Here’s a question for you – ‘For how long do you think you’d be able to survive on life support aka ventilator?’
Come to think of it, I believe that I would not exceed a span of a few months.
Ever so often, I find myself having these vivid dreams wherein a machine does the breathing for me, a feeding tube of not more than 0.5 centimetres eats for me, an extension cord monitors my glucose level, a polythene bag collects my urine, tiny chips embedded inside my skin measure my blood pressure and things that could make anyone nauseous.
And then, with obvious suddenness, the dream reaches the end as I wake up with a jerk from all the pain in my body. I wonder where it all comes from? I quiver; Hastily examine my body to find everything in place.
Why do these dreams occur to me? What are they trying to portray? Is it normal? If dreams were only a game that the subconscious mind plays, why would I feel this strange pain creeping all over myself?
Ours was a generation of seesaws and merry-go-rounds. More than anything, we loved whiling our time away in the Children’s Park of 12th Street, downtown. Dashing through the gate we ran into this meadow of joy and felicity
Stomping grounds, embracing winds of laughter and mirth, Riding merry-go-rounds with heads swirling around. Holding on and letting go of the barrel, To feel the world pass by so fast and swift, Exclaiming our thoraxes out until it began to hurt.
Sticking up our tiny selves on the seesaws, Soaring up in sky to defy gravity, Only to come right back Like a descending yo-yo; Bouncing back and forth in merriment.
Running as fast as a horse to the swing, Expanding our feet to the ground, Holding back and letting go. “Weeeee!” in unison we cry, As living pendulums we fly. With constant leg motions, Flapping and fluttering through the winds.
Strolling through, embracing the fence Ricocheting like sweet tarts, Giggling and chuckling like red clowns. Throwing down our bodies on the lush green grass Watching the sun go down and the moon come up, Only to have our heads hit with conscience, That it was time to wrap it u.
Hearts sinking, lungs crying To not leave the presence of a place That filled us with life in abundance. In our beds we go, Wanting the sun to shine and glow. Guided by the paths, To the gates of The Children’s Park of 12th Street. Euphoria taking over us, Swaying our hearts to and fro In the pastures of sheer jubilance.
Childhood and puberty flew by in a moment, Exposing us the horrors of the world that lay ahead. Struggling and striving to make a place Failing and succeeding on the world’s face. Morose and sullen, we find our way Back to 12th Street, downtown.
Iron gates clad in rust and crumbling away, Doddering like a man in 80’s, Creaking and squeaking shrills, Beautified with overgrown wildflowers, Merry-go-rounds and swings swaying, Seesaws ruffling through the muddled mass Abandoned and forsaken, Like a field of knee-length grass And crushed tin cans.
Growing up in a nation where birth rate and population ratios touch the skies, children don’t see many prospects of development here. And it is also somewhere justified on their behalves. Why would they want to be citizens of a country where meals cost more than survival, where racism has a nest of its own in every heart, where education is a lifelong dream, where labourers and wage-earners are treated with as much respect one would give to a rat, where religion is still a barrier never to be surmounted and money is a distant memory?
Poverty-stricken families of millions everywhere, struggling to find edible food, a job that would pay for a day’s meal, a shelter and clothing. They are denied of these simple pleasures of life or what we might address as ‘basic human rights’ as it is too much to ask for. Our country is remembered for it’s mendicancy and penury. A walk down any street would bring us face to face with at least twenty beggars.
Political parties and government living up to the game of promises and assertions that they no longer tend to keep. Gone are those days when humanity run the country. One can only survive if cash is contained in the pockets.
The list is long enough to be finished with. People can bring down our country to its knees, say that there is probably no ray of hope, nothing good about living here and they might as well be right. But do we really stop hoping for the sun to shine when it’s monsoon?
In spite of everything, one can still find people wanting to stay in a country like ours. India is a country you can never manage to paint with just one colour. Every colour will fall short. The people, the places, the castes, the food. You name anything and you will find at least ten different variants in that. That’s how out of the common our country is.
India perhaps is the most unsymmetrical, imperfect, and fallible country. But don’t imperfections portray the unfeigned? They do. Our country is one which smashes reality right across your face and is not ashamed to do so. There are a thousand reasons to be embarrassed about defending a country like ours, but here as I write this, there will be many to risk it all.
You slid your glistening body Into an emerald green gown That felt no less than An adornment in wilderness. Your skin felt like sheen, One that I’d been yearning for.
For reasons, green on you Made you all the more beguiling. It made hearts beat unceasingly, And eyes blink impulsively.
And when you took these swirls Before the mirror, that you so Prettified with orchids and lilies; It made my heart dither.
You glide on into your pumps, Walk in them around the annex, With click-clacks echoing everywhere, And the fall of your gown Gracing the wooden floors.
How you were dressed in Jewels of jade and amber! And stole them off their beauty As you put them on.
A canvas painted in colours of Vermilion and shamrock, With spilled drops golden and copper; One I would pin down to the walls.
Until you find yourself laying Among all the paintings in the attic, That have lost their glory over the years. Still with your everlasting charm, In your emerald green gown And a body which smells of Dead orchids and lilies.
Ever so often we are found plucking flowers off plants and not the leaves. Rarely do we ever let something beautiful flourish, and assume that they belong to us, when the truth is that they don’t. Things don’t belong to people, and neither do people belong to each other.
It almost takes a lifetime for us to believe that things are best when looked at without the intention of possessing them. I am still at a stage in life where I find myself wanting to pluck flowers off plants until one day I noticed the leaves.
