Stranger That I’ve Become
A cold and misty morning. The skies a redolent grey, having rained the night before. The scent of the damp mud tingles all the way to the forehead, the smell not the evanescent pleasance when the first drops grace the earth, but a caustic moss-ridden damp, evidence of a long spell of rain.
The tyres of the bicycle emit a steady sluishing sound from the wet roads. A thin trail emerges on the road by the traction of the relatively new tyres, and an occasional spray hits the feet as they’re pedalling through the deserted roads. It seems the rain kept most of the walkers and morning people indoors. But not me.
There’s a long road ahead. And I’ve got lots on my mind. For starters, pedalling wasn’t this hard as I remember. There used to be a calm ease with which I could pedal and propel my cycle forward. I don’t know if it’s just me or if it’s my age or my lack of fitness, seems a bit hard today.
A bunch of street puppies greet me with enthusiasm, their tails wagging and their squeals joyous at seeing a familiar face on a deserted morning. Their mother used to be a friend, but she hasn’t been seen for quite some time. I stop, open my packet of biscuits and feed them. Placing them in three separate places ensures they all get enough to eat. Grouping them together would be a disaster. Their breakfast set, I carry on.
The next leg of my ride goes across empty roads, but the wide open space doesn’t evoke a sense of wonder or joy. It’s just a lot of bushes and unkempt parcels of land. Sometimes I wonder whether a simple displacement or applied pressure on a part of land could somehow remake the terrain so that it becomes wide and awe-inspiring. But that would be too much power for one person. My editorial mind reminds me that that’s just hubris finding an imaginative outlet.
There’s a strange cacophony of voices all vying to come to the forefront. And yet the pedalling somehow keeps a lid on all these voices from becoming needless conversations with self. I oftentimes wonder if my gaze gives away the words being uttered. I have often been told by many that I am unreadable and that one can never tell what I am thinking or what I am about to say next. Some people even call it a superpower. Me? I have absolutely no idea why they say so. But there is someone who I think gets me. Someone I’m going to meet today if I’m lucky.
I emerge from the slightly marshy area onto the main highway. The wind picks up its pace, the sound whooshing in my ears. I realise I’m riding against the wind so a bit more effort is needed. Sure, anything that can help propel this forward. I pedal hard, the exercise exhausting me faster than I had anticipated. Damn, I need to eat healthier. For I don’t think this is sustainable. A lot of things I feel are unsustainable at the moment, energy levels being just one of them.
A few heavy vehicles pass me by. Their horns muffled and reluctant, only a mere indication of them overtaking me. The road is practically empty and the heavy cloud cover seems to have deterred even the labourers who stand by the highway to catch whatever transport they can find. I ride on. The furthest end of the northern horizon opens up, where slivers of light penetrate the cloud cover, illuminating the skies. Yet right beside loom the darkest of clouds, their juxtaposition a strange disconnect between colours.
I am also slowly acknowledging the vast disconnect that I feel with everything going around me. Our immediate surroundings are one thing, the endless everyday chatter indoors another. The crumbling situation of our day to day lives, the tragedy unfolding leagues away, their sorry plight a mere image that becomes etched in our minds through screens, and the sheer absurdity of having to write something so irrelevant during my regular work, all seems to play heavily on my mind.
I remember there used to be some objective, some idea, some enthusiastic response to a new day. Instead, the only thing that my mind mirrors is the gunmetal grey of the sky, not the polished and slick one that follows a spell of rain but the sticky, dense foreboding that holds no promise of safe passage, the ends of the cloud not the fluffy expanse but a unknotted ball of yarn, protruding from its ends like ugly tentacles.
The road leads me to a junction. This is where I part from the highway. I pick up speed, some unknown enthusiasm at meeting my friend after a long time.
It has rained heavily here as well. There is a large puddle on the side of the road, the colour of the water a muddy brown, the surface reflecting a silty cover which mirrors the sky, the mix a garish sight that makes no sense. They say it’s hard to think of a new colour. But if this is what it looks like, I’m better off not thinking of any.
