Adeeti Katti The Mist
A dark cold mist that blackens the senses and carries the scent of old-age, sickness, and depression. Swiftly, silently, seductively it comes in furtive movements to pull a fragment of an intricate puzzle away. To envelope in its stature not the mind nor the body nor the intellect. To cause neither grief nor agony nor pain. Only to pull the souls of many back to the deep, black darkness. The deep black darkness of the mist.
A
The sands of time, so smooth it falls in a steady trail. Pity, anguish, empathy, sorrow, it has none. It only controls those unfortunate ones among us, caught in the vast, endless sea, of the sands of time. Jubilation, happiness, contentment, love, it has none. It only trickles at a steady pace, draining the sea, the sea of time. It lies beyond the rich, the poor the angry, the glad, the truth, the lies, the good, the bad, the heavens, the earth, and one and all. Understand time, and you shall have understood it all. Simple is Beautiful
I see a man. He shuffles slowly down the black paved street, his frail shoulders stooped slightly over a bamboo stick. He is clothed in the modest attire of a simple man, only a long, loose, grey, tattered shirt with a pair of dark pleated trousers. On his head perches a triangle shaped toupee and on the tip of his nose, a pair of gold rimmed spectacles balance precariously. His thin face is wrinkled, and his limbs seem very weak, for he appears to have finally conceded almost unwillingly to the importunate calls of old age. Yet despite his outward appearance there seems to be something unique about him. Something that makes a skilled observer realize that this man is not just any old man moving along the side of the serpentine streets of the city, but a man that is much more. His eyes seem sparkle with endless vitality, and his complacent smile seems to almost look inside your soul. The sun gleams brightly in my eyes as I continue to watch the man walk slowly across the street, wondering about whom he is and where he has come from. The sun disappears behind a large cloud, shrouding it from my view as I slowly begin to recognize this aged man. I begin to realize why he struck me as being special and someone different from the normal pedestrians that crossed the street in the noonday sun. I begin to realize the identity of this man. When it finally hits me and I know undoubtedly that it is no misapprehension, I run. I run as quickly as I can my bare feet pit-patting on the scorching black pavement as I yell to him, calling his name. I yell myself hoarse, but he has already disappeared and is no longer there. Dejectedly, I walk back to my station on the veranda scrutinizing passers-by hoping for another sight of the man, while continually blaming myself for my incoherence and apparent lack of running speed. Wisps of my long shiny black hair blow against the almond-colored skin of my face as a nice cool breeze carrying the lovely scent of jasmine seems to taunt me for my inability to find the old man. My inability to recognize him quickly enough. I continue to quietly sit on the veranda gazing at the tall lush eucalyptus trees whose long thin leaves dangle in the wind like the long silver chimes on a wind chime and the beautiful red hibiscus blooms on the plant nearby. And after hours at my post, I sigh and begin to reminisce of the days that I had spent with this man. Vasantha. I had known him for quite a long period of time beginning with my first visit to In the Of course, as a young child I never quite understood why my relatives took such pride in my parents or why we had to travel to this strange hot and humid country where everyone spoke several tongues and possessed the same smooth almond skin as mine. But what I did understand was that these trips were a time of immense enjoyment on my part, and its fecundity was determined by how many hours I had spent daydreaming on the veranda, chattering with the birds in the trees or simply wandering about the city. I had a deep sense of innate pride in the city even though I hadn’t been born there. It was just the fact that this was the place of my family and where my parents grew up that made me identify myself as being from there. It was an absolutely beautiful, well-constructed city with winding streets and colorful stalls. Everywhere you looked you could see spices, bazaars, colorful clothing, and all types of people roaming the streets that were almost always crowded and chaotic. There had never been any actual traffic signs so the vehicles in the street simply honked as irate drivers yelled from their windows to get through. And of course every so often there would be a stubborn cow that absolutely refused to relocate itself from the dead center of the street. The chaos was complete with the carrying shouts of various venders who tried to compete with others by attempting to yell much louder. It had always intrigued me how a country that appeared so disorderly to the observer could be so simple and orderly when the curtains were pulled back. Families seemed so tight