http://www.indianexpress.com/ie/daily/20000215/ied15073.htmlThe familiar life
My head felt like a knot. Many knots. A headache, a numb head, a dumb head... anything else sounded so much better and the best of all would have been an empty one. It seemed wise to bang this bundle against the wall, fling it into the water tank, scrub it good, pull it out, dry and clean of all the grey that had been glued on to it. Only if.
Nodding for the nth time, I realised for the nth time that this grey on the top didn't always bring the brightest of smiles, the breeziest of breezes. This grey up there lives such a square life, breathes such calculated breaths, saves, stashes, finances feelings... a well-worked-out equation that always promises a remainder called `smooth life'. Only if the rest of me could live that way.
The head felt even more knotted as I lay it down on the pillow. Of course, it makes sense, I deliberated, to live a familiar life. Walk the streets that have been long cleared of all the wayward green. Friendly and safe. ``That's my sensible..." I almost heard Mom exclaim. And Iwent to bed, stretching my lips to a smile. The knots stayed, but.
BUT! I woke up drenched in sweat. How do I live half dreams? ``Don't dream,'' Mom said. ``It's like forest fire, it burns you, it burns the ones around you, it burns all night and day. Water is so much more calm. It flows along that trail, never makes a noise and it doesn't burn. Be like water, darling, flow demure. Be like water, my daughter....''
But doesn't water spill over sometimes, Mom? Doesn't it dive from a cliff, hit against the rock, gush down, frothing all over. So noisily, so noisily that you jerk your head back to see it live, and breathe. So loudly. So fearlessly. And that, Mom, isn't noise, is it? I love listening to waterfalls. Don't you, Mom?
She wiped the sweat off my face, closed my eyes with her ever balmy hands. ``Sleep my darling, and dream as much. But dream only in dreams.'' The lullaby did put the sleep back on the lids but the head knotted up again.And then, in slumber, I was flying, drifting, floating... allthat makes a feather. The feeling felt familiar. And my own. There have been times earlier too, when I've tried stretching my arms as wide as they can be, filling in the breeze. And an equal number of times have I tried stretching them above my head, raising my heels to get them as far up as they can get. And then I've also tried to breathe as deeply as I can, so that my lungs swell to the brink of a burst, to take in the spring sprayed all over. The dew also comes along, wrapped in sweet peas and gulmohar. And I've never had enough of it. And it's in this not having enough that I have found the desire to try again, for more. And I've gone on stretching my arms, breathing ever so deeply, just to get there. And it's never left me tired.
The morning, and I walked out with a spring in every step. They picked up pace as the ground beneath left them. ``Don't forget darling,'' Mom called, ``don't forget the way back home...''
Where's home, Mom? I walked, tickled at the crisp brown of the leaves floating about.Spring had begun to show as the dream cradled back into my eyes. And I moved, like the river that overflows, breeding new rivulets, then streams, and a pond and, who knows, some day, even a sea.
I want to dream, Mom, and not only at night. I'd be the stream that froths on to the rocks and flows. And then someday reaches home, suddenly out of the meadows. Then the knots would come off. Just like that. Who knows!And I won't forget the way back, Mom. I promise.
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