With time

I liked this poem: The Art of Losing

In the desert, the sun sets slowly. Almost lovingly. The wind blows wild and free. The skeletons on the pepper trees, the stark grey rocks of the mountains all around, the blandness of the sand and the empty roads snaking through it, the far flung houses, few and far apart, the hum of the crickets in the background, which grows to a deafening drone come evening. The sound of the sea in the distance, the road winding between the rocky mountains, and the sudden glimpse of the sea on the left, wet, deep, rich blue and green and holding up a perfect blue, cloudless sky, that springs on you without warning as you drive to town.

Inside the house, all is changed. A few years back, she refurnished it. There are huge cream leather sofa's and huge glossy grey and black tiles. There's the red telephone box bar and low lamps next to the home entertainment system. At first glance, it looks like a home, almost.

Outside, its still the same. The eucalyptus tree sighs in the breeze, arching above the garden swing, which we still sit on come evening, and whisper hushed secrets. The stars hang low in the cerullean sky. The moon is fat and yellow, glowing in the dark like an ornament in some grungy night hole. The little pool with the turtle is new. From time to time Panda runs away from us and goes there to nose a hello to the inhabtant, forever friendly and usually unwelcome. shamelessly, she never gets the hint.

Most of the times, she lies at my feet panting when I sit in the garden. The black and white stands out in the dark. I am amazed at her constant, ceaseless energy. Was Bonzo this tiring? I always beleived Dalmations are more intelligent that many other dogs. Panda of mine, where are your brains, my lovely? I shout to her, learn to be restful girl, no one will marry you if you keep jumping around all day.

Barbie said, imagine if Bonzo was still alive and we had gotten him married to Panda. Yeah, imagine a 101 Dalmations crowding the house! As if the chickens and the turtles and the fish and the cockatoo's werent enough! I tell her that if Bonzo was still alive, we wouldnt have had Panda.

She bought 'in her shoes specially'. She seemed almost apologetic for Diaz. I thought it was the biggie that was a b$£"& though. Poor little one. Imagine ur little sister has a crisis and ur too tired to listen. Bah! But heart rending anyway, when watched with ur own little sister.

And then we saw 'must love dogs'. I see everything with Cussack, so I wonder how I missed this one. It really is like that. When you cross 30 and are still single and dry, suddenly your lovelife becomes everyones business and noone has any qualms what so ever about asking the strangest of questions in the most public of places.

Friends fade with time. Suddenly your grown up and one of them. The way you swore you will never be, when friends are casualand to pass the time of the day with and noone in the world really knows you, or anything about.

Its been a week since I left home. Its so strange to think of how much life has changed in just a week. There are still strong winds blowing outside all night. They were wet and cool. Now they are dry and warm. The strict routine, delightfully boring, wonderfully, peacefully unvarying, the calm solitude, the mind numbing silence, the clean, stark, spartan emptiness of the hours, have evaporated in the desert sun. There life, and liveliness. Colours rioting everywhere. Flowers. Voices. Laughter. Chaos. But the solitude remains. The hours remain. The tired wonder remains. It just changes forms.

My mother is here too. Its like school holidays of old times. Those who have stay-at-home mums, dont know, wont understand, the delight of running in from outdoors to a kitchen smelling nicely of food and a mum cooking and smiling. And flowers on the dining table. And newspapers on the floor. She wanders around the house tidying up, in a faded gown of some sort. She watched the telly in the other room. and pops in once in a while to fatten up the calves, with strawberry smoothies and chopped papayas. And summons us once a day to sit still at her feet while she does strange things to our hair and faces.

Dad smiles and hums as he plays with his new toy: the dlsr. We are that kind of a family. Everyone does their own thing, in their own room, yet we love to be under one roof. Some strange joy in the knowlege that the others are around, though we rarely sit together and talk, unless we are fighting out something, though we know its fleeting and come the end of the month, each will go their way, to their own jobs and places.

When I am alone, I miss Edinburgh. The wet, cool winds. The 'fairy mist' like showers. The occasional snow. The quiet. The peace. The people (Some more so than the rest). But I guess it had to be this way. It was just meant to be. But how did I fall for the place so badly? I really miss it. Its almost always on my mind. But I guess its better to have found a place you really really loved, for a Gypsy soul like like mine, and be away from it, miss it, than be searching forever. And it will fade, i know. It will pass and I will forget. Nothing lasts forever.

I will be in Calcutta on the 23rd. I want to go to the Park Street Cemetary again. I want to go to the river side. It will be strange to be living in Cal without the old people, the old friends, without you. But it will be strangely sweet to be back at the lakes at 5 in the morning. Watching the silk surfaced water, turn from lead to silver as the sun wakes it up. The green dust floating on its edges. The rowers shouting at eachother as they move along. The hanging bridge, old and sighing, arching over one corner. The old haunts. SPE. The terrace. The flowers. The bonsai. The tennis. And my room will soon be what it used to be. With time, I will remember, and settle down again.

Originally Posted at Prerona.