While thinking about death, I realise, all of us might be afraid of death. We know of death as the ultimate destination and shy away from it. Some religions say there is heaven, some believe in reincarnation. All of them refute death as the end. They say “There must be something more.” Perhaps we do not like endings, we wish there was just a little more time for us to exist, to be.
Is the fear of death the fear that we will be forgotten and unimportant? Lost among the millions who came before us and the millions to come. Our identity swept away in the sea of people. Overpopulation really does drive our fear of death. Or maybe we fear death not because it is the end, rather, because it is unknown.
I believe that we are terrified of the unknown and anything we can not understand. Math is the fear of infinite complexities we can not comprehend. Death is something like that. We know it is. We do not know what it is. Can death be explained by a lack of a heartbeat? But being alive is not just having a heartbeat. Then how can the end of life be categorised by the absence of something that does not define being alive?
The reality is that we know what death looks like but do not know what death is. What happens after we are dead? Perhaps there is nothingness. Respite from the chaos of the world. Does a dead person feel respite? If death is a flatline, maybe not. The only respite they have is their last moments, when they know that there is nothing ahead. Maybe it brings them fear, knowing there is nothing ahead. We give life so much value, we forget that life is only worth the moments we truly lived. We tell ourselves that life has a purpose, we have a purpose and that is why we are here. We try to explain existence the way we explain death. A little ironic, no?
I can’t swear in my mother tongue. Funny how that works. The language I was brought up speaking is the very language I can not express pain or anger in. What I’m saying is I’m not well versed in my mother tongue. What I’m saying is foreign words roll off my tongue with ease, while Marathi struggles at the back of my throat. It’s an itch that won’t go away, an itch I can’t scratch. A part of my existence that was never really important to me, but a part of me nonetheless. I guess it is kind of weird that I can’t really claim to be fluent in my mother tongue. Because I was raised by it. Yet, my thoughts flow in English and abuses erupt in Hindi. My poetry is Urdu. I speak my mind, not my mother tongue.
On some days I wonder whether I should be happy I speak my mother tongue at all. On some days it isn’t enough. It’s never enough. This disconnect stems from a place of not knowing, rather, denying myself that identity. I don’t regret that Marathi isn’t at the heart of my identity. I do wish I spoke the language fluently, my language. It is the language my parents inherited their culture in. It is the language that tells stories of my ancestors. It is the language I was given at birth. Yet I am not of the language. I am as foreign to the language, as it is to me.
So, we try to learn from each other. We try to grow together. Some days I take a step forward, and some days the language does. We dance the merry dance of words, never once missing a beat. But we miss out on words, the enunciation, certain phrases. We miss out on inside jokes. Yet we move in sync. There is harmony. My tongue can feel the rhythm of the words before I learn them. I am spinning, I’m in a trance. I’m lost in the sheer joy. My mother tongue is not familiar, but it is a home I am learning to own.
Geeli aankhon ke gile-shikwe hai hazaar
Kamzor hota hai kyu dil baar baar
Na mareez ko pucho uska ilaaj hai kya
Aashiq ko na pucha uska ilzaam hai kya
It’s like the end of summer is here. When the mangoes are over and the skies start turning black too early. It’s the end of lazing around in bed until noon. It’s the end of long days spent outdoors. It’s the end of childhood.
You look around your room for the last time and realise the books are exactly where you left them last summer. The sun is setting and the kids outside are shrieking with laughter. The romantic in you thinks of the morning and replays each moment. The fog settles onto the leaves and become dew. The sun shines softly through the mist. The beautiful flowers bloom in your balcony. Your mother’s new children. Because you’re not a child anymore. You will leave her nest. To explore the world, to learn new arts, to build your own nest.
But what of your parents home? The comfort, the love and warmth that we could never bring into our own lives. What of the smiling sun that caresses your skin and the mist that settles on leaves like dewdrops on your cheeks? What of home that has become a memory? So you soak in every drop of sunlight and let it warm your heart. Because summer is warmth, summer is home, and summer is over.
Trampoline parks are amazing. There is something wonderful about jumping around with abandon, no care in the world. Sure, there are the sprains, twisted ankles, crooked necks. But the dazzlings smiles and laughter make everything worth it. There is magic in being carefree. Magic in not having to worry about the world. What I am trying to say is that I went to a trampoline park today and had an amazing time. It could have been the zoo. It could have been home. But it was a trampoline park. And it was refreshing. It’s funny how you don’t even realise how tiny things make your day. And honestly, going out did make my day. I bounced. And it didn’t mean leaving the party. The party was bouncing.
Catharsis 