. Subhadra, Subhadra. Auspicious. Blessed. Her whole life had brought her to this one juncture where she was on the brink of questioning why she was here. What was she learning? She felt Arjuna’s body radiating guilt and a measure of worry as they swooped towards Indraprastha in the air-borne chariot. She was reminded of a child that had to go home after a day of rule-breaking to a waiting mother, ready to be chastised. It almost made her smile. Auspicious? Who could ever tell what Krishna had planned for her, for Arjuna, for Draupadi? But she had learnt one thing from all her time with this flute-player that everybody seemed to adore; everything you perceive is the tip of the iceberg. As they stepped out of the chariot and walked up the palace stairway, she remembered that it was she who had ridden the chariot. She had made Arjuna elope with her, albeit on Krishna’s instructions. She knew she could shield Arjuna. She also knew she would never have to do that until Krishna called for it.

The chambermaid came in and announced that the valiant Pandava had arrived with his new bride. Without batting an eyelid, Draupadi nodded her head in acknowledgement. It was so mechanical and instant that it was almost as if she had heard the maid’s voice inside her head. “Here he comes now” she told herself and began walking towards the main door. “How do I make him see what burns inside me?” she wondered, as her legs, unwillingly, dragged her towards him. “What misses the great Gandiva-bearing Pandava’s eyes? Nothing.” she reminded herself and approached the giant gold embroidered doors that somehow seemed taller than usual. Heavier and more merciless than what she had of them in memory. Every inch of her body was aflame with feelings that had been so alien to her. But she was no stranger to fire. It was her home, after all. So she awaited the pristine moment that would convert this raging wildfire inside her into a placid lamp.

The first thing she spotted was just Arjuna. For a fleeting moment all the rage within her disappeared. Could it be true? Was it really just him who stood there outside the door? Had he abandoned the idea of crushing her tender heart and decided to smother it with more love instead? A droplet of happiness pushed itself out of her eyes as these thoughts made home within her. But as she blinked in anticipation, the mist grew thin. And her smile, shaped like the beautiful Gandiva, was cruelly broken. Standing next to her Arjuna was the new girl. Krishna’s sister and the new stakeholder of her beloved’s heart. Subhadra. The tears in her eyes froze from the heat that now surged through her, turning them from transparent pearls to translucent sparks. Red with reason. Red like the tongue of a flame.

Arjuna froze too. Draupadi’s eyes locked into his, a million images flashed through his head. He remembered the Swayamwara, and Draupadi’s eyes when she first saw him there - she had smiled a bashful yet knowing smile. She knew that no one but him could win the contest. It was designed for the archer supreme. He remembered her victorious eyes again, when he stood before her, neck bent to wear the varmala, past all his contenders. Her eyes full of dreams when they walked together towards the Pandavas’ kutir in the forest. Her confused eyes when Kunti and Yudhishtir discussed dividing her into five parts. Her hurt, angry eyes, when they made the biggest decision of her life. Nobody had asked her then. Nobody had asked her now. She had acquiesced then to not giving all of herself to Arjuna. But would she agree now to not having Arjuna all to herself? Would she agree to a painful splitting again? He couldn’t tell.

All Arjuna saw were proud, angry tears, that streaked Draupadi’s fiery beauty. The tears singed him. How would he ever explain why Subhadra was here at her door, claiming to be another wife to him? How would he explain that his love for Draupadi hadn’t died, but a new love for Subhadra had been born? He summoned his voice with great difficulty. Words came forth from his throat like arrows, hurting his mouth, his head, his entire being. “I come to ask of you again today, to share what you hold dear. Would you, my love, give up a little of me?” His sigh melted into Subhadra’s - two united breaths. The first words had been uttered. Whether it would annihilate them or embrace them, at least the floodgates had been opened.

The wind from Arjuna’s and Subhadra’s sighs amplified the already roaring firestorm inside Draupadi. She collected herself, inhaled deep, and looking at Subhadra’s downcast eyes, said in a clear distinct voice “Greetings, O great son of Pandu. Would you be so kind as to also tell me why this is being asked of me?”

