Sonnet XVI: Afterlife

I thought I saw my afterlife withdrawn
From orchards fruiting many forlorn faces
And none too far, though, messengers of dawn
Holding firm, some souls with fading traces

I thought I saw my wife bid me goodbyes
And children wailing, calling out my name
But I had motionless, impassive eyes,
Which could not but portray a dying flame.

I thought I wanted peace from all that din
And age off, resting in a soundless place 
But never thought that it would be so rife
With affluence of grief, naked, wherein,
For all its bounty, I can't find solace.
It's absent love; to me is afterlife.

100!

For some reasons, 100 has has become synonymous with achievement, or, may be, satisfaction, or celebration, for that matter. 100 marks in the exam, 100 years of living, 100 runs in a cricket match, 100mph cricket ball, 100 team points in a football league, 100 likes may be, for the more socially active people, 100 children (Indian history / mythology is replete with examples), and many more such joyful examples. Marriage was a little tough to slot it, you see, partly because of the joyful bit and the rest because, well, 100 years is simply too much. Anyway, I wanted to experience the feeling as soon as I could. I wanted to add 100 blog posts to my list, as I could never score a perfect 100 in exam or hardly made any cricket runs. This was the easiest. Admitted that 100 blog posts is nowhere comparable to aforementioned feats, 100's of people have written posts far exceeding 100 in number, but it is no mean feat either. Not for me, or for those 100's of writers who start a blog and then, renege on their promise.

I must admit that blogging, or writing, in general, was never quite in my scheme of things. I started writing only to contest that my cousin is the one bestowed with the best of literary nous-es in our family, and the most gifted. He still is, but one thing where I surpass him is that I am the most prolific. This is satisfying in its own right. You can beat Waugh in the number of runs, but never in class or elegance. To his Mark, I played the Steve. I have been writing since the first year in college, started trashy, still am scratchy, at best, but I persisted. The result is immensely satisfying 100 posts. I only noticed this a couple of months back when I was at 98. The 99th took a long time, partly because of the tough task I was up to (writing a series) and partly because of the nervous 90's. Having scored most of my posts through gentle daps to the slip cordon or through misfields or aerial shots landing in no man's land, I thought if that is the way it has to be, then so be it. What you don't want at 99 is to get out. So, I flashed, and flashed hard, and it went like a tracer bullet. This was just what the doctor ordered. And here I am, arms raised in acknowledgement, soaking in the "electric atmosphere".

I think many times during these 6 years, I thought enough was enough, and I should call it quits. To be honest, I never had enough readers on my blog. Some said it was too boring, some said it was too pretentious, and some did not understand. But I knew that I had to work hard on my blogging, and I did. I kept making comebacks, with the occasional post garnering enough attention and guaranteeing me enough pride to keep writing the next 10. I started with few essays and then "started dealing in sonnets". After a while, all three kinds of posts were possible. Blogger was being taken to the cleaners, and before anyone could realize, I was already into my 90's. It was the toughest part of my blogging life. It took me "64" days to move from 98 to 99. But I am a cool customer, with loads of experience. I sensed at 99 that the atmosphere was electric and the appreciation I got for my post was deafening. So I just cleared my head, settled down, and tried to concentrate on the next post. And here I am, regarded by some as the best exponent of dogged writing, having made Blogger my bunny, with my 100th post.

Come what may, there have been reasons enough for me to write. I think every blog post has been an advertisement for writing. With the advent of Twitter, some thought, blogging would become endangered. I can, after 100 posts, proudly say that writing long posts, or blogging, if you will, is still regarded as an art and the purest form of testing the technical soundness of any writer. But there is always room for all forms of writing, it is only the small matter of striking the right balance. In the end, I think, writing, or more precisely, blogging is the winner.

Homecoming (VII)

It was a peaceful night for the family.

The children had already slept, and the wife was, though content with how the day ended eventually, a little too tired to try and keep up a conversation with a little too forthcoming husband. She tried to sing her husband to sleep, and when convinced of her success, paused for a bit and went out to get herself some water. She was not thirsty. She just did not want to sleep at that very moment. A glass of cold water, she thought, would keep her alive for a few minutes. While there was no particular reason for her not to have slept – she had a taxing day at office – she tried hard to find one to stay awake and let the night sink in. It was one of those feelings when one tries hard to think, but the questions do not arouse enough curiosity or simply keep evading; like a playwright who just bought a fiddle and cannot put it away, because he has an insatiable desire to play it, but does not know a thing about it.

She seated herself on a stool in her kitchen, a luxury not infrequent for her, but rather tasteless. Having gulped half the glass, she put it in the wash basin, and looked with contentment, how clean the place looked. There was not much in that kitchen and she preferred everything orderly, which is every woman’s wont, I would think. And she was just another woman, just not besotted with excesses. She had a small frame, not frail but bulky enough to suggest that she was already a mother of two, and a kind face, within which dwelt a spirit so at tranquil with self that it was hard to imagine, from her ever placid demeanor, that anything could ever disquiet her. While women of her ilk are oft found complaining about so many things, which, in the writer’s opinion, renders the whole exercise futile, she had lived her part as a graceful housewife with as much poise.

Much of her wanted to know about her husband, but the rest quelled that inquisitiveness with a strong protest – that was not her business, so long as he came back every day, satisfied. She could not worship him, and neither did she admire him a lot. It took a long time for her accept a marriage to someone she did not know, but that was something she had to make do with. Raised in modest household with precious little choices in life, and so deeply entrenched in societal values, marriage was one choice she could not have made. So it was another one of those accidents in her life, and naturally, she took her time to realize that. After six years, all she, or they, could manage to come up with was respect for each other, or concern, at best. All she knew about him was through his stories, which she never disputed or questioned because, perhaps, she thought, it might rankle him. That she could not have been married to him on his past laurels had, by now, become more or less apparent to her. What she did not want, though, was it to underline their future. We don’t love people for what they aren’t, or what we want them to become, but instead who they are. She knew that she was married to a peon, who was now a sweeper, and she had to be at peace with it.

She walked into their room. He was still sleeping. After a brief moment of indecision, she decided not snoop around his belongings – he would not have anything of interest. Instead, she went up to their bed, stroked his forehead gently, and lied down, with myriad thoughts struggling for space within her. She could not think of another transient phase in their lives where they would have to scrape for livelihood, and yet, did not want him to abandon his never-quite-settled-down quintessential self. She did not want the children to make a hero out of their father based only on his stories, and yet, could possibly not think of an alternative. Perhaps what he said today might, but she could not have been sure.

I must admit, as would she, that nothing changed with the hours of the clock, of what they had made of their marriage – it still made as little a sense to her as his fables. She had never quite made much out of a relationship – brought up in an environment where discipline superseded love (emotion) – and here, there was little effort on his part to have been able to change that. On their part, they did all they thought they knew about making something work – respecting, maintaining restraint, raising kids. Her children were her life, though, just as she was an indivisible part of their everyday. From waking them up in the morning to dropping them to school and then getting them back home, she was the only family they had seen most of their lives. What more could they have done, wondered she, as the night wore on.

The fleeting excitement, by then had already crumpled, strangulated by thoughts of a deeper dwelling. Satisfaction started giving way to uneasiness. Were they always what they were today, so oblivious to the little joys of life that just another story from the raconteur would cause a flutter in in her heart, seem a matter of immense, or provide a sense of fulfillment that was missing hitherto? She had to find that out for herself.

Six years after marriage, after all, is not the best time try and put some sense into a relationship, which thus far, had been much abused in the garb of normalcy.