"It Is The Evening Of The Day"

Something somewhere has shifted - oh so slightly. I feel it. I caught two whiffs of scent from a tentatively blooming saptaparni  somewhere down the street from my house. They've been planting so many of them in this area and soon enough the air will be heady with the intoxicating scent of numerous bloom-laden trees.
Autumn usually makes me happy. It ought to make me happy. Especially as monsoons invariably turn out to be a torture for me with the leaks I battle year after year. I really thought the leaks had given this year the miss. They were being very civil - dropping gracefully into their rain traps or the solitary pail I'd placed for the drip-drip near the entrance. 
Then the demon struck! Once on the 22nd September and again a couple of days ago. This latest one brought in its wake an ugly fight with a demoniacal neighbor who bellows at me as if I am verily taking a le&k (sorry to be risque) on his head. Nay Mister - these leaks descend like the Ganga and the source of trouble is the very person who installed you as my neighbor in an act of malfeasance.   Leaving me anxious, sleepless, exhausted. Like there isn't enough to worry me. Because I am anxious and sleepless and exhausted anyway, perched on a metaphorical cornice like a foolish cat that found its way there. Angels need to help this cat get off.

This year has been the Annus Horribilis ++ putting all its predecessors in the shade. I suddenly want to call back all those years I'd waved goodbye to with relief, as I looked forward to restarting the counter with hope. Hope never leaves us, does it? 

This time has been different - hope has all but died. But maybe the saptaparni blooms will revive hope. 

The mornings and evenings of 2023 have just rolled by, the days and nights have merged into one haze of time. The only marker of each new day is the new water - the very limited daily supply that one grabs every morning and holds on to. And for the past month that's gone underground too.

While this is my shot at warm writing, I'm unable to summon up much warmth for what I am reporting on and all the demands that these challenges are posing to my already almost rock bottom resources. I try to look at the challenge without emotion. The irony of it - water oozing through walls onto the floor while it eludes the pipeline. And each competing for those slender resources to fix it. Maybe a little humor will kindle the warmth I need to fill the spaces between the bare bones of these sentences? 

Autumn means warmth. The warmth of home, festivals, fellowship, food. At any rate the memory of these. Of family, of times when we trusted and shared.

Marianne Faithfull sings 
"My riches can't buy everything
I want to hear the children sing
All I hear is the sound
Of rain falling on the ground
I sit and watch
As tears go by"

The only memory the past few months bring, is of pain. The pain of hauling myself through one day at time, unable to focus on anything meaningful. Watching with semi horror the process of my own wearing away into nothingness.

Stop! A few tears that roll down will restore the warmth. You can borrow them from Marianne. Be patient. The saptaparni blooms. And there is warm khichdi in Sridevi's warm pot. Even if there isn't water where I need it to be, there's Sri's hospitality of the kind that will never leave me lacking for anything.

Tap into your abundance. You have resources within and around. You have a teenager in the flat above you who doesn't want the leaking water to hurt you. It's not his fault. He's just been put there as a "placeholder" by the sinister elements that captured the space. And he's a good, kind lad. He calls me Dadi (granny) and this young woman (yours truly) feels an enormous warmth from his tone. Then there's Sailesh. Sailesh may be blind, but he will never be cold. And he will do his best to fix both these problems. 

You've taken a day at a time and the days just go by like Marianne's Faithfull's tears. But something somewhere's gotta change. This ain't continuing till the "last syllable of recorded time". Coz if nothing else, the season is changing. It's only the last thirty days that have been truly horrible. This problem can be fixed. Some angel from somewhere will replenish the resources. Hope maybe an impostor but we draw strength from such impostors. Because hope dies hard. And if you hang on to it long enough it can transform into something that actually happens - and surprises you.

Warmth restored  somewhat.  No I won't have an anxiety driven eruption. Let anxiety - another impostor - die swiftly even as its friend hope chooses to thrive and take over.  

Maybe I can crawl my way towards food. I was ravenous for a snack and hurtled my way through steamy afternoon air (talk of took much warmth?) to grab some singaras from Dakshin Kali before they disappeared. Also stared with curiosity at Durga's pandal that's turned itself around 180 degrees. The crazies of 22 Palli will never run out of silly tricks will they? I won't be surprised if the goddess tires of their silliness and escapes from the pandal one of these days. There - let your thoughts run wild. Because you want to escape from an existence that's starting to feel like a trap. Well not yet. Give it 3 months. This is like the "please extend" on the old time trunk calls, only this seems to be extending indefinitely as my bones start to creak and my teeth fall out. 

Stay warm - there's still plenty to smile about.

Read and enjoy this  and do follow The Khichdi Pot - a very special space created by Sridevi Datta.

PS - you and I and everyone else have been merrily tossed together and mixed up in the pot on this post. If you wonder who I'm addressing it is my silly self whom I see in many forms and images!The tenses too are enjoying a merry mixup.

Enjoy the song here

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