In the rocking chair, which is almost as old as me, or possibly older, I try to think that I am not dying. I look at the wrinkled skin on my hands and feet, and the receding flesh on them, shouts back to me, that I, I am just a matter of days now. Death, eventually, has struck me – not that I didn’t want it now, but how I had lived a lifetime, with instances of thinking and wishing for my death much more than thanking God ever for giving me life.
The tragedy with Death is, it doesn’t envelope you the way you want it to – sudden and instantaneous. Instead, it gives us all a lifetime to think about, to feel sorry, and to justify the wrongdoings, and to indulge in self appreciation of some deeds worthwhile, atleast from the thinker’s perspective. My eyes heaved down under the thought, my eyes - the once big, attractive eyes had now ceased to be a pair of small openings with graying eye balls and a spectacle over them. Tears, however, still rolled on, easily and swiftly, though now sometimes they would hang a little in the wrinkles of my face. Generally, as it had become a routine now, I started with my childhood memories. Childhood Memories, wherein I found myself the most innocent, and the most vulnerable. The follies that those years had witnessed seemed guiltless and naïve, and even now, without fail, ran a shrill smile on my curved lips, once so full of color and fervor.
Wandering further, I found myself being clutched in the hands of lust, love, greed, power, success and money. Lying and pretention came easily to me, I wouldn’t think twice before hurting people around me, my tongue seemed to have grown poisonous arrows that I would use as a final weapon to my victory. Yes, at the end only victory mattered to me. I did gain attention, for I had a face and an attitude to match, and I made use of that undue attention to gain further prospects. I looked down upon myself, a simple grey colored gown! Ha! Just a simple cloth was what I needed to cover myself, and all my life I ransacked stores after stores to find that ‘perfect fit’. I was successful, yes, for if you measured success in terms of the package I carried home as my ‘Take-Home’, I’d certainly did well. Though, I happened to write less, paint even rarely, and compose only to remind myself that I could. I could never be a writer, like I’d always wanted to, neither could I paint a canvas, so much so as I’d promised in my younger years, and never ever composed a song, much unlike the days when I was young.
Promises of loyalty and faithfulness became statements of utter blatant lies. Loved ones, (If I really loved them), were left behind in the race. I had mastered the art of pretention, and could weave out deceitful stories in minutes. Now, though, I had difficulty even in remembering the names of my kids; I reminisced over how I would build in characters after characters in my woven net of lies and deceit. All I ran after were my desires, the need to have money, to flaunt good clothes, the desire to be touched, and the need to be fed and cared about. I invested in relationships, but relationships need a solid foundation to whither storms of life, and when my existence itself was a lie, my relationships crushed into pieces at the slightest tremor of a blizzard.
Lonely and desperate situations made it all the more compulsory for me to keep me occupied, unlike the days today when I spend hours in this chair, doing absolutely nothing. Drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and all such things came in handy when the tensions of work and personal life built walls around me. Wonder how a cloud of smoke and a glass of Vodka could make these walls disappear, atleast for the eyes and a part of the mind. I smiled at the thought of Vodka, in mango juice, for it still had some tantalizing effect on me, though its been long since my lips got to touch it. Married, yes I was married, to some extent forcefully, to the man who rarely said that he loved me, but whose eyes had the look that said he did. He was totally unlike me, all silent and secretive, and where my life was an open book that could be read by anyone, his was a mystery to me. He wouldn’t confess, he wouldn’t lie. All he did was touch me somewhere so deep, that I agreed to spend my life with him. Little, little did I know what love was, and little did I imagine his love for me. He came into my life, like a cool breeze, his presence around calmed my senses, I learned to communicate more without using the tongue, and I felt peace in his arms that held me every night , to this day of my life. Did I blush, @ 73?
He changed me, or maybe I changed myself to match him. I longed for him in a way that can’t quite be explained, and he restrained himself if I’d had anything that he considered not good for me. He knew his power over me, and I knew that I didn’t mind losing to him. Finally, I relieved myself of victory, in losing all of myself to him. Yes, I changed as a person. My mind was suddenly light, and I did away with my occasional cravings for smoke. Though he still spoke less, I would know what was going through his mind when he would touch me. That made up for most of our communication.
A lifetime with this man had given me two kids, a few books written by me, some canvas with colors spread over, and some compositions exclusively for him. A life that had begun to rot and rut, had towards the end seen the light of her own aura. If ever I thanked God, it was for him.
‘Chai’, he whispered in my ears as the tray was laid in the table separating the two of us, across the verandah. It is difficult to say If I had loved someone, or even if I understood what love was, but yes, this man who’s making tea for me here today, definitely knows about it. I closed my eyes, and his weak hands touched my forehead to see if I’d be running a fever. I knew this was it. And I released myself, finally, and united with the universe……
