Eterna Sinfonia da Solidão

I remember the day 
when I was kept away from lingering worry at night— 
in commute,
to some far off place where material had to be preserved—
that in hand was menaced, and judged, 
and in the process rose embers of flamboyance, and ashes, and dust—
but it was all just harmless banter for us.
A man seated in the chamber across, 
in the upper level, reading a book that I'd kept for long, 
but never touched. 

'To Kill a Mockingbird' the title read, 
or that's how my memory serves, 
in accordance with all that I've lost and kept,
glared at, or used, enough to retain a record of—
in a little book collection I'd used to fill an empty shelf. 

The man would too soon become a subject to erasure,
as the train progressed, anticipation grew, and the doors clacked. 
The moment approached:
to see the people I'd never seen, 
to visit places,
to get accustomed to a secluded display of shame after all. 
It felt grandiose, as everything came to be, 
a brief encounter of the road that led to the valley, 
dust airborne in the state of Bihar,
a village that still orchestrated their housing with stone, wood and mud.

A red lamp lit up on the roof the following night, 
when my hair succumbed to a familiar rash that itched and bled. 
It was the dust, the bed, this red light, I said 
to an audience that was on parole:
unwilling to look, listen, or speak, 
I somewhat understood their will:
a train to some far off place was a momentary escape 
from earning a daily wage in a cage, 
wrought into them young in age; 
yet never cleanly or fully, or with the intent of establishing solace 
with the condition they donate with succession. 

The ceiling was closer then: 
never rose the sun.
We glared out our tainted window, 
until a faint white light came emerged from the dark—
it was the moon—we’d begin to talk. 
Now there was a weight on our heads: 
in light it lived, and fell upon us when we walked—
to meet, talk, mourn, relish, or breathe—
we saw remorse come to life as sweat emerged, and we began to bleed. 

I never entered a room that I was suddenly and utterly so desperate to find— 
not in hotels, or monasteries, 
or when I walked past these foreign people, 
around my age, speaking in the same tongue I do, 
wearing a peculiar face. 
I never performed the songs I wrote, 
the music was odd: piano instrumentals 
written purely for the expression of teenage desire and distraught. 

And the people too winced and laughed, 
when I took to the street in a quiet, solemn walk, 
or looked a moment too long at a book, or some indigenous mask 
I was yet too young to afford. 
I saw intent die, 
and the thought of suicide solidify, 
then crumble apart.
Humility was learnt again, 
and the ritual of shame, inferiority, and blame. 

I slipped into bed and held my voice as tears came. 
I had expected a call, or a knock on the door;
a person trying their best 
to comprehend who I was and all that I'd held.
The turmoil then subtly stated
that there was no working prayer, 
or consolidation upfront despite the intent to change.
I knew there was no effect of miracle,
I knew somewhat,
 that there was no helping hand in the way.

'What a valley, what a view!'
 I was soon taken on a long drive 
through remote villages and tea farms. 
Here I would meet the first distinct local 
of bones and flesh—walking past in a single moment, 
meeting my gaze, then turning away 
into a minor settlement further ahead.
One fleeing sight properly remains: 
a woman walking out the backyard of a cabin,
perhaps freshly out of a bath;
with a bucket of laundry, hair tied in a scarf, 
blue shirt, trousers root red, 
a face melded in serenity, 
and monotony by the uneventfulness of it all.

In Darjeeling, a man came to my door,
offering to take me to a kinder sun tomorrow, at quarter past four.
A small trip to the mall road, and readied for the event, 
I got into the car expecting a reward, garnering some semblance of hope—
several shrines came in the way, 
Tibetan flags and symbols propelled on every skyline that came along, 
then the sun rose—
a defeated warmth rising in the frost,
amongst clouds, and heavy haze—
light here was made devoid of weight;
no sweat on the flesh, bleeding didn't commence. 
The sun rose from the unwavering snowy whites
that expelled and engulfed the sun everyday, in due time;
yet remaining treacherously cold, exhibiting frost. 

The dream had quite the run; 
I met Buddha under a feeble sun, 
with every ray of light that fell upon me, 
every ray that wasn’t expelled with contempt or distrust, 
I felt tenderness seethe, and warmth settle.
The moment that was inherently different
from the internalised prison back home, 
yet equally as inviting, only this time, 
it called with a voice that was alive.
I felt a mountain rise above the mist, 
granting me a view—
declaring itself alive.

The dream was coming to an end I knew, 
so I planned to write a song when I reach home,
to an audience that had long escaped, 
and immersed in some auditorium:
to spectate art being orchestrated instead, 
run by people that pick the performers, 
and stare from above.