Friday, March 2, 2012

March


March is always a month of indecisions, of sparse preoccupations and of deep, deep incomprehensible sorrow. The morning sky is stretched out like a stale, over-chewed blue bubble-gum. I can almost smell the March sky, it smelt of lengthy delays, long-distances and of old buses. It turns its enormous, sticky eye at me all day long, its gaze becoming fiercer as the day starts to sweat a fine mist of despair. Things change in March, I suddenly notice things, how they have grown old, how their stubborn stains and shadows remain clinging to the walls, the drain pipes and in memories. It leaves an unpleasant taste at the back of my throat. The slush left by an old monsoon flood has eaten into the metal gate, the silver and sangria patterns on the corroding gate appear in layers, like a stack of x-rays. Bones and wings of exotic creatures, fossils of carboniferous plants and eyes of giant dragonflies all showed through the rust. There is something about rust that is so alluring; it is a reminder of the fickleness of things. It’s distressing to know that I cannot remove the ugly green paint on the house next to mine, or bury the broken bangles that I found lying on the side walk. The pigeons outside my window will never talk to me. Someone once told me that my eyes were the colour of rust; I didn’t know if that was a compliment or an insult. Perhaps all the memories of the universes I’ve seen are now slowly rusting away from my eyes.
Every night I nervously huddle in my bed with a stack of books feverishly turning pages, trying to eat up the pages or perhaps willing, almost beseeching the pages to consume me, allow me to sink into the multiple worlds it held within its lines. This is like a secret ritual that I performed possessively and obsessively along with the lines I bleed onto my notebook - oh, you can’t call it something as banal as writing. The words struggle to fit into the rigid shapes of the alphabets, grammar, phrases and sentences. But there is something more here that I struggle to capture, an elusive something like a torn wing of a fairy fluttering on a dusty window sill, always a little beyond your desperate grasp. There it dances manically and all you can catch is the fine dust it leaves on your finger tips and its filigree-like lengthening shadow trembling on the wall.
There is a tree outside my window that is always laden with heavy pomegranate-coloured flowers. The petals look like clusters of puppy-ears, furry and creamy attracting myrid bees, cuckoos and one lone squirrel.  I may not see it ever again and this makes me want to cry so I kept watching it yesterday until the sun set. In March ordinary things assume significance, the stack of empty instant-noodle cups have grown taller over the months, the tear on the pillow case has become longer and I am possessed with an intense pain at the thought of leaving behind the small pencil scribbles on the wall above my bed.
March is when old memories visit you. As a child I used to scream in terror and wake up in the middle of the night from monstrous nightmares and my parents rushed to me with glasses of hot water, a jar of Vicks vaporub and sometimes even a small tidbit to calm me down, a rolled up chappati with red jam dripping over the sides or a few milk biscuits. After marking a customary cross on my forehead, they bundled me back into bed and left sleepily. I lay there for hours blinking and staring into the inky blackness forming shapes that watched me with their dark eyes. Everything had eyes at night, even the innocuous sofa, the derelict cupboard and the half-open door opened their tiny, piercing black vacant eyes and watched the huddled, frightened girl. I fearfully strain to catch the last, sleepy mumbles of my parents as the replace the vessels in the kitchen, trip over the hall mat, bump into some furniture and finally go to bed. When the last sigh and the last cough had died down, then begins my lone fearful vigilance;  my gaze madly bounding from wall to wall, to the table, to the cupboard, to the inky darkness beyond the door, the ticking of the clock, wondering when the first blue light of the day would dispel the terrors in the room. Falling asleep was hard each night, especially on nights when I knew by some instinct that the dreams were going to be bad. The prettier dreams left me delirious in the morning as I woke up with my fists in tight clenches hoping against hope that I was still holding the hand of the cute, cerulean fairy who visited me in my dream, or perhaps a handful of moon-like dream pebbles that I picked from a forest stream.
As I grew, I stopped having those hideous nightmares; I suppose the nightmares of daily living in an adult world full of terrors left me too exhausted to dream of further horrors. What I see now are amorphous;  flickering  pools, spilling, swirling shadows, shape-shifting organic diagrams and mirrors that laughed at themselves, burst into million pieces and swallowing  iridescent landscapes.
Last time I went to my home town, one of the old nightmares returned, I don’t remember the details except that I knew that it was March, that it was hot and that there where cruel, disgusting, uncannily human-like creatures in my dream, all slowly, cruelly taking apart a shabby China doll.  I woke up screaming and my parents, though a bit surprised, again brought me glasses of warm water, dabbed Vicks vaporub on my head and nose and put the cross on my forehead. But this time my parents didn’t leave me and go back to their bed, something made them stay with me for a while, eventually my mom lay next to me for a long time stroking my head. Perhaps they knew that leaving me alone this time might send me over the brink, the darkness would have probably broken me. The furniture didn’t open their vacant eyes that night. Despite being a grown woman and definitely stronger than my mother, I felt much safer feeling her fingers on my hair. The next morning I was unusually cranky and found transparent violet smudges on my windows. I am yet to figure out what they are. While leaving, I picked up a handful of pink seeds from a broken seed pods, they were sighing. I wish I knew what seeds they were. A bird wailed in the wind, its sound elongating over the electric lines. Dawn was breaking and I knew I could go on and on, it’s March after all, when things just start losing their outlines. 


Picture: Seeds found outside my home. 

2 comments:

Dr. Hyde said...

No more the dark
Does march in just
My ghost returned
The kindled dust
And night's farewell
Was coloured Rust...

Rubin said...

Beware! The ides of March is upon you.

Fear and sorrow have always a cannibalistic and infectious nature to it. It feeds on the decayed cells of our skin. It has the potential to unsettle even the brightest and simplest. Yet there is no simplicity in our fears as much as in our daily existence.
Its like seeing an artist paint, unable to restrain the frustration at the imperfection of his stroke, thus turning to modest savagery. Fear is that artist.

To describe it, to bind it, is nothing but to be the lord of a demesne of guilt and pain.

For a moment think of the squirrel that is trapped in your fear. Set free this lone squirrel. You will be relieved and so would we...