He could see her standing against the last light...as the sun went down...surrendering in its ochre tint. Slowly shifting his gaze to the porch above her where children were plotting nervously; he brought the last cigarette to his parched lips. He would need water, he thought, smoothening out the creases on his wilted cigarette; but then he’d hold on to watch the sun drop away today- a vivid April sunset behind wisps of dry smoke. Standing in his balcony, inhaling the smoke and silence that slowly enveloped his thoughts within her silhouette, he pondered vaguely over the likeliness of everyday. He looked at her, tracing the distance between them and wondered like every other day. Rarely did they move beyond the skewed familiarity of their allegorical presence. And then, all of a sudden she looked straight at him...moving two fingers to her lips and then waving in dismissal. She gesticulated, hinting at him perhaps, at his cigarette? Staring at her, playing a game of silence, he continued to smoke; still nonchalant like wisps from the final embers. And finally, when it was too dark to see and the sun had eclipsed them in his absence.....the game was over. He had missed another beautiful sunset, like every other day, he thought.
Water
"Water is my darkest luxury. To be swimming in thought, desirous or otherwise, feels like being submerged in water. How I long for that state, of being surrounded by something richer, more stimulated to my existence and reflecting its vitality so purposefully."
Sitting here in this room of the NUJS Boys Hostel, a nonchalant building squeezed in the middle of a dangerously forgotten cubbyhole on the outskirts of Calcutta- Salk Lake Sector II, I feel strangely compelled- almost overwhelmed- by the memory of a conversation I don't think ever took place; a coversation long due with myself, over water. Strangely enough, even though the conversations were somehow whisked away, there remained simpler memories of something relevant- water. Memories of times when I was considerably younger than I am now- deeply afraid and religiously nervous of most things in my simple world at home-an eriee government bungalow locked away in my mind- high walls with tapestries that boomed in the sinister laughs of dreary,ringing telephones, the darkness in its many forgotten corners and the darkness above, a Skeletor poster board in the store house, awning Victorian windows with crying faces etched out on its misty glass panes on dewy mornings, the boarded fireplaces with endless debris, silence, my mother, her silhouette, mountain shadows I had imagined, evenings spent in the back alley that ran through to somewhere where the eerie church gong sounded, hollow breeze, my cousins, their silhouettes too, dolls, the retreat hour at five in the evening when everything came to a standstill apart from the melancholic battalion trumpet and the flag as it dropped below the setting sun, rooms with boarded fireplaces and ochre lights, rooms with high ceilings, monkey’s peering from skylights tugging at cables passing through to the terrace boards, a row of Peepul trees along the front view, and many more things I cannot remember......as I hope you can see, it was a long time ago. In this time, I was in what I would suppose could have been an innocuous rendition of mad and dangerous love- that with water. Though my love exceeded many times my ability to soothe the both of us or any onlooker in it, I did love it in meaning- as I understood it- like most other things. In that time, I had admirations too. Things I was utterly pleased to show interest in. In their appreciation I found I could live ephemerally forever with them. Sleep with them, play with them in my dreams, walk down with them in fantastic ecstasy to a place I thought existed, anguish with them, and eat with them, for them, from them. The existence of anything and the compassion I felt towards it, however trivial, went undoubted, sailing over still waters....rarely battered by the burden of foresight. I was not afraid or worried that my love would eventually wane, if at all it ever did (mostly it did). I didn’t care to let time pass by gradually or care to let love for something drift in like the afternoon breeze this moment. Back then, it was love at first sight. And at first, it was always unconditional. In the anticipation and rush of an entourage of experiences, I dove into wells for experiences I knew lay beyond where I couldn’t see; the water only wet me with transient emotion. My admirations bounced around in my small world, craving for experience. But if admirations were my mistresses then water was my muse.
I would have loved to have remembered, clearly, how it must’ve felt like to plunge into a body of water for the first time ever. I was too little unfortunately, around three years old I would think, when my father brought me to the army swimming pool and with a reassurance I can only imagine- dropped me into the water and seen me squabble with a veracity I wouldn’t know existed. I can imagine all these things. And I can imagine how it must’ve been even though I don’t remember most of it now. But it is from here, a few miles away from where I am now, in Fort William where my parents were transferred, that I can begin to trace back the lure of waters.
