i hide under a blanket now.
it's a habit i picked when i was five. it was that morning in bed, when ba and mamu sat on its edge, sipping tea and talking death. there was this khampa rebel who stabbed a man he called agula, to death, near the boudha stupa. then there was this old man who was cremated on the banks of samari river. the stones were still hot after they turned in his ashes into the river. his grandson stepped on them and it burnt his feet. he didn't know how to cry over the death of the old man who loved him the most in the world. but his feet burned.
it was such a slow morning. i was learning about death. people died. and you could never say what you wanted to once they died. (but it opened up a whole new possibility of saying to them anything and everything you couldn't while they lived.)
we die.
ba and mamu talked death that morning. my first encounter. i hid myself under the blanket (or was it a quilt?) and wept. death. i wanted that taken back.
i must have stayed in bed all day. for the cover is all i remember about that day.
maybe it was that morning i learnt to hide all my fears underneath the warmth of a cover i weave of myself.
it's a habit i picked when i was five. it was that morning in bed, when ba and mamu sat on its edge, sipping tea and talking death. there was this khampa rebel who stabbed a man he called agula, to death, near the boudha stupa. then there was this old man who was cremated on the banks of samari river. the stones were still hot after they turned in his ashes into the river. his grandson stepped on them and it burnt his feet. he didn't know how to cry over the death of the old man who loved him the most in the world. but his feet burned.
it was such a slow morning. i was learning about death. people died. and you could never say what you wanted to once they died. (but it opened up a whole new possibility of saying to them anything and everything you couldn't while they lived.)
we die.
ba and mamu talked death that morning. my first encounter. i hid myself under the blanket (or was it a quilt?) and wept. death. i wanted that taken back.
i must have stayed in bed all day. for the cover is all i remember about that day.
maybe it was that morning i learnt to hide all my fears underneath the warmth of a cover i weave of myself.
Introspecting mortality is one of my hobbies. I can never articulate its flamboyance or romance. However, you have almost brought things together here. The only solace to all of this is to love like a wild beast [I am writing abt it as we speak].
ReplyDeleteAnd btw, your clarity and honesty gets better every time :]
i wish i could do what you do- love like a wild beast
ReplyDelete