The Scent of a Promise
And the stories it weaves
Yesterday morning, I woke up with a searing sense of urgency. It was already Tuesday, and I had no clue about what I was going to write for my newsletter. I could write about how lately I had been reclaiming my relationship with cooking. But the relationship itself was quite complex and multilayered and would require more than just one morning to even gather my thoughts around the topic. My thoughts then flew to the three books which I had been reading for the past few weeks. I could write about how every time I entered the world of Amal, something heavy lodged itself deep in my throat and I wept for all that I possessed, all that I lost and everything in between. I could write about the reflections of Nana the cat-- steeped in wisdom and yet carrying that faint whiff of feline arrogance. Nana’s friendship with Satoru. Hua Hsu’s friendship with Ken. Amal and Huda, Ari and Hasan. I could write about the grief that spilled forth from each of these friendships and how time only strengthened these bonds. I could write about all this and much more. But here is the thing, when you are on a self-imposed deadline, the ideas fail to take root. They scatter all around you like dry autumn leaves.
Anyway...
L and P arrived at their usual time with their own bustling energies and it being the festival time, we set about cleaning the entire house. There is something about the cleaning process that triggers the grumpy, exacting, bitchy side of my personality. It is as though every human who has ever found fault with me talks/nags/complains through me at that moment. My voice is not mine and my body feels alien to me.
That said, we removed the cobwebs, tossed the curtains into the washing machine and dusted all surfaces. At the end of it all, I felt immensely grateful for the presence of these two ladies who not only generously help me, but they take in all my menopausal moods with a pinch of salt.
Later, my older one and I sat watching "Saving Mr. Banks". Twenty minutes into the movie and I realized I had already watched it previously. But nevertheless, it was a movie I enjoyed, and I immersed myself into it as the chemistry between Emma Thompson and Tom Hanks unfolded on the screen.
By evening I was tired and retired early for the night. Cool October breezes wafted into my bedroom, and I slept uninterrupted. I woke up early in the morning, lit the candles and opened my laptop. Maon curled himself into an O behind the laptop screen and started dozing off. Perhaps it was the vanilla fragrance gently filling up the room like soft baby breaths or the quietness of the morning hour but something within me began to open up. The opening up was so imperceptible that had it been during the morning chaos, I would have missed it without noticing.
A couple of months ago, when I told my best friend that I wanted to start a newsletter so that I could write "good quality stuff", she shot back over the phone, "Good quality stuff?". In my mind's eye I could see her eyebrow arch, mischief creep into her eyes. This morning when I was recalling that conversation, I realized how the things which liberate us also trap us. We like to believe that the world around us exists in binaries. We are driven to create only work that which would be deemed as “profound”, “thought provoking”, “brilliant” by the other. But this thinking is not entirely of our own making. It comes from the geographies we continue to traverse, and the neighborhoods that we inhabit.
What then is art? When does the wild desire to embrace morph into this innate desire to conform? Where lie the edges between commitment and prison walls? Where?
As I write this, a memory comes up.
It was after my first delivery. After a long labor of almost 8 hours, I lay exhausted and tired in my bed, my baby by my side. As I nursed him, my mother pushed milk-soaked bread into my mouth. It was the most unappetizing stuff I ever had in my entire life. And yet I gobbled it all up, famished and ravenous as I was. Sometime in the middle of it all, tears started to gather in my eyes and huge sobs started to rack my body. I started crying loudly. My baby slept quietly, his tiny elbow sticking into my belly. No, it was not the pain, nor exhaustion, nor the bleeding. It was something else. Somewhere in the course of swallowing the milk-dunked bread, I remembered that my mother had made idlis and my favorite onion chutney that morning. That I was eating cold bread when such a thing as idlis existed in the world seemed not only tragic but pitiful and deplorable as well. I felt utterly sorry for myself. And I wept and wept.
“Okay, we also won’t eat idlis,” my mother promised when I could finally pause between my sobs and tell her the cause of what was troubling me. My aunt and father nodded solemnly. I felt comforted by their words and continued to swallow my bread. My baby of course continued to sleep.
I like to think of my writing (or any art for that matter) that way. As a patchwork of moments, held together with promises —promises that are not hardcore “deadlines” or “commitments” but something which connect to life tenderly, lovingly, gently.
The scattered leaves are not separate from the tree. Into the earth will they go to nourish the roots and the soil. And someday, you and I will sit under the shade of that tree and tell each other stories. I await that day with open arms and a hungry spirit. Until then, I wish you all Happy Leaf-ing, happy Story-ing and happy Art-ing.
(C): Sridevi Datta
This is the Khichdi Pot. If you would like to know more about this offering, you would want to click here. If you find the Khichdi warm, scrumptious and flavorful, perhaps you would want to share it with your near and dear ones.
"promises that are not hardcore “deadlines”
Wonderful thought!
Beautiful write up.
I actually ate Khichdi today and read it while after it, my khichdi was a detox one without oil or ghee and your writeup brought the required masala and flavours I needed! The urgency of the deadlines looming on your head for the things that you promised yourself and others I can relate to that. I want to hug the Sri who was crying because there were warm idlis and onion chutney and she couldn't eat and wanted to eat! Oh, the naivety and the innocence of that age and the emotions.