Time backward:
“I
always have this strange feeling that I am this very old woman laying down
about to die…that my life is just her memories.”
Time forward:
There is locked shyness in her very old eyes
and an occasional flickering of the lashes. The curtains ruffle themselves like
wavy hair in wind. She spread her legs
over the carpet for an idle warmth and furtive silence. There is the sloshing
of water being sprayed on the grass outside. She imagined a rainbow from the
inside.
Inside inside there are colours raw and
bitter
And I kept my palm over the eyes and slept.
Erik Satie. It’s like her soul covers a
circle once in an hour. The music takes its own time with a looseness that can
hold her shrunken feet fixed at a place. Fixed. Like you lay far from yourself
in a forlorn shore and your hands try to reach so long to grab your heart
rolling beyond your catch. Oh there is grave melancholy itching her very
essence. And the ambiance shifts from a somber solitude to a seclusion with memories
of long subdued laughter.
Many a times she
fantasized to have an incomplete slumber getting split by his smashing of the
door and his figure emerging surprisingly from the darkness to the light with
that dashing look and bending smile. And then she would call back the thought
of reality working in different ways with its own schemes and shrewdness. Now she
knocked on her head to have depended so much on his memories for her joys after
his demise. “Know thyself!” Unseen paths. Unlooked spaces. And she sighed on
all the unthought thoughts and unread books. Footsteps are heard on the stairs.
Someone is calling her name. Suddenly
she searched for her. She heard a yell from within before the final call- “Cogito
ergo sum!” And she couldn't yell back “ergo scribo!”