Subhadra put a restraining arm on Arjuna. She had sensed his lips part, ready with a reply but she had also seen Draupadi’s eyes boring into hers. She knew it was a question thrown at her. She could see that Draupadi, this glorious, powerful creature literally born of fire, had faced betrayal before from Arjuna. She hardly expected an answer from him. But a woman, a woman just like her in so many ways, how could she do this to her? There were a thousand questions in Draupadi’s fiery glare but Subhadra was protected. She looked into those red eyes, gently tilted her head and noticed something. She was home. There was Krishna everywhere. There were his symbols strewn across Indraprastha and in this moment, when those should be least of her concerns, Subhadra’s heart leapt in joy.

Peacocks strolled languorously in the sweeping gardens surrounding Indraprastha. She heard the gentle note of a flute playing somewhere far away. Draupadi was exactly how Krishna had described. In that one moment, she knew she was meeting a part of her own soul; a lover of Krishna, no different from who she was. Arjuna’s first queen, no different from who she was. “You don’t have to,” she whispered, glancing at Draupadi’s red-lined feet. “Krishna sends me.” A tear drop rolled down her eye as she uttered her only truth.

For a brief moment Draupadi’s fury seemed to find a sense of calm. Such a magical concoction lay in Krishna’s mere mention. In Subhadra’s words she could almost hear Krishna’s melodious voice. She relented, briefly. And in that brief instance she realised how tender Subhadra really was. Krishna’s name in the conversation had started to kill the fires. But it wasn’t comforting. The sting of desperation resumed with renewed energies when her gaze shifted to Arjuna, standing like a rock, next to the new girl.

“Did Krishna just send this new gift to Indraprastha? Or did he also send some arrow-tipped words with the great Arjuna? Why do I not see that quiver strapped to his person? What words will you choose, O famous Pandu putra, to explain this truth to me?” Draupadi said, without mincing her words, aiming them straight at Arjuna’s bosom.

“How do I say this, Panchali?” Arjuna began. “ How do I begin to mirror what churns beneath my skin? How do I explain the motivations of Keshava, which my actions have fructified?”

“He, who is sarathi to me, sakha to you, and bhrata to Subhadra has brought us together, like three flowers bound with one string. While it was Madhava who prompted me, Subhadra who whisked me away, it was I who has chosen to love and be loved back. Yet, dear Draupadi, I love you no less. While it was in the soil of your heart that my love first took root, I cannot now thrive without the water of Subhadra’s affections. And the sunlight of Dwarkadhish’s blessing is indispensible for all of us. You have been, and remain, my first love. In the name of that love, I implore you, in the name of our rashtra, I implore you to accept Subhadra. Accept her because it is Krishna’s will, accept her because it is my doing, accept her because it will make our state stronger. Accept her as you will partake in all of my karmas as my ardhangini. Accept her as your sister. All Subhadra seeks is a little place by your side, our side,” he said, turning towards his new bride.

Draupadi looked away. Krishna, it occurred to her, had indeed sent well-sharpened arrows with Arjuna. Each one of them made their mark on her hurting heart. With each new pierce the grief and rage in the pit of her stomach only worsened. Her mind was filled with memories.

“Acceptance...,”she said slowly. “You have chosen your words wisely, O valiant one. Many moons ago, was it not this same request for acceptance that gave me more than the man I had chosen at my Swayamwara? Was it not the same venom of acceptance I had been made to forcefully consume in the name of dharma, in the name of rashtra, in the name of the betterment of all humanity? What guile had been used against me back then to accept five husbands instead of one? How strategically was I implored, time and again, to consume within me the flames of someone else’s decisions? A land that was supposed to be your empire, a haven that would flourish with your monarchy, a golden oasis of nectar that would extinguish the flames of my barren life, had to accept the hands of four more men to rule it. Yes, I accepted. I accepted relinquishing you for four years at end. I accepted standing equally with your shadow wherever you went. I accepted the tiny piece of attention I got from your war riddled lifetime. I accepted them all Partha. But the only gushing waterfall in the dense rainforest of my little heart. That one small stone of pleasure on which I sit today along with you in my arms....”

She turned now to face Subhadra.

