On winter and memories, a beautiful break-up and the last ceremony of life.
Issue #004 of Brief Notes on life
January 2022: It is winter here. Rarely Mumbai experiences such cold weather. Winter - the season of sleep and rest, is usually kind and merciful in this part of the world. However this year, we are experiencing dipping temperatures and chilling winds.
The current issue #004 consists of three pieces and starts with a poem (unlike the previous newsletters).
Speaking of winter and poetry, a quote by J.D. Salinger comes to mind.
01. Of life and little memories
We sleep In the arms of the night Trusting tomorrow The sun will rise. How frail is the Life of man. Each night It ends. Like a rose shedding its dried, dark hued petals.. Till nothing is left. All buried - In the winter of time. And yet someday, we may look back and In the faintest mists of memory; Trace a smile on an old winter day To a little rose bud.
02. A break-up to remember
There was this little cafeteria near our institute (a technical and management school) and it always played the same soulful western classical music. Always the sad Chopin or Tchaikovsky. We called it the break -up point. That bright winter afternoon Y— and I sat facing each other across a table near the large glass window. She wore a woollen sweater with just a tinge of pink. She was wearing a red hair band, and faded denims. We talked the afternoon away. She spoke about how we could not be together, that she was going to a big University in the States(USA) and several other things - I do not recall now. What I remember is, a few loose strands of her hair broke free from the red hairband and fell before her eyes. She twirled it behind her ears, but they came loose with every slightest movement of her head.
I read somewhere that after we die, angels show a collage, a mosaic of our life's most important moments. I hope they include this moment in the mosaic of my life. After all, life is made of little things too, and I want to see her twirling her hair, pushing that irritating lone clump of hair in an arc behind her ears once more.
(~ Excerpt from The Blue Paper Bird🐦)
03. The Last Ceremony
So many people think they are immortal. I have been one of them. For the longest time, I have thought of death as a concept, a philosophical exercise, a poetic truth. These are the privileges of youth - to sing heartfelt poetry on life and philosophise on mortality.
But dying is a ceremony. A ceremony/ritual of the shallowing of the bones, the wrinkling and caving of skin and and the messing up of memories. From the old creaky cot in the darkest room of the house , one is sent way to the hospital bed smelling of alcohol, the bed pan and sponge bath.
The starngest thing however, is the passing of time. Now you are trying to learn how the clock works. The young curious eyes keeping tab of the little hand and the big hand of the clock as they circle the numbers. And suddenly, a rush a life happens - marriage, career, kids, retirement and ..I pause, and look back. Where did all time go?
And now I wait, each hour and minute and second..bringing me closer. Each hour as the pendulum strikes, I wait. I wish I had more time..I wish I had never learnt to measure time.
Here we are once again at the end of an Issue. Dear friend, thank you for reading the newsletter. Do share your thoughts in the comments section. I apologise for the delay between Issue 003 and Issue 004.
How you can support me?
If you liked my writings, consider subscribing to the newsletter.
I would be really grateful if you could share this newsletter with your friends and colleagues.