Words & I

Something has shifted in this relationship

Words. This morning, my calves ached and my head throbbed from last night’s crazy boozy dance party, but I took refuge in words. A once-in-a-blue-moon let-go party with friends and friends-of-friends who feel like friends and who enjoyed my sassy crazy version so much that I put up a great show. Last night, I let the music guide me, with some help from gin, wine and tequila. I jumped and gyrated. I laughed and sang along. I swirled around like a mischievous dervish in celebration of myself and this life, which allows for such moments of abandon. But this morning, sitting alone with my tea and my thoughts, I chose words as my companions.

Some words I read this morning concern me. Words from sensible people unhinged by the electoral victory of a racist misogynist bigot. Words that lie (like he does), rant (like he does) and whine (you know it!). The words reveal the visceral hatred and fear that pushes upright people towards untruths because reality is unbearable right now. I read those words and winced, understanding their predicament, but also thinking about how, in the end, people most unlike each other can exhibit identical behaviours.

Other words offered anodyne commentaries that sought to make sense of bizarre global events. They informed but failed to appeal. I think about how, in traumatic times, analysis cannot meet the need for healing.

Which is why I sought solace in other words. Calm words. Reflective words. Honest words. They looked inwards. They made sense of the ugliness of the world in beautiful language. They helped me look in the mirror with humility and love. These words offered me hope, succour, joy.

Another set of words engaged me today. Words from a short story translated from a regional language, set in poverty-ridden rural India, mesmerising in their descriptive and analytical precision. They helped me imagine the colours of skies I have never seen and the striking power of tribal bodies I have never encountered. Simple, straightforward words in an idiom unfamiliar to those of us who primarily English. Words that reflected the hardships and sensitivities of life in a caste-ridden world where men and women have little power to write their own destinies. Their simplicity burrowed deep into the heart and mind, opening new doors for understanding and imagination.

I took in all these words and thought about how this ritual of browsing and reading essays has ensconced itself into my weekend mornings. There is something magical about riding the waves of feelings, ideas and reflections that course through me as I read, and then letting them ebb away. Earlier, I only had an intense relationship with words. What I read had the power to stoke passions in me, confirm my beliefs and lend credence to half-formed ideas. It still does, but now there is also another kind of relationship where I can tread lightly over the words I read, nibble on ideas and skirt around imageries. I like having options.