The Revival
I wake up to the brazen sound of my alarm clock feeling like a soulless pit of lost potential again. I sit up and grab my phone to open my socials and end up doom-scrolling for an hour, smiling at others happiness while crying at others loss. I look at the time, its 11 a.m. Realizing how much time I’ve wasted, a surge of venomous guilt makes me hate myself for a second. Technology has given us far more than we can ever imagine, but like a quiet midnight thief, it has taken a lot from us as well. As I fight off the thought that the days of my life are being reduced to nothing as I live vicariously through others online, I get the idea of walking around my new neighbourhood. I get up and start getting ready to go outside.
As I step outside, the wind welcomes me with a warm hug. It’s hot outside but not the irritating kind. The kind that only exists during the month of Chaitra; remnants of a childhood memory. The same childhood in which I used to paint and write stories at my leisure. Those pastimes have now escaped me like this intangible spring wind. Nowadays, my only recreation’s my phone.
I walk not knowing where my legs will take me. Ahead of me, I see a woman sitting alone on a bench. I walk towards her. Without hesitation, I sit beside her, only a few inches gap between us. And a few words unsaid until we have a conversation. Looking at her, I realize she’s probably in her mid-sixties. She looks at me and smiles, she has a genuine smile and bright eyes. Eyes that never age, in a peculiar way she’s younger than me. I think she could tell I lack the spirit she prides herself with because she starts speaking to me. “Do you live nearby?” she asks. “Yes, I moved in recently, haven’t looked around the neighbourhood yet,” I reply solemnly. Hearing this, her eyes light up as she grabs me by my hand and stands up. Surprised, I let out a quiet gasp and stand up with her. She starts walking with my hand in hers as I try to keep up with her. “Where are you taking me?” I ask stupefied. She says, almost with religious conviction, “Something sweet about pleasantries, About incoherent smiles or tricks. Or mistaken eye contacts- Looking into each other’s ‘guise. Something scary about familiarity, Like the unnoticed bland taste of life; the loop of a burning sun and a peeking moon. That love might just be fleeting moments worth embracing; Worth embracing the colours that suffuse our life.
Something electric about the voracity of our minds words; the Charybdis of our thoughts. Pour your potable words over the earth and let it shape a path for you. Give me a taste of your words and I’ll give you a taste of mine.”
I stop in my tracks trying to soak in her words. Understanding, she stands by me as the midday sun glares down at us. I feel the warmth of her soul and the comforting hand of hope on my shoulder. “Will you go with me?” she asks softly. “Take me with you,” I say without hesitation. The old woman takes me to a rundown building with a massive nameplate at the front. It says, “Manobotar Ovayaronno” -the Sanctuary of Humanity. At its entrance the guard let us enter only after we gave him our phones. I feel vulnerable without my phone but it’s also liberating. The old woman leads me into a big room with grey walls, red curtains, windows and a few antique wooden chairs. Slowly, many people start filling in the empty seats around us. A man appears before us and asks us who wants to go first. Confused, I look around for answers but everyone looks ahead attentively. A girl goes to the front. She starts reciting: “Art is a drop of water that you yearn for in deserts, It’s grief masked by melancholy, It’s the chorus of laughter on the streets, The dimmed light of shops existing from long before me, The bending curves of mother earth, The filial banyan trees’ bondage with each root, Art is the first sounds a child learns to make, It’s the journey from dusk till dawn by trains undestined, A forgiving smile of the moon, Or scandalous winks by night stars, it’s the light you see with your eyes shut before the raging sun, Art is blind and forgiving. Art is provoking and humane. Art lends us the sensations of life.” Everyone claps when she finishes. The old woman casts a sideways smile at me. I can’t help but smile back. “That was beautiful,” I whisper to her. One after another, people recite the poems they wrote. Their words reverberating among us like an echo.
I realize that this is what’s been missing in my life- this exchange of words, of art, of humanity replacing digital monotony. Art is the blood coursing through our veins. Art distinguishes between mankind and mechanoids. The death of art is the death of humanity. I feel the passion emanating from every one and can’t help but fall in love. I glance at the old woman and suddenly it occurs to me how much of an impact she’s made on me with such a short encounter. But, that’s all it takes sometimes- an exchange of a few words between souls.
The concrete wall is no more itself,
It carries the vitality of being spotted by elusive colours;
Colours that prove existence.
I gained back my soul today.
