Author: Sumita

Lately I’ve found that I dream in two layers. The first one is a soft and fluffy layer which I refer to as the ultra conscious. Very much in the vein of ultra soft and ultra comfortable …you get the drift. And then there’s the second layer which is a little coy about revealing itself initially and when it does ..oh boy, it just flies out of some subterranean  consciousness where it had probably festered for some time till it was shoved out kicking and screaming. Truly the sub-conscious is one big, messed up space where anger and humiliation meet up with unhappiness and disappointments.

Just the other day I had barely fallen asleep and I was surprised to see Ms Hyacinth appear in the top, fluffy layer of my dream. I remember being surprised because she was the teacher I had hated most in primary school. She was mean, vicious and ugly and till date I think it is one of life’s greatest mysteries why someone would’ve named her Hyacinth. True to her nature she tore through the soft layer and landed in the sub-conscious where it took fat Mrs Proctor and the anemic looking Ms Sybil a lot of effort to drag her out. Thankfully she won’t be poking holes in my dreams anymore.

The most irritating ones are those where the second layer interrupts when I’ve just started sinking into the soft, comfortable layer. I hate those dreams. They leave me confused and irritated and I hate being either.  Lions marching up to me to deliver messages suddenly appearing along side a quiet walk in the hills. Seriously, is there no end to my dreams trying to upend my realities?

But there is a silver lining to all this. It is when my second layer is so full of the colours of happiness that it seeps into the comfy upper layer and then they both bundle me in a warm cocoon of contentment with the ends all neatly tied up. Sheer bliss does exist. As do Peter Pan and Santa Claus!

My right toe bears the scars of a passionate encounter that happened many years ago.  The passion was snuffed out soon after by circumstances, but the scar has stayed on till date. My long suffering right toe bears it with dignity and a look of hurt innocence.

There is something to be said for scars that outstay their period of welcome. It’s like the friend you took to warmly and then she turned around and kicked you in the shins when you least expected it. The aforementioned (I so love the word. Sounds deliciously pompous) right toe has taken upon the burden of the scar with tired grace. Yes, there is something like that. When grace is forced upon something and in the process gets frayed at the edges, that’s when it becomes tired.

And so the toe continued on. Ever so often it would give me a look of mild rebuke as if to say, you couldn’t have handled things better? You had to do this to me? It was almost like one of those mistakes you make in life that you just cannot forget. Not even when you’re sitting on the porch on a rainy day, sipping a hot cup of coffee, at peace with the world. It pops up just like the neighbourhood vagrant and leaves behind the unpleasant odour of a decision made with little thought and edged with rashness.

Sometimes when I’m lying on my back on the yoga mat my leg poised at a ninety degree angle, the toe in my line of vision I feel the burden of its innocence. How it had suffered pain and a lifetime of indignity because it was first in the line of fire.

Have you ever held up a painful memory or a lurking, unhappy thought against the light?  Just to look at it and figure out why it still brings tears to the eyes or a smile to the lips?. You know….like you do with a dead flower that sits between the pages of a book or the wings of a long gone butterfly that pops up in the notebook where your mother had written down some recipes.  I’ve tried a few times. Unsuccessfully.

Firstly, because the minute I hold it up the frayed edges begin to disintegrate. Some of the thoughts/memories begin to clump together in the middle like ugly mud pies so that I don’t know which strand belongs where. For instance, why do I keep seeing Bharati’s crying face right next to me as I’m watching Christopher Hutchins playing the guitar on stage in the school auditorium? She was in college and here’s me in school with an asteroid size crush on the blue-eyed, blond hair Christopher. You see what I mean? Really annoying!

But there’s good too. Every delicate little strand shows up in the light and I get to relive some wonderful moments. Like the first time I smelt the sea and the time two fireflies got entangled in my hair and lit it up from within.  But wait, I digress. We started out talking about painful memories. And yes, I do have those and not all of them are stuck together in clumps. But funnily enough, when I hold them up against the light, it doesn’t hurt that much. I guess that’s the magic.

A long time ago a wise little soul had told me, reliving a memory is a good thing. It aids the digestion process. Of course, she didn’t exactly say reliving….she said chewing up! I had laughed out loud then. Today I cannot help but wonder, if it isn’t such a bad idea. Chewing up a bad memory and then spitting it out. As if to say, that’s it. I’m done with you. I’m not going to let you sneak up on me and harass me. Oh no, you’ve done that enough. And today you’re just a pile of bile or whatever it is that memories are made of.

I’m not sure if the decision to be born as a cat was mine or if it was decided for me. If it was then clearly someone out there read my mind right down to the last comma. Personally I don’t believe that such amazing coincidences happen and trust me, I’ve seen quite a few of those. But yes, I did have very strong feline sensitivities and so here I am. A cat in a cat’s body with a mind that is razor sharp and eyes that have always evoked an immediate hush. I remember seeing one person look away the time she looked into my eyes. I could see a distinct shudder pass through her. Such things rarely bother me. I am, what is best described as, unflappable. I believe that is an excellent trait for a cat.

