Hiraeth

The car had a sudden jerk and Shubhangi woke up from her dream. The driver was facing difficulty trundling through the narrow lanes and traffic. It had been eight years since she had travelled on these roads. Same traffic,noises and people crossing the roads haywire through any possible maze between motorcycle tyres and headlights furthur slowing the wriggling vehicles. Her eyes fell on her seven year old son Ansh still in sleep .His head was resting on her shoulder, mouth half opened drooling her sari drape. Home wasn't far away.
It wasn't that she hadn't met her parents for so long. It was only two years back at  his brother's wedding in London but she made sure her stay was brief. Of course she loved her brother , so much indeed but being a surgeon she couldn't afford that many leaves or could she. She knew that wasn't a problem but rather an excuse to avoid  facing her father. Even today she didn't feel any fibre of emotions on her way to home. But why on earth will a daughter want to eschew his father?

After a wait of another hour she finally reached home. The  walls were bit paler now, coated with grime of time . She walked in the door hugged tightly by her mother , she moved her eyes to every corner of small , dim lit drawing room. Nothing about that room had changed. The wooden sofa in the same direction and the table just in center as her high maintenance mother had placed them. Table covered by a newspaper and then a crinoline and still utensil mats for godsake if the glass which was no longer visible may get a scratch. The sofas still having plastic covering not removed since they were bough. Books bedecked neatly and orderly in a corner. And then her glance fell on her father lumbering towards them. He was gawping continuously at Ansh.
" Why have you come , you will not get your ball. You varmint.. broke my window glass. Go away now. " he rebuked  and went upstairs.
Shubhangi stood there stunned. His  habit of scolding wasn't new to her. She had been always the one receiving his bitter remarks. It was just that he sounded like  a stranger now. Ansh was sitting next to her grandma as if he will cry now. Shubhangi patted his back and hugged her in her solace .
" Its ok. Grandpa is not well beta. He tends to forget things often . He wasn't scolding you. Its just he didn't recognise you ." she said caressing his hair.
For the first time in her life she was feeling helpless not for herself but for her father. Since childhood he had always treated her with asperity, favoring his brother and discouraging her at any possible opportunity. She and her father stood diametrically opposite on their views and choices. Always when there was a squabble between the siblings, or his brother scoring low, or he getting hurted or anything wrong in the world she was the one responsible. His father never thought twice before blaming her for mistakes she never committed, snubbing her into the abyss of hopelessness and believing she was good for nothing. She realized she should have listened carefully to her mother few  years ago when his behavior had begun to alter. She thought it was his new tricks to trouble her mother for a change as he was missing bickering out at her. She was wrong and advicing her mother to overlook him had exacerbated the situation. Six months ago he was diagnosed with advance stage Alzheimer.
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The day after her eleventh birthday Shubhangi  got up very early, took a piece of glass and a pack of colors she received as a gift and went on the roof. She hadn't used glass painting colors and found difficulty drawing straight line through the popping color tubes. Skipping her breakfast , engrossed entirely on that square piece she finally finished it by lunch and left it to dry. Her hands by now were embellished by all hues of colors that wouldn't come off with water. She sidled into the room and sat for lunch.
" What the hell have you done to your hands" snorted his father.
She chose to remain silent and quickly went to bring her painting. Her father looked at it and anger sublimated into a smile. " Papa please get it framed then I'll put this in the drawing room." she said meekly and noticed a change in the countenance of his father.
" You fool, don't you even know the colors in rainbow. Haven't you learnt it at school. Shubham please tell your elder sister all the colors. She seems to be more interested in everything except studies." he sniggered and walked away.
There were only five colors in there. How could l have . But as always nobody could hear her soliloquy.
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She removed the speck of dirt from the old glass painting that she found while searching for thermometer in cupboard. An old memory was conjured upon and her lips tried to manage a smile. Her father had mild fever because of changing weather. Delhi never suited him. She standed aside while her mom was checking the temperature sitting besides his father.
" Who is she? What is she doing in my house?" he asked coldly.
" Ah.. she is a doctor.She will leave once you become fit." answered her mother hesitantly.
" I am alright. You may leave now." He shouted.
She treaded out of the room. There was a sudden gush of pain in her chest. After it subsided she couldn't decide what she felt at that moment. The person in the room was a person who discouraged her throughout her life, made complaints about her in front of guests and relatives, comparing him to his brother. He was the one who always made fun of her for dreaming high , mocking her career as a doctor and never bothered to ask if she needed something. On contrary, saved his entire earning for his  son , gave him more than asked, praised him and kept her bereft of a fatherly love and care. But that person was his father and though she couldn't figure out why today was the worst reprimand she ever had.
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" But Papa apart from the reason that he is not of our caste is there any possible reason I shouldn't marry him ?" she blurted out after collecting a lot of courage.
"How dare you speak in between. Ask your daughter to behave. I should never have let you away from home. I had sent you to study .I should never have wasted my money on you." his father snubbed , his eyes burning with perspicuous rage.
" But we both are doing a job and you himself met him..."
" My decision is final and l will listen no more." he said and turned to go.
You always do this to me. The money you spent on me is not even one tenth of what you spend on your son every month.You don't even deserve the right to take decisions of my life because from the beginning you had only one son, I was never in that count. I was always a stranger.
Even to her surprise this time it wasn't a mere soliloquy but she actually mouthed those words. Her father stopped at the door, but never turned.
" Alright do whatever you want ,who am l to say then." he affirmed. And that was the last conversation they ever had.
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Every single day was another torture for her. On the last day he even failed to recognise her mother and started bickering at her. She tried to ignore everything and packed hastily . As she took a moment to look around the room she felt an obscure belonging and solace . Her own new home never gave that to her though everything there was according to her choice and comfort. Everything in here was impregnated with precious  memories. The staircase where she played land-water-sea , the bed, the pillow which dissembled her tears, the table on which she studied hard to prove herself to her father. She picked up the shawl from the hanger that once used to be hung with school dress, her prefect batch on the nearby small table already overflowing with books. She rushed to close the windowpanes banging against the wind. She saw windows opening to Achari Aunty's house no more brought the aroma of pickles and  spices that usually remained spread on the their terrace . More rooms were constructed and Aunty was never to be found, eavesdropping or chit chatting around. Shubhangi stooped forward to see the space under  desert cooler in the balcony which used to be a home of her secret pet Kajri . She looked at the flock of squirrels fighting and running on the mess of electricity wires trying to recognize her Kajri and then latched the panes as it started raining.

