I Survived

I’ve always wondered what goes on in a person’s mind seconds before he dies. When your inches away from death, does your brain shut down? Or is it still capable of thinking up a couple of final thoughts? I’m not morbid or suicidal, just curious.

As I lay flat on the road, bike and helmet strewn somewhere on the street, I remember thinking, “Shit, I think my brow bone’s broken, even a tooth.”

It’s surprising what the mind is capable of coming up with, even when you’re a hair’s breadth away from death. It’s a machine designed to think and like it or not, it does. As I met with the accident, my mind kept giving me real time updates on all that was going on. When I think about it now, this is the part that is the creepiest because, accidents are supposed to happen in micro seconds; it’s all over before you know it. Isn’t it?

I see the dog dart across the road, it’s yelping and howling like it has been scared out of its wits.

My mind tells me “BREAK!”

I break.

Then it tells me, “No, you’re not getting past this one. This is it. You’re going to band the dog head on”

I ram into the dog head on.

 I hear the sick thud and painful yelp of the injured animal. I feel the impact. Even then my mind talks to me. It says, “Wow! That’s a really sturdy dog. You’re going to be more hurt than the dog.”

The impact throws me off my bike. As my face is about to make painful contact with the concrete street, my mind tells me, “Your face. It’s going to go.”

I lie on the dirty street, the right side of my face pressed against the dirt. My skewed vision shows me a skewed truck come to a slow stop behind me. A man gets down and approaches me. Somebody picks me up, takes of my helmet.

I’m dazed, rattled and in indescribable shock. The right side on my forehead is throbbing and feels numb with pain. The right side of my lips smart and I can taste blood in my mouth.

Somebody helps me to a chair, somebody gives me water to drink, somebody gets my bike keys and my bag and through all of this I’m thinking, “Shit! What if I hadn’t worn my helmet?”

Thankfully, I survived. No head injury, no broken bones (Except a broken tooth, a couple of really nasty bruises, a torn lip and a really bad forehead bump.)

Lying on my bed, as the pain from the bruises and bangs begin to manifest itself, my mind is bombarded with a stream of thoughts, like someone somewhere opened a thought dam.

 I think, “What if the truck behind me had to be in speed? What if there had to be a vehicle coming from the opposite side of the road? What if I hadn’t worn my helmet!!!”

I could’ve died.

Life is frightfully short and unpredictable. All the hate, envy, jealousy, grudge, pride mean nothing.  People tell you this all the time, but it takes a near-death experience like this to really drive the thought home. Because,

Yesterday, I had a fight with my mom. I thought I’ll make things right when I come home this evening. 

A couple of days back, I thought I should start t-shirt painting again. I decided I would try to sometime this week.

Last Saturday, I realized it had been a while since I caught up with my college besties. I mentally made a plan for the Saturday after next.

And now I think, what if I didn’t have tomorrow or next Saturday or any day after that?

We know life is short, because people tell us this all the time and yet we have the hope, or the audacity, to promise to do things tomorrow.

Maybe the bump on my head has made me extra philosophical, or a little loony, but I’m surely going to rely more on today, because I’ve realized that it might be all I have.

My Dark Secret

You hollow, empty, dismal abyss!

Scratched, clawed and dug into my consciousness,

Covered by a brittle layer of strength and enacted innocence,

Easily shattered by a single thought.

The make-believe lid prevents the world

from seeing your suicidal depths,

Prevents unblemished eyes from being frightened away

by your muffling, silence-imposing darkness,

Prevents me from peering down that treacherous edge

into the depths

and the memory of that darkness.

Who can fill this gaping abyss?

Love, time, intoxication, forgetfulness?

Not one.

Not One.

You are mine to keep.

Until that painful, gasping breath

obliterates our existence

and frees us

from our binding, unvoiced unhappiness.

Seasonal Sensations, Associations, Recollections.

I wake up to the sound of splattering raindrops. The skies have finally unleashed their pent up sorrows on an earth that is parched and eager to drink up every drop that touches its dusty surface. It is dark everywhere and I hear the deep rumble of restful breathing. I step out of bed and feel my way to the nearest window. Lifting up a curtain, I wrap it around me and create for myself a colored, cottony cocoon. Warm and sheltered, I stare outside and allow myself to drink in the indescribable beauty of the first rains.

It hits me almost instantly as I stick my face outside the make-shift cloth cocoon; the calming, earthy scent of the dampening earth. A balm to the restless mind, I draw in a deep breath and suck in as much of the cool, scented air, as I can. In seconds, my senses are engulfed in that aroma which transports me back in time, back to when I’m a little girl in my grandmother’s house. The memories begin to rush in. I close my eyes and let the montage of happy images take over.

