Sockets of Senses

I have spent a large part of my life loving the past and getting worried about the future. While, as Paulo Coelho says, the fear of suffering in the future is worse than the suffering itself, which by the way is the only consolation for me – the hope that the actual suffering will be less painful to the heart and mind, it is not easy to come out of the past. So when I took out my Canon 600D out of the cupboard to carry it on a solo bike trip to Madikeri, a beautiful quaint secluded town near the city of Bangalore, I noticed the marks of dried drops of soiled water on its bag and I was instantly reminded of my struggle to keep it tied to the carrier of the rented bicycle swooshing my way through the forest in a light drizzle. But more than the cloudy day, the cool breeze, the smell of wet earth and the hens crossing the road, I was reminded of how, on our way to the caves that were waiting for us at the end of the narrow road, I had turned around to find her on foot, dragging her bicycle up one of the many intermittent slopes. She looked pretty. We had planned a day in the city’s National Park getting inspired from our urge to spend the time together and the poetic weather.

– I had assumed you were one of the physically active ones.
– I am.
– And therefore, you’re dragging your ride?
– It’s too steep.

And we laughed. It was 8 months back. February, I think.

—

It was the month of July when I moved to Bangalore, and with no place to live and no patience to keep on hunting for a decent house, I decided to stay in a room located on the terrace of a 2-stroreyed villa. The good part of this makeshift accommodation was that I had a shade on the terrace with 2 armchairs all for myself and a small garden in which grew Roses, Lilies, Chilies, Lemon and Coriander.
The room had a teakwood cupboard with glass panes, a single bed with a mattress, a table and a chair with two windows on the opposite walls making way for ample light and breeze and thoughts. On the day of my arrival, the landlord came with me to the room and

– All the furniture you see is ours except for the one kept outside under the shed. That and the mattress belonged to the previous tenant.
– He sold them off to you?
– No. He just left. The only things he took with him were his books, some clothes and thankfully the posters of The Beatles, Che and Marx. We sold off many things but kept the mattress and the arm chairs for future tenants.

I had decided to start my book. I had written one, a 165 pages long novella about a kid whose father dies on his way to the sweet-shop on 16th August, 1947 – the celebration of independence turned into the mourning of death. Personal tragedy pitched against public celebration.

– Why do you keep talking about death?

We were taking a walk on the stretch that is called Marine Lines. It is a lively walkway next to the Arabian Sea in Mumbai. Death, as a subject, was a recurring element in most of my conversations including the jokes. This irritated her.

– Just like that.
– But why do you talk about it so casually?

I held her hand, stopped and looked at her, smiling. She frowned for a while and then smiled back. She always smiled back and it felt good. It feels good to know that there people who would cry when I die. People talk about their insecurities more than everything else with a hope that by talking about them to their close ones, they would fly away, they would cease to exist. Death has and will never be a casual topic for me. For the person who dies, death is absurd, meaningless. It is painful only for the ones around him. I lost my maternal grandfather and my paternal grandparents within a span of 3 months, one after another. It felt as if someone took a hammer and struck my head thrice. By the end of it, I had grown numb. Death is never planned – it is as sudden and as unstoppable as a sneeze. I am afraid not of the inevitability of deaths, but of the aftermath of them on the ones whom I love. And therefore, I casually mention it to them – my two bits towards making them used to the unavoidable end of life.

—

One day I found an old letter beneath the mattress of my bed when I decided to put it out in the sun with an objective to shoo away the bed bugs. The letter belonged to the previous tenant. It read

Dear Srijita,

I arrived in Bangalore today morning in Bangalore Express, third AC. While I was brushing my teeth, there was a lady getting ready in front of the mirror at the end of the aisle. Her partner was standing next to her while she applied Ponds’ on her face and red vermillion on her forehead. There were two men standing at the door, peeping out. After a couple of minutes, the lady and her man went away to the next coach. Immediately, I heard a voice – “Bloody Sleeper people. They think they can come to our coach as and when they want!” I was hurt. This incident, I will remember forever because it was then that I decided I wanted to abandon the society and go live in the woods. Since a long time, there has been something heavy growing inside my heart and lungs. I feel restless and some days I cringe looking at people and their selfishness, all of them suffering from superiority complex, either of their selves or communities, and all of this have become unbearable. I am leaving for Madikeri.