and warm, and the generosity and values of the people around me made me envious. I often wished my life could be almost as carefree as theirs. For, it was the simplicity of the warmth and customs of the people that brought me great joy. But, the main thing was that during my summer visits to He was unlike any adult I had ever encountered before, incongruous with any of the stereotypes I had believed to be synonymous with the word adult. For as a young child I had assigned two stereotypes to people I called “grownups”. Grownups were either largely belittling and would pompously tell me of their various achievements or secondly would simply disregard me like an old pair of jeans. Grownups were also terribly unoriginal and would interrogate me with the same irritating questions such as “What are you going to be when you grow up?” or “My, how you’ve grown! How tall are you?”. Or go on a rampage about the last time they had seen me when I was only ye tall. I had always nursed a particular distaste for either type of adult, but the worst were those who pretended to be interested in me but deep down I knew it was only a pretense. The adults who valued money more than their children or treated children as if they were unimportant, as my parents often did. I’m not quite sure whether they realized that I had sensed their true inner feelings for me or even thought about how I felt, but nevertheless deep down I often felt scores of thumbtacks sharply in the pit of my stomach. Whenever I meekly asked them to read to me or engage me in a game of chess in the courtyard they would respond with “I’m busy.” or “Sweetheart, can you go play with yourself right now. I’m quite exhausted.” Some days, I wanted to scream “No, no I can’t.” I have been doing that for too long. Much too long. Yet, it had always been that way, even on our vacations from the bustling Sometimes a pervasive feeling spread through me that they secretly didn’t want me at all. Secretly they wanted to get rid of me. And to soothe myself I would use my tremendous imagination to pretend that I was a captain of a ship and would wave all of my sailors in a tempestuous storm, or that I was a brave explorer creeping furtively through jungles never explored. I had an excellent and wild imagination that I exercised at almost every point of the day. But, in the end I was still lonelier than ever. My feeling of solitude in the world was finally brought to an end the day that I had the good fortune of meeting Vasantha. I still remember quite clearly what it was like that day. It had been a cloudless day and vibrant rays of the sun poured down warming my skin. My grandparents had been in the kitchen letting their eyes feast greedily over the numerous exorbitant gifts my parents were presenting to them. Every so often their eyes would wander about the kitchen comparing the new dishes to the old ones, the shiny food processor to the hand grinder. They couldn’t wait to show off the gifts to the gossipy lady next door and their cousins who lived in the town nearby, for these were the items that showed the success of their daughter in a different and wealthy country, and that pride could not be wasted. The kitchen table had been too high for me to see what was on top, and I remembered that I had jumped up in abortive attempts to see the contents of the crisply wrapped boxes stuffed with tissue paper and packaging material. I had only been seven years old, just about four and a half feet, yet still possessed a deadly curiosity that often got the better of me. This was one of those situations. It angered me that the adults failed to show me the gifts, and that anger turned to determination that I would indeed see the contents of the boxes if I just jumped high enough. I jumped high, slipped on the marble floor, and collapsed panting underneath the table as my grandmother frowned distastefully in my direction. I soon found myself outside in the courtyard and once again for the numerous times in my life I was alone, unhappy with my situation, and bored out of my mind. I had already explored every square inch of the garden and the surrounding area. I had no companions of my age, so even the idea of playing with someone else was out of the question. I fingered a lotus bloom in my delicate hands, and tried to use my intelligence to create yet another of the many games that I invented to keep myself amused. But, for the first time my imagination failed me. I couldn’t think of a single thing to do, and my situation exasperated me. My eyes wandered aimlessly along the white-washed concrete walls that surrounded my grandparents’ house and finally came to rest on the shiny black metal gate. I looked around carefully. No one was there, and with that fact, a beatific smile spread slowly across my face. Why hadn’t I thought of it before? If I left for only a few moments no one would miss me or even know that I had been gone. This was my chance to finally get a sense of freedom from my prison at home. This was my chance to see the world. Excitement spread through my veins as I