“...Whatever we perceive through touch Rachana is an ultimate truth. It affirms beyond all doubt to our consciousness that the object that we have perceived through touch is real in terms of shareera yatharthaya. Until through touch a material object has revealed its fullness to our senses, anything could be an illusion.”
Touch; what of it have Jaliya and Rachana shared so far? Sitting beside the other how have each of them, in terms of the ideas expounded by Jaliya, revealed themselves to each other on this journey? Yes, in sight and sound they have projected to the other, dimensions of their selves. But, in terms of the shareera yatharthaya, in terms of perceiving through their sense faculties, how much dimensionality has each gained of the other? It was only through that simple contact of hands that was caused by the need for a drink of water had they shared a sense of the other’s touch. The only occurrence of touch which had ‘revealed’ a bodily existence of the other. Yes, these two may rest assured, that neither of them is an illusion.
“But every illusion Rachana, to the person who sees it, becomes a part of the realness their consciousness holds. It’s just that the illusion doesn’t have the potential to enter the deeper folds of the shareera yatharthaya... Like the mist for example. In its beauty of visual form, its graceful motion flowing past the tops of mountains we behold it in our visual senses. Yet it cannot be touched. In its very nature of intangibility it has distanced itself from the potential of becoming ‘physio-material’. Though seen, and of a form that seems tangible, none may touch it. In that ambiguity, Rachana, you find its very poeticness... It’s sort of like the cinema in a way, if you think about it. With all that colour, form and motion, yet, who can touch it? Who can make what they see on the screen to become part of their shareera yatharthaya? Goes to show, I guess, we cannot necessarily own all what we may see.” He smiles under the cover of darkness, in a way, to himself.
True, all that we may see may not become ours to own. But we may wonder whether it has occurred to either of them that what can be touched has the potential be owned.
“That is one of the fascinating things about faceless correspondence.”
“What do you mean?”
Like how I am talking to a voice in this darkness? The way I think of your face as the way I saw it back in Nandyal? Although you are covered out of my eyesight right now? Is that what you mean Jaliya? Somehow I know. Yes, I know you are smiling sweetly, at me.
“Just think of how many people we may communicate with everyday, without seeing them. Leave aside the people we know, the ones whom we know by sight. Think of what the cyber realm has offered the world now. We have the space to be virtually anything, in a virtual world.”
I know from the way that soft laugh comes your mouth spreads in a certain way, making a dimple. It’s on your left cheek. Yes Jaliya, I know. The sound of your voice says it.
“Take ‘digital discourse’, that’s what linguists now academically label the correspondence we do through email, chatting online, texting and stuff. Unless it’s some webcam thing, it’s mostly faceless, right? So we interact with some words that come on a screen. Words made of characters, signs. And then we use emoticons to express our moods. More signs, to our correspondence that doesn’t have an actual human face. Yet through these words, signs, we imply what we may look like. It’s the mind that draws pictures in our head based on those signs. ‘Mental pictures’ of what the person at the other end must appear like at that moment.”
Mental pictures... Sigh... Mental pictures. How sweetly they struggle to stay alive, from fading.
“And faceless correspondence Rachana, is another form of escape, in a way.”
“How? How is it an escape?”
“Knowing that the person at the other end does not come into our shareera yatharthaya gives our subconscious the feeling, a subtle, secretively dwelling notion within us that says we are locked into some surreal state of relations. No, it’s more of a semi-surreal state, I suppose. Because while we are assured of our own bodily existence, the words we interact with have no body, no face, no voice. It’s just a set of signs. Words, in a visually perceivable form. And we can let our mind then take on the role of giving an architecture to the body, the face, the being we assume is at the other end. Unseen, unheard, yet communicating with us. There is that burden of the identity that may disappear for a mere moment at least, when we are in a mode of interaction like that... Because at some hidden layer of our subconscious Rachana, is that knowledge, of how we too have transformed our being into words of a visually perceivable form to the person at the other end... We become faceless and bodiless... But we travel to the consciousness of another, through the words we use to communicate, devoid of the verbal and auditory form. And in that secretly lingering feeling we are motivated to unburden ourselves, believing that we have transpired into some surreal form where the ‘politics’ of our identity, our visage, our body have been taken away from us. And we remain faceless for a reason. So that we may be unburdened of our selves. It is a way to escape the self.”
“I see what you mean...”
But you don’t see ‘me’, do you Rachana? Not in the literal sense of the word. Not at this moment. You hear my words. Taking shape in your senses as auditory signs, words that communicate my ideas to you. And in that you see some form of me. This darkness covers your face. But I know you are smiling. The sound of your words says so.
“...Yes, true, we do become faceless in correspondence that depends on words in some written or digitalised form. I have felt that I suppose...”
You are smiling now dear Rachana. There is in that tone, its textures, an emoticon with the words. The emoticon of a smiley.
“...Like in the letters we write. Well, I haven’t written a letter in a while. But when I write, there is, I have felt, some part of me becoming the words that take shape on the paper. It’s like there isn’t anyone to judge what I say, or may say... Sometimes I have felt it’s much easier to say things in written words than to actually say it...”
