Stories

i know I’ve been quiet here.

it seems all of summer and the monsoons alternated between being filled with sun-drenched hopefulness and raining-on-my-hope-parade deluge.

there were days where time bookended between morning and evening was like treacle and then days when it supersonics into oblivion

retrospection, introspection and enough of all kinds of inspection... just less of recording... for posterity, for sanity even

and then all of a sudden paced days make their appearance and i look forward to simple routines and rhythms... and just like that its fall

and my baby is a seasoned kindergartner, his body suddenly that of a little boy’s, lean-muscled and strong. him. a willful little being.

the days just blur and the nights just descend without the preamble of evenings, bedtimes thwarted and Saturdays being lolled about in bed, in making a mess of comforters and pillows, in jumping up and down and in kissing and tickling.

am grateful. am incredulous. am just basking in the pure love of everyday.

 
Most days, the minute I lie down, post all the toddler stories and in-bed shenanigans, post all the last minute bathroom visits and water bottles and checking for monsters, post all of my own idiosyncratic rituals... when i lie down... the words rise up... right when i neither have my notebook or iPad or the laptop even phone is a distance away... right when there are no means of catching them... like fireflies they flutter aglow... their blinking... my personal Disney fairytale... and i slide in sleep... only to surface up to blurry wakefulness to see the stories play out, projected on my conscious, the fantastic nightmares or bizzare or the unseen faces and unknown, unthought of scenarios of doom and gloom... before launching into a court room kinda debate for and against my own sanity and paranoia

Death. Mayhem. Injustice. And me amidst it all. A silent spectator. Sometimes highly troubled. Other times just watching. Looking for signs of feelings, all these feelings must bring in. The dissection of meta-feelings, the deconstruction of mind function of a sleeping being. 

All of this before the neon blue of digi clock says: 5:00 AM

My dad has been unwell for the longest time now.... last month... there were times I was on the verge of being certain that he would probably not be with us... to the edge and back... time and again... it was like each day... the graph wasn't looking very healthy constant... spikes all over...

and unbidden the memories... of him being this tallest person, a giant of a man, and me on his lap, in his arms... sleeping and when i wake up, i see the ground beneath moving and realise that he has been walking home with me asleep... my first memory of height and motion...

him being angry on some or other mess we kids had made. him being goofy with mom, him with this deep deep laughter and booming voice, him talking to us especially me as equals while discussing the fine points of mythology or politics or philosophy... i had a brush with Charvaak before i picked up Enid Blyton..

happy him, sad him, angry him, elated... dad! that word contains all of our broken and blessed childhood... a majority stakeholder of the people we (my siblings and me) now are

most days happen now in a rush of hours, and the stories only happen after: between sleep and waking. They happen in that slender gap between now and unconscious; in that groove where memory opens up wide, and the past hurries out dancing as it does.

i haven't found it in me to tame these stories yet, they are too big, too overwhelming

these are the stories that ride in on the edges of the hours, like leaves caught in the forever whirl of a river

Copyright @ Neerja Yadav