Yours,
Shubham

I googled Madikeri. The first image that appeared was of a misty landscape with a tree and a road turning on the left of the frame. It reminded me of the day when I kissed her for the first time, in the valley of Yumthang, Sikkim. Our group was busy clicking pictures when I strayed off and went to the stream. I stared at the water, transparent as air, and saw her reflection. I looked up to find her standing next to me. I could see our group quite far away near a tree.

We both stared at the mountain in front of us. None of us spoke for almost three minutes and then she held my left hand. I did not know that there were tears in my eyes. Only when she came close to me and kissed below my right eye that I knew I was deeply moved by the silence and beauty. I cupped her face with my palms and kissed her.

—

I had deleted my novella because when I re-read it, it felt as if a 10 year old me has written the same.

– Why don’t you write a book?

We were lying in my room, my left hand curled around her. The soft sunlight, filtered through the curtains, fell upon us.

– It’s too much of a commitment. Short stories are good. You finish them in one sitting.
– How would you like a typewriter?
– No. I think my computer is good enough for me.

I realized I had been quite straight faced about it. On my last day in the city, I received a box in my name. There was a vintage typewriter – red colored. I craved to go back in time and hold her hand and kiss her and thank her and absorb her in my heart. I could not. When I called her, before I could say anything, she

– Please. Write.

And therefore, this time I had decided to write on it. One-click deletion was not an option in typewriters. One had to take the hard copy of the manuscript and tear them off or burn them. It takes a strong heart and mind to do so with one’s own work.

—

How can one delete society from one’s life? When I finally met Shubham, a long conversation ensued. But I will carry the following three things with me –

1. One should be very careful about the work he does. When, as a Sales Manager, he visited the villages, people looked at him with hopeful eyes. Some even came up to him and asked if he was a government officer and whether he would expedite the process of providing electricity or water supply. In return, when they knew he was there just to increase sale of a soap especially made for ageing women with an aim to earn profits for the firm, dejection was quite evident on their faces. In Madikeri, where once he used to sell soaps, he was now working with the local authorities for building better infrastructure and teaching primary school kids.

2. If there was one thing he wanted to annihilate from the face of the earth, it was the class sensibility of the society. Class differences arising from wealth, caste, color, car, no. of floors in the house, and even railway coaches.

3. One should always cherish the past but should be careful not to get bound by it at the cost of the present and the upcoming future. His childhood friend had died in a road accident while he, Shubham, was driving the car. He did not drive any vehicle for four years, and when he did, he always rode alone. One day, his girlfriend came up to him and asked for a long drive. In an instant and with a switch in his mind, he turned on the car, asked her to hop in and drove for 150 kilometers. He did not want to lose the happiness, her happiness, his present, forever.

I should cherish my past. I am not bound by it. On my way back from Madikeri, I was stopped by a herd of goats. While returning from the caves, where we had spent almost two hours exploring the past stamped in stone and kissing in the caves where once stayed the monks, we were taken aback by a herd of spotted deer. They were crossing the road. She and I stopped next to each other, and looked at them. There were baby deer and the big ones. It was still drizzling but I did not care. I had beautiful creatures in front of me and by my side. Without speaking anything, I placed my hand on hers which was still holding the handle of the bicycle. I seriously hoped of passing on my inexpressible emotions to her through the touch of our skin.

None of us ever said we loved each other. None of us ever worried about the future. The experiences were ephemeral. But, just like the colors of the painting we painted, and the sweetness of the cake we baked, like the aroma of the curry we cooked and the story of the book we read, the emotions still hang in the sockets of my senses.