Though there are very few things I now remember in general, it’s stifling as a writer though it brings outlandish joy for the poet. Somewhere along the road that I have travelled fairly straight on, upwards even; as I turn to look around before settling into a dreamy nostalgia- I see a strange mist that has been hanging thickly. It amuses, bewilders and even sometimes hypnotises me into stupor or beckons me dangerously. The sun fortunately sets before me and not behind that mist- though it does rise there. And I do miss the sunrise but console myself in the lap of lassitude, usually sleeping through till she leaves from under my head only to rest it in the arms of forgetfulness, where I wake up and most days and walk on- unsuspectingly, slightly hung over. As I go on through the day, the unsuspecting sun comes up from behind my neck only to begin falling faster in front of me than I could imagine. And in that again I am caught longing to catch up, each day, day after day, as it drops silently....indifferently. Maybe someday I will race it, when I get close enough, and then sleep in its place to placate myself. Maybe that thought keeps me going too apart from the lassitude and forgetfulness. And as for my sun and when it get around presumptuously only to find me there, I long to see him in person- as equals maybe. Capable of dousing and protecting one another with respect we both I hope will someday acknowledge.
It is here maybe, in my forgettable quest, from the poverty it shrouds on me, water shields me. The thought of surrendering to water as it engulfs me each time I dive into it lends me a familiar sanctuary that the sun could never provide, that very few things could ever provide. In water, my world was encouraging and trust worthy, even as a child. In the fiercest of waters it seemed brilliantly challenging and fair- and even if the water tide won over mine it left me safe at the shore, beaming uncertainly as it quickly ebbed away into the vague depth, without a name. It was in tides and waves, in being pushed away, or pitted against, engulfed into or be pushed out of something so tedious and rewarding to my curiosity, it was in the ready relationship with the aged waters- blue, composed and satiated by provoking experience yet playful like old sailors- that I found comfort and an excellent mentor.
But there was a time, when I hadn’t relinquished all doubt to trust this age old friend. In Lucknow, preceding my stay in Calcutta, I had never seen the sea. I had never felt the surge as it came charging at me with such willingness and apparent wrath. I had never imagined water to rise operatically as it neared us before the sand only to cascade majestically as if bowing away, half in respect for us and half in recognition of its own may. I had never waded too far unsuspectingly, only to be frighteningly battered and sent homewards by the sea. I didn’t know that the seas too, like us- rise and die, confront and beguile, stammer and worship those above, uncertainly. I had never imagined myself to be curious of water, of why it wouldn’t rise on certain days when I expected it too. I had never felt disappointment as it mislaid my wishes, took my castles on days it was angrier, receded when it was saddened by us, or took some stranger with it in apparent egocentricity. I never loathed it or loved it. I never knew that water in fact had character, a character, a personality that wasn’t necessarily perfect, or completely obtuse. That it responded differently to each on each one us and that too just like we did to each other. I never knew I could affect its disposition of my own accord, let alone befriend it and eventually entrust it each time with my life with great faith. I never knew all this and so I never thought of water as something, someone, with life, animated, forbearing and even expectant. Most importantly, I never knew or expected that water too possessed a certain rationality with which it worked itself around our feet and eventually submerged us.
I think of it as a way to disconnect myself from the umbilical cord of the world usually, one that I thought hung over each one us from the skies as a kid, bridging us to something, slowly tugging harder as we grow- to me it sometimes nagged even. And when it did, water was my retreat most often. In water, its tug was reduced to a gentle sway, I could see it loosen its clutch as it slowed down in water, bending and leaning leisurely- as if humbled by the sobriety of time- fossilized below the unrelenting, smooth permafrost of waters unruffled and sinuous- something richer, something powerful, something quantifiable in its sheer volume and not in its dearth- so unlike poverty- assuredly assignable as faith.
As my evenings in Calcutta came about to be- they were marked with great expectations and soft yearning. It was here that I first dove into a swimming pool. I would ride to the swimming pool each evening except on Thursdays and Sundays. Sundays marked morning timings and Thursdays the pool would be cleaned rather thoroughly. In fact, most things there were done with a certain wholeness and arduousness. The cleaners cleaned it with diligence if not affection (I could never imagine a person would do that with affection), the lifeguards practiced their drills, the fat ladies swam breaths always, the uncles swam lengths, old ones clutching to their sides religiously, the same children clung and moved along the sides as if never to learn or unaware of the art of swimming- day after day, coaches with starched short pants, white socks and cheap navy blue trainers from the army canteen shot at everyone, glances, bellows and the frequent use of the steel mouth whistle- it didn’t matter who, they kept recreational swimmers overtime and argued with parents to let slip another hour for the prodigious ones, chlorine levels were monitored and water was kept as natural and fresh as possible, a ten metre diving board- the sepulchre of my frivolous fear and awe alike- stood across the deeper end of the fifty metre pool and at the end of each quarter the pool would host a swimming gala that culminated with a brilliant display of divers and surfers. There, I could wade about for hours, immersed in a cauldron of challenging curiosity. And with this thought in mind, in pursuit of the wealth I saw in it, I would cycle down with a red, thatched plastic grocery bag that stored towels and paraphernalia hung over the back nest, bouncing and clicking away as it brushed against the naked wheel....with great expectations and little thought for regret or the big wide world.