  Maybe it was her last visit here. Her brother was now settled in London and planning to call them there forever. She collected the luggage bags and looked around to take a mental picture of everything. Just before leaving she went to see his father but he wasn't in his room. She heard a shriek in the adjoining room and scuttled there. Blood was oozing his father's finger who happened to touch the broken corner of the glass painting. She rushed to get a bandaid and watched his father still gazing and smiling at the painting. To her surprise he didn't shout at her when she tried to dress his cut but guffawed instead.
' You know my daughter is a very good and famous doctor.She can tend anything and anyone' he pratted still watching the glass on the table.
'You too are a doctor . Do you happen to know her?' he asked turning towards her.Then befuddled and clueless he examined her face plainly and silently.
' Oh dear lord, why are you  crying over this beta.. Take the money from my pocket and buy a new bigger set of colors .. the old one doesn't have enough to fill your beautiful rainbow.'

The rain has stopped and the drops of hiraeth evaporated but only to get lost in the air of oblivion and the rainbow of memories remained there ; soon to get disappeared and forgotten.

And when you reach the place where this understanding overtakes you; that there is no one in the world that will ever love you with the force and power you can love yourself with. That no saviour in the form of a spouse or best friend is coming to make you complete and that you are your own sa

viour, your own best friend and perhaps the only saviour and best friend you will have, you will soar on wings of eagles and amazing things will happen.

