Feline Musings

“Memories and dreams are the stuff that stories are made of, and of course distortion.” I answered after a moment of contemplation.
“Distortion!” He quipped.
“Yes, distortion. For memories fade with time and dreams become blurred after the morning dose of caffeine. All that a writer has are remnants of hazy memories, and lost dreams, and then the process of distortion sets in. The writer manipulates these memories and dreams, sprinkling them with ideas, ideologies, experiences, and of course unfulfilled wishes, wrapping these around characters, situations, and giving life to something that may or may not be there.” I elaborated.
“Interesting.” said my friend, as he navigated a sharp turn. He had asked me what it takes to write a story.

Silence set in. He was concentrating on the sudden twists and turns around the low mountains, while I reflected on what I had just said. Memories and dreams, yes, these were the two elements in my life. I swayed between the two – sometimes relegating into a past that may or may not have been there, and pondering on the meaning and interpretation of my dreams, almost always filling in the gaps with my imagination.

We were on a less treacherous road. He diverted his attention towards me.
“You have interesting ideas. But you think too much! Maybe that’s why you are so crazy.” He smiled.
“This crazy mind has a lot of stories to tell.” I smiled.
“Why were you so reluctant to join us on this trip?” He changed the topic.
“I don’t know. I have become quite reclusive. I find it difficult to gel in a crowd.”
“But we need to be with friends, we need to enjoy, to freak out and we need to think less!”
“Yes, yes! Don’t start of again. Aren’t I finally with you, ready to spend the weekend with a bunch of strangers, who will be laughing at my fear of water, tomorrow?”
“You will like them. They are nice people. It will be a change for you, after …” He let the sentence trail. He self-consciously fiddled with the CD-player having treaded on what he perceived as sensitive ground.

… After … after my break up! I completed his sentence in my mind. But I was not a victim; I was the reason for my recent break up. Memories and dreams had once again overplayed on my emotions – I was afraid to let go of all that I believed made me independent and creative. Even if it meant letting go of the one person, who had become the cornerstone of my existence, and my stories, promoting my crazy ideas, mulling over my scripts and believing in me more than I had. I was, however, afraid! Afraid of attachment, and letting domesticity take charge of my life. I had a commitment phobia and I drove him out of my life engulfed in my fear of losing my creative streak in the wake of a settled family life. He understood, but he didn’t stay back and slowly moved away from my life but not from my heart. I became more reclusive, living on memories, and in the hope of attaining a spiritual high, which I believed could never be attained by attaching myself to another soul.

“We will be there in another half-an-hour.” He lowered the volume of the CD-player as he recognized the road signs. I had known him since quite some time and we had enjoyed many leisure and adventure trips as members of a travel group. Slowly, the original group had dispersed due to various reasons, but he and I had stayed on. I had also withdrawn from most activities of this group as new faces started to join, but he remained an enthusiastic traveler. He had emailed me about this white water river rafting trip to Rishikesh and persisted that I join, even if it meant making new friends. I had relented, finally, thinking a trip may bring up newer ideas for the collection of short stories that I was working on. He was happy to have me, as a traveling companion, also hoping to bring me out of what he called “self-imposed seclusion.”

Evening was drawing to a close. The sky was sprinkled with hues of red and blue, and the atmosphere was filled with the gurgle of the Ganges. The group, to whom I was introduced by my traveling companion, was a refreshing bunch of youngsters, reclining on the sand, after a game of beach volleyball. Beer bottles were being dug in to the sand to be chilled naturally. As the stars would cover the horizon, the beer bottles would be dug out and passed around with music, and laughter filling the air. I strolled around, soaking up the enigmatic ambience. Rishikesh always did this to me, I thought, always brought about a natural peace. I relished the indolence, the silence, the independence, and the oneness with nature.

“So, whats the new story?” He smiled as he joined me.
“Nothing!” I shrugged my shoulder.
“Good, I haven’t interrupted a story in the making then.”
“Not as of now.” I sat down beside him as he flopped on the beach.

The hues darkened and in the horizon the silhouette of the mountains became predominant. Flickering lights of motorists passing by appeared and disappeared, on the curved roads, as if the mountain was bedecked by glimmering stars.
“Quite romantic!” I sighed.
“Romantic! Is it? He said absent-mindedly.
I felt a vague irritation rising in me.
“Does romantic always have to be something to do with a man and a woman? Is your connotation of romantic always love or the consummation of love?” I expressed my irritation.
“Yes, for most people it is.” He answered.
I took a deep breath.
“Why are you always taking up the cause of your friend? Why do you  think I wronged him by not expecting his proposal? Why do you always believe like a male chauvinist that a woman’s place is only with a man?” I spent my breath.
“I never said that. I never believed in this school of thought. Had I believed in it, I would have settled down instead of being a vagabond, enjoying wanderlust.” He seemed surprised at my insinuation.
“Why then do you think I am not happy on my own, or I cannot romanticize the stars and the sky?”
“Because, I can see that you are not happy. You have an undefined quest. You rejected steadfast companionship and now you are lost and forlorn.”
“That’s how you perceive it to be. I am very happy, sir, and enjoying solitude and silence is the hallmark of a spiritually enlightened person.” I snapped back and got up in a huff.