Faceless correspondence my dear. How wonderful it can be. But it’s also an entrapment in a way my dear Rachana. You lose track of the realness that does exist on the other side of the dialogue, the correspondent who keeps your words. Words that sometimes may otherwise not be spoken or only spoken with much caution can be made to slip, spill out, more easily...
“...And when you text. Yes, there is that relaxedness isn’t it? It isn’t strained like it happens sometimes when talking in person.”
...Yes Rachana it can make you susceptible to divulge things that you may guard when you are in a conversation with faces actually in front of you. In digital discourse we become disembodied. Some unknowingly, swayed by the comforting it provides, may be made vulnerable. And allow too much access. Giving chances for some to turn into ‘marauders’.
She giggles; it has a certain charm, a girlishness to it. And to Jaliya this endearing sound creates in his head a vivid picture of her in this unrelenting darkness. Though he may not see her. He has in his mind a mental picture.
“Thought of something amusing?” His own face now has a smile, she knows. That dimple has appeared again.
“SMS.”
“What about it?”
“Ok, you have texted with girls you liked? I mean late night text chats?”
A gentle laugh, makes his head lapse onto the seat’s headrest. He smiles to himself placidly. A sigh almost at his lips.
“Yes.” He replies, a shyness in him revealing itself from that single word. She sees his face in her thoughts. Remembering there is an emoticon for this particular expression. A tinge of blush on the round yellowish face.
“How many of those texts do you delete afterwards?” Her tone has an impishness, a tease he finds endearing.
“You wait for that,...” He smiles, his words betraying his coyness. “...you wait till your inbox is full and you can’t receive anymore unless you’ve deleted some.”
?
??Then it’s the same way with all of us I guess. You look at how many SMS from that person you add up with each passing day. What the best ones are. Read and reread the ones that make you smile to yourself. It becomes a secret little history we carry around with us.”
Yes, it is a history Rachana. Being in that digitally written form to which you may have recourse to time and time again, it does qualify as a history, doesn’t it? It’s not just memories. Its memories that have been given some form of edification. A secret, private edification one may say. An inbox full of text messages. And in it lies its being as something more ‘formal’ than the mistiness of human memory which eventually falls at the mercy of ‘time’ and its bodily manifestation called ‘ageing’. As the silence sets into the space between Jaliya and Rachana they each wonder in silence what will the other keep of this journey, this meeting, in their storehouses of memories? What, if ever at all, out of what they have shared, will transpire into history? How will they each remember the other once this bus journey eventually reaches its destination?
So nice. Very nice. The warmth in her hand. Real. It was real. No, I didn’t dream it. Yes, it was real. Like the soft laughter, from her, playing in my ear...
What has brought you here? Escape? Travelling in India, the storytelling. Are you looking for escape? So polite, courteous. His hand felt so still. Asleep. While in my grip...
...You must have felt nervous. I think you did. You must have thought I was asleep. You did. If not you wouldn’t have. So respectable. Traditionally brought up young lady. Light blue shawl. Yes, her shawl is light blue...
....Maybe he thought I would refuse. Maybe that’s how he thought. Traditional Indian girl. Conservative girl. Yes, has to be. Otherwise surely he would have given his hand. Introducing his name, we would have shaken hands...
...Who is waiting for you? When you get off at Chennai. When we get off. Two different directions afterwards... Sigh... Who is waiting for you Rachana? But then, you ‘love to travel’. You like night time travel. This night is like a blanket from the world...
...Sleep is an escape. Underneath closed eyelids we dream. We escape the world. But when did you last sleep well?
...When you do this routine journey. This nightly journey. What do you dream of, while sleeping? Do you escape into your dreams, while the bus carries you off to your morning?
Neither of them can seep under the covers of sleep. They each feel there is that need to stay awake, almost dutifully. But then there is something else that has been affecting their subconscious all this while to keep them in this play of verbal interaction dispelling the advances of sleep. What is that? It is the intensifying quietness. The unearthly silence that has set in all around them. No there isn’t the slightest indication of any other living human being onboard with them. Not a cough, a stirring sound by any of the passengers. And the automotive sound of the bus in motion has been so monotonous, and turning lighter with passing time there is something of a growing ‘distancing’ of that sound from their perception with the progression of their dialogues with each other. Though they did not speak of this concern more consciously, about the lack of any visibility of whatever landscape may be passing them. Which could have been seen, with the aid of some light from a little town they ought to pass. Though it was spoken about, the unusualness of it all, in mere cursory remarks, this matter has been weighing steadily onto their subconscious. And the weightiness of all of this had strapped onto it another concern. A question –Where are we headed?
This silence...like its covering us altogether. In the womb of silence. Ah yes, I remember.
In the gentleness of a whisper he speaks her name, lest it becomes intrusive to her possible sleep, or solitary thoughts.
“Rachana?”
“Yes Jaliya?”
A reply suggesting anticipation. She wants his voice to drive away the silence invading her ears.
