Painting: The sitting woman by Rabindranath Tagore
Watercolor and ink on paper
National Gallery of Modern Art, Delhi
Whilst I write these words down- I am tired
But not half much as her.
As this thought stops by- I quiver
But nothing near her de-morphing shivers.
Her skin is now pale
Colours of youth long gone
Her experiences now shrunk to creases manifold
Each wrinkle has a story-
A few narrated; Many left untold.
I look at her tiny stature-
Barely walking; And wobbling more
That is when I realise my grandma is now old.
After years of delayed meetings
I might be here just in time
Scared and terrified charred by generation gap
A victim of brutal awkwardness
I stood there to realise that my grandma is now old.
Her glasses are heavier than emotions she carries
Her eyes- now they glitter no more
Her hunch rests as a heroic mark of responsibilities she took care of,
As I glance at her toothless mouth
Her mummed lips curl to become a smile
That is when all my uproaring torments die a silent death
And I know she shall nurture always
Yes, my grandma is now old
But her aura is enough to uphold all our souls.
Inscribed on the skin- narrates the stories of our heroism
And of failures and debt,
Your body- it tells a tale
I wish so could mine
Alas! It speaks silence-
Peeping through the plight of a blank verse.
The scars- they are intriguing
I wish so might be your charm
The ones we inherit
And the ones we create
The ones we dare to embark
We recreate and recreate untill the changed us could reconnect
Indeed, we are the pilgrims of our own scars.
Every time I pick up the pen to give words to abstracts or the most materialistic ideas the ink flows in a familiar direction. But the urge to write about the people I love has left the paper with blotches and specs of blue. No words. Just abstracts. Abstracts I can’t pretend to materialize. Materialistic talks- strangely- with great depths. The friends, the family and the hardest choices.The moments I fain to express! Alas! A failed attempt of expressing and realizing but a still better option of living the moment. I don’t understand the joyful glitches of depending on people. All I know is that somehow these things are meant to be no matter you possess the hardest shell.
Our lazy-selves and hectic classes (at least according to us students) does not allow us to be morning people. Just one of those crappy routine things our parents think we are too proud of (we aren’t- just a lifestyle- not good or bad- just there).Certainly the rule of king, prince and pauper does not apply to us hostlers. But we have our very own set of rules including pretending to not share food but share it anyway; fight for the last bite; no plate belongs to a sole person; talk your heart out but don’t lose focus while eating- you probably know otherwise; and the list can go on.For us meals are not just a routine. They are a kind of synonym for rejoice. Keeping up with our daily revelry one afternoon seven or eight of us were waiting for food at the dhaba we generally visit. It was fun as usual. All the chirping, mockery, leg pulling, linking people together, terrible session of match making and off course eating! We kept sitting there even an hour later. We just weren’t ready to get up. No realization of the clock ticking by. At that moment we were unaware of all the stress we had before stepping there and the one we’ll have to redeem with while we step out. Suddenly all my friends’ smiling faces grabbed my attention. How typical? I know! Even after knowing their every fucking flaw hearing it from someone else makes me heed towards my turtle shell. Those few seconds of staring at them laugh deciphered a secret message that all we need is people we can laugh with. It might not be everything but it is exactly the kind of typical I want to stay forever.
P.S.: I know this is too cheesy. But what’s too much is me looking at the videos of my friends from the trek I missed!