I have had it up to here with the vapid weather romanticising that became all the rage in 2010 and remains that way a decade and a half later. People don’t talk about climate change as much as they do about the weather. Social media leaking into social interactions is the other thing I have had enough of, but I don’t have energy enough to rant about two things at once. The sheer incoherence that I would achieve in writing my piece would keep me in a sour state for a week or more and that is opposite of what I mean when I tell all and sundry that writing, to me, is therapy.
I suppose it was nice when at first someone would click a picture of the sky outside and share it with their world via their Facebook wall. Among many things that we tended to do less, consequent to the growing profusion of screens in our daily existence, was to engage in a favoured habit of our prehistoric ancestors. The habit being that when life simply seemed to become less than simple as it always promised to be, founding members of the human race would pause and look up at the sky. Some would go so far as to lie down on their back and really have a go at it. Aggressively stare at the sky with a burning desire to do little else. This, has always struck me as a noble thing to do. Not to learn about stars and then chew the ears off of some poor sod who sat nearby and innocently posed a question if the individual stars in a Zodiac constellation had their own names. No, that sort of vindictive intellectualism is abhorring and must be outlawed and at least, be classified as wrongful conduct amounting to harassment.
I mean to say, that it was nice when someone compelled (or inspired) us to get out and go look at the sky and for a while allow our jaw to slacken and thoughts to sink into an abyss somewhere deep within us where it was sure to be entirely forgotten. That was a nice thing to happen. But technology progressed rapidly since those early halcyon days of social media. It changed faster than we could process Change and we have, as a species, become accustomed to thinking less and acting out in the manner befitting of organisms that are not particularly thoughtful.
The sky is a befuddling phenomenon. It has an effect on the mind as the sound of the word ‘befuddle’ insinuates. The word befuddle instantly calls to my mind, a state of being scattered. I would not normally strive to be scatter-brained but it is a welcome thing when it chances upon you. Have you been boxed into a life of shenanigans at work and insufferable life partners- both of which you love but feel the inescapable need to escape from? Look up at the sky. There it is, brilliant and blue and dragging along its azure surface a thin wispy cloud just because it felt the need to remind you that things (and Life) can be beautiful even when they are not perfect.
Do you need a dash of colour without Noise? I would recommend the same therapy as stated above- look up at the sky. It’s not so much about the blue but what assuming the position allows you to experience. When looking up at the sky, your thoughts invariably move from the front of your head, viz. the prefrontal cortex of the brain to the back, perhaps towards the amygdala, which being ill equipped to deal with complex questions from the big boys up front tell you that you simply need to let go. And let go is what you do. You stare into the wonderful vastness of all that Empty, feel the glow of the sunny day- blue sky and golden sunshine glow within you.
Did reading that make you feel good? Did that image of the unlimited sky and disappearing worry have you breathing easy enough to allow a faint smile to grow upon your hitherto pursed lips? Well, that’s how it’s supposed to be and that’s how it is not anymore.
As much as it pains me, I am afraid I am going to have to wean you away from the images of sunny skies and summer breeze towards more heavy weather. The nature of my agony being a lot more complex than I originally thought it to be when I initially set about typing this piece. It’s been a while now that I have grudgingly cast aside the pen and paper for the freedom of the keyboard. My fingers having become more dexterous with age, now rebel against the ordeal of being scrunched into an odd fist so as to wield the pen. But never mind all that dross. [MS Word just suggested that I trim language to make sentences more concise to make it comprehensible to the reader].
What really bothers me, reader, is how we have taken to romanticising heavy weather. Making light of heavy (weather)- in whatever context you may employ the bracketed word- is now the norm and that distresses me. I fail to understand why looking up at grey-black rain clouds would cause a soul to click a picture of it, adorn it with undulating heart emojis, and post it to Instagram. Its bleak, howsoever you may choose to look at it. Sure, there is the promise of rain and the proverbial washing away of our summer sins. Still, overcast conditions are an unwelcome sign. Remember reading Lord of the Rings as a teenager? Can you tell me that when you made your way through Tolkien’s magicked universe you did not imagine the dark skies of Mordor to be just as those rolling black clouds your Bangalore buddy has posted? You couldn’t. If you could, it’s likely you never read the book or just happen to be one of those blighted minds with a largely defunct imagination incapable of any form of poetic comprehension.
