The Time in between

I have divided the days in small compartments . It makes the day pass in a frenzy of activity , one activity lagging or overlapping .. a sense of running all the time to keep pace , of running on the rollercoaster , of keeping mental tabs and all the time being haunted by the work piling up , by the schedules going awry all the time . This sense of so much to do makes my days go faster and at night I fall on the bed exhausted.

The food tastes good now and I am beset with huge hunger pangs all the time . I eat large portions of rice with daal . The mound on my steel plate looks big . I make a well of rice gleefully , transporting myself to childhood days and watch chumki pour big ladle of daal into the well. Then almost ceremoniously I break the wall from one side and watch the daal flow out . I think of stories read longtime back of dams breaking and water rushing out , submerging villages . I watch with fascination at this small imitation of dam wall breaking and feel happy that it is in my control and that all the damage that will be done will be the precious bhindi, which chumki has traded from some one in place of two duck’s egg , getting soggy. But I don’t mind .

I eat huge mouthful of rice in one go , so hungry and so eager to eat that I almost don’t chew the first few mouthfuls. The rice sticks to my palate and sometimes I get hiccups so intense that my eyes start watering and my throat chokes. But soon as the water , brought hurriedly by chumki , pushes the grain deep inside my throat , I begin to eat. Now at a leisurely pace , enjoying the taste now , the basic wholesome goodness of food. The plate is always cleaned as I gather even the last morsel of rice and bhindi with my fingers , wiping it all in one last swipe and then licking my fingers . Nothing goes waste , nothing. Chumki watches indulgently as I finish eating. I look up at her and smile . She smiles back . She is happy . The food she cooks has been eaten with so much enjoyment . It is like a daily ritual , her asking if I want any more , knowing full well that I am full, full like a bloated toad , and my nodding  head in decline. But still she asks everyday and I decline smiling everyday . And then I will say on cue ,

“ after half an hour then , for tea .Don’t you run away before that”

She will say then ,

“no no not half an hour , not so soon . Let the food go into your skin and body and mind before diluting it with chai” . Her village wisdom makes her smug and high.

Outside the bansuri strains beckons and the sun hovers tremulously on the tip of the western hills . The heat shimmers and shakes in huge transparent rolling sheets . Instead of taking an afternoon siesta I sit up charged for work. My fingers itch and I start writing the first words . The pile of sheets on the lefthand side of the table will slowly get thinner . Not now but one day soon as I start on the story , the story that I have to write , the story for which I have left everything and come here , the story of my life and my death and the time in between.

(olga fedorova water colour )

Mine , all mine

I remember like it is all happening now . He was six months old then and I would play with him . Not as a mother who plays with her child but more as an adolescent girl play acting at being a mother. I would love to bathe him and massage him . His tender soft body would arouse a deep sense of belonging and of proving that everything was fitted perfectly in my female body to carry out the task of giving birth . The prime task . Later on I would begin to have serious doubts on such linear thinking and as I grew, so layers of complicated perception added themselves on my mind , making such innocent joys a thing of rarity. But at that time I was constantly astonished to witness the living proof of my being whole , complete.The simple pleasurable task of looking after him gave me a great sense of joy ..his heavy fragrant weight settling on my chest when he slept, slung lopsided on my shoulders.

It was the waking in the nights , his shrill colic pain cries erupting suddenly , the strange red nappy rashes that made him fretful , the washing of huge bundles of soiled nappies and putting them on the clothesline , one after the other , till the terrace resembled an arena of triangular fluttering flags , the heavy pungent smell of urine soaked dirty clothes and bed rugs , the mixing of the baby formula early in the morning , the crazy routine of the day and snatching sleep like a deprived depraved junkie ..all these made me go berserk. But amidst all this frenzy , one moment I would find myself looking at him and finding suddenly like a huge blob of sunshine , his face wreathing in such beautiful radiant smile of recognition . And my heart would twist. Twist in such a sweet melody of love , that it would lodge itself in my throat in a huge big lump of emotion and I would pick him up and gather him close to my heart. My flesh and blood. Mine , all mine.

