Illusion

Reality: something that constitutes a real or actual thing, as distinguished from something that is merely apparent.

Apparent: according to appearances, initial evidence, incomplete results, etc; ostensible rather than actual.

Ostensible: outwardly appearing as such; professed; pretended.

It was just any other day of rehearsal for the director of the play – his actors were giving him trouble and he was forced, every 5 minutes, to question why and how he had been driven to do this for a living. And then, just as his male lead delivered his climactic speech, his rehearsal was interrupted by six people dressed ostentatiously and with white painted faces. They claimed to be characters from an incomplete story – characters who had been given life but whose story the author had never completed.

In the midst of a two-hour-long interaction between the bewildered director and the larger than life characters, there was a profound moment when one of the characters asked the director the deceivingly simple question, “Who are you?” Ineffectively, the director replied, “I am… me,” and shrugged. He then asked the character who he was to which the character told about himself as defined by the events of the incomplete story that he was domed to inhabit for eternity.

What is reality? – the character questions. Is the director’s world real or is his? Our world is subject to changes due to time and circumstances so that who we are now is very different from who we will be next year, next week, tomorrow, or even in the next moments. On the other hand, the character will never change because his world has been determined to be a certain way forever. Is not then our world the illusion and their world the reality? If passing time changes us so much, and if our answers to question ‘Who are you?’ constantly change, is not our life in every moment merely an illusion that is shattered as every moment passes?

I left with the director’s frantic cries of ‘Real!’ and the character’s assertive cries of ‘Make-Believe!’ still ringing in my ears. And as I walked around the streets of a place that, despite being part of the same city in which I live, seemed like part of a whole different world that I had made my own for the few days I was there, I was forced to see the truth that’s hidden somewhere in that character’s assertions.

Illusion: something that deceives by producing a false or misleading impression of reality; something that deceives.

Hazel is wrong …

Hazel is wrong about infinite cardinality but she is right that some infinities are larger than others. I wanted her to be wrong but right, because that’s how we muddle through as observers of the universe – forging meaning where we can find it… from fact and fiction alike. And as my brain drowned in jet-lag I thought of the months I lived here. So much of that time I was sick and crippled with anxiety but all I could think about now, as night fell, was how much you can love made-up people; and how much you can miss them.

– John Green on a return visit to Amsterdam, the city where his book, The Fault in our Stars, is set in part.

What is…?

“What is happiness?”

“It’s a state of being.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a mental state. It’s something you feel. It isn’t really a thing. You know?”

“What thing do I feel?”

“When you eat an ice-cream or when your friend comes over. When everything feels right.”

“So it’s when you feel that you would never want anything to change?”

“Sure.”

“When did you feel that way last?”

“I feel it every morning when I see your face.”

He smiles.

“And then what’s loneliness?”

“It’s when you see people and you want to cry for no particular reason.”

“Huh?”

“It’s when your heart bleeds at the sight of two people walking together, laughing, just being there.”

“How can the heart bleed?”

“It’s as if the world is moving around you but you’re still – a blur of movement, fast and sure, and you’re in the middle, moving slowly as the crowd parts for you. You watch everyone go by, united by nothing but the mere state of not being you.”

“That how you felt when daddy left?”

I bite my lip.

“No honey,” I whisper. “That’s how I felt when he came back.”

Friday mornings

Little things console us, because little things afflict us.

Every place has its traditions. The small things – football cheers, mascots, proms, last-day-of-term-pranks, senior year school trips, student lounges… They represent a legacy, and a way of doing things. They’re the things that turn a sprawling seven storied building into something a little more human. They’re the things that give you something besides towering piles of work to describe when you write your diary. They’re the things you remember while sipping hot chocolate on a cold day in your second year of college.

We have one here. Not so much a tradition as a way things are done. We meet most Fridays – all one thousand of us – to celebrate, acknowledge, entertain… be entertained. Once the morning is over, we stand and sing – voices raised in unison to tell of the institution, and of the country, we belong to. And that’s when it occurs; when in a drowsy flare of patriotism we raise our voices together to sing of valor, courage, culture, and history, that’s when the cream covers on the big doors start to rise. Slowly at first, uncovering bit by bit of those giant contraptions of glass and wood… now they’re half way there, light creeps in, and we warble on. Then it’s almost done, and the music hits its highest tone. The light streams in as we sing of victory against all odds. Somehow, something clicks. It’s intensely symbolic – light, a new dawn, hope… the blazing torch passed on to posterity.