“...is being taken away from me. That singular tree I sit under. Krishna’s truth, I must admit...” Draupadi continued as the ghosts from her days bygone began choking her voice. “...is not cutting down that tree Gandeevi. It is killing that tree’s only existent, life-giving, pleasant shadow. And what is a tree without a shadow? That, I cannot accept, O Dhananjaya...” she said looking expectantly into her beloved’s quizzical eyes.

“Do not accept it, then. You are well within your rights to send me back. You are my king’s first queen. He first found love in your eyes, in your embrace. The love of an equal, the love of a woman, he found it first in your words and your silences. And I? I am but a pawn in this story of life. While I have loved your Arjuna more than I have ever loved any man, I harbour no illusions about what position I hold in his life, and in your life with him. I know why Krishna chose to name me Subhadra. I know I am being used. But that also tells me that I am useful. I do not know what Madhava plans. I am blessed with only human eyes and a human intellect and it is not for me to show you what lies beyond the horizon. I can only tell you that I place my unflinching faith in Govinda, in his plans, no matter how dark the clouds loom over the horizon.

“So send me back. But know this, Panchali, that the responsibility of refuting Krishna’s word rests heavy on your already-laden shoulders. Know this, O Krishnaa, that you make Krishna who he is. To refute his word is to go against your own grain. Remember. And I shall go in peace.”

Arjuna looked distraught. Tearing in the middle, fraught with pain. He looked at Subhadra, in awe of her stand. Yes, she was a woman who could steer destinies as well as she could steer chariots. She was, after all, Parthasarathi’s sister. Then he looked at Draupadi, a woman cast in embers, flaming with a passion of love and defiance, teetering on the edge of a decision.

Draupadi smiled. Not at what had been said by the new love in Arjuna’s life but at the familiarity of the situation. She recalled the words of her father, the great king Drupada, back when she was just a child. On an evening not too unlike the one that day, the aged king had made little Draupadi sit on his lap and told her the magical story of her birth. He had spoken of sacred fires, as tall as mount Meru itself, that had roared relentlessly for several days as many renowned sages had prayed to the heavens to grant the king a gift. “The gift,” Drupada had whispered in the little girl’s anxious ears “was wrapped in gold, yellow and red. It was made of fire. It was as if Lord Agni himself had walked into my humble home holding this beautiful little bundle of unbridled bliss. A little girl born of fire. A little soul that had the command of turning empires to dust with its fury and also the gentleness of giving warmth to shivering mortals.” The girl, amused at this comparison to fire, had laughed out loud. “Yes..” the king had added. “In time, you will see my little fire flower, that there will gather skies above your head that will need you to choose. What kind of fire will you unleash? Will you burn down castles of ambitions? Or will you set afire a million hopes?”

A tear rolled down Draupadi’s cheek. Much like the one Subhadra had let out a few moments ago while releasing her truth. This was Draupadi’s truth now. Her lifetime of truths wrapped in various boxes of acceptance from different corners of the universe. Her dark exterior had, much like the shadows cast by the Parijata tree, absorbed all the heat the world gifted her with. She recalled Arjuna’s look of surprise and admiration back at the Swayamwara at having spotted her singular beauty. But she wondered if he knew how many rabid energies had penetrated her to make her glow from the inside. Today, under the skies as dark as her, Draupadi was being asked the same question her father had asked her. What will she be? The generous flame that consumes everything it is presented with? Or the uncontrollable hurricane of anger that spares no one, vaporizes anything that comes its way?.

“Krishnaa exists because of Krishna...” she finally managed to mouth. “Had it not been for the immortal hands of Keshava, the many mortals who have ruled Draupadi’s heart would have extinguished her long ago.”

She looked at Subhadra. It was true what she had heard of her. Just like her brother, she had been born with the gift of words. But how different she was from him too. Unlike him, who chose his words to show the way ahead, her words seemed aimed to herald the truth of today. This moment. This heartbeat.

