The Weeping Waters

Sometimes, in my flashes of forgetting, I couldn’t remember the first time I had slit her skin.

She told me there was no first time. No first of its kind. No beginnings. She introduced me to her realm of déjà vu — where all beginnings kept repeating from time immemorial.

Blood was her expression of déjà vu. Recurrence.

Her blood was strangely cohesive. They sprang from the association of her being, defied the gravity and froze somewhere in the air. They captured a block of air in my room and made a home. When the sunrays touched them, the red droplets kept glowing for a few hours until they turned brown. Drying. The patches kept lingering in intangible spaces of my room. They smelled of the sea.

Her blood was also volatile. I could remove the strains of the brown blood from my undiluted air by simply holding the burning end of my cigarette beneath it. And see them fade like my memories. But I’d never be able to take a puff of those used cigarettes, ever again. Their taste would change. And they smelled of the sea.

In the centre of her solitude, I had found a dusk. The red seawaters. The setting sun. She walked towards it. As I sat on the shore, I watched her from behind. I couldn’t help noticing the details. She walked straight. She moved farther away from me; closer to the sea. Her pace was constant, as was the rhythm of her footsteps. She stepped into the wet sand, then to the shallow waters and then to a place where the waves broke. Slowly, into her unchanging rhythm, I discovered two personal disturbances – One, was the realization that she’d never stop. The other, a question that I needed to ask her.

So, I got up and ran behind her. I reached near her. And even in my ever accumulating forgetting, I remember holding her right palm with my left hand. Perhaps, it’s the instinct. The instinct of feeling her warm skin. The instinct of touching her cold solitude. Her unwavering stance. She didn’t turn her eyes away from the sun, even for once, as I held her hand. She didn’t speak.

And therefore, I started walking with her towards our sun. We walked deeper into the sea.

When the sea had almost reached our neck, the sun suddenly sank completely into the sea, leaving some fading traces of red to the horizon. She suddenly, pulled her hand away from mine and started running towards the shore.

When she reached the shore she set her body free to crumble on the wet sand. As her body fell on the sand, it got fragmented and scattered into the sand. All over the places. I tried to collect the pieces when I reached near her. That was the time too, when I’d ask her the question, for the answer of which, I had wanted to save her. And only for the answer.

“Why do you want to die?”

She had opened her eyes slowly, making me realize for the first time that they were closed until then. I don’t remember if that would be one of our recurring first meetings. The beginnings of déjà vu. Maybe, my voice was unknown to her, as was my face. Faces. None of these occurred to me before she looked at me. But she looked at me as if she had known me for centuries and my asking of such a question was too common a fact. As if I’d been asking her the same question since so long a time that the answer wasn’t really important anymore.

But it was important for me to know. To ask.

“Why do you want to die?”

I repeated.

And I remember that repetition. Resounding. On the walls of my forgetting. Perhaps, she had answered me. Maybe, she hadn’t. But the question had become the way she wanted it to be. Unanswerable. Constant. Flowing. Like the red seawater. And her own blood.

She had come out of the sea one moonlit night. Naked and bleeding.

She had slit herself beneath her neck and above her breasts. Droplets of the sea played all over her body. Running down. Crashing, jostling, mingling, magnifying. Making its way through them was a stream of blood.

I never knew the origin of her blood. Was it her body or the sea? And were the sea currents so strong that they’d cut through her skin? She seemed wet. Drenched. She hadn’t seemed so wet that dusk, when she returned from the sea. Tonight, it seemed she too would melt down into her own bloodstains and flow back into the sea. And somehow, that leave-taking of hers seemed oddly perpetual. Recurrent.

However, she didn’t leave that night. She fell asleep beside me on the shore. I kept lying there beside her and watched her. I don’t remember how long I’d been looking at her. I don’t remember when I fell asleep beside her. And I don’t remember what those strange dreams meant. I felt someone was playing with my body. Slitting my skin. Making love to me….. whom I couldn’t see. I just couldn’t get my eyes open.