 -Adunni Badmus 

The girl I want to be

So there is this girl I know
 with whom I share every moment as I grow.
Almost soulmates you may say;
but still there a lot about her I know not I am afraid.
She is a little immature and imbecile version of me;
 she tries to walk up descending escalators, that foolish you see.
The way we think is quite the same except that she is irrational;
 I too suffer because of her for god she is so gullible.
She hums and whistles unaware of surrounding;
 she chuckles in front of wrong people and places and is a constant source of my whining.
When she walks she puts her legs parted wide apart;
the toes  facing at acute angles but wait it was not like this from the start.
She fell from a village roof years ago;
 she is or better was a somnambulant you know.
Her walk has been like that since;
 people’s mockery doesn’t make her wince.
But when I walk I make sure to have a right conscious gait;
 ensuring no paucity of feminity, walking into the social bait.
Our talks are quite similar except that she never tries to hide that she is so high;
 she forgets and babbles the same story she has repeated may time with same exuberance in her eye.
Then each time I have to intervene and make her mum;
 she never tries to put in better words or analogies while she say, for sure she is a dumb.
She is still raw and rustic in her composition;
 city vibes never charmed her she is preoccupied with her own illusions.
When she walks on the never ending CP circles there is never haste;
she eats street food with utter mockery to the exorbitant restaurant that could never match her taste.
I agree she is an intrinsic part of me and we are inseparable;
but what is with the every next thing for which we quarrel.
 I think of putting eyeliner but its smudging kajal at midnight that pleases her;
I wonder why never an existential crisis or FOMO distresses her.
She owns very little space of my mind ;
but maybe she controls my very being, sometimes I find.
Whenever in the crowded corridors of hospital I see gloomy faces looking at me with ray of hope;
I eschew to make an eye contact and run but she as if tethers my footsteps with rope.
But what may I possibly do, I am a novice who do what’s being told;
but she sees beyond the white coat and asserts there is nothing wrong in a consoling hold.
Despite such proximity why such differences between us arise;
The fact that you know me completely and but seem like a stranger to me took me by surprise.
I realise that when we are so aloof from outer world we are one and the same;
that these societal norms that separate us are quite lame.
You are the subconscious me, my so called consciousness now seems futile;
you were undoubtedly always a better version of mine…

Lust for life

"Paintings have a life of their own that is derived from painter's soul. I dream of painting and then l paint my dream."

I remember that reading this book seemed no less than a laborious task; at least at the beginning. Numerous characters, shifting plots and detailed descriptions of art that sounded dross. But the thing that was more disturbing was the protagonist itself ; a social psychopath, a priest, a deserter, stoic but nonetheless a rebellious dreamer and a person I still find hard to understand.

" Nature always begin by resisting the artist . I won't allow myself to be led astray by that resistance"

But despite the resistances I continued my lackadaisical reading. After being rejected by women he loved and moving ahead with the unclear idea of what he wanted to do with life he decided to become a priest out of his whim. He went to Borinage, helped and even risked his life for the oppressed coal miners , gave away his every possessions, fought for their rights putting everything on stakes. But he failed you see, because upending the institutionalized ways and rules was a bigger mistake in the eyes of the religious fraternity than the well being of the people. He was dismissed and the mad maverick chose out of nowhere to become a painter and help his brother Theo; a established art trader to whom he was indebted for more than just money.

 “To act well in this world, one must die within oneself. Man is not on this earth only to be happy, he is not there to be simply honest, he is there to realize great things for humanity, to attain nobility and to surpass the vulgarity in which the existence of almost all individuals drags on.”

Van Gogh never went to art schools and his paintings apart from being non salable always went under questions and criticism. He turned out to be a liability for his family and Theo too. He left his home and move to another city working undeterred on improving his skills . His series of letters to his brother all throughout his days off struggle ( which lasted until his death) were articulate and deeply stirring.

