Her opinion of death was very different from others, simply because it was an anticipation of it. Not silent, not loud; just passive anticipation. She did not fear it, except she didn't want it to be slow or painful; unlike others she did not fear the coming of it. She knew exactly what she wanted it to be like; as a personal experience. She never thought about the circumstances of it; but she knew what she wanted death herself to inflict upon her person.
She wanted it to be sudden, not something she had a foreseen in a manner that she could tell upon its arrival-date; post a disease maybe. She wanted it to be quick, yet slow enough for her to notice and absorb it. She wanted it alone; so she could her - death - why she had let life torture her so. She didn't want it to leave her unsightly, so people would gather and leave her funeral talking about how miserable she looked. It felt like she wanted more from death than she wanted from life!
In each situation, she had imagined death. In each picture, each scene she could see it, with a recognition like no other. She thought of it with a passion, almost as if it was love. She experienced a preparedness for it at all times, aware it could hit her anywhere anytime; like someone with cancer. Except, she was fine. No cancer, no being suicidal, yet playing hostess for death all the time.
She saw so much in common between celebrations in life and the ceremonies of death in her culture. The use of the same red roses. The serving of similar food. The fact that people cried hyaterically, similarly at both a wedding reception rukhsati and at a funeral amazed her. The fact that white is said to be classiest and most elegant, and white is the shroud that drapes us last. Death in all its darkness and dark associations is commemorated with white.
It was a marvel, the power that death had. To end a life, while it changed the others in a way they had to re-begin. To be that which was feared more than yet asked more for than life! To be a relief, felt from throwing away a gift - of life.
When she drove, an awareness that she could die anytime, made her a confident driver. When she slept, the fact she could die, made her dream easy; sleep heavy.
When all awaited a storm, she was celebrating; saying it may be her last encounter with life.
What most feared, was what made her fearless. Death. Not a word, a sentence.
This is actually the inside voice of every individual. It makes it a beautiful piece as it is. But as real and raw this is, there's an essence of morose to it that repels me. I mean, yes, its about death so, morose wouldn't be a far fetched idea really. But you have the capability to express events and feelings in emotions that they are not commonly conceived as, that's the beauty of the individuality that you write with. I would love to see a contrast of words with emotions if so :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Nazia....:)
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