Of Grief & Dreams

I had briefly forgotten how it feels to be defeated by one’s own life and the circumstances of reality. At times, I aspire to be the kind of person who accepts reality and goes on knowing that the world is not an ideal place and the general disposition for coping involves playing the crooked game with its crooked rules as best we can. The past few months, I was this person. To be fair, the heat and humidity in my city has been so overwhelming that I’ve thought about nothing else but how to survive every single day, be it when I was outdoors or at night sleeping under the humble fan. Even on the days when fasting used to be hard and no water would be available until sundown, I haven’t felt such discomfort. Therefore, thinking about how I’ve not made any meaningful progress in this area of my life or that didn’t occur to me until last Monday when the clouds were overcast and I was able to let my mind wander into the amiable fields of my own existence. I suppose that’s how grief works; it is always around unnoticed waiting and when it finds space it caves into your beating heart. 

This is not to say that I have been despondent the whole time; quite the contrary. There is a reason I say I had forgotten what it meant to feel disappointed because my usual demeanour had been of acceptance and appreciation. After much struggle with the life I chose and the one that it turned out to be, I had made peace with the gnaws of the every day. Better the known devil than the unknown and all that. Yes, people are being killed, yes, the heat is at an all time high, yes, capitalism is unchecked, yes, the uncertainty of the future scares me, yes, my immediate people are going through a shade of grief or another, yes, I don’t actually know if I am making the right choices. Yes, all of this is true, but so is the fact that I am able to say a prayer for those being killed, I can use an air conditioner now and then, I have some means and probably some skills (that I am told will be obsolete in a few years), I’ve come this far and I’ll hobble along further with some blessings and perhaps some common sense, I have friends and we can be vulnerable with each other, and even if I made all the wrong choices it might be okay because I am unlearning the concept of an unforgiving universe (or so I think).

So when this giant ball of sadness settled in my chest and my eyes welled up, I wondered if it came from my loneliness or from all the grief that I had been packing away to be this all-accepting person. Then, just as it came unannounced, it went away without as much as a goodbye. I moved on to doing the things I’ve been doing of late. One of my friends has been looking for a job for over 10 months and I have tried to help her a bit. I’ve been planting plants in the earth inside my society instead of in pots inside my home. I’ve been collecting empty bottles of shampoo, tubes of moisturiser et al so I can send them to a recycling outfit in Delhi. I am being a drab who talks about mutual funds and understands none of it. I’ve been following the news and trying to follow less of it (and failing). I’ve also been checking in on friends and trying to make some more time with them because I realise that makes me feel more like myself than anything else. I’ve been writing to the municipal commissioner asking for his climate change plan but he only forwards my email to many people and doesn’t respond to me with as much as a hello. After 4 years of writing to that office, I deserve a little hello, don’t you think? Oh, and I’ve also been drinking one too many lychee drinks and eating way too much ice cream than should be socially acceptable.

I think my summer coping mechanisms might have hidden the climate grief inside of me. I am certain all of us have it, that’s why you see so many people who have their little gardens, who want to grow jamuns and gulabs and limu and who dream of owning farmland. The dream of nestling in greenery on some imagined farmland is universal, and, in some ways, the most dissonant dream that exists in the urban population. We keep wanting to make more money to achieve this dream and travel on barren, dusty roads postponing our need for being close to the Earth. It’s almost mental, if you ask me. I’m intimately familiar with the concept of postponing my dreams. It is easy, but very painful. Some days I can see my dreams clearly; on others I am so busy that I forget to breathe. The routine falls like thick dust on my eyelids, and I sleep uncomfortably (thanks also to the heat).

I find that window gardening as a hobby in the urban populace is our way of addressing the climate grief we all hold. We exchange tips and pictures of what we’re growing or what has come to fruition as some sort of personal victory, when, in fact, it is us trying to stitch the giant hole that we see in our collective future. I’m not so naive as to suggest that everyone has good intentions. We live in a country where our hearts are rusted, dilon ko zang lag gaya hai, as I like to think. Hate is so prevalent and unchecked that it manifests everywhere. We hate the idea of creativity, of brotherhood, of sharing, of abundance for all, of festive joy, of a bustling environment, of inclusive spaces, of vulnerability that demands compassion, of kindness. I don’t think that hate only exists for a certain kind of people, it exists for all values that hold societies together and makes us thrive. To anyone who has grown anything, this doesn’t sound like an environment where anything can flourish, does it?

While I am not certain that the universe is all-forgiving (I am still working on that), I am certain that everything is connected to everything else, and so are we. Therefore, my grief is also buoyed by the joy of being alive, by the joy of seeing flowers growing out of concrete, by the small kindnesses that are homeless in our unkind country. I am keen for the sadness to return and I want to feel it fully because I worry that I might have accepted reality a little too much. For dreamers, this is not advised. For dreamers, we need to stay unhinged and refuse to accept reality as it is, to scramble ideas with milk and add a dash of pepper, maybe grate a side of cheese. For dreamers, it is advised to keep eyelids closed and shake our heads when they say “it is what it is” because it could be anything it wanted to be, so why this?

Current Indulgences

• Reading: Babel by R. F. Kuang & Middlemarch by George Eliott
• Listening: Hum Yahin | Magdaon Express
• Watching: We are Lady Parts Season 02
• Drinking: Lychee Lemondade
• Savouring: Mango Ice Cream
• Eyeing: Madhumalti creepers & a clothbound edition of Middlemarch

Love fiercely, even the sadness.