Journal: A day that might matter (or not)
14th November 2023:
How can I describe this? It is a holiday in Bengaluru and my office is shut. I am the only one working. That means that I have only to speak to myself and do things that only I can. So I do. Remarkably well. I sow the seeds of potential results — as always, I have to wade through the maze of 9-to-5'ers to get to the results. But that I will.
I had some time to think about what I was doing in life. I have been working for free and running on my fuel for some time. Just a little more time, I will succeed — I say this to my wife and myself; she looks at me nonchalantly and ignores what I say. She has heard this before and more, for almost a decade. But her belief in me is stronger than what she is showing, her silence is my ticket to go back to work with zest. Tacit support with a dose of reality, you know.
One thing she wants me to do — again, she never reads my writings or books — is for me to write. She just likes that, no explanation. I have never asked her why. I think she likes me, so she lets me do whatever I can. She supports us financially on those days when I behave like that entitled ostrich buried with my head in the sand. She is the source of my strength and I have come around to acknowledge it everywhere.
It rains heavily and there is nowhere to go — even to our 3 pm cakeshop where we love having those mini-samosas and tea. The trees are wet and clean, in pristine green as green should be. The ravens cawing and pigeons clucking give an impression that there is life beyond the silence of the trees. The grey clouds loom dark and there is a sudden burst of rain. The balcony and the windows through an odd grey ambiance into the wave of darkness that descends inside our home.
My mind races towards work — today I am supposed to be working. Then I remember my office and I give up. I go and sit near my sofa, slowly letting myself into the darkness of the house. My wife and son ( who is busy with some video editing or YouTubing — God knows what) don’t want the lights to be on. I feel odd, and so go back to my desk, looking for some answer. Work or not.
Then my phone rings and chimes. The people who are out there, working for me and my company reach out. Hah. Answers, right there. Slowly, I pick up the phone and dial back those numbers. Meetings, schedules, documents. Work goes on. Work can occupy the mind, time, and space. But all that is over in an hour.
Finally, lunchtime appears in the form of a groan in my gut. The sky is dark and the trees are silent. My stomach grumbles and we sit for lunch. My son starts scrolling on his phone, my wife silently dives into the sambar and rice, and I look at them, then finally switch on Amazon Prime to watch The Good Wife. Juliane Marguilles rules the screen, but I am getting bored. I switch off.
Lunch is over and it is siesta time, but I can’t sleep. My mind wanders in the darkness and silence as if something is about to happen. Rains? Of course, rains are a possible answer, or the only answer. If it is dark and gloomy and is getting a little chilly, it should rain. I see a drizzle with the usual humdrum of raindrops falling on the AC or a tarpaulin roof or the leaves, and slowly the humdrum gains strength; it is pouring now.
‘River’s Heaven: A Journey of Self-Discovery and Introspection’, Poetarrati Volume 4
Then…the bell rings.
A courier. My wife looks at me quizzically and then understands. ‘Must be your books.’ She says, in her typical stoic manner. The poor guy is waiting, drenched. My son offers him a glass of water — just like he has been taught — mechanically, but a gesture nevertheless. He refuses; he just wants my wife to sign and go — he probably has some more deliveries in the daunting downpour.
The packet is now in our hands. My wife goes back to her siesta on the sofa — the TV is playing some peaceful music with a visual of fishes swimming in a blue-lit aquarium in the background. My son dives into his screen — between a Netflix piece and video games.
I sigh and mumble — nobody is interested in the packet. I lose interest and toss it aside. Then I change my mind, take a picture, and post it in my author broadcast group — Question: Guess, what is in the package? The usual silence, there too. The world seems to be silent, except my inner voice.
I just sit there trying to decide between reading Anne Frank and sleeping. I see my wife stir — she goes into the kitchen and picks a pair of scissors. That is my cue to get up and start.
We gather at my son’s studio, set the box on a clean table, and cut it open with the scissors, while my wife looks on. My son films the whole thing. I can’t find an opening so I cut the top surface, which exposes the books. There, they are. The beautiful cover was designed by Anirudh, my son.
I look comical in the video when I mumble about the book and say thank you to the publisher. My son gets on with the editing. My wife smiles at the way I look in the video. Her smile, rather rare, is my inspiration.
River’s Heaven is dedicated to my mother. We add a 10-second somber musical with the book in front of her frame as the last piece of the video. She must feel happy up there, I suppose.
My eyes turn moist, but there is a light somewhere as if somebody lit a lamp within. A surge of gratitude flows, and as I always say, extreme feelings result in a new project in me.
‘Sunrise in the Western Sky: Poetry Duets’, Poetarrati Volume 5
I go to my pile of wannabe projects and pull one out. My friend, the prolific Priya Patel says yes when I ask her. We run with the title and come out with a nice one.
I wrote a piece. She does not like the first part and I try again. I tell her to improve and she comes with a gem. Here it goes.
The sun would rise and set every day within the newly penned words of two poets; each living on opposite faces of this blue planet, yet seeking each other out for inspiration. Their days and nights were connected by far more than diamond-studded skies and blooming horizons; they were connected through their regular poetic duets. While one became busy under the sun, the other was awake under the stars; inspiring each other, between imagination and introspection, between joy and sorrow, between night and day; the two poets — Priya and Ashok. Together, they embark on an emotional journey of ‘entwined twining’ resulting in a unique duet of poetry under the title ‘Sunrise in the Western Sky: Poetic Duets’ presented as Volume 5 of the Poetarrati Series by Ashok Subramanian.~ Priya
I create a poster and my wife looks at it and says the fonts are childish. My son says the poster has 80’s vibes. I re-create and change the fonts. Here is the poster.
So there it goes. On a nondescript, low-energy day filled with ennui, my journey as a poet takes a step forward. I don’t realize it till it dawns on me the next day.
I think I have good people around me. My wife and my son — who in their way make my dull day better. My friend Priya Patel, is always ready to spring on a creative project together and be my guide and healer.
I feel that I am more blessed than cursed. A good feeling creeps in me, as I switch off the lights in my study and head to dinner with my family. It is still raining outside and the day closes early. Sometimes, even weather makes sense, especially on days like this, which might matter in the long run.
~Ashok Subramanian © 2023
