Lauterbrunnen and The Married Woman

For the past two days, I have been feeling that I would burst if I didn't write, a feeling that is as infrequent as it is transient. In any event, it is better if I do not believe in its transience, because it was once what I wanted to do as a full time profession, and it does not do to lose youthful passions with such ease, for such cheap substitutes. As for the infrequency, it is convenient to blame that on a world that demands so much of my time and mind, yet even I know that that is such a pathetic excuse, devoid of will, strength of character, and resilience, and these are all qualities that I admire in others.

As to what has brought about these strange flood of words, it is as usual, a book. A book, and the almost sacred beauty that has stormed into my vision. For all my contempt of Wordsworth and his ilk, it is true that there are things that are therapeutic and rejuvenating. Things like a natural abundance of good things to eat and drink; pure, cold air; waterfalls from mountains and fall colours. It is perhaps as fraudulent and momentary an inspiration as one can have, but nonetheless, it serves a sneaking purpose.

It was beyond bizarre to be reading a book about two Indian women (one called Pipeelika! Sanskrit for 'ant') finding love with each other, against the communal backdrop of Delhi, and against the patriarchal reality of (at least one of) their lives, in the train to Jungfrau (Top of Europe, no less!)

It was bizarre to read of the veling of references and the dilemma of sexual orientation and the trap of parenthood and the futility of fighting the jingoistic communalism that is today's India; to be transported, with a gaze, from the whiteness of majestic mountains in Switzerland to the orange of Kar Sevak banners, and then back again to the stupendous freedom of money, its comforts, and its endless permutations with security, love and happiness- that is not an easy thing to give voice to. That is not an easy means, because the end itself is hazy.

Or maybe there is no end. Maybe this is merely the indulgence of a writer in her only skill, merely an orgy of description that was waiting for a subject and the creation of context. Myabe, ultimately, all that I want to write so desperately is to tell of the beauty that I have seen, but being self indulgent, I msut make a hue and cry and write of emotional upheaval and cathartic chaos. Maybe, ultimately, all that I want to write is to say, yes, I identify with the India that I read about, and find my father in her father- and that brought an ache of longing so intense that I can only write of it, a singular nostalgia, an inrush of all the memories and all the love and all the uncomplicated things that I feel for my father. Maybe I only wanted to say to my father- You are a wise and compassionate man, and I love you, beyond these anaemic words- the knobs of your fingers and your bifocal spectacles and your slow, loving smile.

Maybe I just wanted to say to the country that I left behind- I am young and I wonder at this alien country's offerings. I marvel at its comforts, I revel in its beauty, its uncluttered, unfettered lifestyle, I am flattered by its courtesy and sometimes, I am led astray by these things to imagine that I could belong here. I just wanted to say to you- I love you. That there is no other country but you- in all your vast, multiplying, hurrying, tense, dark, colourful, horrifying and awe-inspiring scope. That any other place is a candle to your sun. That having known you, and loved you, you who are old and young and beautiful and brutal and wise and foolish- having loved you, I cannot love a passionless old man, be he ever so clever and successful. These are not the parameters by which passionate countries are measured.

Maybe I just wanted to tell my pen- The force that moves you is still not dead.

"The act of leaving is in the decision, not in the departure."
-A Married Woman, Manju Kapur.