My cousins and I are splashing around in muddy puddles, we are marveling over slithering earthworms and slimy snails. We are running, fast and free on a slippery road, chasing after creatures that have crawled out of their homes due to the wetness of the first rains. Everything excites us, even drooping flowers and dirty pebbles. We are laughing, heartily, with all the carefree innocence of childhood. We are drenched to the bone, but the wetness and cold leaves our happy spirits untouched.

I open my eyes and I am back in my 22 year-old body and curtain-cocoon. The rush of images, their accuracy and life-like quality leave me startled and happy. It feels as though I had really soared through time, back to that exact road outside my grandmother’s house.

As I resume marveling at the beautiful first rains, I find myself pondering over the power seasons have over the senses and the associations and recollections they bring to life. It’s funny how they evoke memories that have stayed hidden and untraceable for years. And then you encounter that one sight, that one smell or sensation that brings it all back. Sometimes it’s the chill of a wintry morning that reminds you of huddled walks to school, or a shimmering lake under a summery sun that reminds you of your first trip to the sea shore, or a bleak rainy morning that makes you feel exactly as you did, years back, as you sat through a boring lecture in your college days. The recollections are endless.

I've often heard people say they have a favorite season. Some love the rains, some love the way they feel on misty, wintry mornings and I've wondered, what makes them pick a favorite. Is it the weather, is it nature’s beauty? Maybe. Or maybe it’s the host of special memories from their own beautiful pasts.

The Nostalgic Appeal of all Things Old and Aging.

                          

                        It’s one of those humid summer afternoons. Outside, the sun is at its hottest best, blazing down on the earth and indiscriminately scorching all that lies without cover. An afternoon stillness pervades the atmosphere and the surroundings seem to have been lulled into a drowsy silence.

I lie on my back on the floor of my living room. Feet slightly apart and arms spread out, I resemble a child poised to make a snow angel. Only, there is no snow. Instead, my back is damp with sweat, my brow feels moist and a droplet of perspiration trickles down the side of my face, into my ear. The hot, heavy air seems to have paralyzed me with a lethargy I can’t shake off. So, I lie still, like the leaves on the potted plants outside my window.

Flat on my back, I stare up at the ancient fan protruding from the ceiling. It is clanking away to glory, giving me very little breeze and I wonder for the thousandth time, why it is still there! In the past, I have often protested against the use of this ancient piece of machinery. I think it unfair that I have to rely upon a barely functional object to save me from the dizzying summer heat.

“It’s a rusty, clanking object masquerading as a fan!”  I have informed my mom several times. “Why can’t we get a new one?”

“Because it’s durable.” She has replied, as many times. “Not like the ones they make nowadays. Besides, let’s not forget all that ‘old-world charm’ inspired by antiques.”

“Its antiqueness has rendered it incompetent, not charming!” I shoot back. As a practical person who believes that desirability lies in function and not in form, especially for things like a fan, this is a fact I have never failed to point out.

Such is the ‘old-fan’ argument that is taken up with much enthusiasm every summer. Many intelligent points are made in its favor, which are subsequently countered by equally intelligent points. However, despite these multifarious brainy debates, the old fan continues to stay stubbornly fixed to the ceiling of my living room to this very day.

                            

                   On a more philosophical note, however, I realize that this creaking, groaning fan has gotten me thinking about the attachment we have for all things old and aging. We tend to display an unexplainable fondness for things that have stood the test of time. Faded photographs, a great-grandmother’s crumpled wedding dress, a dog-eared, discolored diary. Sometimes, we cling to the most trivial, unimportant things. For the unknowing eye, these are merely objects that need to be gotten rid of, useless clutter in need of clearing. But, for those who have been acquainted with the stories behind these objects, have been privy to the experiences and emotions they have inspired, have overheard the hushed family secrets that have been passed down through generations, these become much more than inanimate objects. They take on the personality and aura of a time long gone past. Colored with nostalgia, they remind us of places, people and times that have gone by. By making these perishing remnants a part of our lives, we establish a link to a time we will never be part of, develop a bond with people we will never see. We cling to these fragments of our past as they become the only connection we have to a history we can never relive, but yet, have heard so much about and feel a strong belonging to. These material ties bind us to our fleeting pasts and let us partake in those wonderful, mysterious, unforgettable stories. In this alone, lies their specialness.

Can the allure of novelty wipe out our need for this connection? Can newness make us want to disengage ourselves from our pasts? I don’t think so. That’s probably why the old fan is still fixed to the ceiling of my living room. And that’s probably why it’ll always be.