22 degrees C. The wisp of the Bengaluru morning breeze. That’s
what we pine for. I cleared the dry dishes to their respective shelves. Gin and
tonic weather for those with the common cold, I thought. And where does gin
come from? The juniper ‘pine’ tree! As I
walked indoors, I reminisced the use of the word ‘brisk’ too. Not long ago,
between Flagstaff and Phoenix in Arizona, a school music teacher mentioned her
elation for the weather at a scenic stopover. “This is the brisk weather we love
here” she said to a look of wonderment in me. I had never heard the word used
in conjunction with the weather. Quite the cue for her fingers on a catchy tune
she would teach her students I imagined!
After making myself a lemon water mix with ginger, cinnamon and shreds of apple margins, I recalled the contrasting sunrise of the morning the day before.
It looked like the clouds were giving way today too. So, I went on to the balcony to see the gerbera bloom, facing the sun like Helen Keller’s fierce optimism would.
I made myself a cup of oats. After adding a sprinkle of muesli,
it was apt for breakfast. To complement the dietary fibre, I ate a small palayan
thodan variety plantain. Not to let go the remainder of the apple half, whose
margins were crushed into the morning lemon squeeze. I heard the newspaper thud that the
delivery boy sounded outside the door. That did not move me enough to cling to
the details the headlines would canopy for any traveling leader in politics or
the contra-indications of the roads meant for city commutes. I left it to the
pleasure of the morning maid to pick up. She, who cleans the floors and windows of the house has developed a fetish to pick up the newspaper and bring it into the house.
No sooner than she entered to commence her cleanse, I asked,
“What was the rain like yesterday?” She promptly responded “Very heavy. Our
house was leaking”. My wife then asked, “so is that why you needed the old
plastic cover we were using?” “Yes, but I have not used it yet. I have kept it
safely”.
I was even more curious “Is it because you need someone to
climb atop the house?” “My youngest son does that for me”, she responded.
It did not seem like they were using the latest cover for
protection from the rain. Saving for a rainy day, takes a literal and sombre tone. The briskness of the weather
gave way to the uncertain living conditions. It did not please me a bit to know
what other manner of burden the lady traversed to reach our home. She would have
to walk about 50 to 100 metres parallel to an apartment complex which hosted 16 COVID
cases. We are glad she completed two weeks since her second vaccination shot.
Within minutes she emptied the tabletop to clean the glass
that collects the fine dust of construction strafing in from about 150 metres
from our window. As she completed her cleanse, we got news of another 8 cases
of COVID-19 from the apartment complex across our main road.
Amid the pleasures to the eyes, the palate and the privileges of being served, I am left with the reality of dolour.
One is awakened not by thieves of the night, but by rain water leakage. Sleep lost in nature to nature.
Others battle the pandemic. The taboos on unexpressed realities and pains unshared linger as unintegrated experiences. A pandemic of such trauma is small change, when the ones experiencing the discomfort are also carrying the weight of the world with them.
One among the thousand funeral experiences of people whom we knew differently before, and have died to in the moment. As they flicker their realities and then withdraw into a necessary darkness for our growth. They were once like that. And this is now. Our choice. Do we integrate the light, the darkness and the versions of bandwidth or spectrum between in ways that honour their existence?
