A Muddy Tale
To be a writer is an arduous task.
Ears wide open, eyes peering into the distance, and a careful control over the tongue to capture the rawest, truest emotion is a writer's modus operandi. To be a writer is to shelter these dying embers from wild gales that ought to snuff them out.
I think of this as I rush back home to indulge myself in documenting moments that just passed. To reflect on a fruitful conversation with mom, who'd found value in her time long gone, emphasising a 'purpose' to all her actions. She'd found meaning in the material (her rise in the ranks in Singapore) and the spiritual (Nele and her time in India). For me, this felt vindicating. I'd seen her struggle through repetitively what we label a midlife crisis. Yet, for her to emerge with a deep appreciation of her time. For her to realise that to survive and thrive as a woman in the 90s and 2000s is no small feat, feels like a vindication of our efforts.
Her life is a chronicle of what a woman had to do to survive. Her life is a chronicle of what a woman should look up to. And as I set out, for my nightly walks, I'm reminded of Gandalf --
So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us.
In a Tolkien-laden affair, I set about my saunter through the soaked streets of Bangalore. I'm not particularly a fan of the rains, for they bring about a gloominess in the skies that seeps into one's mind with utmost ease. Yet here they were, interrupting my joyous union with the summer. However, one can't deny that they elicit an emotion, as Shirsh would describe -- of nostalgia.
To add to this, I found myself listening to 'Concerning Hobbits' as the titular track to my gleeful walk. Was it in a wishful desire to find myself in the company of the Fellowship?
Nay, I'd argue it was just for the Shire. Those patches of green. Of fine ale, a house under a hill with windows and pipe-weed. A time of merry, of cherishing the ground beneath, the roof above and the peace it sang of. For me, the Shire seemed like heaven.
As the violin struck its note, so did the roads bring with them a fragrance that distinctly screamed Monsoon. The trees sprouted in song and dance, with the mud being extremely slippery!
But I couldn't help but plaster a smile. Why? I myself am at a loss for words. The music ringing in my ears reaffirmed deep-seated notions. For idiocy and lunacy in individuals to be a hallmark of comedy, not anger. Acts of stupidity are but a momentary lapse in judgement, yet we seem to carry them through weeks, months and decades.
As one looks to the clear night skies, the immediacy of time can't be unnoticed. Yet, why is a countenance of hostility greeted as the norm and a posture of tomfoolery so disregarded?
I had to visually protest. So I smiled. I kept smiling like a fool. The concerto in my ear though applauded me.
And so, I found myself gliding through patches of mud.
Why was I doing this?
I do not know.
What if I slipped?
What if I fell face-first or ass-first into the mud?
It wasn't my problem yet.
At the moment, my eyes welled up. I gazed down on the mud to realise it carried tales of yore. It shared something in common with me. For a moment, it is closer to a peer than something inanimate.
The flute rang in my ears. In accompaniment, thoughts dawned. I couldn't help but realise I might be a patch of dirt soon squished on. It seemed beautiful. Poetic even. To know that this piece of mud was something alive. It sang of life.
Middle-Earth found itself venerated for the sheer divinity associated with every life-form. Yet, why we mere mortals fail to find it in our own world baffles me.
Not me. For the chair I rest on, the laptop I write on, the bike I ride, the tree I lie against. All bear life. Beautiful, beautiful life.
The flute sings to me. Calls me to serve my duty. Not by rushing to Mt. Doom, but to decide and do well with the time that is given to us.