The Socegad Manifesto

I believe in rice that takes walks every afternoon; in the sun that shimmers on the tips of each stalk; the subsequent laughter that spills onto the road that speeds through the paddy fields of Goa.

I believe in Goa incarnated on the mud-made face of an old man who I know plays pranks and music with his children, an imaginary drop of feni clings to his bushy moustache, his clay eyebrows glint with hints of knowing as he rests sublimely on my yellow wall.

I believe in the yellow walls that surround our khatia. They soak the sunlight every morning and glare at our knotted bodies as we crawl our of slumber, he and I…

The Wounded Years

 

Do old wounds ever turn into scars? Or does the blood merely congeal into a thick scab that will be scratched off later when you accidentally brush past familiar thorns that remind you of forgotten memories? I was watching an episode of The Wonder Years, titled Heartbreak and I found myself crying inconsolably.

My childhood was a constant battle against discrimination, rejection and enforced alienation based entirely on the unnaturally dark colour of my skin. I found resolution when I resigned to the fate of this pronounced ugliness. And then one evening, I heard that a boy was in love with me. I was ten years old, he was fourteen. He thought I was beautiful.

That chilly November night, I mourned the loss of innocence. I found myself longing for those girl-child times when, in love, I could survive for hours on a single touch or a slight gesture, like a tacky keychain on valentines day, (a small translucent bottle which magnified the letters, I {heart} u), or a kiss-not a luscious kiss on my mouth but that soft little peck on the lip that came after much anticipation and drama.

It was twilight, that period of indecision between evening and night. It was a game of Truth and Dare. It was his turn, he chose ‘dare’ and they dared him to kiss me which he accepted, on one condition, that the event wouldn’t be a spectacle. He drove all our friends away to the other blocks of the terrace till it was just the two of us in A Block. The others climbed the ladder to the B Block tank and had settled into a guarded view so as to preserve the illusion he had of being alone.

In our densely populated colony, with its myriad kitchen windows and grilled balconies, we would always hunger for time alone. I assumed he would use this moment to talk to me under the quiet canopy of stars in the fading evening. I leaned against the B Block wall, my hands crouched for an overhead pipe from which I began to swing. He came toward me and whispered softly on my lips and I realized only moments later that he had kissed me.

A year later, he broke up with me. I will never know why. No matter how hard I tried, he never told me. I was broken. Everyday I dreamed he had come back to me. One day he did. I was exhilarated, it was a year later, and I was older and had survived on wishes and badly written poems. I had immersed myself into a sea of words. I had discovered a sacred space within myself where I could conduct my healing and I began to see myself the way I thought he must have seen me, as a beautiful girl with long hair and talent. He noticed the change but could never put his finger on it, neither could I. Looking back, I think I outgrew him, like I have outgrown the many ever since.

And yet, I have never forgotten that pain, that void that filled me when he abandoned me with no explanation. I waited, for a glance, a gesture, a phone call, to no avail.

That night, as tears flooded my cheeks, old wounds threatened to bleed once again with a spurting reminder of childhood rejection and loneliness. But he (the constant he), cocooned me in his silent, still body and I realized only moments later that I had been healed by a soft peck on my salty lips.

Maybe old wounds do not turn into scars; they fade into memory and are covered by a fresh layer of skin.

 

 

Every Day Existence

 

Months have past since he first led me up the zigzagging stairs to our barsati. With a single click of the Godrej lock we stepped onto the empty terrace studded with a single potted plant, which came free with the flat. We had moved our affair to another city, hoping to comprehend the love that had bound us together, hoping to balance the ambiguities of a new city, the pressure of work and the demands of desire. Somehow we slipped silently into a routine which may have its variants but is largely stable.

 

Love is in the Everyday thing. Sleeping together on a narrow bed, negotiating territory, often crossing over shadowed boundaries to merge into each other; awakening to the warmth of our huddled bodies; realizing that time doesn’t care for morning dramas; skipping breakfast because we are late for work, flustering about to get ready to go; living our separate worlds at work and university; returning at night to comfort of our private universe.

 

This is the broad ‘everyday’ outline. Intricate to the plot are the more wayward details; the open-bathroom-door policy and all the resultant conversations about limited governance or modern poetry or the insecurities that infiltrate the process of writing; Dandiya in the kitchen with large wooden spoons after the creation of a sumptuous meal; Lying in summer on a green chattai on the terrace during frequent power cuts, blowing whispers at each others faces; trying to make a kawahati elephant, on a whim, with online directions from an origami website, not coming even close to succeeding, making paper cranes instead with square cut outs of newspapers; The silent treatment met out to him after a ridiculous spat, the subsequent weeping until the wee hours of morning while he holds me in his cross legged body and consoles me, pressing the hot tears on my face into non existence.

 

Four years into our twisted relationship, four months into our live-in, I believe even more in love that is expressed through gestures and love that is sometimes tortured by distance, love that increases with short spans of absences. I wondered what we would do this Valentines Day, perhaps throw a party on the terrace, make a makeshift canopy- this time with rope instead of twine- use the ladder that goes to the rooftop as a candle stand, celebrate with all our acquaintances. We could go out to an expensive dinner instead, drink sangria wine and contemplate the vivacity of life contained in the rich red blood that flows through our being, stuffing us with hope, desire, lust and an unceasing capacity for endless fascination. We could savor expensive food to nourish the flourish of passion that surges through our fingers. I could even surprise him with something peculiar like one thousand colorful origami cranes suspended on a fine stringed, interwoven with tinkling bells, with quotes from his favorite verses by Omar Khayyam.

 

Or even better, we could continue the ‘everyday’ thing and resist aberrations from harmony. Wake up late, in the mesh of entangled arms and dreams, forget about breakfast in our mad rush to reach work in time, slip in a bathroom conversation about how much mathematics it takes to make a tall palm tree, interrupt our busy schedules with sporadic phone calls, confirming the time of our return. I’m certain Ill be home before him, and I’ll wait till he dangles our metal wind chime bell and I’ll let the night in with his dusty feet.