Next morning when I woke on the shore, half-naked, I found out my body had been disassembled. With pieces lying on different parts of the shore. And suddenly, I was not one but many.

When in my room, she wouldn’t let me turn off the light. She wanted to see her own blood.

“You know I can’t cry.” She’d always say handing me the razorblade, “Let my body weep the blues.”

I’d do as she said. She’d sit mute. Watching the blood flow down her skin.

She said her blood were also the memories of things that had been and things about to come. Of things that should’ve never been or would ever be. She said blood were her weeping waters. An ablution of difficult times. A difficult nation. She said. Silently.

Amidst all my collective forgetting, I remember one night. Distinctly. We were sitting on the shore.

“I wish you’d let me slit your mind too sometimes.” I told her.

“Nothing but my body belongs to me.” She answered “My mind belongs to everybody else.”

“Don’t you believe in yourself?”

She smiled looking at me as I said this. Somehow, that smile didn’t look natural on her face. And then she said something that even my celebrated amnesia couldn’t take away from me –

“The man I loved had been a soldier. He kept fighting when he had none of his comrades left beside him. In the end he fought not because he had any hopes of winning, because he couldn’t return unless dead. Because retreat is shame. In the end, perhaps, there was only one bullet that pierced right through his heart. It never mattered where the bullet came from. Actually, he had slit his own skin, his own heart too, to be called a hero.”

She paused for a while looking at the dark sea, then continued –

“Self. Belief in myself. Where does a self begin? Inside a body or outside? Inside one’s family, one’s culture, one’s society? Is self an individual term, isolated from others? And where are the places that our ’selves’ reside? My mind belongs to everybody else. And I can’t help but slit my skin. Cause that’s what we are meant to do. In our growing up years, we’ve been taught to become sadists and masochists. I can’t help it. We can’t.”

She started screaming. The music of the sea broke into her screams. Creating silence. Breaking it. And creating it all over again.

That scream would later be her salvation, too. As she would learn to step out of herself. Detachment. The only form of serenity.

And I wished her scream would be louder, shriller, harsher than it had been. So that all of us could have listened to its broken melody too. Resounding and filling up the nooks and corners of the streets. The town. The land. The world. The heart.

The feelings of déjà vu.

The Symmetry of Smoke

She entered the world of muteness as if she had just stepped into glass.

It was, once again, like her childhood. In those days a few gypsies used to come and stay in a place close to their country-house. A place where, when they cooked, you could see the smoke rise from your window. And that’d suddenly seem so far that you’d find all the more reason to rush to their tents. Their tents were constructed in perfect symmetry. Each of those was equidistant from every other. Each tent resembled the other exactly. And in the centre of all these tents was the one tent that really intimidated her. The gypsies called this ‘The Maze of Magic Mirrors’.

The tent was also a source of their primary income. Children who stayed inside various neighbourhood windows from which the smoke could be seen followed its trail to watch ‘The Maze of Magic Mirrors’. Inside the tent it was perfectly dark, except for a very bright light that seemed to originate from nowhere and invaded only a tiny, particular circular space inside the tent. And when you went and stood in that light you could suddenly see there’s actually a mirror in front of you. And in it, there’s not one but infinite numbers of you, standing in a cluster everywhere – beside, behind and diagonally to every single you. It was like a battalion of children where there was only one child – You.

When she used to see her manifold selves in the mirror, her first feelings were not of amazement but of pity. A pity which stems from concern; which, in turn, stems from some helplessness. She felt helpless as she thought she was her only self who could transcend the barrier of the mirror. She was concerned for all her other selves as if they were her own sisters. What a pity that they shall be trapped forever! And that’s when, for the first time, she could think of the world of muteness. Of absolute silence.

 

It was, once again.

 

She entered the world of muteness as she had done innumerable times before. And although she knew everything that was to happen, it all seemed equally uncertain. And ominous.

She had come down the road that promised to lead to his home, where beside a window he must have sat waiting, puffing a cigarette. She came down the road that promised to keep its promise. And when she thought of promises she thought of a mirror. When we make a promise we think of a future. In the present moment when we’re trying to keep that promise, we’re juxtaposing that future moment in the present times. So that the present resembles that distant future. In exact precision of a mirror image. When she lost her way, her mind was already preoccupied with a few other questions.

