Ad interim
It is raining outside. I had thought it would snow. But somehow, the weather seems to have taken a turn for the better. I love rainy afternoons… the wetness somehow reminds me of my early adulthood. The happiest days of my life were set amid lush greenery and damp, wet weather. When I went to college in Kerala, water seemed to flow in abundance everywhere. In retrospect, it almost seems as though the very presence of water there washed away all the unpleasantness that I experienced. I can’t remember with any considerable grief the sadness that touched my life then. But I can vividly remember the happiness, the independence and the love. And I remember the water. But there were places where the water seemed to engulf the senses most.
I remember accompanying my friends to the temples where they paid obeisance to deities unbeknownst to me. Temples in Kerala are perpetually damp. Moss grows on the walls and the ground, making it necessary for one to tread carefully. I remember wondering how there always seemed to be water dripping off the clay-tiled roofs of the smaller structures within the walled premises of the temple grounds. Water was everywhere. There was water at the little pond where people would wash their feet before entering the consecrated ground. There was water at the corners of the building… for devotees to touch to their foreheads. And, there always was an aging priest sitting in front of a large stone – grinding sandalwood. He would sprinkle the water on the stone, wet the wood, and rub away, grinding the wood into a creamy paste. The water that dripped down the stone looked milky and was fragrant. Water seemed to be everywhere.
And I remember the sea. When I was still at college, I remember I could easily get done with my schoolwork, leaving the weekends open and free. I would leave the hostel on Saturday mornings, take the bus into town, and then walk through the blockade of buildings that separated civilization from the sea. Once I hit the beginnings of sand, I would take my shoes off, roll the fabric of my salwaar up, and walk closer until I reached the water. I remember wondering anew each time, how the sea remained so cold, when the sand that fringed it was warm. Then I would walk back to the rocks, perch myself upon one and look towards the sea. I could sit there for hours, spellbound, no worry in my heart, no bitterness, and no pain. There I learnt what it means to be one with the elements. It is strange how such beauty could go unheeded, because I remember that very few people ever went to the beach that I frequented. It was as though people did not want that solitude or calm that I so greatly needed. I would sit there, sometimes until dusk, when I knew I had to return to the hostel before curfew. Some days, I would return to town earlier for a luncheon before returning home. And every time I turned back to go home, I remember looking at the lighthouse that stood on the beach. A friend had once told me how he once went to the top of the lighthouse – he had managed to catch the lighthouse keeper and persuaded him to take him up. I tried more than once in vain to find him, but I never did. Not once in my four years there. When I left Kasaragod, I remember promising myself that one day, I would return and ascend the lighthouse. But along with the memory of the sea, my desire to visit the lighthouse has faded too. I might not remember the touch of the water and the wind on my skin, but I remember how I felt. I felt clear and clean and pure. And I will never forget that. It is raining today. And I feel the same. As though somehow my guilt was taken away from me. As though I somehow have finally been set free. I am happy. And, I don’t regret it.
I remember accompanying my friends to the temples where they paid obeisance to deities unbeknownst to me. Temples in Kerala are perpetually damp. Moss grows on the walls and the ground, making it necessary for one to tread carefully. I remember wondering how there always seemed to be water dripping off the clay-tiled roofs of the smaller structures within the walled premises of the temple grounds. Water was everywhere. There was water at the little pond where people would wash their feet before entering the consecrated ground. There was water at the corners of the building… for devotees to touch to their foreheads. And, there always was an aging priest sitting in front of a large stone – grinding sandalwood. He would sprinkle the water on the stone, wet the wood, and rub away, grinding the wood into a creamy paste. The water that dripped down the stone looked milky and was fragrant. Water seemed to be everywhere.
And I remember the sea. When I was still at college, I remember I could easily get done with my schoolwork, leaving the weekends open and free. I would leave the hostel on Saturday mornings, take the bus into town, and then walk through the blockade of buildings that separated civilization from the sea. Once I hit the beginnings of sand, I would take my shoes off, roll the fabric of my salwaar up, and walk closer until I reached the water. I remember wondering anew each time, how the sea remained so cold, when the sand that fringed it was warm. Then I would walk back to the rocks, perch myself upon one and look towards the sea. I could sit there for hours, spellbound, no worry in my heart, no bitterness, and no pain. There I learnt what it means to be one with the elements. It is strange how such beauty could go unheeded, because I remember that very few people ever went to the beach that I frequented. It was as though people did not want that solitude or calm that I so greatly needed. I would sit there, sometimes until dusk, when I knew I had to return to the hostel before curfew. Some days, I would return to town earlier for a luncheon before returning home. And every time I turned back to go home, I remember looking at the lighthouse that stood on the beach. A friend had once told me how he once went to the top of the lighthouse – he had managed to catch the lighthouse keeper and persuaded him to take him up. I tried more than once in vain to find him, but I never did. Not once in my four years there. When I left Kasaragod, I remember promising myself that one day, I would return and ascend the lighthouse. But along with the memory of the sea, my desire to visit the lighthouse has faded too. I might not remember the touch of the water and the wind on my skin, but I remember how I felt. I felt clear and clean and pure. And I will never forget that. It is raining today. And I feel the same. As though somehow my guilt was taken away from me. As though I somehow have finally been set free. I am happy. And, I don’t regret it.
posted by Azalea at 10:39 AM
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