“You weren’t sleeping I hope. Did I wake you?”
“No, no. Don’t worry. Not sleepy at all. It’s strange in a way.”
“Yes, I was thinking that myself. The silence.”
“It’s, it’s not suppose to be like this. I can’t imagine why.”
She speaks in the darkness, her lips moving unseen. Yet heard by the young man, whom she knows carves in his head the picture of her. Strangely, now, the sound of each other’s words is the most they can see of each other. Tones tell them how the other’s visage is like.
“I was just thinking of the experience I had two weeks ago. In Auroville, in Tamil Nadu. Have you been there Rachana?”
“I have heard of it of course, but no, haven’t gone there. What did you think of it? Did you like the visit?”
“A very unique place. I’ll say that. But what I found most fascinating was the Mathrimandir.”
“Ah, the Mathrimandir! I’ve seen pictures of it. It looks like something from a science fiction movie.” There is intrigue blended with something else. What is it? Jaliya asks himself trying to decipher the tone.
You’re sceptical. There is a sense of scepticism in you about that place.
“Very much. Looks like it’s a thing in a sci-fi movie. And the inside of it! Rachana I am telling you it is surreal. Seriously, it’s like you step inside a scene of a science fiction film. One without aliens zapping you with lasers of course.”
Their laughter suddenly moves them to feel more livelier. As though the silence around them with its oppressive feeling is staved off by their laughter’s liveliness. But does anyone onboard show any signs of responding to such audible laugher? No, there is none, because from a point of perceiving the world through their senses, both Jaliya and Rachana have locked onto the sound of the words, sighs and laughs of each other. Even if some slumbering passengers onboard were to show some sign of being perceptive to their sound of laughter, these two travellers would not be awake to the sounds of stirrings of those others.
“To me the experience was something out of this world...”
She likes his voice that comes in a tone of hushed deepness. It is enthused with what he is reawakening in him, dwelling deeper into his own experience. There is some charm of mysticism wrapped in it.
“...Inside the meditation chamber, seeing that single ray of sunlight coming into the crystal ball in my direct view, I was folded within a world of soundlessness. Rachana, I was in the womb of silence.”
“The womb of silence.” She says it softly. Partly a question seeking explications. Partly an utterance to gain more familiarity, expecting a revelation of details. Something more than the mere acoustics of the words as parts of a spoken dialogue.
“It was as if silence, the very ‘element of silence’ is born to the world from that place. It is the repository of the world’s silence. Being there, with my legs crossed in the lotus position in the central chamber, I was seated in the womb of silence. The loudness of my own thoughts is all I could hear. It engulfs you, that repository of silence, and bids you become one with it, the silence. That is why to me it was the womb of silence... Because if you let your mind become one with it, then you may feel you are on a path to rebirth. To be reborn into the silence. To become silence. But what stood in my way, what stood between that silence, that all encompassing silence Rachana, which in itself was like a stilled force, and me, my being, was the loudness of my own chaotic mind...”
You were facing, you were made to face, the chaos your mind carries? The chaos within you? An overwhelming thought. Locked out of everything else. No escapes...No escapes.
“...The awesomeness of the Mathrimandir experience was something I contemplated on very deeply. Imagine the impact of it, when you are left to simply face your own thoughts and nothing else! No external stimuli. Nothing but the presence of your own consciousness. Undisturbed and unavoidable. Inescapable...”
It must have been almost unreal. The world shuts out... And it’s just you. You in the form of your thoughts. Your unbroken flow of consciousness. If it’s the silence that
causes it, then Jaliya is your consciousness the ‘weight of silence’?
“...You stare at yourself, in a way. Your thoughts stare at you in all its volume. Your self is all there is. The self, made to appear through the unconquerable silence, Rachana, I truly felt the weightiness of my own consciousness, the jarring spirals, the storminess inside. I was asking myself later, when compelled so intensely, can you really look away? No you can’t. And then, you have to answer that question. How much of it can you bear? How much can you really bear? How much can you ultimately bear, of yourself?”
“Did you find the answer Jaliya?” She says this, wanting to be of comfort to him. She knows, his voice says he has within a weariness that seeks to be put to rest.
“Did that question find its answer?”
He sighs deeply in response. He puts his head against the headrest. He looks overhead. As though he would probably do if out alone on a starry night, looking to the heavens for some answer. She imagines him in such a narrative of actions.
“I don’t know. But I know there is that urge. Maybe in all of us, to find that silence of true peace.”
“A silence of true peace. Yes, it would be beautiful. And tell me. This experience of silence, in the Mathrimandir, your womb of silence. What would you call it? The image of that experience, being in there, the image of that experience within you?”
Suddenly he felt himself recalling that feeling. That incomparable feeling never known before under any circumstances. He knew what it meant and how its significance could be conjured into an image conveyable by words.
“The totality of silence. That is what it was Rachana. The totality of silence.” He inhales audibly and exhales in the likeness of a breathing exercise. Perhaps, she thinks, it had proven too much for him. The magnitude of that silence.