" We accept all of nature, without any denial. We believe there is more beauty in a harsh truth than in a pretty lie, more poetry in earthiness than in all the salons of Paris. We think pain is good because it is the most profound of all human feelings. We think sex is beautiful even when portrayed by a harlot and a pimp. We put character above ugliness, pain above prettiness and hard, crude reality above all the wealth in France. We accept life in its entirety without making moral judgments. We think the prostitute is as good as the countess, the concierge as good as the general, the peasant as good as the cabinet minister, for they all fit into the pattern of nature and are woven into the design of life!"

It was then he met Christine; a poor worker at laundry but also a  prostitute when situation demanded. He accepted her with her three children and the one she carried and painted her in  ' the sorrow' . Meanwhile he was entrapped between love and career. His works being repeatedly rejected and mocked. His mistake was that in the realm of realism he dared to draw painting that weren't an imitation; that contained an untangible meaning. He bogged deeper into mire of destitution. In reality his works were not rejected out of it's peurility but the fear of vivid imagery that it created.

"The more I am spent, ill, a broken pitcher, by so much more I am an artist.... kind of melancholy remains within us when we think that one could have created life at less cost than creating art"

He grew intemperate ,tried to be hard on himself. After moving to his home he spent hours under the sun ; working day and night on his paintings. People said he was a emotionless being or was his true being simply esoteric. Why he spent more than he had on the people of Borinage, why he chose a slut to be his wife , why a women loved him so much to end her life for him, why he cut his ear and gave it to the teen who loved them.. we know not.

"You cannot be firmly certain about anything. You can only have enough courage and strength to do what you consider to be right. Maybe it turns out that was wrong, but still you would have done this, and it is most important."

He wasn't firm or wanted to be firm of anything. He fled from home and kept fleeing to one place after other. The only thing that remained firm were the repudiation of his works and his endless perseverance to keep painting. It teaches one the value of perseverance for one’s ultimate aim in life and a dogged resistance to the potential misleading opportunities that arise in the life of every individual.

"Life's not so bad after all. There are not only poison but also antidotes"

Things started coming in order when he shifted with Theo . He got acquainted and learned a lot from the renowned painters.  Van Gogh provided a tender counterpoint to the duo of the solitary, difficult Cezanne and the hostile, cynical Gauguin.  He started earning a living. Life has it's ebbs and flow. And he was not familiar with the latter.

"Knowing how to suffer without complaining is the only practical thing, it's the great science, the lesson to learn, the solution to the problem of life."

His deliabitating medical condition was getting worsen but it never became a hurdle between his pursuit to paint. He worked feverishly and competently until his suicide in 1890 despite his seizures and fits of crippling depression, spending the final two months of his life in Auvers-sur-Oise. It's a dismal irony that  he spent entire life in anonimity and negation and was revered as pioneer of modern art by the same precincts of the society.

"Art is amoral; so is life. For me there are no obscene pictures or books; there are only poorly conceived and poorly executed ones."

At last this  is not a mere hagiography but a sombre and inspiring  journey of a man whose story will make you lurch inside with pain and pleasure , with abysmal negativity and rejuvenating hope , with disgust but an endless lust for life.....

Will o' Wisp

Mahalaya
The sun went deeper in the couch of Brahmaputra and even the last streaks were now not to be seen . The brooding atmosphere of dusk seemed to be a unusual confluence of festivity and ennui. While the village folk retired from the preparation of 1st day of durga puja silent steps made their way to the dark labyrinth of the mangroves. Draped in saffron she ambled through the forest. Where she didn't know. Towards the mysterious lantern maybe . Suddenly the thought of the woman who came regularly these days to the Ashram came to her mind. Another devotee ( victim preferably) for her spiritual guru. The woman's husband was suffering from severe illness. The medical fraternity had given all hopes. Saint Ramdas was now her last resort. 'Saint' Gauri gave a mocking smile imbued with hatred. He may or may not save the women's husband but the stakes she had taken were high. The cost of her own self respect. Gauri shaked off the thought.She finally got a glimpse of the flickering lamp ; the will o wisp .Eighteen she would turn at durgashtmi. She looked her supple body in the light . Saffron symbolises chastity but she had lost it long ago. She moved towards the lantern but it receded away and disappeared to nothingness.Even that mocked her. But when did she?

