Why I Doodle

I don't write for you to know. I write to find out for myself.

What I'm saying is...

Stranded.

There are times I stand convinced that the very concept of Time is flawed. Not often thought through.

It is, after all, only a warped output of the control freak mankind has been through the ages and continues to be. It is an expression of the need to measure our moments, which in turn measures our actions. This need to define time and to appropriate thereon is inherently accepted, never questioned. Because hey, Time knows what it’s doing. It can judge, it can change, it can reveal, it can heal.

But I’ll tell you what, time cannot heal. You say it to a child with a bruised shin and you say it to a grieving orphan. You say it without really knowing what you’re promising. You say it despite having had the same said to you! I use the word “despite” because deep down you know time had nothing to do with your recovery, be it from a scraped knee or a personal loss.

You just started to think differently about that loss. That can be done at any stage, on day one, day hundred or never. That’s how some people care two hoots about scraped knees and distant deaths. Not because Time, in all its wise benevolence, decided to give them Tatkal treatment and heal them sooner.

It’s been a while, some people remind me. “Surely, you must be over it by now?” Allow me to ask what it means to “get over” something or someone. Another common favourite is “So you haven’t come to terms with it yet?” Tell me once again, what does “coming to terms” involve?

Does it mean you don’t think of it anymore? That it isn’t the only thing on your mind when you take a break from slaving away, wasting away, all in an effort to distract your mind? That when you do think of it, you only remember the good parts?

Does it mean the issue doesn’t “affect” you anymore? That you don’t break down when you think of it? That if you had to go through it again, you’d come out unscarred? Or that you now have the courage in you to go through something similar?

If your answer to all of these questions is Yes, my response to them would have to be in the negative.

Does it mean you haven’t accepted what happened?

Again, I don’t understand what “acceptance” people speak of. Do I realize and understand that the man I loved most is dead, gone forever? Yes. Do I not understand that his body went from decaying flesh to ashes in a matter of hours, all before my eyes? I do understand. Do I expect him to signal me in any way? No. Do I expect Nana to walk in the door with that impish grin on his face, telling me this was all a prank? No.

What am I supposed to accept here? I understand the finality. I understand the implications. I understand the responsibility. I don’t understand what you’re asking me. And I don’t think I will ever understand what you’re asking of me. Because you don’t understand it either.

Surrounded by all this talk, it can only be called the height of irony that the one physical object that ties me to him keeps time. It took me months to gather the courage to ask Nani if I could have it. It’s taking me weeks to wear it without reminiscing or breaking down. And like all that’s precious, it comes with a deeper story.

It was purchased shortly before Mom’s wedding. It was the first delivery Bombays’s virgin Titan store made. It was the watch Nana wore on his wrist for as long as I remember. So many memories, so many associations…  all rushing in, all getting entangled.

It’s a 22 year old story in a language I can’t begin to decode. And a strand of coarse black hair trapped within its links.