The third eye journey

It moves and rolls beneath the skin . The surface undulates ..small waves then rides over minor bumps and goose , trembles in miniature volcanic spasms , along the scalp, tingles and lingers for a breath moment , then behind the ears , at the back of the neck in the small feather hair then along the dimpled spine . the ridges and curves of the buttocks , then bifurcates like a river tributary along the back of the thigh , on the dimpled soft flesh at the back of the knee , on the indentations of the instep , the arch of the sole and touches the big toe , the small toe before curving on to the front , riding the trough now like a fast current , along the upper body , the chin and the eyes , the tip of the nose , settles there for a fraction then like a receding wave slowly moves back to the navel and in a frenzied whirlpool empties deep into it. Then like a living being beats slowly harmoniously in the pit . The lotus flower love blooming in the centre and the third wisdom eye bang in the centre of the forehead.

The cuckoo flew out

The days were beginning to get warm. A wind blew all the time whistling and whooshing past the window grill , lifting and swirling the dead rust leaves in a maddening eddy of one minute glory before settling them tamely down on the streets below. The wind chime, hung in a corner in the balcony, tinkled merrily in an excited chatter . The room was silent . The walls watched in hushed silence the body which lay supine on the mat. The naked torso shone with a matt dim shine , the row of tiny dimples along the ridge of spine and a lone flea hovered daintily above them.

His soul shimmered and trembled within the confines of the body , strained to get out and touch the sky , the trees , the pigeons , the little dark nook in the awning. He lay still , still in a tense strain. As if lying still he could let the soul fly away to far distant land and he would be connected to it through a thin invisible thread and thus be able to do all that he had ever wanted. So , lying absolutely still was the only way he could engage in intense activity.He counted seconds and then minutes. A haze rose above his eyes . He could see small black dots sliding past his cornea like minute rain drops. His breath came shallow then deep. Now. He thought . It is now .

His body creaked and then a window opened and the cuckoo flew out. The chime announced twelve.

It was time to get up and get on with the business of living.

The Dream

I dream often these days. The nights are punctuated with sweat filled nightmares , not the sort that you dream in your childhood with a morbid terror , but more like viewing some tragedy from a bystander's view , detached , dry but filling your heart with slow seeping cold. Everytime I get up and sip water , tepid and laced with an iron taste . Most likely the strong dry iron taste of my distaste at having to go through something which has no basis except in some deep layers of my subconscious. The dreams don't tell me anything. They are small hazy images , blurring from virtual to real without any logic or reason. Like for instance , yesterday I dreamt of huge blood clots in funny irregular shapes all over , on the floor , on the walls , on the sofa chair . Sometimes during the day while dealing with routine mundane things of everyday living , they jumped up suudenly with a clear sharp focus . What was I aborting ? Something which had nestled deep within my heart , took shape , form and body but now was wanted no more. I never cried for it in my dream . It is now that when I am completely awake a keening wail rises silently , pushing all else towards the periphery. I laugh and talk and eat and do other thousand things which people do everyday , while the dream , the golden dream slowly aborts itself.

So love decays

I stand in all ugliness in the bottom of murakami's well . You draw a line , a brush stroke and the staircase opens up . The dream song marches ahead , climbs the stairs and vanishes into thin air. I had wanted to write sensuous love songs instead end up writing ugly stories which no one will read . The words will rot and spread their odour , sometimes , may be when they are still within my throat , in my mouth and have not yet traveled to the tip of my fingers , to come down sliding on the blue paper. They will rot , as must all things which are alive and then no more. So love decays.

Begin..one more time

Someone cleaves my head into two

and I remember the woman cutting grass with a sickle

such a whoosh all the time

I ask the old man to stop spinning the wheel

for a while

while I take a breath

take a long deep breath

and begin the day