Marginalia

It is a quiet morning on a quiet day. There will be things to do, surely, and there will be time to get them done, and what will be left will be left for tomorrow. Little to worry about, little to fret over, it is all going as it should go. The coffee is delicious, almost lip-smackingly, wonderfully chocolaty and bold, and the sun outside shares a part in its boldness. What a warm and wonderful day today. I wish all days were like this, and if I found myself on a day that was cold and unforgiving, I wish I remember this morning then to push me through till the clock strikes fifty-nine past eleven. There is still time before this day begins, a few minutes or so, and when it does, its end should be but a blink away. That is how quickly life passes us, and I reckon without much notice. And thus I am glad for the good sense to sit here quietly and take it all in. Not all hours are created equal; some hours pass more quickly than others. This placid, noiseless time that I have managed to make the most of is but a blessing in a day that requires all of my senses to be busy—with work, with people, with phone calls and messages, and a buzzing and boiling that cannot be described. But it will be the end of the day soon. It will all be over before I can manage to take a moment again. And now, I shall begin.

My artistic endeavour has been dulled—and I mean this not in the negative connotation oft associated with the word but merely description—and become softer. And so has all my ambition. And while I still make strides and take leaps and try my hand at writing, all of it is strictly for my benefit, or perhaps, the benefit of those around me. For if I do not make a living, well, it goes without saying it will be somewhat difficult to live, and if I do not sit and write, I tend to become miserable. There is no other way to describe it.

To put it bluntly, I am a thorn in everyone’s side, I see the world with a lens bereft of any joy, and it becomes a chore to even talk to me. This is not unbeknownst to me. Perhaps, this is a repeated thought, and I have jotted it down somewhere in this body of work. If I have, I hope it was done with better words and more finesse. But I reminded myself of it again last week, and since then, I have made it a point to never cease my writing. And if life comes calling, I shall answer it, but then, I shall sit and write.

Retracing my steps to where I was before I embarked on this confession, everything I do is for my benefit, and this has not been some great artistic endeavour. The truth, if I may offer such a thing, is that it does not have to be. It simply is, like most things simply are. It is as much a part of the scenery of my life as a cup of coffee gone cold sitting on the shelf because I did not finish it in time. It is a sip taken regardless.

Now that this practice of writing, of putting down pointless frivolities has resumed in earnest, I stopped myself this morning and asked, “what have I thought about lately?”

The answer, as it turned out, was sparingly little. I have not thought about a lot but that there are things in the world that I cannot do much about, and that often one life alone is hard to keep track of not to mention the weight of the entire world. My conclusion to this pointless inquiry in the morning is that we must think about things, and if thinking a lot seems to be out of the question in the spirit of time, we must think a bit but we must think, and that we must do things, we must use our hands and our minds and act, and if accomplishing everything is an impossibility, then, we must do something.

That is all there is to it, to me, to this day, to this life. I have thought a little here and there, and then, I have done some things, and I have good confidence on being able to say hitherto it has been enough. And it may be enough for the years to come. There will be no ballads or tales about this life, but I am certain it will be talked about. Perhaps, at the dinner table at some casual soiree when their plates are empty of agendas and topics, and that is what it will have stood for: a manageable little. But it will have stood for something. I reckon, that is a good result.

Of all things that can happen to a person, becoming happier is the most challenging of all. At first, it seems to be a distant goal, unreachable, the proverbial pot of gold, even a smidge of it seems to make the most ambitious of us scoff. And then, you find yourself wasting a sunny Sunday, and instead of a picnic, planned in the most excruciating detail, you choose to do laundry, and then, you have some coffee, and sit for hours, stopping only for a peck here, a stray kiss there. It occurs to you just how frighteningly easy happiness seems, how fleeting and ephemeral the glee of it all is, as if it were a delicate trinket from a faraway place, ready to shatter at the first touch of an unsuspecting guest. It appears uncomfortably fragile as you sit on the couch for a little bit of infinity, and yet, there it is.

And that is where you stop, thinking if it is here, then I must let it be, undisturbed, unbothered. I must feign aloofness. I must not let it know about my agency, about how I, too, can do things, can break things. I must pretend to be a character in the background of the most delightful day, continuing to move about in an apartment—one of many—and be a person—one of many—and let the day turn into the night, and the night into the morning, sticking to the script, forevermore.

It is a cozy January morning, and tired and half-asleep as I am, I feel like writing again. I sit here in a sort of a whiteout as the sky and the world outside this apartment slowly comes to life. And the faint tone of the alarm in the other room makes me smile for I know she will take her time to wake up regardless. I make my coffee and sit with the keyboard to begin again. I write the first sentence.

And then, I write it again, and then, I write it again, and it occurs to me that apologies are in order for I have wasted the moment, the stride in all my busy-ness, that the words do not wait for anyone, and now, I shall be stuck forever, and that apologies are in order, but then, I look up. I look up at the light coming out the window, and I realise that this morbid business does not belong here, does not belong today, and to the now. The birds chatter outside as if there is some great news about, and there is! I have picked it up again—the proverbial pen. And what candle does this fallow hold to the abundance of words that is, that will be in my life? It flickers and disappears. What choice does it have?

The refrigerator’s hum fills the air while the faint alarm continues to ring in the other room and claims authority. I stop writing and stretch my fingers once—this is not as easy as it has always looked. Then, I stop altogether and get off the couch. I must go wake her up, and I must sit with her and whisper sweet nothings. The words can wait. The world can wait. A lot of it can stay put till we begin this day. There will be time to do the rest. I have since learned there is an order of precedence to things, to life, and that living it trumps almost everything else. How silly that this of all things is my newfound insight. How silly indeed.