I won’t bother you with descriptions of how I look and the way I walk. I’m a cat, for god’s sake. How different can I be. But I’ve heard some loud whispers occasionally of how spooky I can be and how I can evoke shivers to run down spines. Not sure if that is even possible. A shiver rarely goes anywhere near the spine.

As far back as I can remember I’ve loved the languid feline-ness that comes with being a part of the cat family. The long, sensual stretch that can be such a pleasure to view and experience, the soft footed walk and the silent presence. The last especially is truly fantastic. Can’t remember how many times I’ve sneaked up on people without them ever being aware of it. Like the time I watched N fast asleep her quick shallow breathing gradually giving in to a deep steady flow interrupted by sporadic little grunts, as if of ecstasy. I had sneaked in and settled myself in a dark corner right next to the golden pool of light which came from the night lamp. Light and darkness right next to each other. Some people would have called it poetic. I just found it to be convenient.

You know what’s funny, the fact that even if I’m caught sneaking up on someone it doesn’t bother them as much as it should. They smile in relief, some look away with a glimmer of fear in their eyes while some just look a little creeped out. But there’s one whose expression I still remember because it was none of the above. He was reading a book in a quiet corner of the house. I was new in the house, i.e. I didn’t belong there. I had found the back door slightly open and had walked in with nonchalance. I strolled around the over done up living room and from there to the kitchen which had more gadgets than dishes. From there I went up the flight of stairs and into the library. I love libraries because they smell so interesting. Musty, neglected or loved (depending on the people) and full of half spoken thoughts.

The library here was fairly well kept. At least it was not dusty in the corners. As soon as I entered I caught the whiff of rancid fear. Hmmm, interesting that this smell existed in the library. I casually glanced around and that’s when I noticed the chair in the corner. The occupant was almost entirely hidden except for his head which was visible just above the chair. It was a small head fully covered with wiry brown hair. I was curious so I did my usual soft footed walk up to the chair and sat down close to his right side. As expected, he was not aware of my presence. His face was bent close to something soft and furry as he held it close to him. He was whispering something over and over again. Seemed a little odd because whatever it was that he was holding, did not respond.

I sat there and waited. I’m used to that. Actually I quite enjoy it. The look on the person’s face suddenly finding me there is priceless.

I must’ve moved because suddenly the wiry haired person holding the furry thing turned around and looked straight at me. I felt a jolt run through me. It had never happened before. As if something within me was on high voltage. His face was ordinary. Small, pale, smooth and sly. His eyes were like reflectors revealing nothing within. The furry thing in his hands was a toy. Perhaps? I didn’t quite pay attention. All I could do was stare at him, hypnotically and as I did I slowly watched those reflector eyes change colour. From blank to gray to gray green. It was like I was looking into a mirror. Just for a second I felt like I had disappeared into those eyes and into that smooth, pale face.

And then that sensation disappeared. I was back where I was. Sitting in a chair, holding a furry toy.

There’s an old saying that goes, if you have too many memories then break them up into small pieces and store them. I tried doing that but I noticed that if I didn’t store them carefully the older ones tend to get brittle and break off and then I don’t know how to put them back together again. For instance, my memory of how I learnt to embroider my name broke off at the edges and all I now have left is the memory of a needle going in and out which meanders away to the sound of someone shouting “not with your hands, silly use your elbows”.

My friend Jo said to me the other day that she stores her memories in an old rosewood box that belonged to her grandmother. That way when she loses the brittle bits at least there is thin waft of rosewood smell in the air which helps her understand where it may have fallen. Of course, that doesn’t help her track them down because usually the neighbour’s cat gets to them first. Amazing how it knows exactly where to find them. One time she caught it with the last piece of her how to bake a muffin memory.

I have a tendency to wrap my favourite memories in bubble wrap paper, so that if they attempt to break off then it will give out a warning pop. The last time I heard the pop I managed to rescue some pieces of my school memories. Was that my history teacher looking pleased to see me? That couldn’t be right. It must have got mixed up. But still that doesn’t explain her smile. Somehow, a memory of a teacher smiling at me couldn’t be from my stash. I was sure of that.

Sometimes on a rainy afternoon I pull out a memory from the bottom of the stack and go through it. It’s so much better than reading a book. I pull them out randomly to surprise myself and the last time I did that I had a scare because it was of the time I went for a picnic and got lost and then out of nowhere this talking rabbit popped up and asked me politely where I wanted to go. I realized then that while storing it I had mixed it up with the one of my school play where Bir had played a talking rabbit but he would always forget his lines.

Some memory pieces that get a little faded I use instead of ice cubes, in my drink. Love the way they clink against the glass and then squish against each other. I could’ve sworn that I saw Kamal bubble up in my glass of sangria. The wine made his face look mottled and his curly hair fizzed angrily as I deliberately swirled the glass. That will teach you to reject me for Kiki. All she had was sassiness. How could that count for anything? And when he melted down to the dregs I shouted out with sheer delight. Aah yes, some memories deserve to die a wine-soaked death!