Lights Out

Those moments between the time you switch off the lights and go to sleep..

When your mind wanders into every dark alley of memory that you'd put off limits all day..

When a thought you thought to be forgotten, waves back at you to say it's forgotten not..

When you lie down for the first time in a long time, but your heart starts racing off..

When the heaviness on your chest makes labour of every breath..

When you stretch and release the tensions of everyday life, and an involuntary invocation of 'amma' stains the relief with melancholy..

Those moments between the time you switch off the lights and go to sleep..

How I wish I could sleep with the lights on..

Weight of the matter

Gravity warps time. Clocks tick more slowly the closer they are to a massive object. Time, in the presence of great weight, bends.

Perhaps the same is true of the burdens we carry.. sorrows, regrets, what-ifs and failures. Their emotional gravity bends our perception of time. What precedes it seems distant and hazy. What follows it feels tainted, never quite the same again. A blotch on the lens that makes the world more ugly.

And the more we delve into that one painful memory.. the deeper we go, and the more it grows. What begins as a passing ache, swells with time and pulls everything into its orbit. Until, finally, it becomes something enormous. Unmovable. A black hole in our psyche.

In its presence, neither light nor lightness can escape... A bottomless abyss where we lose the ability to measure moments clearly, and to live in the moment, completely. We vaguely remember the tipping point, but don't know how long we've been falling and where we'll reach. 

I wish I could have ended this piece on a more promising note.. something on how time bends but never breaks.. and how something that bends on one side, may also bend on the other.. that there is light at the end of the tunnel.. Maybe someday I'll write an addendum..

The Mean Streets

These streets don't remember your name

These streets don't remember your name

You go in or you go out

You go right or you go wrong

For them, it's all just the same

These streets don't remember your name

Cry a slogan, sing a song

Wait a while or run along

Fall in love, stay in grief

Or drown in shame

For them, it's all just the same

These streets don't remember your name

For everything you hold

Or choose to let go

Everything you hide

Or choose to show

You only have yourself

To credit or blame

These streets don't remember your name

Ok? Ok.

The one question I’ve been asked time and again over the last 15 days is “Are your ok?” or some variant of it; either a question or a statement of hope – “Hope you are fine”, “Hope you’re holding up”, “All well?”. Initially I tried answering it with a statement that was truer to my state of mind at that time of the day instead of just pasting a generic reply. I ended up giving curt replies to some really close friends and a long heartfelt response to some acquaintances who were just checking in. But I honestly don’t know how to respond to that question anymore.

What is ok anyway? What constitutes as ok? That I feel hungry and thirsty at regular intervals? Whether I’m going to the office or not, or whether I’m able to sleep or not. I do all of these. Sometimes consistently, sometimes not so. I still go online (although the frequency has gone down), and I still send out memes or put up stories that resonate with me. But there are still times when I don’t remember anything on my way from the office to home. One minute I’m fine and the next I just think of a song or a sentence or a memory and just... zone out or cry it out.

I knew the clock was ticking. I knew this day would eventually come. It’s like watching Sadma for the second time. You know how it ends. You dread it but you watch it. You think you’re prepared for it. But the sheer severity of the situation still overwhelms you. You still cry. You still feel lost. You still believe that you’re stronger now that you know. But no. That’s not how Sadma works... Neither in film, nor in life.

To say that I’m ok would be as untrue as saying that I’m not ok. There is no right answer to this question, but I still thank you for asking. In an age where ‘Happy Birthday to you’ has been reduced to ‘HBD’ and condolence messages are high-five emojis being repurposed as folded hands, I thank you for taking that extra time and effort to type a message or call me. I may not always have a reply, but I’ll remember that you asked.