Waiting at the school gate today after my exam, I leaned against the red dusty brick of the archway and looked at the trees. I love seeing signs of the wind, cooling us on hot afternoons. Leaves rustling always makes the rest of the world feel still. I looked up, and thought of Yumi, who first taught me the importance of looking up. How often I forget! I hadn't consciously looked at the sky in a while, so it surprised me, arching over us all, so blue and vast and quiet. Eyes! Jake once told me that they were called far-reaching lassos of the water-lamp and I remember shivering at the beauty of the idea.
I wish I could describe the sky without describing it, without reducing it to an object. For that I would need to be a child again, sure that tipping off the edge of a mountain would mean landing in the soft wispy arms of the clouds, which would then dissolve sweetly on the tongue. I let my eyes soften, my vision expand, and feel my mind loosen correspondingly. I cannot remember all that I have been taught. A little boy walks past tossing grapes into his mouth. He misses and the grape rolls past my feet. We smile at each other. Not an ecstatic, crazed sense of unity, but something tender and simple, enough to feel part of things again.
This evening I attended a concert put on by a group of elderly singers in Pune. Gauri's father-in-law came onto the stage barefoot, led by the hand, for he is blind, and sang beautifully, his voice full of emotion. From sight to sound. The music made my eyes fill with tears. Fittingly, the only word I understood was 'dil.'
I feel at home, a calm perhaps partially induced by my licorice tea and the cool air circulating from the wooden fan. The daily rickshaw ride, the sweet tea, the vegetables I chose this evening on the street corner, the garlands of flowers colouring the streets, Varsha's smile, Huzaifa's company, the woman who stroked my cheek tonight, small moments of gratitude.
All I need is for my rose to bloom again. Which reminds me. Some of my classmates have taken to calling me gulabi, which means 'rosy.' In this heat, I don't think I can shake such a nickname. I have even come to like it.
I wish I could describe the sky without describing it, without reducing it to an object. For that I would need to be a child again, sure that tipping off the edge of a mountain would mean landing in the soft wispy arms of the clouds, which would then dissolve sweetly on the tongue. I let my eyes soften, my vision expand, and feel my mind loosen correspondingly. I cannot remember all that I have been taught. A little boy walks past tossing grapes into his mouth. He misses and the grape rolls past my feet. We smile at each other. Not an ecstatic, crazed sense of unity, but something tender and simple, enough to feel part of things again.
This evening I attended a concert put on by a group of elderly singers in Pune. Gauri's father-in-law came onto the stage barefoot, led by the hand, for he is blind, and sang beautifully, his voice full of emotion. From sight to sound. The music made my eyes fill with tears. Fittingly, the only word I understood was 'dil.'
I feel at home, a calm perhaps partially induced by my licorice tea and the cool air circulating from the wooden fan. The daily rickshaw ride, the sweet tea, the vegetables I chose this evening on the street corner, the garlands of flowers colouring the streets, Varsha's smile, Huzaifa's company, the woman who stroked my cheek tonight, small moments of gratitude.
All I need is for my rose to bloom again. Which reminds me. Some of my classmates have taken to calling me gulabi, which means 'rosy.' In this heat, I don't think I can shake such a nickname. I have even come to like it.
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