I woke up with desire. For change. All change isn't loose, although it must flow. Some change is rigid. Like desire. I want This. What is this? Or This? And when does This become That? Or, when does it become a backdrop, a prop, its existence non-existent?
I woke up with desire and it would require some effort. Feelings have to be nursed. My windows had cream-coloured curtains. Colours have revealed different phases and facets of my life. What I wear need not be what I surround myself with, although pastels lend subtlety. I feel the need for it. But do they quieten me?
I wanted red curtains as I pulled the one hanging out, wrenched it off, took away its longing for the window, the glass pane, the tree below and the lane dotted with people and cars that look the same from a distance. People are things and things are people.
Where would I seek what I wanted without going out of the way? There was an old saree. Never worn it. I had planned to. Once. Had kept it ready. But the day had gone by and the occasion left me unmoved. The saree did not smell of fragrance; it had never been creased. It had not wrapped itself round my body and felt its warmth.
A few weeks ago I had discarded some sarees and for some reason I kept this back. Not because it is silk - a silk that does not shine but glides. Not because there are memories attached - it is cold. Not because it is beautiful - it is but not overwhelmingly so.
I do not know why I kept it. Maybe I wanted it to touch me before it left. How can something that has lived with me leave without a soft caress or even a bruise?
Today. I woke up with desire. For red curtains. The saree is red, its print like a garden in bloom. I cut it in two for the windows flanking me. Red curtains now billow from the fan breeze and the walls look like blushing cheeks. I did not realise the fabric is so sheer, though.
I write this beneath fluorescent lights and wonder if those from buildings a little away can see my shadow. The trace of a woman who woke up with desire.
And realised it to make it part of life.

4 comments:
"I write this beneath fluorescent lights and wonder if those from buildings a little away can see my shadow. The trace of a woman who woke up with desire."
And realised it to make it part of life.
I am certain you realised this a while ago. You're way too smart to not have. And as always you've articulated it beautifully :)
The rising sun filtering through the silwats in the saree, piercing the red, orange and green - might turn out to be a fine day.
Meriam:
Thank you, but if I were really smart I would not be blogging about it :)
Besides, no, one is not always what one seems to be...
Anon:
The sun is down where I am, and it was cloudy day and it rained. But the colours remained unchanged on the saree-curtain.
I assume you are acquainted with Urdu (silwat etc)so a line from Faiz:
"ab ke to khizaan aisi thahari woh saare zamaane bhool gaye
jab mausam-e-gul har phere mein aa aa ke dubaaraa guzare tha"
Read it aloud and taste the seasons.
"Thank you, but if I were really smart I would not be blogging about it :)"
We all have a need to be heard and understood. It's primal and surfaces/manifests itself in different ways for different people.
Besides, no, one is not always what one seems to be..."
Very true :)
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