A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Rahul Pandita - January 22, 2006
Some memories are better left to be forgotten. But some churn inside the lining of your heart so much that you just write them down. Hoping that they would remain as discreet as sacred verses in a talisman. Those memories travel in a Mobius strip. One after the other
The memory of that summer is all over his heart. Like a Cheese spread.
In the afternoon, the sun spat fire. Birds stopped chirping. Dogs would roll out their tongue. If you walked on the road, the coal tar would stick on to your shoe soles. Mirages would appear in the highway of your vision.
This was the time when he sneaked out. Sleep had been evading him. As if someone had applied Dove’s blood on his eye lids. Thoughts of various hues and colours raced in his mind. One shade overtook another. Sometimes they collided with the boundaries of his existence. He would reel down under the pressure. At times like these Nina’s printed cotton Pyjamas provide him succour.
He cannot forget the sight of Nina watching him from the top floor of that house in South Extension; her right hand cupping her chin. He would look at her from beneath the house and then start climbing the stairs. She would lead him inside. Into her organised world. Her place had a unique character which could not be termed as mere cleanliness. It was an extension of her own self. White bed sheets with pink and blue floral patterns on two mattresses joined together. A side table and a lamp on it. Books, covered with recycled paper, with dried flower petals embedded in it. Bashir Badr. Kaifi Azmi. Some of their couplets neatly marked with a pencil. A plastic chair in one corner. A small book rack. Neatly stacked sheets of paper. And lots of pencils, sharpened. The empty paper bag in which she got a white Khadi shirt for him. A pair of Rubber slippers with her two-and-a-half toes imprinted on one of them.
Then there would be her personal glass with a blue tinge. Only he had the privilege of drinking water from that glass. Plain water. Lemon water. Chilled water. Mixed water (plain water added to chilled water).
Something happened to him in that room. It insulated him from everything that the rest of the world represented. Inside that room, only Nina and he existed. His eye lids would begin to droop. Nina would lift his head and keep it on her thigh. On her printed cotton Pyjamas. And then he would simply pass away. He also snored at times. That is what Nina would tell him. She would lie besides him. Even in his sleep, he could feel his hand feeling the contours of the mole near her navel.
She was also after his elbows. He didn’t care about them. They were dark and rugged. One day, she appeared with a small container. It contained elbow cream. He had never thought that something like elbow cream would exist. Every evening, as he resisted it, she applied a dollop of cream on his both elbows.
And now the fibers of his elbows were torn. A hole had developed in his Khadi shirt. It had turned pale as well.
But her memories remained white. They would never turn sepia.
He crossed Meerut.
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Posted by Rahul Pandita at January 22, 2006 11:43 AM
Comments
Rahul, that is beautiful. your description of an Indian summer afternoon is so picturesque. I went to my nephew's wedding a few years back in May.The day seemed worse than your description,there was no electricity that day in my brother's house. I was wearing a Kanjeevaram sari and heavy duty jewelry for the wedding. I was so miserable.If I say I was melting it is not an exaggeration.The sari had so much gold zari(gold thread) it was burning my skin where ever it touched.
You and Nina fascinate me. I like reading about you both.
God bless Rahul.
Hi Rahul
I loved reading this, and comparing it with your poem The Elbow Cream on your personal blog -- http://sanitysucks.blogspot.com/2006/01/elbow-cream.html -- wow!
The poem on your blog is a spare and masking gentle puzzle laid over deep memories with apparent casualness (as you say above, "Hoping that they would remain as discreet as sacred verses in a talisman."), until the last line, when it delivers a punch. I like the way you talk at Nina, memorializing her, until you face her and make her present by asking her for answers with the line that begins, "Remember?"
The story above is intense and evocative, then fades away, leaving the reader wanting chapter 4. I like that its sentences get long and fluent when you're talking about the memory of seeing Nina, and are often quick and short elsewhere, as if the Nina sentences are lovely whole blooms surrounded by the scattered petals and leaves of the other sentences. The paragraph that starts, "Something happened to him in that room." -- this is the core of this chapter of A Story in Continuum, and the texture of this paragraph's sentences reflect the complexity of the story at that point. I love it.
Thanks once again for sharing with us!
Cheers, Heather
PS -- Do you write in Urdu, Hindi, or Kashmiri first, then translate and edit, or do you write directly in English? It sounds as if you write directly in English. No answer required, just wondering.
Dear Heather,
You are a writer! Not just copy-text editing, as you showed in another blog. I love to read your comments.
Rahul captures the intensity of emotions so well in his writing. I writhe, and smile, and collapse in tears, and Rise Again in Love.
It's great to be on the rollercoaster with you Rahul :)
~ Kate
Hi Kate
Please send your compliments to Rahul, dear Kate. Reading his work has made me understand writing better, and when I make comments to him, I write better than I ever have. He deserves full credit for anything I write that's pleasant to read. His poetry is even helping me understand what poetry's really about.
I love your comment to Rahul about being on a rollercoaster -- I know what you mean!
Cheers, Heather
when words flow from the heart , they never fail to connect, rahul...extra-ordinary...tx for the privilege of a share...
Heather, this story is dedicated to you. Thanks, like always.
Heather, I think in visuals. In details. And then I translate them in english or hindi.
Hi Rahul
What a surprise...yet, how well this explains the powerful imagery that underlies all your written work.
Thanks for the answer.
Cheers, Heather
Nina's Room
http://ravikopra.blogspot.com/2006/01/ninas-room.html
tumhari kahani ka ye Episode padh ker dil dua kerta hai ....ki sabko ek aisa pehlu mile jiske saye me sukoon hi sukoon ho...
Hmmm...
aapke muh mein ghee sakhar, seemaji
Rahul,
"The magic of first love is our ignorance that it can ever end." Disreali.
Was this your first?
"To be really free, we must forget our first love"
(Or something similar)
- Hazaron Khwahishein Aisi
Dara, No, this was my last.
Dear Rahul,
The first love is always part of every love that comes 'after' - it becomes woven into the fabric of our being, and I agree with you - this never ends, and so it is the last, so to speak! (heart speak :)
Love,
~ Kate
do you agree, Dara?
Oh yes I agree Kate. It is also a yardstick of our feelings ever after. Somehow I have yet to hear anyone not feel emotionally nostalgic about it.
ps.
In a much lighter vein though, what happens if your first love was a horse?? :) At the tremendously mature age of 7. I still cannot see a horse and not think about Babur.
Hi Dara,
I actually love horses, and did as a young girl. I still have some of the collected little ponies, that I had as the girl, some called a tomboy :) I loved nothing more than to be outside, climbing trees and running with the wind, and biking, and mostly - I pretended to be riding, the pony I called Beauty.
First loves, Yes - it is not necessarily a person, though I would say the baby, young toddler - loves its parents first - and somewhere along the way, other loves come into view! :)
Love and Blessings Dara,
~ Kate
Hi Rahul, long time no blog. Are you allright? Just being my usual nosy self. Take care. God bless.
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Recent Comments
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geeta jayaram commented on A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Hi Rahul, long time no blog. Are you allright?
-
K commented on A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Hi Dara,
I actually love horses -
Dara commented on A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Oh yes I agree Kate. It is also a yardstick of
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K commented on A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Dear Rahul,
The first love is alw -
Rahul commented on A Story in Continuum: Part 3
Dara, No, this was my last.
hmmm