It was the beginning of dusk, and the road that promised to keep its promise but would no longer be able to keep it, was already lonely. And as she sank deeper into herself, she realized there were no directions.

What, for instance, would it be if one kept reliving a promise belonging to the distant future over and over again in the present? Say, for example, a man has promised his wife that he’ll bring her roses when he comes back home. So that he’s been bound into an agreement to bring roses to his wife every time he returns home. He must keep reliving the promise in every single instance of the present. And each of those singular presents would be a mirror image of the distant future. Like the infinite children of a single child.

And then, suddenly she stumbled upon a question that really frightened her. When we bring our promises to the present, the immediate – we’re fulfilling the promise. So that it no longer belongs to the distant future. And for every time that we’re fulfilling a promise, we’re actually annihilating the future. We’re annihilating the space where the promise had originally belonged. Is that how the children in the mirror annihilate the child outside?

She was brought back to her senses with this question and realized that she had not only lost her way but had actually invaded the world of muteness.

 

She was reminded once again of the promise she had made of meeting him. And she knew that she won’t be able to keep it once again. Like it has always been in the past. For every time that she had to take the road that promised to keep its promise, the promise shall be broken. And she would find herself walking deeper into the defying silence.

She could feel, as she walked, the last traces of sound recede farther away. The absolute silence is different from the absence of sound. Sound is a property that flows in time and diminishes through slowness. The absence of sound simply presumes that there are no sources of sound in the present. But what about the sound from the immediate past? The traces of sound still keeps rolling into the present however diminished in its magnitude. A silent morning could never be as dense as a silent night because the traces of sound are in different magnitudes.

The absolute silence is different because there are no traces of sound in its core. None at all. And its depth is immense. Almost deafening. And this is when she would want but find that she couldn’t scream. Or whisper.

 

The purple haze that gradually invaded could only have been a precondition of the muteness that had become heavier. Unbearable to be carried alone upon two shoulders. But then, as always, she’d learn she’s not alone in the muteness.

The first time she caught a glimpse of him was walking ahead of her. And he seemed so farther up ahead as if he were a property of the future. Like a promise. And she remembered her destiny was to walk behind him, silently, in the muteness.

He walked slowly as if he were tired too. She tried to increase her pace of walking to catch up with him and found that she couldn’t. And then she realized that they were all walking in the pace in which the silence dictates. They could neither move any faster nor any slower. It was a destiny that they all share in common.

All?

And then she remembered the succeeding moments. She must discover others following him too from the various directions of the purple silence. Each equidistant from him, forever. All sharing a common weariness that grew like happiness on being shared. And even though she couldn’t see any of the others following her as of yet, she could feel the muteness falling under a blanket of weariness rapidly.

Since they were all following him from the various directions, he was the centre of them all. And since they were converging in him, the distance between each other receded. Diminished. They each came closer to the other’s weariness. The unbearable weariness of the solitary. And the aroma of the sweat.

She recognized this weariness too. It was part of her childhood. On a day she ran. Ran far too long. Trying to run further away. She thought the gypsies were behind him. Because she had stepped inside ‘The Maze of Magic Mirror’ with a stone in her hand and done the forbidden. And then as she ran, she just wanted to run so far away that the smoke that led her to the tents would be found no more. She wasn’t sure what her exact fears were. Was it the gypsies who she thought were behind him? Was it the sound that the glasses made as they shattered? Was it her guilt? Her liberty? The first sensuality of adolescence? Or something very different?

Now, as she walked deeper into the purple silence of weariness, she found the same questions returning. And the answers receding, as always. But receding answers bring more questions. What brings him here? Why must others follow him even though he belonged to her and her alone? Was he actually like smoke and they captivated by its symmetry, like children? And why must she ask this very question that she’s asking right now, over and over again every time she returns to muteness?

He stopped.