But then that day I stood there feeling oddly miserable. Something had changed. Nothing special happened. Everything seemed to go wrong. It was like returning to our Friday mornings after an eternity – like I had forgotten they happened. It was all wrong. The covers rose too soon, the singing didn’t match, nothing clicked, and the sunlight lit up nothing – neither body nor soul.

Quintessential

For ze chou, with love

Small streams of water trickle down the window, obstructing my clear view of the beach. A whole sea of humans runs, en masse, to the shelter of the dirty blue trampoline sheets. Only a few adventurous ones stay – a group of youngsters at the height of passion only youth can bring, a couple much in love, enthusiastic kids with anxious mothers in tow, a solitary dog.

At night I sit near the huge windows on the ledge that runs across the entire length of the room. The nature of the windows is such that they reflect me – in my tracks, hair in a bun, drink in hand. I lean closer to the window, cupping my hands to try to block out the light from the room, feeling extraordinarily like a little child. I can’t see much. It’s too dark to make out anything of the scene outside except silhouettes of some people, out on the beach even an hour before midnight. But I hear the wish-wash of the waves, the tell-tale lines of foamy white giving away the otherwise concealed sea. Inside, our host is playing his favourite tunes on his excellent sound system. Slow and beautiful songs that never get old. The wife dims the light to the dullest yellow. I shiver, but it isn’t cold.

From the other window (the one that faces the road) I see an exquisite sight. The road, divided into two, is home to a constant surge of cars. The ones that are going away from me are red, backlights aglow in a crimson fever. The ones that approach me are a dazzling yellow. The darkness doesn’t allow me to distinguish the metallic bodies of these cars and it’s only the lights that tell me what their destination is this evening.

As I write this, with one eye on my laptop’s battery status, I settle comfortably in that state most conducive for writing. The scene before me is gorgeous, the cup of coffee on the table beside me has gone just the perfect amount of cold, my seat is extraordinarily comfortable, and my mind rushes ahead – constructing sentences, dropping phrases, converting stray thoughts into words – as my fingers fly frantically about, trying hard to keep up. My playlist on shuffle is also part of the conspiracy. All the soothing melodies, songs associated with memories, all-time-favourites play one after the other. In some weird, improbable way… it knows.

“What do you think she’s thinking? That one in the green shirt.”

“Hmm I don’t know. She looks really serious.”

“Maybe she’s reflecting on life?”

“Thinking about what to cook for lunch?”

“Wondering when to call the plumber to fix the leaking tap?”

“Wishing she could spend her life standing in solitude, gazing out at the sea?”

“Okay who’s that man?”

“Interesting. Do you think they’re together?”

“Well. He’s standing really close. Too close for a stranger.”

“Yes, but she hasn’t even acknowledged him.”

“Are they talking…? Can you make out?”

“Hmmm I think not. But see, he just came a little closer.”

“Oh yes. They have to be together.”

“They are.”

“Why aren’t they talking though?”

“Maybe they fought.”

“Or maybe the silence is companionable.”

Pause.

“Husband or lover?”

 He rests his elbow against her shoulder and as soon as he does, she moves away. He loses his balance as his elbow loses its support. They both smile. Then she gently takes his arm, wraps hers around it, and they walk off in genial intimacy. We, watching them, laugh.

“Definitely lover.”

A place like this offers ample time, and inclination, for reflection.  But I don’t let myself. The constant heaving of the sea is something akin to my sighs and its beauty nearly breaks my heart. But I plunge myself into work – mundane and dull but essential all the same. I had looked forward to serene walks on the beach, my feet sinking into the warm sand, my hair dancing in the frolicking breeze. But I forgo that pleasure for an extra hour with my laptop… shocking even myself. Nevertheless, in the wee hours of the morning, awakened by something I have no idea of, as I turn to get into more comfortable a position, reflection comes naturally to me… in those drowsy moments before I sink into sound sleep again, all those thoughts come bursting to me in sweet vengeance. Peering out over the ledge, blue, green, brown, grey all merging together in my blurred vision, I ponder for a while before I pull the warm covers over myself and my soul swoons slowly.

