I had kept crying and feeling frustrated.
I had thought, ‘These few moments that were within my grasp … no, no, I was in their grasp … Why did I give myself up so completely to them? Why did I put my fluttering heart behind that cage with its mouth wide open? Yes, there was a pleasure in it, a certain delight, in giving myself up. But what sort of struggle is this? He remained whole and strong, whereas I have been left cracked and broken? He does not need me any more, whereas my need for him is stronger than ever. He has emerged stronger and I have become weaker. It is as though two clouds meet in the sky: one bursts out crying while the other turns into a thundercloud, plays with the raindrops and flees after unleashing a few bolts of thunder and lightning. Whose justice is this? The sky’s? The earth’s? Or His who made the two?’
I had kept crying and feeling frustrated.
‘Two spirits come together to become one, and from that union encompass the universe. Was all this mere poetic claptrap? While it is true that two spirits come together and merge into a single dot that can then expand and become Creation itself — but why does one spirit sometimes get bruised and damaged and left behind? Is it so punished because it had helped that other spirit to reach its zenith? What sort of Creation is this?’
It was this time of the year. The sky was blue like his eyes — clear and sparkling — as it is today. There was the same gentle sunlight. The earth had smelt of sweet dreams, exactly as it does now. And, lying beside him, I had given him my fluttering heart.
But he is no longer here beside me. Lightning has streaked across the skies and is somewhere far away, making some other raincloud shed its tears. He fortified himself and went away. Like a serpent, he bit me and slithered away. But the trace he left behind, why is it twisting and turning in my womb? Will it be the cause of my fulfilment?
No, no, how can that be my fulfilment; it can only be my destruction.
But why are the empty spaces in my body filling up? What is this debris that is filling up the dips and hollows of my body? What is this susurration that is coursing through my blood? Why is it gathering momentum and racing towards one single spot in my womb? Why has my sunken boat bobbed up to row across unknown seas?
Who is this unknown guest for whom milk is being warmed on raging fires inside my body? Why is my heart carding my blood to prepare baby-soft blankets, and for whom? Why is my mind weaving new clothes out of my multi-coloured thoughts, and for whom?
Why am I looking better, more glowing, by the day? Why are the hiccups, trapped in every part and fibre of my body, turning into lullabies?
It was this time of the year. The sky was blue like his eyes — clear and sparkling — as it is today. But the sky has come down and spread itself over my distended belly. And why are those blue-blue eyes running around coursing through my veins?
Why are my breasts becoming rounded like the domes of mosques? No, no, it is a mere whim. I shall flatten these orbs. I shall douse all those fires raging inside me on which potions are being prepared for this unwanted guest. I shall tangle the skeins of my mutli-coloured thoughts.
It was this time of the year. The sky was blue like his eyes — clear and sparkling — as it is today. But why do I remember those days from which he had removed every trace of his footprints?
But what is this? Whose footprint is this that I feel deep inside my belly? Does it belong to a stranger? Shall I have it scraped away? Is it a sore, a lesion, a terrible festering pustule?
But why do I feel as though it is a balm? And if it is a balm, a balm for which wound? Is it for the wound he gave me? No, no, this feels as though it is a balm for a wound I have had since the day I was born, a wound that I scarcely knew existed till now, a wound that had been lying fast asleep in my womb all this while.
What is the womb? Isn’t it a worthless make-believe clay pot, a plaything to play house-house? I shall smash it to bits.
But who is this who speaks in my ear: ‘The womb is the crossroad of the world. Why do you want to break it in front of the whole world? Remember, fingers will be raised and pointed at you.’
Why will fingers not be pointed in the direction in which he has gone? Do the fingers not know the road he has taken? The womb, you say, is the crossroad of the world but he had left me at a fork in the road where there was incompleteness on both sides. And tears.
Whose tear is this that is turning into a pearl in my shell? Where will it be strung?
Fingers will be raised when the oyster opens its lips and the pearl slips out to land on the pavement. Then, the fingers shall be raised — both at the pearl and the oyster. And these fingers will turn into snakes and bite both and turn them blue with their venom.
The sky was blue like his eyes — clear and sparkling — as it is today. Why did it not fall down? Where are the pillars that hold it up? Was that day’s earthquake not severe enough to shake them to their very foundations? Why is the sky still stretched over my head, as it was then?
My spirit is drenched in sweat. Every pore is wide open. A fire rages all around me. Deep inside me gold is being melted in a crucible. A furnace is roaring. Sparks are flying. The gold rises inside me like lava erupting from a volcano. Blue eyes are coursing through my blood, huffing and puffing. Bells are ringing. Someone is coming … Someone is coming ….
Close the doors … clamp down!
The crucible has overturned. Molten gold has spilled out. The bells are still ringing. He is coming … My eyes are closing … The blue sky is darkening and coming down.
Whose cries are these? Quieten it. Its cries are striking my heart like hammer blows. Quieten it. I am turning into a lap. Why am I turning into a lap?
My arms are opening wide. The milk is fast reaching a boil. The rounded fullness of my breasts are turning into saucers. Bring that bundle of flesh and put it beside my warm and soft blood-carded breasts.
Don’t snatch it away … Don’t … Don’t take it away from me. For God’s sake, don’t take it away!
The fingers … let them rise! I don’t care. The world is a crossroad. Let all my skeletons come tumbling out at this crossroad. My life will be ruined … Let it be so … Return the flesh of my flesh to me … Don’t snatch this piece of my soul… You don’t know how precious it is … This jewel was given to me during those long-ago moments, in those moments when every atom of my being had fulfilled someone who had left me incomplete and alone with my thoughts and gone away. I have been fulfilled today.
Believe me … believe me… If you don’t, ask my womb … Ask my breasts brimming over with milk … Ask the lullabies that are putting the hiccups to sleep in every pore and fibre of my body … Ask the swings that are being put on my arms.
The fingers … let them rise! I shall cut them down. There shall be an uproar. I shall pick the chopped fingers and stuff my ears with them. I shall become dumb. Deaf and blind. The flesh of my flesh will understand my every gesture and I shall recognize it with my fingertips.
Don’t snatch it … Don’t … It is the vermillion on the parting of my womb. It is the bindiya on the forehead of my motherhood … You say it is the bitter fruit of my past? That people will spit upon it? Let them … I shall lick it clean.