Panchmi
Gauri was again admist the woods. Coming here had become part of her daily lexicon. The mere sight of will o' wisp over the big always ignited a thinker within her. In Bengal people call it cheer batti.For her it embodied a hope ; conjured the picture of a beautiful world she could only dream of living. She was seven or eight when she was brought to the Ashram as a disciple . Her father brutally murdered during the Bangladesh divide and her mother succumbed to end she don't want to recall. Her fate was even worse. She lost her own self. Squatter to molestations by the so called Spiritual Guru. Nonetheless his disciple who instead of protecting her connived in the act. There was only one thing she had learned from the Ashram in past ten years of her life. Forbearance.

Shashthi
On the sixth day of the celebration Gauri finally found some time to spend with the women in the Puja pandal. Putul was her name. The adjoining village where she lived had boycotted her. An year after her marriage her first child she was a stillborn. Adding to that her husband lost his job and was ill for a very long time. Such a curse she was on her family she said. They had a long conversation. Afterall she had found someone she could call a friend. Though she tried to avoid any mention of Guru Ramdas and keep tacit empathy for each other.

Saptmi
When Gauri met Putul the next day after arranging for the Kali Puja she found something jaundiced in her countenance.
 ' Is everything okay?' she inquired .
' I have conceived ' was all she answered.
 ' Isn't that a good news' Gauri exclaimed.
' Not through my husband'.
Gauri stood paralysed with this paroxysm that had hit her. She tried to read her eyes. They were not different from that of the idol. She could see in her insouciant glance the fact that nothing around her existed, shame and vanity, helplessness and control, depravity yet chastity, forbearance yet derangement. Myriads of emotions silent yet dangerous.The chain of thoughts broke when Ramdas called Gauri. Putul had already left.
' I see you are running from your duties on the excuse of this puja. What about my services. After the feast at night do come to my room. There is quite a load for tomorrow.' the guru instructed.
'Yes' she acquiesed. Her exit followed by lewd smiles and giggles of  the disciples nearby.

Durgashtmi
This night was one of the most torturous night of her life.Gauri  glared  at the atmospheric ghost light holding a kalewa in her hand once worn by a chaste wife for life of her husband. Brahmaputra had found a body this morning floating idly in its waters but clenching this kalewa tight. She intently gazed the will o' wisp and asked the lone forest that on which turn of the life is a woman safe from harassment and exploitation. As a child falling in prey of the paedophile or the so called Spiritual Guru that people worship as God ; institutional marriages ; for sure no after today. Even the foolish fire in the distance gave no respite or answer. Only eerie silence.

Fed up she now was from washing the gray of her underpants beyond the power of detergents, from the stabs of virility on her innocence, from the hypocrisy of this world. She heard the noise of women making sound  in unison in the distance and beats of procession of durgashtmi. With soaked eyes she looked at the will o' wisp. Her embodiment of hope and emancipation. She took few steps towards it. It didn't recede away but appear to spread. ' Where are you going' the woods asked her.
' I don't really know. Maybe towards the life I always envisioned through this will o' wisp and wherever they take me now.' she answered.

Realm of possibility

Here is what I know about the realm of possibility – it is always expanding, it is never what you think it is. Everything around us was once deemed impossible, from the airplane overhead to the phones in our pockets to the choirgirl putting her arm around the metalhead. As hard as it is for us to see sometimes, we all exist within the realm of possibility. Most of the limits are of our own world’s devising. And yet everyday we each do so many things that were once impossible to us.
~ by David Levithan