Salt Water

The storm was coming. The wind had picked up and the horizon had darkened. She could feel it in her. She knew it had been coming on for a while and anticipation, even longing, filled her. She wanted it to come. She wanted it to burst forth. She needed that storm. It would devastate, it would destroy, it would bring only sadness. And yet she needed it. Because once it subsided, it would have to give way to the new.

She stood there, on the edge of her cognizance, looking out at the slowly dimming perspective. The wind that had risen was so strong, it nearly knocked her down. Everything swayed – within and without. And then, the tell-tale drizzle. Tiny drops making their way slowly down. She knew it had come. She wanted it to come.

But wait. Something peculiar was happening. The storm seemed to stall. Everything paused for a minute and the wind gave way to eerie silence. In a moment of quiet, the world stopped, as if wanting to dissolve into the void. It was vicious in it stillness. She stood there, every pore of her in eager anticipation. She could feel it. It was right there on the brink… and yet it did not come. Why didn’t it come?

She would have urged it on if only she was strong enough. Helplessly, she waited as time, itself, seemed to stop. It was what she dreaded most. Not the storm but this vacuum of unawareness, of expectation, of yearning, of dissatisfaction. “Why did you stop?” her mind murmured. “Come on,” her soul gently whispered. 

It was as if that’s what it had been waiting for. And so it arrived in all its glory. Roaring in fury and shaking the very foundations, it erupted, engulfing everything in a deathly surge. The deafening noise of tragedy drowned out everything as the storm took over, its melancholy magnificence finally reigning. 

And she? She let it take over. She was stranded anyway. There was nowhere to run. Further and further down… her existence sinking in the storm’s dark abyss. The force astonished her. Yes, she had wanted this but even as she struggled to not go under… to not let it overwhelm her, she realized that she would never win. It was force no one could wrestle with. And for now, that new start seemed to be a long and difficult way off.  

With sadistic pleasure the downpour continued, making up more than adequately for that momentary delay. It rushed down in torrents, uprooting everything and every desire and leaving only half-baked dreams and sodden promises in its wake.

A Free Fall

Crystal blue eyes pored into hers. They were so close, she could make out every intricacy, every blemish. The white of the eye was dulled by the sparkling blue. She gazed longingly at those soft, blue eyes. And then – the interplay of blue and white struck her, reminded her… transported her to a place she knew only too well.

She stood there, barely two inches from the edge. If she dangled her foot ahead, there would only be empty space. The cool mountain air billowed around her, ruffling the stole wrapped around her shoulders and making her cheeks go pink. Slowly, she reached up and undid the band that held her mass of hair together. As it came tumbling down, it was lifted by the wind and flew in all directions.

White and Brown. The layer of white on the mountains was flawless. Not a single stain disrupted that dazzling white surface. Peaks after peaks of white-on-brown spread out before her. The one she was on was just like them… so high that those summits seemed within reach. It was tempting. She pulled out her hand from under layers of protection and stretched it out… further and further. And then she smiled, laughing silently at her own folly.

At the same time her foot dislodged a rock. A tiny thing with an irregular shape. It swayed for a moment between the safety of the mountain and the treacherous negative space. Then her foot let go and it fell… down and down far beyond where she could see. But looking down made her feel giddy. So she looked up straight at the heavens.

And that’s where it was – that sublime interplay of blue and white. It dazzled her. She savoured the sight and then closed her eyes, forming a mental image, putting together every little detail for later. Once she was done, she didn’t open her eyes but instead returned to that tiny piece of rock. What she wouldn’t give to be that rock. She began imagining it. The free fall. Plummeting towards earth at inconceivable speeds, the terrain changing even as she fell – from pure, spotless white to rough brown with a few patches of green, the wind buffeting around her, altering her course, light and bouncy, just her and the clouds, floating… falling.

