When I returned home from a work dinner last week, I felt a deep sense of emptiness around me so tangible that I could almost touch it. After spending more than ten hours surrounded by a large number of people, when I stood alone in front of my cupboard to pick out my pyjamas, the air made space which silence filled, and it was quiet enough for me to hear it. I have been wondering about the texture and depth of my feelings, how they seem to crowd inside me what with there being so many of them. And yet, where is the time for me to feel all of them?
Reading Anna Karenina before bed, under a yellow light, expands time for me. There is a sequence in it which I think about often these days because the description feels like a Russian painting I can touch in my mind. Levin has returned from Moscow to his Russian country after being rejected by Kitty whose hand he asked in marriage. He is picked up at the station by his coachman and his horses pulling a sledge. He enters his large country home and his help fusses around him. They inform him about the calf born to the cow, they cross the yard to the cowhouse to see the newborn calf, the candles are lit all over the large house despite it housing only two people, his dog rushes towards him, and his nurse, who is also his housekeeper sits next to him sewing while he reads in his library drinking his tea. When Levin comes home, he feels at home.
He felt himself, and did not want to be any one else. All he wanted now was to be better than before.
Tolstoy, Leo. Anna Karenina (AmazonClassics Edition) (p. 64). (Function). Kindle Edition.
The chapters that describe the return of Levin feel expansive in time and have emotions that are mingled but clear. While Levin is heartbroken at being rejected by the woman he loves, his return home fills him with reassurance about who he is. His ache and contentment sit side by side and one can feel them in the scenes constructed by Tolstoy. His emotions are not muddled or crowded. This is the kind of emotional cleanliness I am seeking in a world where I am constantly overstimulated and barraged by synthetic experiences of modern life. How I felt that night in front of the cupboard was as close as I could come to experiencing an unadulterated feeling. It filled my entire being, and I could taste its texture in my mouth. Despite having a buzzing day, with one too many conversations, I slept soundly that night.
While I was in and around many conversations during our workshops this week (which explains the aforementioned long hours), I thought about the nature of discourse we are having. I say this as someone who has spent enough time offline that I don’t know if a Rasputin* remix has hit the Reel charts. When people in large groups talk, I listen more and talk less, because I have learnt a valuable and costly lesson — my words are precious and I must not waste them. However, the nature of discourse that we are having in India seems to have hit a terrible low. Conversations are uniform, lack imagination, and play to the lowest common denominator. I realise that people usually say things they have probably read online, thoughts are borrowed, and debate is frowned upon. Now that one can detect AI writing and we have lived long enough to see “content” being recycled, it is easy to tell how many people are thinking for themselves versus repeating what they’ve learned from the algorithm. This is confirmation bias at a mass scale.
It is a strange way to live. And it scares me a little.
It is in these groups of conversations, that I feel I have nothing to add. Earlier, it would bother me, but the last few months have opened up a new perspective. I can simply conserve my energy, my words, and engage with only what is meaningful to me. I can redirect my saved time and energy towards the things I love, and for the people I admire. I have learned to strike the chord of transaction, and step away from the social emotional maelstrom manufactured for us, whether physical or digital.
It is immensely freeing.
So, when I returned last night from another long day of conversation that will probably go into the nethers of unmaintained sewage lines, I was looking forward to curling up with this Russian drama from 148 years ago. Things did not go my way as I was called in to work from home that went on past midnight.
Despite it all, this morning, I stacked on myself all the self-care I could find. I put on a purple face mask, watermelon eye patches, hibiscus hair oil, and took a mid-morning nap. I have re-learned that whatever I do for myself is a way to thank my body for everything it takes me through. This is the gratitude of living. This, in itself, is enough.
– S🍃
*Has Rasputin been remixed recently? Because what I heard at the dinner that night seemed the same as the original.
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