sprang up, forgetting to brush the dirt carefully off of my flower-patterned frock as I usually did. I threw the gate open and pranced happily down the street with my newly found freedom. As I walked down the street, I realized that I was exactly like one of the explorers that I had read about in books who traveled to new and exciting places and discovered new things. I had just discovered a new place outside of my prison and was determined to make these few precious moments outside of it worthwhile. I was determined to be like those explorers that I had heard about and discover something for myself. With my soft, delicate hands, I swished my skirt about my legs, looking excitedly from one side of the street to the other trying to drink in all of the sights, sounds, and smells simultaneously. I had been to this part of the city before with my parents, but never had I been hear alone. It was the fact that I was here alone and on an adventure that gave me a light feeling, like I was in the clouds. But as I moved past the scores of colorful shops that sold bangles in a myriad of various bright hues and the hand-woven carpets with intricate designs and needlework, it seemed that with every step I took the street became more and more congested with people, vehicles, and cows. I was brought back down to earth from my dreamy state, and I looked desperately for a way out. Yes. Finally I spotted what I was looking for. It was a lovely, small, quaint, park nestled cozily in between two crowded, narrow streets, and it was perfect for my situation. I looked at it as not just an ordinary park, but a sanctuary from the honking of truck drivers and the shouts of venders who desperately attempted to persuade you to purchase their goods. It was a perfect place, full of lush trees and greenery and even a water fountain full of pennies thrown in for good luck. I laughed with pleasure. I had made my first important discovery as an explorer, and I saluted an imaginary soldier next to me. I skipped happily through the park gazing in awe at the numerous burgeoning flowers and humming to the tune of the crickets until I came to a large towering banyan tree. It was one of the largest trees that I had ever seen, and the thick mangled roots came tumbling to meet the ground. I was taken aback by the sheer magnificence of the tree, but what I would hear next would be what would truly astound me. I heard a haunting melody come floating carelessly like a butterfly flitting with abandon in a noonday breeze, from behind the majestic tree. The tune was charged with intense emotion and sheer indescribable beauty that captured and mesmerized me. It was brimming with a kind of beautiful sadness that was magnified in the tranquility of the park. This was another one of those times when my curiosity took control of me. I looked to both sides carefully, almost like a person guilty of something, and quietly tiptoed to the other side of tree in attempt to see who or what was creating the beautiful music. The source of the music was far from what I had expected or even imagined. It was a man, a simple ordinary looking man with round spectacles and a gold watch around his wrist. His hair was slightly grayed and he was clothed in a simple, loose shirt and trousers. In his hands he held a small, delicate, wooden flute which he put to his lips to produce a haunting melody. He appeared lost in his music forgetting all else. And as he continued to play, I noticed that as he played he moved along with the tune so gracefully that it almost looked like he could dance away up to the clouds. I moved back to leave him to his music, but as I carefully moved backward I took an erroneous step that happened to be on a particularly dry and long twig. It crackled noisily and the man looked up, surprised at my presence. And to my delight he smiled amiably in my direction. I smiled widely back. And this is how I met Vasantha, my playmate and daydreamer who looked after me and cared for me outside of my prison. Day after day I continued to sneak out of the house past the haunting black metal gate to my freedom in the small park to chat with him again and discuss the difference between a chrysalis and a cocoon or enjoy mango ice cream under the shade of the banyan tree. He had always been an old scholarly man who often forgot to shave and possessed a pair of spectacles which I had always felt could tumble off of the tip of his nose at any minute. But, this never mattered to me. It seemed as though the moment I met him I had possessed a strong feeling of fondness towards the man. He was an incredible raconteur and entertained me for hours with numerous stories of his childhood while sitting placidly underneath the shady limbs of a banyan tree, and would often challenge me to a game of marbles on the cobblestone sidewalk. It was also he who taught me about what types of food ants ate and how to fix a bird’s broken wing. And whenever he ran out of stories to tell, tidbits of information, and games to play, he would simply lie down beside me in the grass and point