Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Unison

What you see of me is only my countenance sculptured well. But, as much as I live on the surface, I live within. The outer self has been just beautifully carved and chiseled out of the rock that the inner me harbors and is substantiated with.

It defines my life, the way I lead it and above all, it gives me reason to live it the way I do…….every moment, every hour !
We talk a lot these days about ‘inner voice’ or ‘conscience’ and people say I have one….which they happen to encounter in situations where I am unable to support those around me for the sake of that strange feeling inside my heart that says ‘this doesn’t seem to be the right thing to do’. Call it heart or mind or simply a voice that is active all the time and is omnipresent, happy when I am walking the streets humming my favorite number, sad when I am disappointed with the way people change, anxious when I am waiting for an interview and silent when I don’t give it any food for thought !
But, more than it being my companion, it has now become my soul-cum-devil sister, to whom I feel like pouring out all details of what I go through in the course of the day, in the hustle-bustle of life. Things I could not share with any of those I am dwelling with or those who tend to befriend me only for a passing phase though. Be it acclamation for the work I have done, a new friend that I happened to identify in a stranger till yesterday, a strange feeling that made me happy momentarily although disapproving, a kind act that I found myself prompted to do for the helpless around, the chiding I got even when I was not wrong or that frequent feeling of being estranged to the home I go to every night...
She hears it all, with the ears of a priest who allows the confessor to express without inhibitions, like a friend who shares the joy s/he can sense in the excited voice, like a father who knows which part to emphasize on with a tag of worldly advice and encompassing all, like a mother who engulfs it all for the child’s joy. This inner voice eventually became my secret friend from whom I could quickly sneak an advice in the face of a fleeting moment, when I am not sure how to act or what to say, it is this voice I rely upon. It not only nurses me when I tend to get bruised by the worldly touch but also pampers me when uncertainties tend to pull me down. It helps me act like a considerate daughter, a responsible sister and a storehouse of so many roles we have to play in the ticking hours every day.
But, does this voice have an identity ? a face ? or does it live ?.........Yes, it does !
It was after witnessing a theatrical act, a soliloquy of a person who speaks to her inner voice and realizes some of the realities of her life, that I came back home and questioned myself, do I have an inner voice, does it speak to me…. And immediately the answer came, Yes I do……and all this while what I had not realized is that the inner voice for me is my Mom, she’s always been. She’s the one living within me every fraction of a second, going every place I visit, watching me even as I type these letters and feeling a tide of waves in her bosom whenever I smile or I cry.

She is the internal force that led to the formation of the rock within me and is constantly shaping it even now, giving it tenacity, subtleness and a new look every time that obviously reflects on the surface. She created me out of her blood, gave me her breath when I was strangling to come out, fed me when I was no more than a sheet of flesh covering fragile nerves, and she is still the one striving day and night tirelessly to make me a human who would surpass human flaws and exceed human expectations, a daughter she would be proud of and already is, from the moment she yielded me...
She is like the ‘Black Diamond’ rushing with a lightning speed in the darkness of those silent hours when passengers have been long waiting after the hectic day’s chores to go home, cold, hungry, devoid of sleep. The Express means a lot of things to them. Its sight enbalms them with the comforting feeling of being home instantaneously. They forget about the hunger or the sleep. All they think about is a seat on those hard wooden or metal benches whereon they can sit, munching peanuts, playing cards, cracking jokes or carelessly going off to sleep awakened only by the shouts of the herds of rickshaw pullers when the last station arrives who ride them home safely despite the winding, rustic ways dotted with dark trees and wide expanse of fields whose ends are way beyond sight now.
Her voice is like the jingle of tiny bells hanging from anklets in the hum-drum of life, like hundreds of festivals being celebrated together when I am strolling on dark unfamiliar streets, like infinite notes being orchestrated in harmony amidst the cries of commoners.
The chord that had kept me connected to her is still alive, making two lives in unison, breathing joy and pain alike...