Dear You,
It’s the fag end of the day.
As I sit here writing, sipping the last drops of coffee that have gone cold, I look at the coffee cup and the jasmine flowers it adorns. And then, as I look at the coffee powder resting at the bottom, I smell a strong and sour whiff of today.
These times of unquenchable materialistic desires and the exhausting world of over-information. Of five seconds attention span and constant scrolling on Instagram. Of increasing spaces of ignorance and shrinking spaces of silence.
Silence, like in an empty church. Like when the faint sound
of the early morning azaan is heard from the distant mosque.
I know we are better off without religions. Or God(s).
But, I am exhausted. Constantly overwhelmed.
Perhaps, because it’s the end of the day or just because of the constant darkness we live in each day, in front of our bright blue- lighted laptop screens.
I somehow can’t differentiate:
between truth and lie, between black and white.
My eyes sore from reading in-between,
the now absolute charcoal grey reality-fiction we live in.
I know, I am romanticising.
Romanticising the good old days…..
and, perhaps even myself, you whisper in my ears.
“Were they ever good? These good old days of yours.” you ask.
And then, you tell “Till until recently, women couldn’t work, vote, perform on stage or marry as per their choice. I have girlfriends from my generation who are still not ‘allowed’ to do the last two. Studied in Goldsmiths, married in conservatives. Yes you heard it right, married not to conservatives, but yes, yes in conservatives.
And, what about the tawaif (courtesan), the devadasis (temple dancer), the geisha, the kabuki… how were their days golden? The temple dancers married to God; exploited by the priests & kings. The courtesan by the men with riches. These women perpetually living in guilt and loss. In the loss of God’s love and in the loss of societal acceptance.”
“Yes, I agree” I say, solemnly, exhausted, "You are right”.
And, perhaps we should call it a night….
Yours faithfully, Me