When I read Dickinson

The monkey hangs down the creepy long greens

Amidst the sun kissed leaves

Through the spotted rains

Through the blues of the sky

While Emily Dickinson warms my bed

And the speckled dust hugs my window panes

I question life and death and possibility and probability

I think about her life of seclusion; her life of reservation; of death and of disease

Of words and letters;

I hug my knees

And smugly smile

At the similarity and duality of lives across centuries

I could read a poem and relate to the poet

I could live her life through her work

And see her dreams through her eyes

I could live the melancholy of her life

And the rapturous joy in her life

I could live multiple lives

In a lone solitary life

I could live a million lives

In a lone solitary life!

 

 

The finality of death!

She was an embodiment of courage, of affection, of determination, of love! She was a spirited woman. I adored and respected her. The earliest memories I have of her is that of getting down from the train at the Cuttack station, bag and baggage in hand, duly assisted by her husband. The love that they shared was of the no nonsense kind. Yet there was an innocence to it, which did not escape my eyes. He fretted over the minutest details when it came to her and she exactly knew what was running in his mind. There was an effortless communication, which hardly ever boasted of the need for a verbal exchange. I believe they met and had fallen in love on a ship, in a journey that had taken over a month. Their enthusiasm to undertake journeys, even at the age of 80, was palpable.
She unfailingly called on each of my birthdays. She struck a chord with each and every member of the immediate and extended family. She commanded a peculiar sense of respect and warmth. Once, on a visit to Chandigarh, she held me in her lap and related stories of her yesteryears. I vividly remember the stories. Next, she took me to a bookshop and bought me a host of Enid Blyton books.
Her annual visits to Cuttack were always remembered and cherished, long after she left. I remember sitting next to her and watching her seamlessly weave a black bun into her thin, wiry, silvery hair.
Today, while I was commuting, I got a call. She was no more. A sudden sense of grief engulfed me. I brushed away the tears that had sprung up in my eyes. I was shaken. I am still shaken, by the abruptness of the incident.
I was never emotionally close to her. Yet I realized that those seemingly simple annual rituals had forged some sort of a bond, a special one which transcended age and time. I had spoken to her a week ago. She seemed hale and hearty. She was gung ho about her anniversary celebrations and extremely enthusiastic about visiting the backwaters of Kerela. Death, however intruded, unannounced and took her away from us! I hope, pray and sincerely wish that God gives her better half and her immediate family, the courage to stride over these difficult times.