Deviant Wave – not all waves of the sea soothe you!

Each time that I strive for answers, the changing colors of the sea tell me that I am not alone in my dubiety! That I too like the sea, am a creation of leisure that has always been interpreted in haste!

Just before the theft …

I still have the ‘special name’ – but I know this is the end. The theft is inevitible and I attempt to gaze the gem knowing I need to hand it over. But Anarkali, these are the hands that held it once my dear. Maybe I should never wash them till I hold you, will then you know how she smelt and felt?

I know this is not the right time to type this post, but then again the deviant me has never really bothered. I want to write it, despite knowing that I am counting the last few hours of my childhood. It is still ‘alive’  in the sense of the word. But then this post, when read out to my Anarkali would be of the time her BB was with her mom.

I read poetry all morning today. Rilke, Naruda, Silvio, Tagore, Akhtar, Gulzar, Rumi – it was almost ferocious – intensity with which I devoured poetry at dawn. I knew it was needed, so that tomorrow when I pick up my tattered poetry books again and refuse to barter them for new covered ones, I have a reason to keep them close – a memoir of these last hours.

Those wrinkled hands which has cupped my face six months back and re-iterated te name I love, a zillion times – I remember that scene. Why did I act so foolishly that day in a room filled with million others, as they smiled at my childishness? Was it my attempt to make sure that Charulata, who lay in the womb was aware of the ‘name’ her Mishka loved to be addressed with? My special name is breathing its last on the ventilator as I type this – but it is essential, for I’ll atleast have something to hold onto when I come back empty. This shall be the time-reference of when the ‘name’ was still ‘alive’.

I remember the last sleep on her lap, her fingers through my hair. Parkinson’s was often defeated when the neurons got excited at the mere touch of what she referred to as ‘Bengali hair’. There was a small despair in her voice about the ‘walls’ I had built around me. There was an attempt to make me understand that pearls still lay at the sea bottom, despite my rough outside demeanor. There was a wish in those eyes that I let someone discover it and not push all divers back to the surface. Invisible sharks are worse than real ones. For a split second I thought of giving in. I thought that maybe what she said was all that I needed to heal the scars that have marred me. But guess this post tomorrow shall remind me, that the ‘last wish’ to see me walk down the aisle is long gone. Guilt? Not really. Would have been there had she not seen those walls – she did and somewhere she understood as to why suddenly this zeal to overwork and exhaust. The person who really knew the me which none of you over there know is just there as a ‘visitor’ now as I type this, but essential it is for tomorrow when the ‘wall’ is attempted to be broken down again and I face ‘who are you’, I can merely smile and walk away – just like you do when a child asks you whether there is really an old woman sitting in the moon.

I left the “Bengali” newspaper untouched today. I’ll read it when it’s not needed to polish my native linguistic skills anymore. For then when I mispronounce and falter, it’ll be on the words printed on the day when she was around to hear me and cringe and even at times break out into bouts of sarcastic laughter.

Suffering – she hated me in that. She said I was too soft. This is needed now as the hospital calls me on the other line – a proof that I am weak and yet stoic enough to type this as I am urged to leave. I am praying for a suffering to end, at the cost of an abrupt end to my fairy tale, my dreams of my prince, of a perfect palace and those ballerina shoes that shall never be made by elves to fit my size again.

Suffering, what form does it take? Who dares?

Pain, what nuances accompany it?

With what eyes does sadness search us out?

With what colour does it paint its strange peace?

How does sadness walk?*

I wonder as I set out to walk today – alone. The security around the fotress is high and alert. Still the most precious gem stands to be stolen. The vigilant me stands head bowed. Strangely I do not crave strength today. I crave numbness and extreme solitude!

————————————————————————————–

* Translated from Silvio Rodriguez’s famous Spanish piece – Let the Guitar Raise Her Hand.

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17 comments on “Just before the theft …

  1. Tanishka
    February 5, 2011

    lots of hugs to you gal…. Be brave.. We all are there for you sags always…

    • deviantwave
      February 8, 2011

      Thanks Tan … Though being strong is not exactly easy :(

  2. Deboshree
    February 5, 2011

    The piece seems awesome and you have done a terrific job bringing it across. Very deja vu -ish this is making me… the bit about letting the Bengali paper be reminds me of how Dada and I would arrange news scraps for my holiday homework.

  3. Chatterbox
    February 5, 2011

    {{{{{{{{{{{{hugs}}}}}}}}}}}}}
    Take care dear…

  4. UmaS
    February 5, 2011

    *****************************HUGS*************************
    Lots of them, to make u feel better – even a little bit.

    U seem to be standing in the same helpless position, as I was some days back….I could relate with the helpless feeling within – that we are not fit for anything here…it shakes us deep within….its hard to describe….you tend to do so many things of no relevance….its all ok, its all fine….just keep strong. Am there with you….take care.

    • deviantwave
      February 8, 2011

      Thanks Uma … I know what you mean .. Its all so weird n renders everything else meaningless!

  5. Titaxy
    February 5, 2011

    hugs

  6. Swaram
    February 6, 2011

    Hugs Sags! Loads of them!

  7. S
    February 6, 2011

    Take care.

  8. Nuttie Natters
    February 6, 2011

    i dont think i have the right words to say, i hope you find the strength for u & ur dad! lots of love

    • deviantwave
      February 8, 2011

      AM trying to b strong for dad re … Thanks for being there :)

  9. Pingback: P.S: Don’t stop talking to me in my head please, that is what keeps me going! « Deviant Wave – not all waves of the sea soothe you!

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This entry was posted on February 5, 2011 by and tagged , , , , , .

Hyderabad Literary Festival 2012

Mumbai Mondays

A Calendar Too Crowded Facebook Connect

Blogadda interviews moi!

A Lot of Pages chit-chat

Times of India Celebrating Womanhood feature

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Book of the Month – March 2012 – by Writer’s Melon

Special review by Mutiny.in

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Blogadda Book Review Progra

International Women’s Day 2012 – page dedicated to me

Special Women’s Day review by Socks and Shoes

Happy in conversation with B’khush

Mother’s Day Pick

When I wooed a superstar …

Interview on Doordarshan

Flipkart link to the book

Article in Economic Times – March 2012

Women’s Day Special Article on Women Empowerment

The Purple Pact – the other baby

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