He softly cried and she came jolting back to the moment. Even as his first tears rolled down his tiny chin, those perfect blue eyes stared at her. And she felt that same thrill, that same anticipation, nervousness, anxiety and a million other things that have no name. This was just like that. Only, for real. Her free fall.

Then the crying stopped. Those blue eyes twinkled. And she was undone.      

Drawing Memories

There are bold strokes and soft ones, straight lines and curved ones, clear colours and shades… the artist sits in front of his easel – straight and still. Only his hands move across the canvas – the pensiero evolving slowing into the composition he has in mind. In one corner, he uses tissue paper to blend the pencil strokes. In another, he uses cross-hatching to achieve the perfect texture. It’s a very personal process – employing all of his senses – and as he works, he transfers a little something of himself onto the canvas… a part of him that will be there for the world to view when they will behold his artwork.

Memories we have can be so varied – just like the range of colours on the artist’s palette. They could be of a person – how it felt to sit with them, to spend hour after hour talking to them or just hearing them. They could be of a moment – one tiny, ephemeral moment that meant the world to you. Or they could be of the most unusual of things – haphazard times you’re not quite sure why you remember.

Late night talks are unparalleled. Everything is silent and still, the world sleeps around you and there you are – discussing anything or everything… creating a bond that’s quite incomparable.

December is an exquisite month. The atmosphere tends to be festive – there is a promise of a celebration… and of an end and a beginning. People are a little more relaxed… a little more full of life. Nowadays, it’s a lovely time.

The car ride home feels divine because of the glorious light blue of the water, the warm, welcome sun shining through the window and the radio playing your favourite shows and songs, drawing you into the sort of intimate connection only live broadcasts can achieve.

Good times of a year ago come to mind – the cheerful mood, the never-ending rehearsals, piling up desks against the wall and then fighting for a place to sit, long conversations instead of classes, worrying about costumes instead of assignments, ineffable joy of putting up a show with people we have come to adore… a shade of regret that it’s the last of its kind.

Whatever kind they are… whatever hue of life they represent, they’re refreshing and invigorating… like soft pleasant zephyrs of summer.

Suddenly, the world seems calm and still… or maybe it’s you.

We draw memories all the time. Not on paper or canvas but in our minds. Every intricate detail is done justice… every delicate texture is worked upon until perfect. The canvas is vast – encompassing months… years even. If only others could see them. There would be no need to talk, to get to know new people, to spend months learning about their lives… those memories would reveal enough in just one glance. Imagine trying to put them on paper though… those deep textures impossible to obtain with the materials we have… that picture too vast for any canvas we have.

Midnight Musing

I really can’t figure out how the world works. I look around… and I’m amazed. Sometimes it seems there really are people with nothing bothering them. I always thought that would be rather unfair. Maybe it is.

It’s so confusing. What should you do? Should you be true to yourself? Or should you throw caution to the wind and plunge into a personality that really isn’t your own? In both cases, there will be a certain type of people you won’t interact with. I always thought we should choose the one we’re most comfortable with. And I did. And yet, in those rare moments of weakness, the heart does long; long for something you never had… and probably never will. It’s almost like a game for some. And for others it’s like a struggle. You have it one way… ever wondered what it’s like for the people who have the other way? I’m sure you have. We all have…

It’s so strange how one little thing can change SO much. A word, a look, a gesture or even something left unsaid – and your entire day takes a turn – for better or for worse. It’s all so fragile… hanging by just a moment and ready to break at the slightest thing. Perhaps if you listened close enough you’d hear it breaking – sobs turning to laughter, an ecstatic shout to a mournful cry…

Silence. It’s at once both gorgeously uplifting and fatally maddening. But it’s always been my solace – my refuge. It’s like a breath of fresh air… a welcome break from the cacophony of noises and emotions all around. And yet, there’s a certain kind of silence I’ve to come to detest, hate… even fear.

Besides, the solace is not only the silence outside… for while it’s a lovely and quiet out, there’s like a chorus of voices inside which is infinitely more divine – It’s the poetry of emotions, the songs of desires… the melody of dreams.