For a while now, I have stayed away from my schizophrenia posts. People have liked them, asked for more, yet it has been a while since I wrote those type of entries. A while is defined as eleven months. I wonder now, what makes people want to read this level of abstraction, for a post that is so personal, what is it in the post that they identify with. Words. Madness. Form, or the lack of it.
There’s water shortage in Mumbai. Yet abundant flowing water finds a way to push through the walls of my house and eyes that try hard to stay dry and strong. This month, the city lakes are full, my empty heart finds some happiness in that.
Disaster movies, I think, are a round-about way of making us respect natural powers. I think they only cause further fear. Of all the disaster movies that I see, the ones inspired by water are the most boring. I hate to sit through two-three hours of watching water wet the screen. The ones inspired by fire, are another thing altogether. Fire has an ability to reduce things to nothing.
I have seen fire at close quarters. I have fought with it, and I live under no illusion that I won against it. That day however, it was fire’s nasty cousin – smoke – that I was really up against. If the fire hadn’t chosen to retreat that early morning, I would have lost some things.
I have a love for mountains that I am unable to explain. I have often heard from folks about how the enormity of a mountain or the sea makes the human look so small and insignificant. Earlier, when I did not have an opinion about it, I approved; considered it to be a an interesting thought. Not anymore. I always feel I carry the enormity of nature within me, for only I can recognise it. To look at the mountain or the sea as a separate reality is to distance itself from you. If it’s within you, you are as significant as it is.
I loved the mountains the most on 8th December 2009 at 6:44AM. I embraced it with my heart. It held me in a tight bear hug. We had conversations as we watched the wonderful view. There was no awe, just love – infinite love.
I have promised myself a drive. A long one. It has yet to materialise. I’d like to go alone this time. I hate the rules that confine driving when I am with someone. Their rules. The need to get to a place, to eat at certain places, avoid night-driving, worst – to close the windows. I love the wind in my face. I’d like to keep driving, if only to feel the wind in my face.
The smell changing every ten kilometres or so. The branches swaying in slowmo. The musical wailing as it passes through ridges, valleys and over the plains into the mountains.
But I am where I am.
We never crave for proof of life. That’s an axiomatic assumption, if there is something like that, well-supported by philosophical premises and academic arguments. Standing on the top of a mountain, watching the sea below, the wind blowing against us, to kindle the fire within, and being where you should be – that, perhaps, is the proof of life.