 |
| Artwork by Ajay Sharma |
Half
Dawn
Warm
yellow moth wings made of robust fibre. They are waiting for the skies to flare
up. It may seem they wish to fly away but they are really trying to cling on. I
have even stored a few underneath my blanket. It is almost 2 am now, an
unearthly hour to bug about Lepidopterology.
Let
me take you back to my bed.
As
a ten year old, I used to dream about chandeliers—big, bright chandeliers mounted
on moths made of glitter. They were about to come crashing from the sky and
topple over my head.
Strange
dreams have been a childhood disease, mother used to say. Over time, most of my
dreams have been extinguished, and the rest await a similar fate.
Tropical
moths and glow worms tend to die with seasonal flux; the heat kills most of
them. But the ones in my room belong to warrior clans immune to the sudden onset
of summer.
***
When
I look at the corners of their habitat, I think of probabilities—words like maybe, could be, ought to be.
Modal verbs, they are my favourites—if life doesn’t bring you rainfall, let it
bring you modal verbs. “It may rain
again, we could wait...”
***
 |
| Artwork by Ajay Sharma |
Each
morning, I partially tie my plaits and get ready for the run. I will make it
past the tide. Or so I dream. On the highway, where I stumble often due to
improperly tied shoelaces, speeding vehicles regularly compete with me. I remember that mossy wall where mother had kept
a Gregorian calendar. It recorded her medicine bills, astrological beliefs and service
holidays. On it was nailed her tailoring
needle with a bit of leftover thread. Each fibre of her body longed for the
pattern to be stitched unto culmination.
“Here
look! These are perfect imitations of your
creatures”, she had said, promising to teach me how to design moth wings. I was
hell bent on granting these nocturnal beasts a second life. Red, yellow and
brown threads—all colours of my stubbornness. They move only when the ceiling
fans are switched on, eerily. With low voltage electricity in small towns, one
can almost sing to the tune of these movements. The radio with the built-in antennae would
usually be switched on by her side-- “Jibon
tolmol tolmol kore re, jibon chariya na jaish moke... (O’ fragile life, don’t
part with me just yet”)
Songs
of raw thread work can linger long after the sewing machine wheels stop. My
feeble hands fail to grasp such a mystery. I just want to hold on to the moth
wings. With every clasp, I prolong the wait for tomorrow.
***
 |
| Artwork by Ajay Sharma |
Mother,
as finicky as ever, disliked coming near my bed; said it stinks of lost time. She
belongs to an era when even menstruation meant extra cleaning work. The
mosquito net, mattress and everything that came in contact with it, needed to
be washed every month. Just to keep the nosy neighbours at bay, she’d spray a
variety of scented perfumes. The smell released from a nest of moths needs some
camouflaging. She tried convincing me to keep moth replicas instead, without
ever giving up on her suggestion. The local markets have some fancy ones made
out of synthetic materials and plastic. They come in attractive colours and little
children instantly identify with them. Beauty
is only skin-deep.
Morpheus
said in the Matrix (1999) that it’s all a part of the system.
“The system is our enemy.” Those who exist backpatting the system will try
their best to protect it from any ruptures. They are so hopelessly dependent on
it.
***
It
has been two years now. After repeated attempts of purifying the corners of my
room failed, my parents had a disturbing quarrel. It was mostly about restructuring
that room and building the walls anew. There is a trend in the region of dismantling
older, earthquake resistant houses to imitate styles of city architecture. Though
both weren’t so happy at the nest I built, it was mother who left no stone
unturned to make this an either/or situation.
Hiding
her micro-aggressive self, she went to her native place angrily yelling: “I am
staying out of this, you choose.” Everyone thereafter explained to me that her
behaviour was “all out of love”.
Apparently,
my moths will fly away. They will betray that corner of my foolish snuggles.
There will be a glaring light and it will be gone too soon. And I, being naive,
will mistake a forest fire for blazing warmth, she had said. Maybe that’s the
maternal instinct of fear—illogical and systemic?
I
am not sure.
***
 |
| Artwork by Ajay Sharma |
The
only option remaining is invisibility. I try to stash my moth family from the system. Last time I counted, there were
about eighty of them. On the days I stitch torn buttons onto my shirt, they
stare widely. Don’t ask me why—some even eavesdrop next to the needle, making
sly noises. I respond to these sounds by producing a nasal buzz of sorts. Like
true heroes, they seem unafraid of the sharp edges of life. One slim cut or a
fall and it’s all over.
Whenever
I wake up to weep at night, some of them abandon their wings on my lap, as if
to say, “Well, go on, we are in this together.”
***
For
most men born in the 1950s-60s, life gradually becomes unimaginable without the
female spouse and the quarrelling. But all the belligerent masculinity finally
boils down to a state of fatigue, helplessness and kitchen sink chaos. True,
father would never admit he needs his obedient wife of many decades the way I
need my moths.
When
I look into his placid eyes, I see that the rains have abruptly stopped. He
keeps a close tab on the circular wall clock. It represents a whole world for
him.
***
Weeks
later from that day, I posted a letter to mother saying my bed is now clean. My hands, the colour of cement
mortar. The web of ‘filth’, as she used to put it, had seen a bloody carnage.
***
My
love is a hillock. It is made of moth-ashes that have thickened up.
***
Across
the wall where I rest my head, I see rotten traces of caterpillar eggs. The
moth kingdom wishes to resurrect itself time and again.
Every
now and then a butterfly—fully grown and sepia pigmented, comes from nowhere
and sits with me quietly staring into the laptop screen. Emitting filament like
rays and scratching my skin.
A
half-dawn is born with the embryo of journeys vanishing into the night.
***
 |
| Artwork by Ajay Sharma |
I
am now compiling mother’s fake moth-wings and stitching them into a few hair
clips. They sit pretty on my frizzy hair. I hide some of them under the pillow;
they are precious, even in their unreal selves. I keep telling myself that the
same moths will return and light up the fragments of my dream.
And
in that dream, we may all be complete.
No comments:
Post a Comment