I cannot, for the life of me, romanticise the grey. Theres no light to embrace there. I have spent many an hour staring out the window at the golden sun beating down upon the world outside yearning to get out and feel the heat upon me. The burn was always a small price to pay for the freedom and joy of being under the open sky. I remember a few old friends speak wistfully of the monsoon in Kerala as we ‘chilled’ in the blistering heat of the UAE sun. I listened and thought to myself how it must be really wonderful if the mere memory of something so far away could make the ostensibly oppressive present so much more bearable. A few years hence I had first-hand experience of the monsoon. A season of expansive wetness that soaked my soul causing it to crumble like wet cardboard.
I recall pressing my forehead against the cold iron grill of my window watching entire driveways turn into roaring rivers. Water, water, everywhere… and for the love of God, could someone please turn it off?! Never mind the wetness that has seeped into the very core of your being, one can still drive such sodden-ness away by thinking summery thoughts. But what does one do when the wetness has taken covert possession of every aspect of the physical realm as well? The bed offers little comfort. The sheets are no longer crisp. Rather, it is cold and clammy. You cover yourself in a blanket and you break into a light sweat that renders you feeling slippery- like a frog. That is not a pleasant way to think of oneself. The room are dark and there is drone of the falling rain that fill your ears like perennial static. Turn on the light, it’s too bright. Turn it off, it’s like being in the company of one of Satan’s elite messengers- dark, but not entirely so. It’s a state of limbo, perhaps. There is sense of relief that the rains are coming down as it should if we are going to have the multiple showers we must take to make it through the summer. Yet there is the soul soddening that is experienced as a ceaseless assault that numbs the senses.
Outside the leaves shiver and shake. The birds titter and quake. You stand there on the edge of your balcony watching every memory slip away from your conscious brain. Sure, the skies will clear and there will be light again. We must then get back to living again, for that’s how we get through the rain. This is no easy feat though. It would be easier still to not write about the misery of it all, but that would offer no release whatsoever. Closeted as we are in our clammy homes as the rains lash against the windowpanes, we are subject to periods of deceptive reprieve when the downpour eases up for a bit. These are the moments that are romanticised by those perfidious Insta-influencer types.
The rain ceases, and what happens then? The sun peeks out for a minute or two that stretches into a good 24 hours when it’s posted as a story on the Gram. This fleeting moment is Nature manifesting an expression of what it means to be clinically depressed. To speak, it is no longer raining, and the sun is, in fact, out again. This is much like how the clinically depressed man is fine insofar as he has no physical ailment hampering his ability to live life to the fullest. Look closer into the moment and you will see the soul crushing existential horror of it all. The sun is out, but it is not out there in all its glory. There is light but does it shine? No. It merely shimmers, or rather, leaks out in a faint trickle of feeble gold. It falls upon the leaves and the rain-soaked pathways and sinks into the slush without a trace. There is no potency or promise. Even as you watch on, you feel the darkness loom and hope slip away. It’s not by chance that some of the greatest literary works have their homes in the oppressive climes of Russia and Ireland. The weight of the grey is such that beings of extraordinary skill and resilience felt called upon to use every ounce of their gifts to create an alternate narrative that would offer respite and sustenance to the human soul. I have in mind the works of Dostoyevsky and Joyce as I write this. Grey skies are something to get away from and when the constraints of the physical realm press up on us from all sides, the soul finds a way to rebel and create a pathway that brings to life a parallel universe that is not as dour as the one we presently inhabit. Much like how the depressed man will find release when he embraces his condition and commit to choosing differently and in opposition to his instinct until the weight that he causes him to trudge through life with leaden feet gradually lightens and becomes a faded memory. Just as so, the sun will shine through after the monsoon and the world will once again become unapologetically green and gold and red and blue, and all the grey will become a matter of memory that can no longer affect our joy in the present. Until then, wet weather is all manner of woe.
.V_
Righting Writing 