In a place where the purple silence seemed so dense that it seemed to bathe him in its light. And once in the light, he turned to face her directly. And then for the first time she noticed that it wasn’t him at all. It was her. It was she herself dressed in a man’s robe, standing in front of her. Smiling, looking at her. And she found herself smiling back, even though she didn’t want to. She had no choice but to. And then, she suddenly noticed standing beside her on both sides and diagonally, were many women who looked the same. Like her. All equally uncertain, smiling at the self who stood in their centre dressed in a man’s attire.

Then, suddenly a feeling dawned on her. She was just an image. A mirror image. An illusion. That she didn’t exist at all. She was just one of the manifold reflections of the woman standing in their centre with a piece of stone in her hand. And she realized that her thoughts were only a reflection of what the original woman thought. Just as she can sense right now what the woman has been thinking of. She has been thinking of him, sitting beside a window, waiting, puffing on a cigarette. And she has been thinking of taking the road that promised to keep its promise, to lead to his home. And she has been thinking of her childhood. And ‘The Maze of Magic Mirrors’. And the infinite children of a single child. And the running away from the symmetry of smoke. And hoping there’s a place where the window won’t show you the rising smoke no longer. And hoping.

She saw the woman in a man’s attire throw a spherical stone, which she had been carrying secluded in her palm, towards her. And before the stone would crash onto the mirror that both divided and multiplied them, the woman turned around and ran for the road that promised to keep its promise.

The World

I realized I was going blind for the first time when I started seeing things in the dark…. Things that couldn’t have existed….. Like a figurine of love, a dead eagle on my window-sill and myself in the mirror. It was a matter of time until I lost my sight.

When light came back on earth I went searching for a blind man. I found a woman, instead.

“Teach me blindness”, I told her. And thus, in a grey, cloudy afternoon our lessons began.

“Blindness is nothing but an alternative to the world you live in”, she told me. “You believe your eyesight is the best gift you have….. But you see, you never know what infinite options you have. Your eyesight is a limitation to your pursuit of these options.”

“What do you mean?”

“Eyes attach properties to objects. Blindness removes them. There are no particularities in blindness. As a blind person, you can see anything in as many ways as you wish. Tell me about your experience when you felt for the first time that you were going blind.”

I told her about the figurine of love, the dead eagle and myself in the mirror.

“Do you remember seeing them before your attacks of blindness? See, that’s what blindness gives you: Freedom of sight.”

When I returned home that night her words kept returning back. I remembered the number of times she used the word “see” in her words. It sounded pretty awkward in the words of a blind woman. But I couldn’t understand her purpose of using the word: Was it a mockery or enlightenment? I couldn’t understand the meanings of the things I saw in the attacks of my blindness….. Or if they had any meaning at all. Only my complete blindness could help me find answers to those questions.

The next few days, I kept waiting eagerly for blindness.

But the woman came back to me before blindness did. I told her that I was confused.

“Well, all of us are, sometimes”, she said taking my hand in hers.

I found she was looking into my eyes, constantly, without her eyes blinking even for a second. It took me some time to realize that she was blind. But aren’t blind people meant to see better than people gifted with eyesight? Wasn’t she seeing into me much more clearly than any normal person would do?

“Are you in love with me?” I decided to ask her.

She left my hand as I asked her the question. And moved a little farther away from me.

“What makes you think so?” she asked, a little concerned.

“You were looking into my eyes in such a strange way.”

Even though she was standing turning her back towards me, I could see her leaving a deep breath.

“Maybe, you should stop imagining things.” She said, as she tried to leave in a hurry.

“Why are you going away?”

“Because….” She shouted; then, fell silent. At last, in a much calmer tone she said, “because it’s fearful how you….” She fell silent, once again.

I waited for her to finish. But she never did.

“….Is it how I see into you? Is that what you were trying to say?” I asked.

“Not me, but everyone….. everything.” She continued, “Let me tell you a secret – We can see ourselves in mirrors. You don’t exactly need to go blind for that. It’s true that blindness assures freedom. It’s true that blindness is much, much more powerful than eyesight. Blindness in never dark, as the popular belief goes, but is capable of colors unimaginable by a common man. Only blindness gives you access to spaces intangible….. But you see it’s very, very difficult to come in terms with the fact that you are blind.”