out animals that danced and played in the clouds. Or, on a good day, he would pull out his wooden flute and play some of the most beautiful soft and moving melodies that I have ever heard. Often he would also try to explain deeper things to me, like the meaning of life and how to be a better person. I found some profound sense in his elaborate explanations to me about honesty and morals. He would always have some kind of deeper lesson to the days I spent with him. Vasantha would often explain to me that things such as cake, sleek cars, and mansions could be there forever, but our souls could not. Our souls had a deadline and possessed an invisible hourglass attached to them dictating their life. His eyes would glaze over, and he would gaze mysteriously towards the clouds whenever he spoke of such things. What did these material objects matter when something so precious had limited time? He would move on to tell me a soul was like a beautiful flower unseen as a bud. But when it gained the strength to overcome its obstacles and burgeon gloriously towards the sun, it was finally revealed to the world. Like the undistinguishable impediments of flowers, souls’ distractions would only hinder its remarkable capabilities to bloom. It’s capabilities that were far more powerful that any material object could ever have the potential of being. Vasantha summed this up with the three words that he shared with me before I left every day in the same husky, emotionally charged voice. Simple is beautiful, my dear. Simple is beautiful. Vasantha was different from most adults. Very different. But, it was this incongruity that I loved, and soon I found my mind full of stereotypes of those elder to me finally crumbling. I finally felt like I belonged to something, that I had a purpose. Often I pondered why Vasantha was so kind to me. I was only a little girl and he was an old man in about his fifties. Why was I so special? Why me? I continued to think about this as days went by and slowly, very slowly, I felt as though the answer was being revealed to me. I could sense a kind of sadness that he possessed through his demeanor, and I felt it was my duty as a young child to cheer the man up. As the summer days passed by, I continued my summer escapades as a bumptious little Indian urchin as my contentment soared as high as a little sparrow gliding above the lovely scent of the neem trees. But, all good things come to an end, and one cloudy, dreary day my ecstasy followed suit. And this end began with the high-pitched squeal of my grandmother. The old woman was carrying a capacious woven basket filled with fresh vegetables from the market. She walked with a slight limp that often intimidated me. I wasn’t sure why, but the sight of her ambling down the street always filled me with fright. Today this fright was amplified twenty times in me and I shivered, waiting for her to catch me. To catch me sneaking away to my sanctuary. To impede me in my purpose. But, the reaction of my grandmother was not what I expected. She did not scream shrilly at me for sneaking away in the afternoons, or deceiving her in my whereabouts. Instead, she stared at me coldly under the banyan tree. Under the place that was more of my home than hers was. Her brown eyes seemed to drill through my skull, and I tried to retain some composure, at least for Vasantha. I could almost feel her anger radiating towards me, and from her wrinkled, frowned mouth came these icy cold words, “Get away from that filthy man.” Shock filled me which was soon replaced with rage. How dare she insult my friend? I opened my mouth to project some retort to her statement, but before I could even speak her wrinkled hand clamped around my arm, and I found myself being literally dragged from the park. I turned to look at Vasantha. His face was stoically calm yet I could see a glimmer of tears in his eyes. And at that moment my perfect world shattered and dissipated in all directions before my very eyes. My journey home was quite unpleasant, and I found that my grandmother had a great amount of hidden strength in her wrinkled arms. She said nothing to me and only stared straight ahead. I walked redfaced down the crowded, winding streets, trying to avert my eyes from the gazes of curious onlookers. My grandmother seemed intent on causing me unnecessary discomfort and embarrassment, and there was no doubt that she was succeeding quite well. My teeth dug into my lip to keep from crying, and I looked up at the clear crystalline blue sky. “Do not cry. Do not cry,” I muttered under my breath. I did not want to give my grandmother the satisfaction of seeing my pain and I stood tall with as much dignity as an eight year-old could possibly muster. There was nothing I could do. I could only brace myself for what was to follow. But it seemed as though nothing followed. I was not upbraided for my unwarranted actions, nor was I punished. I was only forbidden to see Vasantha ever again. In fact, I was given more freedom to roam about the city as I pleased; it was only a certain park, in a