We’re so mesmerized by the beauty of a flower, we lose remembrance of the leaf borne just beside it. We take careful looks at the inflorescence as the flowers blooms. How majestically the envelope of the bud opens up to bestow the flower! However, we fail to notice the veinlets that ascend upwards on the lush green leaves.
There are rarely things that are as symmetrical as leaves. At first, it may seem as common as salt but when you give it time, and observe the details, you would know how underrated and for granted leaves are taken to be.
And just like that, you fall for the leaves leaving the flowers aside. Taking a look, noticing the details, watching the unwatched, is all it takes to discover that which lays untouched.
The very picture our minds forms when we come across the word ‘holocaust’ is a terrible dream in itself.
Back in 1939, the Second World War began and humanity witnessed the worst. Usually when there is a tension between two countries, the allies walk into the tension without even measuring the outcomes. What we find common between a household fight and a war is that both start off with really petty issues. The problem begins when one of the two parties wouldn’t settle for anything.
It was enough to make the angels weep. Genocide, execution taking place in the open streets, pregnant women being shot, masses of army men being deployed and killed, children being sent to gas chambers for a painless death and many other methods of mass killing. To even think of these can send shivers down the spine of any human on the face of earth.
After almost 80 years, we find ourselves looping around the same question, “Why the innocent? What did they do to deserve that?” The answers to these will remain a black hole till the ends of time.
In my dreams, often I picture myself being born in that era. ‘What would it be like?’ and as I go on to think about it, I wake up with a jerk and sweat trickling down my body.
I can’t find myself defending any of it. Some people might as well that it was necessary. May be it was, I don’t really know but where can we find the ‘good’ in those?
Imagine your hair being shaved off of your head, and your clothes being ripped off, and your neck being tattooed with fuming ink, the to-dos before you died. You are now officially selected. I probably might have killed myself before being exposed to such treatment and so would have the others.
Living your life back in those days seemed like a far away dream. Survival took over livelihood. To even have yourself saved from the genocide was and is considered an extravagant luck.
I find myself dreaming about Auschwitz, like I am walking around the fields there, taking a careful look at every grave and placing flowers and shedding a puddle of tears on each. I wish to have exchanged places with someone, so that they could live.
I can’t find myself making peace with the death of millions. It wrenches my gut and knocks me out of my senses. If there was anything that is good about The Holocaust, it probably is that it ended.
We’re here and living, because someone else gave their lives away. It’s a lot to be grateful for.
As I undo the buttons of your suit, I find two grenades secured to the clamp around your waistline. Carefully, I detach them. “Don’t their make you jittery?”, I ask. The only answer I get is your smirk. I guess after years of having grenades slide against your skin, it is meant to turn into a habit.
As I go on removing layers of clothing covering your body, I find things that can knock someone out of their conscience. I had seen a man bare chested before, but surely never one like you. The region starting from your thorax to your abdomen resembled a battlefield where numerous wars of different times had been fought.
I touch your scars with my cold hands, only to make you nimble. You grasp my arm in pain. You did that every time I touched one of your scars. I saw pearls of sweat trickle down your forehead and stop by those bushy eyebrows.
I wondered how you must have groaned in pain when the bullets hit you. There was so much I wanted to know about, but to disrupt the silence we were surrounded with, would mean no less than an offense. So, I wet a towel in warm water and alcohol to wipe off the sand stuck to your scars. They seemed to have bled for long. You might have wanted to scream in agony.
As I leaned forward to tend to a cut on your cheekbone, you caress my hair and remind me of old times. You pull me closer and say, “You’re an angel that I am blessed to have.” You smile at me from behind all those scars.
Tears gush out form both our eyes. If only there was someone who knew what we suffered from. The pain was no less than excruciating, yet we cry in silence. I take you in my arms. I could feel your tears wet my shirt, and your hand reaching for my hairtie. When you spoke in hushed tones – “I like your hair down.”
I could feel the fatigue in your breath. How softly you slid your hand under my shirt. It had been so long since I felt those war stricken hands on my skin. “I have missed you.” – “I have missed you with my soul, my body and every little thing that I possess”.
You are infinite. The best dancer to watch and the best person to be around. You heal, you help, you fight and you win. You won at life even when you lost at everything. You lost Tommy who left you that beautiful set of lingerie. And somewhere, while figuring out the way to move on from his death, you perhaps lost yourself too.
Until you met Patty for the dinner at Veronica’s. You’d known just about instantly that he was no less trouble than you. You watched over him and reached out to him when no one could. After eight and a half months of treatment, your renovated garage is where he found himself at peace. He danced and danced freely knowing no bounds.
You were the last person to fear being judged. The never caring charm of yours won you all the love you deserved. Even when people called you a whore, you gave them away parts of yourself too precious. You are an epitome of understated courage. Even when you hated football, you took note of all the matches that the Eagles won that season. Proved that you had a love-hate relationship with it, just like you had with every human on the face of the earth. You read all the signs that came your way and you emerged as this beautiful and crazy young woman.
They say the events of our past shape our personalities for future. You couldn’t have redefined that saying any better. You took care of Pat without even trying to be his mother. You exposed him to the reality of the world. And above all you never let your love for him kill his love for Nikki. You even wrote him a letter pretending to be her until he found out and figured that he loved you too.
Tiffany, you have taught us that being vulnerable and weak and defenceless in a world where most people just pretend to understand the real you, is okay. You made things right. You were that silver lining on a cloudy Sunday.
Infinite boulevard 