Subhadra stepped carefully over the threshold and approached Draupadi. Draupadi stood, barely balancing herself on her two feet, almost in a daze. Subhadra covered the last few steps towards Draupadi in a run and clasped her arms around her. “I know. I stoke no fire. I am not water. I will never put you out. I am Krishna too. And I will hold this earth beneath your feet. Forever and beyond,” she whispered. Words that passed only between her and Panchali. Draupadi felt frail in that one moment, like embers about to die out and Subhadra knew it was her job to fan them to keep them going. There was a long journey ahead. This life had hardly begun.

Draupadi’s fury came out as tears. Much like the waterfall in her mind’s forest, this was generous too. Much like the shadow of her singular tree, this was greedy too. Greedy not just for claiming Arjuna’s sole rights to her heart, but greedy for this new vision of Krishna to, hopefully, make the forest fire in her become a lamp that would brighten the dark days strewn like fallen flowers ahead. She held on to Subhadra.

Subhadra held one hand out behind her. They would never be complete without Arjuna. Arjuna held it fast.

In that one moment a confluence was created. The life forces of three strong streams merging into one. The barriers breaking between the elements of fire, water and earth and forming one divine. Arjuna saw Draupadi melt, forging a bond between her and Subhadra, forming one Prakriti with two faces, to accompany him, the Purusha, into the future. “Paradoxes,” he mused, “exist only as long as we fail to perceive the larger, divine picture.”

By accepting duality, we understand the presence of the One. It is this One that may sometimes play life’s sweet music on the banks of the Yamuna, and sometimes send life’s toughest choices in the way He sent a Draupadi, a Subhadra, an Arjuna, a Draupadi and a Subhadra, an Arjuna.

(Co-written with Urmi and Shakri. They can be followed on Twitter at @URM1 and @shakwrites respectively.)

Leela

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 10:53:00 +0000

One lazy Friday late morn, words tumbled around in two minds. Separated by space, time and other non-essentials, they allowed the creators of this universe to take over their pens. And thus emerged a dialogue, much like Shiva and Parvati have over an evening game of dice on the banks of the Narmada. But this time, between Radha and Krishna.
(Written by Urmi, of golden words interwoven with heart-wrenching art. And by me, of rain drop collecting and night-sky-gazing)

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I hear you often. The ripple of a breeze around my knees. The soft whoosh of the wind blowing through my house. Leaves raining down on me while I walk promenades when it isn’t even autumn. I hear you often.

I am sure you do. Because I speak in so many voices. How silly of people to assume one has but a pair of ears and one voice. There are thousands, I say. Millions even. Because when I have to reach out to you, I am heart, I am earth, I am wind, I am fire, I am me, I am you. I am a hundred lovers there were, I am a hundred lovers that will be.

So what sense lies in missing you, then? I am enveloped in your presence. It wraps me in a hundred layers that transcend even my body. You go where I go. Where is the pining? Where are the tears? They call longing ‘Radha’. What if it means ‘Krishna’? A synonym, dressed in a different colour? How would they ever know?

You are right. They would never know. They can never see the pain that stays hidden beneath my smile. They would never understand that what is Radha, is Krishna and what is Krishna, Radha. They would never fathom the agony of a soul split in two, of the burden of wearing two kayas. That is the pain, dear Radhika. That is the missing. It is that weary feeling of being lost, torn.

Then why split in the first place? Why start this leela? Is it not enough to remain one? This entertainment, this evolution, why? You erase my memory with every birth. I have to remember everything, all over again. I have to remember that that dull ache in my bones every night as I lie down to sleep, is the weight of not remembering. Of having to remember, excruciatingly, that every element breathes your name to me. Why start this leela?

There is dharma, Madhava-sangini, the need to fulfill duties, to repay the debts of karma, to heal what is broken. But that is a story for another day, priye. Another knife that slices through our union is desire. My desire. The desire to see you searching for me. The pleasure of seeing you find me. The ecstasy of becoming one again. Transcendental as the joy of eternal unity is, desire is undead. It rises, like a ripe seed beneath frosty earth, when spring beckons.

And in that little act, you inflict two wounds on me. All at once. You split into two, you and me. And then you go away too, leaving me waiting, turning into ‘Radha’, the ‘Radha’ of longing, of tearing, waiting by the Jamuna. Not the ‘Radha’ that means Krishna. I have turned into every lover’s quoted example. I have become the pain from a phantom wound. I am you and all at once, I am not you. I no longer see my own reflection in the dark waters of the river you have left me by. I see you.