certain place that I was never, ever to visit. I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand at all. I was confused at the intent of my parents. Their punishment was misleading, their reasoning untold. It seemed as though their sole intent was to keep me from meeting my friend, and of course, they succeeded in their endeavor. Young children unfortunately must abide by their parent’s and grandparent’s wishes, and my life returned to the miserable dark cave that it had been before. Only, it was worse. I no longer had the innate ability to keep myself occupied and exercise my imagination. I felt like part of me was lost, and it would never come back again. Often, I would wait for the solitude of my bedroom to throw myself on the bed and weep pitifully. I was only a child. What impact would I have on the grown-ups when I told them my best friend was an old man? I would lie there on my bed for hours in a pool of my tears and was not surprised that not a soul cared to come and console me or even explain my misdemeanor to me. But, one day my luck finally changed. I was in my room as usual, discontent with my situation and discontent with my life. I fingered the beautiful quilts on the bed and stared up at the perfectly painted ceiling and the walls adorned with exquisite paintings and tapestries. What was the point of being in such a pretty room when you had no one to share the beauty of it with? As I pondered this question, I was surprised to see the door open a crack and then swing fully open, squeaking on its hinges. The sight of my father assuaged my grief, yet nothing could prepare me for what I heard next. I looked at him in sadness, but instead of wise fatherly words of comfort, he looked at me, almost exasperated. Shaking his head, he said in a cracked voice, “You have a visitor.” He gently assisted me to clamor down from the bed. And I walked slowly into the living room, my bare feet hitting the cold marble floors, unsuspecting of who or what was waiting for me. It was the wonderful sight of Vasantha that greeted me, seated on the floor. He sat in a dignified manner, cross-legged next to the large, plump, crimson, embroidered sofas, smiling up at me as he had done everyday in the small park. I grinned happily, but afraid of my family’s reaction, I looked up at their faces. Their faces all showed signs of bitterness yet they seemed to be feigning happiness for me. Their acting was almost pathetic and looked as though each of them had swallowed a pill that made you instantly cheery. Nevertheless, it seemed as though my offense had been temporarily absolved and that was enough for me. My naïve optimistic way of thinking made me believe that maybe, just maybe I was wrong about them and they had actually taken time to care about me. I turned, walking slowly towards Vasantha, my friend, still amazed to see him materialize there in the room. I wanted to reach out and touch just to be sure that it was actually him. He grinned his normal grin up at me and that broke the ice. I forgot the tension in the room and began to chatter incessantly asking how he was, and what he done without me in the park. He avoided most of my demanding questions and averted his eyes from my gaze. Worried about his odd reaction to me, I finally placed it on his comfort. That must have been it. I looked shyly towards him. “Are you comfortable sitting there on the floor,” I asked carefully. “I’m fine my child, I’m fine. Remember, simple is beautiful. The nice, cold floor is all I need,” he replied in his familiar, husky voice. He seemed uncomfortable with the question but being the jovial and optimistic person that I was, I overlooked that fact and gazed at my friend in childish awe. He sat there innocently with his spectacles on the tip of his nose as always, rejecting the low, worldly pleasure of a plump sofa as my respect for him deepened. I stood there awkwardly in the living room until I realized with a start that I was behaving like a terribly impolite hostess. Even though I had just been weeping in my room, this was no excuse to deteriorate my manners. I quickly ran to the kitchen to find some of our best china, but was greeted by the threatening face of my aged, limping grandmother. She handed me a plain white cup filled with water and a steel plate of snacks that had come from the bottom of the package. I looked up in protest, only to meet her steely gaze. But, then I remembered simple is beautiful. Simple is beautiful. Vasantha of all people would appreciate the simplicity of a white cup and a steel plate. He probably could even write a poem about their beauty. I had seen him produce them out of thin air to accompany the sound of his flute. I returned to the living room, carefully balancing the items to my guest that I truly admired more than anyone else. To my childish delight, he happily ate the snack with relish and commented that the water I had offered him was sweetest that he had ever tasted. Like nectar. Before he departed, he carefully rose and washed his utensils in the bathroom sink, leaving them on