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| Warwan Trek, August 2023 |
Like old friends, my blogging space and I pick up from where we left. The vast gaps between our meetings don't matter. It's been so long that the default browser on my laptop doesn't show my blog link any more.
It was the walk, last week, my first morning walk this May, thanks to a sore back. Or perhaps I've been lazy--late nights on Netflix come with side-effects. Maybe, it's the planetary shifts that have kept me from rising with the sun.
Not expecting any explanations for my absence, the Gulmohur, crimson and abundant, greeted me with the ease of an old friend as I made my way down the familiar rubberised path flanked by Neem, Ficus and grandfatherly Olive trees in Aspire Park. The sprinklers came on, as if on cue, creating rainbows with tender sunbeams. I must write a blog post today, I thought.
A writer friend had recently shared a chapter of his novel and in it was this word. The moment I read the said word, two things happened at once--I was reminded of a valley in Kashmir and the soundtrack from Sound of Music became an earworm. Edelweiss. I picked up my phone to check if the valley was indeed as achingly beautiful as my memory believed it to be. The photos and videos clicked in August 2023, set in a grid of three by nine on my phone screen, whooshed me back in time.
There I was, miraculously present in the golden hour in the middle of a moment so lush with Edelweiss that no matter how hard I tried, which angle I took, whether kneeling on my knees or sprawled on my tummy in the ticklish grass, its immense expanse refused to squeeze into any of the lenses in my possession--not my phone's, nor the mirrorless Sony's, and definitely not my eyes. Greedily, I wanted to absorb it all in a single scoop. I couldn't. Its magic spilled out like golden marbles. No matter how many times I looked, there was always more beauty to behold. Both the cameras failed pitifully. If I zoomed out, the proportions would distort. I didn't know how to capture this stunning valley--her arms open in a wide-galactic embrace, a tall purple mountain holding its horizon with the firmness of a hug. For a few precious seconds, I was breathless. Anxious to box the magic--to be able to store it for a blog post or bragging. Vanity or hubris or both. I know not. The sun would dip over the horizon and all too soon this -- this -- this -- would be over. How could I hold it? Suddenly, without my doing, my eyes closed a tad longer than a blink.
I stood there, in the middle of the valley, precious seconds before sunset, consumed with a sensation that it wasn't me who was looking at the valley, the flowers, or Kashmir. It was the other way round. That flash of a thought stilled me. Calmed me. Took away my need to consume the moment. I was being held in the valley's bosom--an infinitely tiny particle connecting with the One Infinite for a fluttering nano second. Ek Omkar.
To say I walked the rest of the way back to my tent without taking a single photo would be a lie. But something had shifted. As if an old, kind friend had reminded me of my favourite tune that I hadn't hummed in a while.
Memories, vast and unreliable, can mutate and solidify. Someone, I don't recall who, said a memory is the memory of the last time you visited it.
Since November, I've been working on a writing project. At times, it feels as vast as a valley--freeing, exuberating and then there are times when it feels like a never-ending hike--the summit so far away, my aching back screams--give up.
The trouble is this word--capture.
I'm captured by one of my favourite Maya Angelou's quotes--'There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.'' I read the quote sixteen years ago. It became my mantra. It holds me accountable when I start looking for excuses.
Then there is the practical question of skill and practice--how to capture memories, both painful and joyous, from ones life, and craft them into stories worthy of a reader's time?
I must be mad to sit at my desk, sometimes without a break, for three to four hours, pouring out stuff that makes me cry. Maybe. But, I don't have a choice. This surrendering to the story has to happen. The work must be done.
Memoir writing, I'm told, is therapy. It cleanses. I believe it does. But it is also extremely exhausting. I guess any emptying is. But, especially, if while shining light on others' shortcomings, you, mostly unknowingly, discover aspects of you that you've kept hidden from your own conscious self. That's when the writing really hits the gut. The punches can be hard. They can knock you out of your commitment. That's when friends, writing buddies, photos of flowers and memories of valleys pull you out, dust off the doubts and say, 'you got this.'
Whatever it is, big, small, clear, unclear, that is bothering you today, know this--we have to do the work. But also, dear reader, you got this.
Also, my website, lovingly and patiently designed by my sister, Seema Talwar, is live. She's been my constant cheerleader and I couldn't be happier with how gorgeous the website looks. I hope you'll check it out and share your feedback with us.
Here's the link: arti-jain.com
All photos shared in this post have been made by @arti.a.jain in August 2023
