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Inherited Muse

Sunday, June 16, 2019

/ Posted by Simon L Infimate
~ David Buhril

She was born, created actually, in the year 1983. Right age for me. She captures the limelight in no time. The entire country rejoices her arrival as if she was the one that was being waited for. Her birth was a celebration not only for me, but also for the entire nation that is recovering from the wraths of partition. That was when Socialism and Capitalism were trying to secure their chunk in the country. I was too young to even think of celebrating her, though. She was India’s vision of industrialization as the nation was trying to limp away from the bruises and pomp of its first five year plans. The country felt empowered to be able to own her. Her begotten daughter. But ‘women empowerment’ was still a hush-hush affair then, even though Indira Gandhi, the Iron Lady or the “dumb doll”, was swaying the nation politics.


I could not remember when I first caught her glimpse. But I was wishing she was mine on my first sight. That made true the saying, love at first sight. But love was not enough. Not even luck. We lost track of each other. She was pricey. It was a matter of afford. But she remains a dream, ever-since. A muse. A desire. A monomania. But I was too indigent to pursue my crush. Too naïve to chase after my heart. The feeling was an indignation like. All I could do was to gird my dream with a promise made to myself. A promise that I will own her one day.

It was a long wait. A long chase. New models; long, svelte and designed to the finesse, were born. But I was not swayed. I resemble an archaic communist swagger. Of course, Capitalism and the free market changed the competitive market with products that gulf the haves and haves-not. But my muse was surreal; it was unshackled by reason or convention. It was not die-hard. It remains undying.
After more than two decades, a friend called to tell me that he finally got her address. The better news was that she is available. Hossana! Halleluiah! I don’t remember how I exclaim. But I did. Her shelved images burst to awe me out of the blue again. It was never the golden hair with blue eyes and white skin. That rotten colonial hangover of an angel. That imagination that glorifies the white skin. Or the stinking white baggage overweighed with Christian dummies that splintered our conscience. It wasn’t that.

It was a desire. Like catching the rainbow that sprouts out of a revered river with its holy water. Its untouchable colors splattered across the mortal body with hands that has the touch of god. Hands, too soft, that one cannot feel. To see and feel, one has to kindle one’s imagination in rapt. Like flaring an old-flame that will last till the grave. Man’s might is a mite in times like this. It was like that desire to resume a good dream that one has woken up to. The woken dream that is called life.
We finally fixed a date for our date. I was restless. I must have resembled an ecstatic boy whose father promised to buy him a bicycle the next morning. All the time I was wondering how she sounds. Will she be loud? Or purr. What tone; funny! I won’t mind any so long as the labor of love is pronounced. How her touch would be. Whether I will be driving her or the otherwise. Should I be fast and aggressive with her? Or should I be the gentleman, rare of me. Everything was so near. Yet it was too real. It was like the explosion of music in front of an orchestra. Well, I didn’t imagine with special effects to create those blockbuster film with its enormous spaceships and towering stage sets. It was just from home’s hearth over numerous cups of lemon grass that was sent from Tamenglong. The background music was overloaded with pigs grunting, chicken chirping, ducks quacking and the rabbits tapping in excitement. I did not forget the dogs, the cats and the birds either. They were louder. And the desire is to factor in all the inevitable extra noises that come from the peripheries. And it was over numerous sunrise and sunset. Life’s repertoire is beautiful. It shouldn’t be short, Lord I pray.

Finally, the day comes. I was the one to reach the appointed place on time. I remember the sun was setting over the west hills and mountain. Cows and students returning home. Farmers tending their golden fields. Homesick and weary soldiers, armed to the teeth, patrolling a beautiful frontier that has been dubbed as “disturbed” and soaked with a harsh masala called AFSPA. But life is still wonderful. I tried wearing a smile that will suit me without the mirror. Sans make-up.

Finally she arrives. She blossoms all in red. Words elude. I touch her immediately and feel her. She was calm. In peace with me. There was no need for any proposal. Desire speaks for the long wait over. Man’s weak language was overtaken by the forces of nature. She took me in for the long ride. The moonlit road was ours. It was like the blaze of glory. We were the highway stars. On our first meet, I took her home. She remains mine ever.  That’s my SS80, the original Suzuki (Maruti) 800.

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