There is a roar outside my window. Like it is raining. The sky is cloudy, but there are no rains. There were. Not just here, but everywhere. Everywhere that mattered, and they all fell at the same time. All those rains are here. All congregated into a tiny path. Like a crowd of pilgrims, people born in different places and times, but all packed into narrow queues heading to the holy place. The water is on the way to theirs: the ocean. The river is in spate.
For a long time now, I wondered which direction the river flowed. I saw the river every day but mostly shrugged. The maps, the natural and artificial structures gave it away, perhaps. But often, as I would watch the flow, I would feel like the river was backing off from the 'supposed' direction of flow. What if the maps were all wrong? Maybe purposefully? Is it all a giant conspiracy? I would feel like a flat earther who perceives an elaborate global plot to hide the 'fact' that the earth was indeed flat because it seems to be so for their observations. For a moment, the river would mess up with my head. I have imagined shouting at the river goddess to "give me a sign".
There she is. Giving me an unmistakable sign.
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One of my childhoods friends moves around in a curiosity car. Everything and anything is intriguing. Like a child investigating every shiny object on the road, the friend looks at everything through the lens of curiosity. And they write. The writing is neither polished nor does it attempt to be so. But it clearly shows the relentless pursuit of the next shiny object. Except, in this case, unlike a child, which throws away the curiosity, they dig in, investigate to satisfaction through an adult's perseverance, write about it, and then move on.
Such a relentless pursuit might appear to some as empty, just an adult's version of a child's search for the next shiny object. "Yes", I said. "Isn't that what we all want?".
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And the river was in spate. She was flowing well above the normal level everyone is used to covering areas that the humans cherished until yesterday. The banks where dogs roamed, humans jogged, and cycles wheeled are now only accessible to fishes and floating plastic waste.
I stood there listening to the river and watching it. The greenish glow of the water until yesterday had been given a thick brown coating. And like sparsely sprayed paints on a canvas were the fallen trees and branches speeding to make up for all the time had remained stationary. Nearly a decade ago, I stood with someone dear to me on a bridge under which passed a silent, thin river. "Whenever there is a flood", they said, "I feel like I want to join the river and flow with her". I jolted a bit and looked at them. I was afraid, perhaps, that they were suicidal. I asked if they were okay, for which I got a bemused look. I realize now how stupid I was. Standing now holding the rails, which once led to the river-side walkway but now disappearing into the flowing mass, I felt the power of floods. Not just the raw hydraulic power but the invisible mystical one too. A power that called me to join. A power that seemed to spread through the air and drag the being that get caught in its invisible net. And the net pulled me towards the river. The tropical rains in India are spectacular in many ways (apart from being tragic). But I haven't had much of a chance to see flood water roaring through. When it rains in Mumbai, I would stand along the road with an umbrella and watch the water rush through the open drainages. But if those were like melodious tunes that a piano beginner learns, the flood in front of me was rock music on steroids.
"Do you see the direction I flow", she seemed to say. She gave rides to trees that wanted to see the world, the abandoned football that some kid is still crying about, and to my heart that longed to ask for a lift. As if to mock me, seagulls flew into the water, gliding in and becoming fast-moving boats. Like those paper boats that travelled the flooded streets during childhood, these seagulls were pulled and pushed by the flow. But they seem to enjoy the ride, like how humans enjoy roller coasters. And as the force took them away, the seagulls would soar again, come back to where they started and flow again. Are they birds or hovercrafts, I wondered. I used to envy birds for their ability to fly, and now they added one more reason.
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After a few initial entries, this blog turned into a selfie-stick focusing on the internal turmoils. In hindsight, it was destined to go there as I went through a transformation of sorts in self-awareness and compassion. It appeared I suddenly discovered that mirrors exist and was noticing how I looked internally. Like a child has learnt to walk and now moves around the streets looking for the next shiny object, I wandered inside my head to make analyses that were intriguing, dissonance-inducing, and educative. As the weeks rolled by, I had taken down the low-hanging fruits. More and more of the time spent in front of the mirror brought out the dissonance-inducing aspects. And it became much more difficult to write. Once a pattern set in, it became difficult to break from the routine of being curious about the insides (even if the stimulus was external). I felt that I couldn't find anything to write. On the contrary, I could not just think beyond the boundaries that have crept up over the year.
I often don't get to read all that my friend writes in their blog as it gets published. But I make it a point to read them even if I'm a month or two late. Beyond the topics, the interest is in the process of being an adult and still carry the curiosity of a child.
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As I stood on the steps along the dykes that leads to the river, I watched a branch of a tree that moved wildly with the river. Being pulled into the river and then coming back up only for the current to pull it down. I wanted to take a metaphorical lesson of perseverance from it, but my mind refused to move beyond the very mesmerizing motion that seemed to be chaotic and rhythmic at the same time. As I stood there, two kids came down the stairs to watch in amazement the flood. They came to the same platform I stood and watched. Their parent stood at the top of the dyke to watch over them. They told me how high they think the water is flowing and marvelled at the tree travelling. Soon their parent called them, and they shrugged and then ran up the stairs.
Kids follow their curiosity, but the boundaries are set by bored or busy adults. I should keep finding ways to stop the bored adults from barring me following curiosities. Especially, the adult inside me.
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I'm hoping to continue this blog but with a renewed focus on the externals, things that attract me, that make me wonder. That doesn't mean that the reflections from the mirror would be ignored. But hopefully, I would give myself more time to watch the river flow.
Some songs make you feel part of a tribe (to which one perhaps doesn’t belong) and then some make you connect with an old soul. Thanks to “We know the way” from Moana and the classic “Auld Lang Syne” to kindle such fire.
To my friend whose curiosity continues to make me sit up and notice my lack of it.
Cold weather can, not just numb exposed limbs, but can also numb the internal enthusiasm to head out. I realized how long had it been I was out on the balcony to just stroll. Thanks to the warm companionship of lemongrass flavoured tea, I finally had the courage to stay there and take in the ambience. Of the distant purple lights slowly swallowed by the advancing darkness.
To the French bureaucracy, for giving me an extended period of respite from being consistently anxious about my ability to stay put.