In the venn diagram of my life, I am messy. Of course, everything intersects, or bisects somewhere, at times at many places. Yet there are these myriad secluded coves within, each one a microcosm, expanding and contracting to fill up the available space, with a self contained set of relationships and identities. They may ordinarily be safe havens, yet an unusually high or low tide may flood them or dessicate them, cutting off the vital supply of mindspace and physical presence. But once created, these paths of energy endure, mindless of the continued supply of nourishing emotional sustenance. Each “mind” set, in turn seems to have many subsets nested within, like a beautiful pattern of fractals. But like all such seemingly perfect patterns, there are certain irregularities. And it is these which lend the unique character to the maddeningly random plan of life. Is my pattern messier than yours? Are there more components in this diagram than in others? Is the set of linkages, between the sets and their subsets, stronger or less vivid than yours, perhaps? Like that popular, erratic lyricist said, do I and you (each one of us) live in scraps, awaiting our call from others, strangers living similarly in parts?

A part of me and a bit of you and you and you – are we the mosaic of our collective congealed consciousness? With only the exposed facet, of the moment, to distinguish one from the other? Obviously, the mosaic itself is a throbbing organic creature, going through its brownian random walk and acted upon by the dimension of Time. (Why do I capitalise that word? Is it so significant? Is it singular? Or is it too, another mosaic of past-present-future warping and wrapping on itself? Regardless, for now(!), let’s limit time to a speck, a dot defined by its intersection across multiple dimensions/ axes)

Do you too have unexplored, unlived parts, like me? Large tracts of lazy lumpiness which lie under your skin, waiting to be discovered, lived and tried? Do you also find yourself stuck in places which are more comfortable, even if they are speckled with lashes of pain, physical or emotional? Or are you okay with occasional widening of your space, dwelling longer and deeper in some and moving on to others thereafter, or even simultaneously? Do you suddenly catch yourself bobbing with the waves or at times stuck in a particularly tight position with various forces of Nature and even many unnatural ones, pounding a distinctly nasty pattern on you? Or marvelled at your inconsequentiality in the larger patterns while experiencing the depths of despair and the euphoric delights of joy at seemingly mundane things like the cry of an inconsolable baby or a brilliant sunrise?

Are there censorial taboos limiting your life experience? They may define you by keeping out what you choose to not do/ not be. Enriching you perhaps with the certainty of a well-loved structure, your own signature pattern of moods, personality, relationships and Life?

I’m this, I’m that, I am not all that
I listen, I don’t, and often I won’t
I grow, I stagnate, often I conflate
I flow, I stay, and yet, decay
I’m foolish, I’m wise, not always nice
I giggle, I wail at all Life entails.

There, it’s finally done, love!

Swirling eddies where there were none

Swift movements and it’s over now

Litter, thick, slick organic stuff

Clung tight to the sides, down deep down 

There, it’s finally done, love!

Caustic soda, dunked in. Tough love,

Acidic chaser, bubby fun,

Swift movements and it’s over now.

 

The muddy drain is Open, wow!

Water pushing through the gunk

There, it’s finally done, love!

Swift movements and it’s over now.

While I have finally managed to unblock a dirt-encrusted drain, I shall now attempt to keep up the flow. Multiple mental blocks need my attention now and hopefully, they’ll be addressed one by one. Meanwhile, Hi. 👋

S,

Talking to you was far from the outlet I had believed it to be. It swarmed around me till I actually dunked my head in a pool – the buzzy cloud of our memories.

Periodically, it happens – Nasreen and the kids now see the black spells coming and know that they should just let me be. And after it passes I go back to being the caring husband and father drawn not only by the pull of love but bound by the glue of guilt. Exhausted after the intense bouts at the gym or the pool, I lie down and let the kids gather around me in a celebration of family horse-play and bonding. At times these spells wear off in a few hours but there are occasions when a spell lasts up to a week. Do you have these too? Do the people around you also let you be and perhaps put it down to PMS?

Does your husband treat you as kindly as Nasreen treats me? Strange, how she alone among all my cousins had been introduced to you as my girlfriend by my parents, only to be married off to me by her parents and our grandparents. Stranger still, how she never said no to the proposal – she who could have had any eligible bachelor wooing her, being married to the cousin who she knew loved another woman. Yet, it helped that I didn’t need to pay much attention to getting to know her and make her feel at home. She tried to cook exactly as Ammi had, dressed like her, read her books, wore her jewelry and did her damnest to run the house just as she had. She blended in.

In the early days when someone asked Nasreen what she did and she answered that she was a house-wife, it was such an exact answer. She worked very hard at being the house-wife, my house-wife, and ensured that everything was just-so. Not that I noticed back then. It took me many years to appreciate what she had done for me and to try and repay in my meager fashion.

After you left there was this gaping void in my life which I tried to fill in any which manner. I indulged in all excesses – food, drink and sex. The ad agency I was working at gave me plenty of opportunity to travel and indulge. I was wildly promiscuous – partly because that was something I could do in all those remote locations and tacky studios, but mostly because of the women. I had never been so available earlier and they were all over me. It was tiresome business and just mildly pleasurable. Apparently, my partners found it a great kick to be able to tell their friends that they had done me. Things continued in this vein for nearly a year before my grandparents broached the topic of my marriage with N.

Do you remember her? She had tagged along with us once for a movie – and she was awe-struck by our relationship and she kept wishing she could have such a love too. We both remember that day but have never spoken of it.

If she resents you – she doesn’t show it in any way – either she keeps that sorrow a secret from me or she is truly a great woman. Our relationship has now been cemented by time and the arrival of our Bint and Basheer. You, my sweet S, are our shared secret never mentioned yet always a veil between us.

Often I wonder how things worked out for you.

Seetu, what a perfect name for such a pretty little girl. From the moment I saw her, I knew that I would call her Seetu. My own darling Seetu.

She was down at the park where I could see her easily from my desk. In that pretty summery pink gingham dress with embroidered posies, she tempted me to go out wearing my matching Jessica Simpson shoes teemed with the pale pink dress I’d picked up last month. I quickly reproduced the look I had been practicing for a while and was down at the park, laden with goodies for my Seetu.

 

But first I had to deal with the ayah – I don’t what it is about these idiotic women that I let them threaten and overwhelm me. I’ve had my share of ayahs that are respectful and let me give gifts to the little one and pamper her. But these are few and far. Usually, the ayah looks at me sternly and shoos  me off me. Me, can you imagine anyone telling me off? Today is a good day. This one seems relieved that I am here so that she can spend some ‘quality time’ with that leery driver lounging at the edge of the park.

Seetu is sweetness personified. She gurgles and giggles at the goodies, gathering them up only to throw them into the air. She starts opening the packets and things come tumbling out – all the smart shiny stuff  any little girl would love. There are gift-wrapped picture books, pop-up books, hair ornaments and clips and satin ribbons peeping out of cellophane windows and pencils in so many colourful boxes and crayons and pieces of chalk tied up in a crepe ribbon. She is pleased and plants a deep wet kiss on me cheek. I drink in her baby smells and nuzzle into her. Time goes by in a blur. It is getting to be dark. The ayah has come back without her driver boyfriend. Soon I would have to kiss Seetu goodnight.

But suddenly there is a commotion. There are far too many people in the park suddenly. Men. Why should these well-dressed men be at the park at this hour? And why is that shoddily dressed lady shouting so loudly? They gather around me. They are talking loudly, too loudly.

I can hear all those frenzied pitying words – Mrs. S has never fully recovered from the death of her baby three years ago. Oh, these hateful horrible people. They keep trying to label me, pity me, separate me from my kids.
Seetu, my love, come to mama…