the floor to dry. I looked at my friend with pride, who had the nobility to not enjoy even the comfort of leaving the dishes for the servants to clean. But when he walked back into the living room, he moved so slowly it seemed that he was almost dreading every step he took. His bright smile had dimmed, and his eyes drooped like those of a sad dog. I was afraid of what would come next. His suddenly saddened bright, eyes looked deep into mine as he slowly knelt in front of me, looking up at the protective faces of my parents. He cleared his throat. “My dear, every day in the park with you truly has been a blessing. You see, before I met you, my own little daughter had passed away and the sorrow I felt was unsurpassable. I lived in a dazed disoriented manner and lost concentration of all else. A few years before I had lost my wife and my little daughter had been all I had left. She had been my world. I remember sitting there on her bed at night, assuring her there were no monsters in the closet and consoling her with one of my stories. But it was my flute that she had loved the most. I played the delicate thing almost every day after she was gone, hoping the tunes would bring her back to me, but they didn’t. I tried desperately to forget and to move on, but a large cloak of pain and suffering still hung around my shoulders. My friends and family tried to ease my pain by talking about her, but what they never understood was that those words were like knives in my heart, and the last thing I wanted was to bring back those sweet, carefree memories. Finally my pain grew to such an extent that I began to think that my life was so unbearable that it would be better off if I were dead. I thought leaving society forever and spending my days in depression in the forest like a hermit or even committing suicide. But the day you came, you changed my view of life. You reminded me of my little girl and jovial, optimistic feelings that always thrived in her little, frail body. You reminded me of the light that one can possess in life, and I slowly realized that I also could remind you or make you more aware of this light. I now have a purpose, my dear, a purpose that you have inspired. I yearn to help the little orphan children across Those words brought tears to my eyes as only a little, eight-year-old and I truly began to weep as he left without a backward glance. He disappeared from my life that day. He left, never to come back again. In fact, I never saw him again. I felt pained and unhappy that I would never see him, yet sometimes the fact that he was out there making other children as happy as I had been, reassured me that maybe, just maybe that was okay with me. Years passed by and as I grew older, I began to realize more and more about Vasantha. In my history class one day, we discussed the caste system, and I went home with more answers about myself than about the history lecture. My grandmother’s hostility towards Vasantha was not because he was unkind or ungrateful. It was because he was of a lower class and therefore, did not deserve to be treated with dignity. This was the sole reason of her display of anger and her cold reaction to my friendship. This was why she disapproved, forced him to sit on the floor, taste the worst of her cooking, and wash his own dishes not even in the kitchen sink, but the bathroom sink. And all the while I had admired his honorable, unmaterialistic way of living. All the while he had faced this discrimination, the pain of the death of his family, the conflicting feelings of life and suicide, but still had responded with, “Simple is beautiful. My dear, simple is beautiful.” Hot tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of the incorrigible ones who treated a man as kind and wonderful such as Vasantha with inequality and disgust. A man who tolerated injustice in silence. A man who learned to find happiness and beauty in anything. From that day onward I vowed that I would stand on the veranda as long as possible on my visits to India and gaze helplessly along the street, looking, searching for my Vasantha as I am doing now. The man who helped me find a friend and finally experience the love and friendship that I had been deprived of. He was a special person to me, despite my young age. He was a special person to anyone who saw the spark that he had in him. I had helped him recover from his pain, and he had helped me recover from mine, but I had never thanked him. I had never thanked him for the gift he had given me. That is why I stand on the veranda. Today, everyday. I stand on the veranda for him. To find him, and thank him. I truly hope that someday I will be given that opportunity and finally show him that I appreciated the friendship and love that one should live for. Sometimes I imagine his emotion-filled music floating in the distance or his characteristic grin. I look far, almost lost in my thoughts on the veranda. I can only hope that I will find him. For plump sofas and elegant china are only material objects. Simple is beautiful. Simple is beautiful. |