“But I don’t think it would be difficult for me to come to terms with the fact when I do go blind. You’ve already taught me so much.” I said, hoping that I was able to understand what she tried to say.

“No. It’s you who taught me all these.”

Unable to understand I kept looking into her eyes, vaguely.

“The doctors did indeed, find you blind from the very day that you were born”, she completed.

And she reminded me what the world always would, that I cannot go blind ever again.

The Abstract, The Unreal, The Magical

Snow

One evening when we sat by the distances, she told me of her wish to burn her body to see her souls catch fire, too. She said she loved the perfume of burnt-out souls. I realized that it was going to be difficult but decided to give her this gift on her nearest birthday, anyways. I asked her which of her souls she would like to burn.

“The wet one”, she replied.

It had snowed last night. It had started when we were playing with each other’s bodies. Fondling. Jostling. Mingling. In our silent apartment. I was drenched in her presence. I always was. Despite her perfumed hair, her ethereal nudity, the sentiments of her fragrant touch; her body was only an effigy. A mirage. Because she were innumerable women at the same time. In our silent apartment, her converging souls passed in and out of her body all the time. And in every parting moment, she fragmented herself more into the nooks and corners of my room. With every passing instance, my partner in the bed would change. I made love to all of them. It felt like a game of betrayal in which you’d stopped counting. And you had no idea any longer who it was that you were betraying. You betrayed each for all. And none for the other. Living inside a deadly turn-on.

I didn’t notice the beginning of the snow until she pushed my body aside and ran outside. Into the snow. Trailing one of her souls with her. I put on some clothes and followed her outside. Snowflakes landed on her naked skin. I found slowly, that her color was changing. She was becoming a deep, deep blue. I asked her to come inside but she refused. I was worried both for her and the soul that she had brought for herself. Gradually, I found that her body had begun to glow so that the space around her seemed to be lighted up in a divine light. The light kept spreading until it went in through the windows of the people who slept. All of them woke up to find their eyes being washed in a light so deeply blue as can only be found in dreams. Thinking of the light as a divine purgation all of them started to pray.

She stood unmoving, in the snow until she fell senseless on the accumulated snow. I went near her and asked if she would like to come inside. But she wouldn’t answer. So, I carried her in my arms and took her inside. I put a blanket around her. But before that, I took off her wet soul and put it next to the fire to dry.

It remained wet.

As days passed, we made plans for the burning. Even when we made love we spoke about her burning body and soul. It would turn us on. We started collecting matchsticks of different sizes and shapes. Ignite each of them to examine its flame. Our days passed like dreams.

At last her birthday came. She was apprehensive from the morning about the evening ’cause that’s when, we had decided, we would set her on fire. She seemed excited from the morning. I had never seen her so exuberated ever before. By the time evening came, she had tired herself out of excitation. She quickly put on her wet soul. I, on the other hand, lighted a matchstick and set her on fire.

As flames started playing all over her body she started dancing in jubilation. First she set a few of my important papers on fire, then my beautiful Arabian carpet and slowly, my entire apartment was on fire. But we little cared for any of it because nothing was important beyond this moment.

“Come take me in your arms”, she said at last, stopping “and see if I’ve started exuding the fragrance of burnt-out souls.”

I went and took her in my arms, but couldn’t find the fragrance of her burnt-out souls. I told her this. She seemed surprised. It was not some thing that we had planned for. I looked more closely at her. The flames coming out of her body seemed calm and composed. They were blue….. exactly the color of her snow drenched self.

Snows were nothing but frozen blocks of fires.

I realized that the fragrance that she was looking for would only be possible if she would burn in the snow, like the last time round. I realized, also, that I was on fire. Perhaps, I had caught it when I went and took her in my arms. When we stared outside, we found that the snowfall had started.

I took her hand and ran outside.

The Abstract, The Unreal, The Magical