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She wakes up to the dew

Thursday, January 3, 2o13

3.47 pm

R ibbons of mist are walking in through her brown door. It is hazy. Grey. Not glum, though. The maltilata leaves have mellowed into a jaded yellow; two little pigeons hatched in her balcony five days ago. The squirrel stole her grey woolen socks (Yes, she did. Swear on all things dear. The squirrel actually stole.). The settee cushion is sacred pink – the hint of gold strangely lends a tense triteness. Her long hair is tied in a chignon, her long coat an inky blue, her black Blackberry careened on a lace tablecloth. The beige tiles under her feet are frosty; she is wearing a pair of brown socks she had knitted last year. It keeps her feet warm. So warm, she can walk on snow. And get somewhere. To someone.

However, this afternoon, she wants to go nowhere. She wants to sit still. Quietly. Not alone. Just solitude by her side. No one else. Nothing else. 2012 went by without a I’ll Come Back Post-It. Why is life always in a hurry that it forgets to stick Post-Its on her red refrigerator? Why are people so merciless that they walk away without hugging a goodbye? Why is she becoming so formless that her shadow is striving to acquire form? One limb, one heartbeat, one sinew, one strand at a time? She chides the shadow. She wants to be a cloud that happily dissolves into sunlight. Without complaining. Without regret. Without a grudge.

Is it because she feels an entire universe within? Exactly four inches below her navel. In the kundalini. There, her universe sleeps. In that universe, love is prayer. A prayer that is pure like dew. Dew that vanishes with the first ray of sunshine. No, the dew does not die. It hides from the world because it loathes being desecrated. Early morning, that dew returns for her. In her universe. When she gets up at 5 am , the dew smiles from her window sill. Gently. Truthfully. She wakes up to the dew. They giggle together. She never sheds a tear for the departing dew. She knows the dew will return. And believe her, the dew has never broken her heart. Never.

As she writes this, the sun shone for a moment. As if to talk to her. To tell her that in her universe there will always be sunshine. She and the sun spoke a thousand words in a million silent ways. This afternoon, she is a pilgrim. Without a destination. Yes, no destination. But one day she’ll reach him. And when she does, she’ll write to you.


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