History that runs inside her
In the midst of million posts on social-media, a particular sentence that I read somewhere kept creeping on to my memories lately and it came out of a writing of a girl who called herself as a result of history that runs inside her. It struck a chord with me. Deep and profound. There is a peculiar way by which I always write. My genuine writing necessarily means a response to the soul moving work that a couple of ghazals and qawwalis(and a few other genre music from my spotify/youtube playlist) do to me . All the music gods keep showering me with blessings of words to help me pour out my emotions that I keep piling up. I also make it a point where I connect the writing with movies and music, which I believe, could capture the mood of my writing. It’s probably my attempt at expressing myself with the best intention of being understood. Perhaps, what could go more convincing than art?
Being a daughter of doctor parents would mean to some a lifetime free subscription and access to health care benefits and prestige. But what goes in between is the lost space of void that pulls strings from all directions to keep the channel of communication alive.
Back in my early childhood days, when my mom would go on night shift duties for her PG, I would wrap around her blanket and would tell others that it had her smell so that I could try managing sleep. That’s probably my very first instance of connecting objects with life and meaning. Later, I would go on to live my adolescence and early adulthood with instances of memories of people that made me special and feel heard at various points of my life.
Back in my school days, Friday nights meant movie nights. A time when we never heard of Netflix and prime , but managed to buy the much-awaited VCD from the store next door , so that we could all sit together and watch it together. Rich days meant we would royally go to a theatre and experience the magic that cinema was(is). It also meant my father buying 2 kinder joy packets (over complaining it’s overpriced tag and still buying it ) for me and my brother. Now, when I come across CDs in any place, I get reminded of our sofa couch. The couch that has seen enough drama on and off screen.
To the little things that your special persons give you which aren’t what it seems to be for any other person outside. The feeling of carrying a part of them, when you carry the little instances or parts from their life. To the places that I go, the nature that I see, the scent of seasons that I smell, and the people that I keep meeting, I make it a point where I see something beyond the persons /things/places that they are. I respond the way my people would respond and I expect the response to be of how they would respond.
One sem more to stepping into another phase of my life of adulthood, here is me identifying myself as a result of a history that runs inside me.
