Prose/Reminiscence/Art of Letting Go
October
Aloud Journaling @CloudCafe
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
Where are the songs of spring? Ay, Where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, —
— To Autumn, John Keats
I never understood why poetries classified as classic were all sad.
In school, I despised the idea of Keats extracting so much pathos from his dying cells at age 25.
I refused to take that injection at 14.
I was yet to face sadness in all its elements.
If not being allowed Kolhapuri sandals, just because it was a rage in my class and most of my friends had one, can qualify for ‘sad’.
It was part of their parenting style, which was brought forth to teach us to stand on our own when we will not get what we want in life.
I got my Kohlapuri after I passed my Board examinations in Class X, by which time I actually forgot I even needed one.
This came from parents whom we never saw airing their differences in our presence, in our growing up days, and as grown ups, coming to think of how different they are in their ways of looking at life.
A dreamy, imaginative, brilliant but impractical man against a creative but practical, rock of a woman.
If ‘opposites are glue’ is a concept, they are holding firm the idea, 50 years on now, without letting their selves dilute.
Our gift, an all round parenting, experiencing the best of both the worlds.
The little that we lack from our protected childhood is that a layer of reality, a sense of loss.
That did cost me heavy when I stepped into my own world, more dreamy than practical, more rock than fluid. Coupled with my weird streaks I felt like a pariah in my own world.
Only a very few people saw through my quirks, my watery ways of solving problems and innate capability in handling emergency.
I was quick and intelligent but never clever in a worldly way.
Even there, life saved me. I found a partner who ‘got’ me and covered my tracks on all those counts.
Being exposed to life’s reality in a way I wasn’t, he is smart and quick in a very world-ready way.
From the very instant I felt protected.
In my mid-twenties, around the time Keats was breathing better, in a very non-Keat-ish way I experienced pain.
Life can push you through roads you despise to take.
My war with my autoimmune disorder has been more about adding a layer of pain to my life than warding off a pathology.
Pain, which many years later has become poetry, poetry that speaks of the pain, adding that texture of depth, which was missing from the days when I was growing up.
To understand better why all classic poetry talks of loss, grief, pain and heart-breaks.
You know it only when they arrive.
My arrival to this place came through trials and tribulations of self doubt, rock-bottom confidence, my stubbornness to prove to myself what I was capable of, notwithstanding the serious physical and routine changes that I had to imbibe to see a little of good days over bad.
That is where my terrace, which I converted into a green patch played the protagonist.
My favourite spot on my swing that saw me re-growing from debilitated cells, that piece of sky which witnessed a poet crawling out of her cacoon, the verdant fonds which gave birth to creative hands, those squirrels in the moringa tree which eavesdropped into my soliloquy.
When I withdrew from active social life, my self-created space became my friend, guide and philosopher in a way any parent would, a perfect listener without judgement or posing weary questions.
A space I got attached to more than many humans infesting my life then.
Sometimes, even a thick human love-quilt feels inadequate to push away the chills of life. And mine, left my bones dead.
It is this month of October after 10 years of creating my green space, that I sit here to bid it adieu.
A journey that started one such October, 13 years ago.
The breeze different, people new, a city unaccustomed and winter unbearable.That everything different lend a fabric to my life which feels like linen now.
A space that parented my rebirth, me a witness to it in my full consciousness, seeing my image in windy transparency, slowly transforming into someone new, yet utterly familiar.
The becoming of Me.
Not all parents have contour, some are figureless quietly lending shape to your silence.
Like some Octobers have their chiaroscuros, shaping nippy light with the darkening sky.
Sitting in my favourite spot, the air smells familiar, just right to let you know 10 days from now the world ushers in year’s festivities in my part of the world that carry on till the end of the year.
My mind cluttered with thoughts of what I am leaving behind and what awaits the future.
A sad-happy noetic co-existence.
Sometimes clutter means presence.
Clutter means comfort.
To my Verdant Parents:
Do we care for our elbow or knee or for that matter our collar bones — not until they are inflammed, swelled or painful, refusing to work.
You are my elbow, my knee, my collar bones and many things more, as I carry you in my mind, body, soul and psyche passing it on to my hippocampal cache of sweet memories, every time to turn the page when in need for some stimulation.
You helped me add the most significant layer to my life’s texture in a way the fragrance carry to the last dust the earth witnesses everyday.
I will not unleash my stubborn self, my defence against my attachment issues, to sever the umbilical cord we decided to tie in our full awareness, knowing it had to be severed one day.
Only that I never realised you will grow so beautiful, that I will find it hard to let you go….but
You and I both know you can never leave me.
Because You are the poet.
I write You.
****************
Note: It is sad I get to carry only 2–3 plants with me. But I am relieved that they are going to a home where I know they will be cared for.
Of all the ‘letting go’s I processed in my life thus far, this one gets the treatment it deserves.
Nurturing the chrysalis to see the butterfly add hues to its wings, in a way only nature can.
Detox is a universal prescription and routine detox mine.
I week off my routine gave me time to stay with my thoughts and scour through my first love, Music and I am far from disappointed.
If you read me you know I try and share music that not only appeals to me, but makes for a new sound for first-time listeners.
Today’s music is an experiment with the old, done to some great impact by Coke Studio.
The song is originally written and composed by Rabindranath Tagore, but given a modern arrangement by Shayan Chowdhury Arnob, sung by well-known Tagore-music singer Aditi Mohsin and Bappa Mazumdar.
The original song is in Bengali and the video comes with subtitles.
A classic composition, gay and haunting like autumn, and a festive favourite, this song was written for Autumn and its festivities, which are the biggest for my part of the world.
More on festivities in subsequent articles, but starting October on some festive music looked like a good idea to usher in the joyous season.
Hope you are gearing up for the same and this finds you in cheer and merriment.
Anondodhara…..Fountain of joy. Enjoy:)
