Today I baked fragrant orange-chai-spice cupcakes, that were an ode to the ending summer and a bonjour to the coming fall. Said cupcakes were devoured by good friends who I met with at the beautiful Esplanade for a picnic on a gorgeous day. Followed by biking to JP. Visited open studios, met artists, had chai and conversations with friends.
All in all, ‘twas a perfect summery-fall day full of supposed pain detractors.
But I still came home to the despair and loneliness. To the tears and hopelessness.
For I had recently met someone that I unexpectedly connected intensely with on so many levels: intellectually, physically, spiritually, emotionally... such a rare happening. We bonded on music, art, poetry, old films, heart talks, silliness. An even rarer happening. Our conversations were sheer poetry. A never happening.
I thought I was happy before I met him, but with him I was alive beyond words.
I thought he felt the same. I thought we were each other’s muses.
But then he left without any explanation.
I did not have it in me to hate him, perhaps that would’ve been easier. But if it’s one thing life has taught me is that we all have our battles to fight. He must have his too. And perhaps I had to pay this karmic debt, for I have done similar things to others in the past.
Yet, with his sudden leaving, my world collapsed.
I don’t know if it was love. I didn’t quite have a chance to find out. But our conversations did inspire my poetry. So much poetry.
And now I feel empty and hopeless, spent and exhausted after putting in my 101%. Probably also has to do with repeated disappointments, still being single at 40, societal and cultural expectations, this stark realization that I may have to go it alone for the rest of my life - because even after meeting someone that seemed the right fit, it still doesn’t work out, then what hope is there? And even if I were to meet that rare right fit again, how would I trust again?
I know theoretically there are plenty of fish in the sea, but I usually can’t put myself out there again till I’ve processed the hurt.
And normally my writing and poetry help me do just that. But now my shayari had lost its muse and I’m unable to compose them anymore. Leading down to the shadows of despair even further. Today I couldn’t even bear to look at my old poems to convert them to YouTube or insta posts or work towards publishing. I couldn’t even bear to call my folks and tell them the usual “I’m fine”, because today, they would’ve caught my daily lie.
I couldn’t bear to listen to Gulzar or Jagjit Singh. I couldn’t bear to listen to Kishore Kumar. Songs that used to calm me down in the past. In my restlessness, I couldn’t pick up any of the books I love, I couldn’t listen to spiritual talks.
I couldn’t see any light.
And then I found a blank canvas I had bought sometime back to paint dreams. I was saving it to paint a Monet like landscape, or beautiful dancers, or the Goddess Saraswati....
In my state of despair, I ripped the plastic over the canvas. I emptied out my box of paints and brushes. I turned on music I used to listen to ages ago. I found oil paints I’d never used before. I’d only ever experimented with acrylics and watercolors, oil had seemed too daunting.
On to my palette I squeezed out whatever colors wanted to get wielded. And with Alanis, Dido, Tracy Chapman, Bono, Coldplay, The Wallflowers, Sting, I began to paint.
“You got a fast car. I remember driving driving in your car....and your arms felt nice wrapped around my shoulder, I had a feeling that I belonged, that I could be someone...”
I was never a fan of abstract art. I always wanted my dreams well-defined.
Life showed me that reality is much more messy.
So that’s what I painted. I painted my shadows, my turbulence, my anger, my pain, in dark hues of red and purple and brown. Every time a spark of yellow appeared on the canvas it got covered up by more shadowy storms. Layer after layer of tears. Swirl after swirl of raw emotion.
“I bleed just to know I’m alive”
And then somehow the storm began to recede. The sparks of yellow now started holding their ground on the canvas. Blue and green appeared when I thought of the oceans and mountains and nature. The sun appeared that was the source of the yellows of better days ahead and the bright reds of passion.
“I dream of rain, I dream of gardens in the desert sand...”
The dark cyclones now were being embedded with streaks of gold as the Japanese philosophy of wabi-sabi and the practice of kintsugi came to mind, where broken pottery undergoes gilded restoration, making it more beautiful in its fragmented imperfections, in its flawed life after falling apart.
“Thank you India, thank you providence, thank you disillusionment, thank you nothingness, thank you thank you silence...”
I don’t know if I can call this art or something a kid did. But it certainly helped me find a road back to myself through the shadows. At least for now. And I was able to write again, well, this. The shaayari isn’t back yet.
But the journey continues. In all its messy glory of imperfections.
And here’s to that eternal glimmer of hope that lies behind those foreboding curtains of shadows.
The beauty of despair
Oil on canvas by Hetal Shah
