Blinkers and Visors

The delayed monsoons created such panic that there was a frantic cry for rain across the entire nation. Then the collective appeal from the junta to the rain Gods must have been so potent that for the next few days there was a torrential blessing. As a result for the past few days I have been under the weather. And lying idle. Even the devil was inactive as some other painful elements had set up their workshop instead. Some were hounding my head and some were pounding my back. And in ‘dis’ position there is nothing much one can do but lie down. And moan and groan. And burn and retch. And think.

It was during one of these horizontal thinking sessions that I realised how a bed that is usually a sign of luxurious relaxation, can also turn into a prison. Only a few days and I was already getting bored. For the past nine years my mom has been confined to this incarcerated comfort. It’s not that I have never realised how frustrating this kind of forced relaxation can be. It’s just that I never had the opportunity to wear those forced kind of blinkers and see things from her point of view.

During my last visit to Berhampur I had handed over a package to mummy. It was a farmaaish of hers that I bring back a souvenir mug. My son had an even better idea. He sent a personalised one with ‘Grandma’ written in bold letters. She took it, carefully unwrapped the packaging, removed her spectacles and did a close inspection. For a full five minutes. She turned it up and down so many times that I was grateful it was only a picture of the Niagara on it and not a portion of the real Falls! Satisfied that it was genuine maal and not bought from the nearby local market, she handed it back to me. Then she pointed to an already cluttered space on the shelf- ‘Wahan pe rakh dena’ she said.

Wondering what on earth had happened to her aesthetic sense of decoration, I applied my own artistic judgement and placed it on an upper shelf that was fairly empty.
‘WAHAN NAHIN, NEECHE!! She screamed. I almost dropped the mug. What was wrong with her? Anyway, one knew better than to argue with my mom so I somehow squeezed it in that cramped up space wondering how she could even think of placing such a precious mug on such a precarious position. Then I forgot about it.

But recently, during my enforced sojourn in bed, the mug was again brought into sharp focus. You see, whenever my fever was down and the battering in my head was a bit relaxed, I realised I had nothing much to do but silently scrutinize the room. And my quiet observation revealed that with my bed blinkers on, it was only a distinct angle that I was always subjected to. No matter how much I tried, on my right I could see only a calendar, a cupboard, two paintings and if I bothered to look below, a caring canine perpetually curled near my slippers. In front was the idiot box, which was either shut (when Shanker was in office) or stuck on a particular sports channel. But thankfully on my left was a delightful view of the continuous downpour outside. And even if I could see only sheets of water and not the cats and dogs, the mere metaphor was enough to keep me in good humour.


But even this soon got on my last nerve. And it was while lying down and looking at the same things again and again and again that I understood my mummy’s sudden fascination for a very silly kind of décor. Why paintings of my daddy and photographs of her children and grandchildren were placed in strategic positions, even if their arrangement looked aesthetically offensive to the eye. Why she kept reading old letters and old diaries and kept shoving them under her pillow. Why some areas in the room were completely vacant and some were needlessly occupied to the point of being messy.

It was only while lying down here and losing sight of my peripheral vision that I found myself again remembering my mummy’s tiny cluttered space. And why she wanted the mug that my son had given her, to be placed in that particular shelf and not on the one above. It was only because, from where she lay, she could see it!

Even though her grandchildren were scattered all across the globe and did not visit her for whole years, she wanted to somehow be a part of their lives. Even though the emotional immediacy of their existence had long since vanished, she wanted to at least be able to hold onto the tangible things that they sent across to her. Interior decoration did not matter to her anymore. What mattered was that her past was slipping away and she was trying to hold on to it. Sometimes by placing it under her pillow so as not to lose it. And sometimes by keeping it in front of her eyes so she could continuously survey the scenario. Proudly. Either with the sleepiness of a crocodile or the wakefulness of a tiger!

I know it is not wise to always take things lying down. But sometimes one doesn’t have a choice. There comes a time, in everyone’s life, when you are enforced with a set of blinkers or visors and your peripheral vision is lost. You have no other go but to wear them and keep moving forward. But I guess at some point in life, even a soldier gets fed up of nurturing all those silly myths of courage. And in his vulnerable state he desperately clings on to that last straw. Even if it is shaped like a souvenir mug from the United States!

(originally posted in sulekha.com)