To avoid the discomfiting conversation, I moved towards the group. Somebody waved at me, I responded, and walked towards the camp. A shrill whistle was directed towards my traveling companion, who took the cue and decided to join us. I stayed with the group to divert his attention from me. Somebody was stringing the guitar, and the beer bottles were being dug out. The mood was joyfully somber. The mountains and the river do this to you. They shuffle your soul and senses and bring out contradictory emotions. The guitarist started humming along and a soulful number permeated the ambience, with the audience swaying to the musical notes. I relaxed, enjoying the music and the breeze and the slight knot in my throat.

We spent hours of joyful banter and singing. I exchanged a smile with my traveling companion, burying the hatchet. And yet, it was true. I felt lost and forlorn, in spite of vehemently denying it. Dinner was served and slowly the group dispersed, rather couples dispersed. My friend sat down with the guitarist discussing the nuances of music. I grabbed a few bites, preoccupied with my thoughts. I recalled a old Hindi song that translated as “I was so alone, even in the midst of a crowd,” and a wry smile escaped my lips.

“When you want to marry someone, first ask yourself, whether that person will make a good parent to your children.” He spoke suddenly, closing his laptop, and sipping his coffee.
I had looked at him in astonishment. Children! I had never thought about children. I was surprised that a man actually had an opinion on child upbringing. In fact, I was surprised that he thought about marriage. I toyed with the idea thinking he wanted to suggest the premise of a new story.

I must have been silent for quite sometime, for my reverie was broken by another thunderbolt of a statement, “Do you think I will make a good father?”
“Yes, yes, why not!” I fumbled.
He seemed pleased by my response. He held my hand and said, “I think you will make a wonderful mother!”
I almost choked on the tears that suddenly welled up. He hugged me, thinking I was overwhelmed by the intensity of emotions. He was wrong. I was shocked and shaken and had an inkling of where this conversation would lead. I was going to lose a business partner, one of the most indulgent publishers, whom I had ever trusted. This conversation was the beginning of the end.

I had systematically alienated myself from him after this conversation. Rather I had treacherously alienated myself, for I started negotiations with a new publisher. I was too pragmatic to let somebody’s romantic inclinations wreak havoc with my next project, in fact, my entire writing career. Marriage, in-laws, and children – how can a writer sustain creative impulses in a web of stifling bonding! I was born free, thought freely, wrote freely; I was on a spiritual quest through the power of the word, my end being a celestial flight on the wings of imagination. I was seeking God through my writings, and deep contemplation. Human bonds would restrict me on a material plane. My place was not with a man but beyond the horizons.

The sky and the sand had become one, embracing darkness as if jealously guarding a lost love, who would disappear at dawn. The river whispered endearingly to the wind blowing over the silver sands and the shimmering water, and the soft breeze responded in melodious murmurs. A hot drop trickled down my cheeks. I looked up. It was not raining. It was a clear, star-studded night. A green hue kissed the skies, and blue jewels embellished the firmament. It was not a rain-drop. It was a tear.

Why was I crying, I asked myself, a weak throb in my heart? Was my traveling companion right in saying that I was unhappy with the decisions I had taken for myself? I pondered. I tried to shake away the thought, but it lingered. I peered into the darkness in front of me. It was frightening because just a couple of steps ahead of me a dark and deep river flowed. An unsuspecting stranger could walk right into the embrace of the waters, so close it flowed. I shivered at the thought. Another fear, the fear of water, shook me.

I was wrong, I thought. Life and the stories of life are not made up of memories and dreams, but of fear. Distortion is the result of this fear. We distort our perception to make these memories and dreams acceptable and bearable, for we fear the truth and reality. I had feared commitment and walked away from it believing that I would find joy and relief in pursuing my individual goals. And yet my heart yearned and my soul admonished me. I remembered, I recalled and I realized.

The dark waters beckoned me, urging me to conquer my fear. I got up and took the few paces to the rocky edge. I dipped one foot into the icy-cold water, and the other foot followed. I walked on the rocks, and then I was submerged waist-deep into the river. A chill went up my spine. I ignored it. I hastened my steps, and then I lost ground. I floated. The river slowly overpowered my movements. I let go of myself, and my fear, and the river slowly took me into its folds, into depths unknown, where fear was vanquished, once and for all.

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