On the Idea of Windows, a Tanka, and Heartburn in a Cafeteria

Issue #010: A window triggers an epiphany on freedom and human condition. / A Tanka inspired by nostalgic imagination of the vast blue sky. / A breakup in a cafeteria makes for a bittersweet memory.

Author's note: I had taken a brief hiatus from writing and publishing in this space. Life happens. And those whom we love, leave us for a better world. There are three stories, vignettes - imaginations seasoned with memories, and 'quasi-realities'¹ in this issue. With good wishes and hope for the new year.

---

01. The Philosophy of the Window

I love windows. I love most of all the idea of a window. A temporary freedom from regular life. A freedom so near …but unattainable. Like sky. Never-the-less bestowing solace.

(14 May, 1998)
Warm, bright sunlight pouring in while he sits working on a sheaf of papers, a pencil loosely dangling from his fingers, that drawn away look on his eyes. He shifts his gaze turning towards the window.

And on the other side - an entire world. A world that I am not a part of. I can only watch form a distance but not get involved. This side --

The table, clock, books, papers, work commitments, clock ticking, kitchen, TV, deadlines, calendar, wall pieces. All totems of slavery.

And that side

A tree. Branching out like Christ the redeemer, like a little boy catching snow, like a tree growing out into heaven. And the streets, and the horse (tied to the tree) and the sky -(in meditating, intoxicating blue) and clouds and birds.

Birds bursting out like morning has come with ambrosia in the air.

That side..

And

This side.

I am the maker of the window and I

Am it's prisoner

---

02. A Tanka

                                                           The sky leaks; The blue
                                                      Dripping into a puddle spill
                                                     The frog cranes, crane croaks.
                                                   The world half-done; Or perhaps
                                                         Unravelling in my mind.

A ‘tanka’ is a Japanese poetic form consisting of 31 syllables. One of the oldest Japanese literary art forms, Tanka traces its origin to the seventh century Japanese literature. According to Poets.org,

“Tanka” translates as “short song,” and is better known in its five-line, 5/7/5/7/7 syllable count form.”

The first three lines -kami-no-ku- or the upper poem- depict an image (like a Haiku with which it shares the syllable structure), and the last two lines - shimo-no-ku -or the lower poem expresses the poets personal response.

---

03. Heartburn in a cafeteria

There was this little cafeteria near our college and it always played the same soulful, music. A tinge of -not grieving, but- lonely, longing music. Sometimes jazz, blues or western country songs. We called it the break -up point.

That afternoon, Y and I sat facing each other across a table near the large glass window. It was like one of those humongous French windows with wooden bars. She had worn a thick red hair band, a white top and faded denims. And then she spoke about how we could not be together, that she was going to a big University in the City and several other things I do not recall now. What I distinctly remember is a few loose strands of hair that would break free from her red hairband, and fall before her eyes. Nonchalantly, she shoved them behind her ears, but they came loose with ever so slightest movement of her head.

I remained in the cafeteria a long time after she left.

*****

I read somewhere that after we die, angels show us a collage, a mosaic of our life's most important moments. I hope they include that afternoon in the cafeteria in the collage of my life. After all life is made of several little, inconsequential things too and I want to see her curl those few loose strands of hair once more.

---

1. From the dictionary of made up words.

Quasi reality (I wish I can come up with a better word later.) :

(noun) :Something that may have been true, has definitely taken place, but not completely. The half of this 'occurrence' like a visible mountain soaring high, has happened in our own dimension in our reality. But the other half - in the artist's mind, the poet's imagination, like the fog cloaking the icy peaks of the mountain.