Soliloquy

Earlier this year, on Independence Day, I purchased my first car. This was a significant moment for me, not least because it was the first big-time purchase I had made on my own accord, but also since it served as a metaphor for everything I had gone through alone in life, and served as a reminder of how grateful I was of the universe that I could come out on the other side well-equipped with fortitude. It is a result of tears shed in private and victories celebrated in public; of memories disjointed at the hook by their sheer inability to sing; of sleepless nights haunted by ghosts of incoherent yore.

This car is symbolic of every moment of suffering, joy and dismay I have gone through in life, and a symbol of what human resilience can achieve even in the worst of times. To be sure, this was not the most memorable moment to have taken place for me this year: it is, however, right up there with the several centuries scored, breathtaking catches taken, dazzling essays written, picturesque poems composed and innumerable peaks climbed and surrendered to. Far from it, what this car signifies to me is that I can, and will survive everything that gets thrown at me, and that I will not abandon hope in my quest for the Truth.

This car represents the non-witnessing of tears that even my parents had no idea of; of despair that my friends had no inkling to. I did not quite grow up in the idyll of poverty that our friends on the political right make such a beeline towards: I have had the extreme good fortune of driving and being driven around in two cars owned by my parents before this, and yet this, MY FIRST, feels extremely precious. I have often been told that to own one’s own car at 25 – as I did – is a success story in our country where millions still sleep on footpaths and gather alms in a forbearance that precludes their reluctance to speak.

How can I not be appreciative of those who came before me, and on whose shoulders I stand? How can I not be grateful to the universe for being an observer – and perhaps a more than active participant – in my inner turmoils? How can I not be thankful to the heavens above for not letting me wilt in the face of injury, and for giving me the courage to see beyond the darkness that had temporarily gripped the tunnel? Most importantly, how can I not thank the Gods who made it possible for me to pick up a cricket bat, wear the big wicketkeeping gloves and put words on paper on the odd occasion?

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