An old conversation surfaces in my mind. Where I said something that was completely taken in a different context. Seems it’s the story of my life these days. The fifth instance in three days, making me wonder if something is wrong with me. There have been phases of misunderstanding previously but the occurrences weren’t this frequent. What a strange way to be. The more I see different facets of life, the more I am bewildered. Never one to expect another to conform, I am however appalled by how pedestrian some people’s understanding of my way of speech truly is.
The death of a friend’s parent weighs heavily on my mind. All I could offer were a few words of condolence over phone and some text messages later on checking on them. Seems like all one could do, only the reality is something else.
I have often felt the void of a proper mentor in my own life and have guided hundreds wherever I could. I feel I may not be doing enough but it’s a personal inadequacy I have learnt to live with.
As serious is my own predicament, hilarious oil spills in our kitchen and upending of household artefacts bear heavy on my mind. There’s a festival going on and juggling a thousand things is something I’d rather do in phases. They’d be easy had I not been saddled with so many decisions daily. Hence this small reprieve on the morning. I am hoping that the time I spend with my friend will ease some of my mental burden or at least make things a bit bearable.
I reach the curve following which there’s a junction and it’s a wide open expanse here. The benefits of a planned area without any houses, where the only human presence is a few walkers scattered far and away. I come to the junction where I’m supposed to meet my friend and stop my bicycle. There’s no one there.
I look around the vast open space and see not a trace of my friend. I’m sure we had an understanding of meeting today. I wonder why they weren’t there. Did something go wrong, I wonder. There’s a stone seat signifying the end of a street where we regularly sit and chat. I sit down, my disappointment now growing. Not going to happen today, not meeting anyone today. Bad enough that I had to sift through all these, only to come to a place deserted. It is here that all my thoughts coalesce.
The rain drops a light drizzle. There’s not the translucent screen that blurs the farthest sights, but a mere collection of drops sprinkled sparingly, the breeze shifting the water in a chaotic dance. Some of the walkers are deterred and start running towards their cars but for me shelter is useless. By the time I find one, I’ll be fully drenched anyway. And so I sit. In the middle of the expanse being washed.
My forehead’s protruded supraorbital ridge blocks raindrops from hitting my eyes, a slightly painful inconvenience during the day but invaluable during times of rain. I am able to sit straight without the fear of rain hitting my eyes. Some of the walkers ride away with their bikes, zipping past. As they disappear on the horizon, they look like insects successfully penetrating a cobweb, their movement leaving short trails of web links that have been severed. It is here that it hits me.
All I see are these images that evoke some kind of meaning which my brain interprets. All I hear are sounds that connect to some strand of neurons that constitute language, the connections half made but their meanings forming fully. I remember a quote about the distortion of reality where everyone remembers an individual per their own understanding of the world. Every person I know, understanding a different version of me, their version of me. And I will never know what that is. I will never be what that is. I will never get to know the difference between them.
I wonder whether my own image of who I am is based in reality. I remember a time when I thought of myself a certain way. I don’t recognise him anymore. I remember a day when I challenged someone I know to a feat more successful than they ever could be. Achieved it. I don’t identify with it anymore. I remember a time when I made a promise but I couldn’t keep it. I haven’t forgiven myself yet, though the burden isn’t life changing.
I remember the last time I saw my dog. I remember he wanted to tell me something but I had to go away. For some study related matter. I remember how he came to the front tyre of my bicycle to block my way, to stop me from leaving. I don’t remember what he wanted to say, but I assumed it was just him being cranky. All I remember is the immense disappointment that came when I heard he had passed away in a fight. To this day, the regret lives within me.
It’s hubris to assume that only my perspective matters to lead a life. Such solipsistic views are good in terms of making people feel good about themselves. No matter how encouraging you are, some people will always find a way to see things differently. And that is okay. Because the world makes sense to them differently. The carefully curated bubble is sometimes best left to drift freely through the air for in doing so they might reach a destination that is much better than what I think they ought to be at.
Sometimes it’s good to not know the answer because my own flawed understanding could deter what could be a cognitive high for another. It is this fear that I face most as a teacher and what the world generally terms, a friend.
It is a stranger that I see when I see another. It is a stranger that I see when I see myself. I remember when that stranger I see was me. Here, in the middle of nowhere with the rains sprinkling all over my body, I now hope I will eventually remember the stranger that I have become.