Ah, dearest Vrindavana Viharini, how easily you fall prey to my leela. How ready you are to see what I show you. How unquestioningly you believe what you see. But without you and your unconditional acceptance of this plot, my sundari, this play wouldn’t be as beautiful. Whether it is I & you, Shiva & Parvati, or any man & woman, Purush and Prakriti must constantly engage and disengage from passion play. Nothing can break the cyclical nature of existence. We must break and mend, part and unite, cry and laugh for eternity. For how will we belong, without tasting over and over the salt of the other’s tears, and the madhurya ras of the other’s embrace?

So there will be no end, you say? No final closure. No final relief. No final oneness. Just this eternal ekta and dvandva, this constant chase must continue. If there is no other way for Prakriti and Purusha to engage and disengage, then what remains of this tarka and vitarka? Nothing. Nil, shunya. There is tremendous rest in this shunya. I am that when I am not with you. I am that when I am with you. And I am that in between too. An entire universe, not of minds floating inside different bodies, but of bodies floating inside a singular mind.

You know now, dear Gandharvika, that you and I are one, even when we are not. You know why you hear me often. Why I am like the ripple of a breeze around your knees; like the soft whoosh of wind blowing through your house; like leaves raining down on you when you walk the promenades when it’s not even autumn. You hear me often, you know, because I am the song of your heart.

Finding

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 11:27:00 +0000

She always wondered how she would find him in the next lifetime. Because, obviously, she would not want to be with anybody else.

He wondered why she was always in a hurry. He would set out to meet her and always find her halfway through, complaining that he never came first.

She wondered why he never came looking for her.

He let her believe she was doing all the finding.

On Why I Fight With You

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Thu, 22 Mar 2012 05:59:00 +0000

Your voice is clear,

You wish I would change.

You wish I would hear,

And not find it strange.

I hear my voice,

Climbing in defence,

I wish I wouldn't lie

And drop my pretense.

I wish you would say

What you felt underneath,

While I wish I would hear

What you had hid beneath.

Tell me like it is,

Every colour, every note,

Tell me if you worry,

And tell me if you dote.

But inside I must know,

I hear what you say,

Even words that you never

Planned to put my way.

I hate who I am when

I hide behind these walls

To prove I am right,

Does it matter at all?

These tears in my eyes

You did not make me cry

I am my own misery

I keep asking why.

No promised salvation

A long distance away

I must know I am here

It must happen today.

Should I ever lose you

I'd lose you to this guilt

And see it all crumble

Everything we built.

The Secret To Happiness

noreply@blogger.com (Ree) — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 06:55:00 +0000

There are several noises in her head. Years ago, they used to disturb her. The sound of mankind in turmoil. The painful grunts of voices that were never sure. The panting arguments of minds that had heard themselves over and over again too often and therefore, forsaken all meaning from the sounds they made.

Not any more, though.

There was no need to justify anything today. No need to explain to anybody why she was vegetarian. No need to reiterate why she gave up wearing her once-favourite pair of denims. No need to classify what was feminist and what was realist. There was no need to get angry about insufficient laws. There was no need to worry about what would happen to the nation.

No anger about how the world was structured. No need to be part of it either. No need to listen to anybody, please anybody, hear anybody or even respond. There was no compulsive need to be right all the time.

There was also no need to define right from wrong.

There was endless space, vast and airy, blue and light. There was wind, there was fire. There was the fragrance of fresh bread. There was the gentle tinkling of wind chimes. There was the happy, distant laughter on a television set. There was the sound of water splashing into a half-filled bucket. There was the sound of a kitchen timer going off. There was also the gentle hint of rain in the breeze that just touched her cheek.

In this one perfect moment, when she was home, brewing herself a humble cup of coffee, there was nothing wrong with the world. She remembered nothing. There was no identity. She had no name. Nothing to go back to and nothing to look forward to either except the perfection of this moment, stretching into infinity.

Forgetting identities seemed to be the biggest secret to happiness.