She never let a moment in life pass her by, unwitnessed.
As a child, she watched her mother knead dough - pressing the watered flour with all her bodily force concentrated on her palms - the manner in which she often pressed her grandmother's thighs to relieve her of pain. She watched as ma placed a bindi on her forehead, exactly in between her two furrowed brows, her eyes fluttering in the process. She watched as her father embraced ma, while he believed she wasn't looking.
She watched as they were taken to the hospital after the accident, each as close to dead as it is possible while being alive. She noticed her father's blood smeared face as they rushed him to the operating room. She saw her mother's left thigh reduced to a pulp. When her grandmother tried to cover her eyes with her hands, she insisted on seeing. She did not selectively observe - it was the dirty, the unfair, the morbid, the ugly that deserved to be seen as much as the beautiful.
She looked at men and women defecate next to the railway track, when she took that train to Delhi. She saw the invisible people - the ones who sheltered themselves under a flyover; the ones who sat on the pavements stretching their arms out at each passerby; the ones who knocked at the windows of your car at a traffic signal, while you looked away - she looked at them straight in the eye. She didn't always offer help; that wasn't her intention. She merely watched them, acknowledged them, heard them beg and wail, and when the light turned green, she moved on. Often she stood under the street lamp and saw people move like shadows in the dusk.
At nights, she lapsed lucidly into dreams, where she witnessed herself soar, make love with abandon, encounter kindly beasts and ghastly humans. Once she watched her knees as they jerkily advanced one step at a time, while she ran over clear streams and meadows. Once she saw herself running straight up the mountains, defying gravity. Once she helplessly saw herself fall from a precipice. In many, many dreams she found herself each night, and lost herself each morning, as amorphous dreams faded into sunlight - she watched herself slip from the asleep, into the waking.
If moving was her life's vocation, then seeing, was its divine purpose. And so she saw, everything she could see -obsessively, compulsively, uncompromisingly and with retired voyeurism. Till eventually her eyes gave up on her uncanny obsession.
As a child, she watched her mother knead dough - pressing the watered flour with all her bodily force concentrated on her palms - the manner in which she often pressed her grandmother's thighs to relieve her of pain. She watched as ma placed a bindi on her forehead, exactly in between her two furrowed brows, her eyes fluttering in the process. She watched as her father embraced ma, while he believed she wasn't looking.
She watched as they were taken to the hospital after the accident, each as close to dead as it is possible while being alive. She noticed her father's blood smeared face as they rushed him to the operating room. She saw her mother's left thigh reduced to a pulp. When her grandmother tried to cover her eyes with her hands, she insisted on seeing. She did not selectively observe - it was the dirty, the unfair, the morbid, the ugly that deserved to be seen as much as the beautiful.
She looked at men and women defecate next to the railway track, when she took that train to Delhi. She saw the invisible people - the ones who sheltered themselves under a flyover; the ones who sat on the pavements stretching their arms out at each passerby; the ones who knocked at the windows of your car at a traffic signal, while you looked away - she looked at them straight in the eye. She didn't always offer help; that wasn't her intention. She merely watched them, acknowledged them, heard them beg and wail, and when the light turned green, she moved on. Often she stood under the street lamp and saw people move like shadows in the dusk.
At nights, she lapsed lucidly into dreams, where she witnessed herself soar, make love with abandon, encounter kindly beasts and ghastly humans. Once she watched her knees as they jerkily advanced one step at a time, while she ran over clear streams and meadows. Once she saw herself running straight up the mountains, defying gravity. Once she helplessly saw herself fall from a precipice. In many, many dreams she found herself each night, and lost herself each morning, as amorphous dreams faded into sunlight - she watched herself slip from the asleep, into the waking.
If moving was her life's vocation, then seeing, was its divine purpose. And so she saw, everything she could see -obsessively, compulsively, uncompromisingly and with retired voyeurism. Till eventually her eyes gave up on her uncanny obsession.
And her life carried on, without purpose, its vocation.
having a vision is an essential pre-requisite for being creative. only a person who can notice things around her, ignored by others deliberately or otherwise, can actually become an artist. whether she observes the gritty realities of the world around or soars high in her dreams. glad to know that someone so close to me is gifted with the vision. :)
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