Sibling negotiations.

(on my way from Mumbai to Baroda)

In the train, there’s this mother travelling with her two children. The older one, about 3-4 years old, says versions of this to his little sibling, who’s only about a few months old, every time it cries: “Mummy is really worried travelling with just the two of us, so we have to behave like a big boy. And I can’t take care of her if you keep crying. So cry when we reach home, please?”

And then makes funny faces at the infant, who pauses the crying to just stare at the older brother.

Jayati Doshi
24th March, 2016. 5.37pm

Finding my balance.

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Growing up, has been about discovering the privilege of having legs that can make choices, and hands that can enable balance by seeking out answers.

But learning to stand is barely the hard part. And balance is merely elusive.

It’s like a game of twister. On non-linear multiple continuums of belief. Circumstances are declared, and we find our stand and then balance as even the beam underneath us itself often shakes.

I don’t know if stories, adding and shedding layers to my pieces of experience, make this balance easier or hard.

But on days like these, they sure feel like a cushion of context to fall back on.

Jayati Doshi
14th March, 2016. 10.29 pm

The piece about pieces

 

I spend my days collecting pieces
to make up my world
and trying to piece them together

Meticulously,
with childlike curiosity
for meaning-making

I try and try,
finding the fit,
as closely as I can

And then I draw over them
intricate patterns,
with my schemas

There are some patches
Where the meaning is coming off;
But I draw on naked land, anyway

Pretty, shabby, beautiful, messy
incoherent, abstract, connected, meaningful
my little world of mismatched pieces

Some days it falls apart
the pieces I put together
my process, too much,

Today I felt you come around,
your hands too real, too coarse for my jigsaw,
but a semblance, a delusion of my world being held

while I start it piece it back again.

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The making of the globe

Jayati Doshi
4th March, 2016. 8.02 pm

The Butterfly Effect.

There will be moments, when the flapping of your wings will set off the chaos.

When a tiny stringing of your guitar will suddenly find its rhythm in the dance of this cacophony. When your scales will suddenly find melody in another genre, and the resultant harmony will sing a song you don’t even know the language of.
Some times, you will be aware of the precise moment in which you conceived this story, and some other days, it will be an accident from a drunken night.

Some times, it will be that daring moment when you jump off the cliff you were tired of trying to balance at the edge of, without a safety harness. When you are mid-air, and the looney toon in you will suddenly feel the need to look down and really realise what you just did. Then, let your soul flap strongly until it learns to fly. Or let your fins out when you crash into the water, and just swim for a while till your heart finds it rhythm again. Perhaps even take those clothes off, feel the breeze on your bare chest without the fear that it will knock you off. And then steer yourself in the direction of a sunnier cliff with a brighter horizon.

Some times, this moment will be that fleeting glance that made you fall in love; when your heart lost its obsessive orderliness for a wild tarantism, prowling towards feelings and futures that you could never otherwise fathom. Or the one when the missed one will shatter the panes of your car’s window.

Slow down, you crazy child, and make note of these moments. And not in its abstract way. Like actually make note, in whichever way that moment demands of who you become then. Write a poem, a letter, a journal entry. Make a painting, a sketch, a doodlesome mess. Make a movie, take a polaroid picture for your wall. If you cannot decide which of these suits your lazy scurried self the best, put down these moments down in form of a stream of consciousness on a sheet of paper and put it in a box. (Actually, really, just make that box anyway for all the other things as well).

But. Put. These. Moments. Down.

Like those scenes in slow motion (that technique came to be associated with the plot-changing moments for a reason). Free them from the weight of holding on and the flimsiness of passing you by. Seriously, make note.

Because every now and then, when google maps cannot locate you to be able to take you through, and your own soul-compass is all you have left; when you suddenly find yourself in need of answers, this box will be your genie-filled lamp. It will be like your own personal time machine, your tardis of sorts, taking you back to remind you of all the yous that you have ever been.
You never know. Perhaps, some day, we will find a filmmaker who will string all these slow motion moments together; a story-collector with a penchant for jigsaw puzzles. And we will finally be able to see the part we all played in the hurricanes that make the world.

Jayati Doshi
4th May, 2015. 19.45 pm

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