House of Memories

I am afraid that words will abandon me one day. It is my greatest fear. Words are how I make sense of life, of every day labour, of transfiguring love and the thought of losing them fills me with dread and unarrived grief. They say that one day the words of the Qur’an will be lifted from its pages and sent back to the heaven from where they came; that the prayer, poetry, and faith will rest only in memory. I suppose what they’re saying is that we will return to a time when life was memory before it became eloquence. Memory feels sponge-like, breathing and moving, putting into words allows it to live outside of us.

Earlier this year, I wanted to buy a bicycle for the local commute to my gym. The thought of it thrilled me for I have never owned a vehicle of any sort. I hoped to buy a lock, find a small parking space, and use a cutesy keychain for my ride; then I decided not to go ahead with it. My fear of riding it on Indian roads coupled with having to park it aside during monsoons dissuaded me. But I have a memory of riding a bicycle as a child, watching my little sister save up Eidi to buy one, riding a bicycle as an adult during the pandemic for exercise, and today neither of us have bought it even though we have the means. Do our memories of childhood become dreams demanding to be fulfilled in adulthood? What haunts us, does it always come from an ancient time?

Like most people, I wish that life becomes easier; not just by privilege, but also by and in of itself. I manoeuvre what haunts me in ways I understand, and more often than not I wrestle with it. I wish for a slower life, less working hours, more creativity, conversations with friends over grilled fish, and a resolution of almost everything that pains my heart but leaving room for some ache. Life is not this simple, so I try to become tougher and level up, but the more I live, I realise that most people don’t actually care about the sum of living. Maybe they care about the parts, but rarely about the sum of it all.

I started this year with small changes, recalibrating things within my control. I joined a new gym to do something about the way I had started to perceive my body. Every morning when I set out to the gym, I would do so with renewed hope. I would feel grateful for another day of taking care of myself, for being surrounded by trees and a hazy glow. I had taken time off from work in advance, a day or two here and there punctuating the long months to spend the holiday doing things I love. I bought a 1000-page hardcover novel and joined a reading group. I thought to myself why shouldn’t I try and change my circumstances, if only a little; and I set out to do just that. I did all this because I missed writing and being open to a sense of wonder provided by words and my own imagination.

But now, I am still working longer hours, and my gym trainer, though skilled, started to become unfocussed in the recent past. Last week after the many hours of haphazard working and being herded around by moody cats that are my management, I broke down and wept during a work meeting. I recalled my boss telling me “you work too hard and stress too much” and then my boss proceeded to do nothing to adjust my workload; the cognitive dissonance was astounding. My trainer said that most people don’t learn how to take care of their bodies and even after I showed up on time every single day for weeks they neglected me. I didn’t know what I was expecting, but it seems as though I was expecting people who are watching me every single day to care about me and the circumstances I share with them.

These may not be the kind of things one writes about, adorns them with phrases about cats and what not. Or these are the kinds of things one writes about, adorns them with phrases about cats and what not. In January, a writer mentor sat me down, looked me in the eye and told me “never forget that you are a writer whether you write or not”. I want to hold on to that reassurance I received, the support I was offered in the waning of my confidence. I partake in motivating music during my morning workout and say affirmations to myself, but I refuse to accept that affirming my existence is a solitary endeavour. Reassuring fellow humans is an unwritten rule in my book. Living this oh-so-punishing life means telling each other that we are carrying the load well, flying into the unknown with help, and promise that when we break down, someone will catch our tears. Then, it is to keep those promises.

No one caught my tears last week, and perhaps that is okay. They did open up a crack inside me which whispers in me that I deserve better. I deserve assistance, acceptance, affirmation, and even applause. This is my one little life where I go out into the morning surrounded by trees and a hazy glow. I deserve to be bound to the rest of this buoyant universe in gentle tugs that hold me when I need it like the precious life I am. I deserve to own a bicycle, and even if I am afraid, I will get one. I will have my spirit broken and I will mend it. Then, I will come here and write about it like the writer I am.