So I was just trying to cook a decent meal for my husband today (and I assure you it’s VERY VERY rare) that I realised another thing I always believed. Well you won’t believe what reminded me of it – Potatoes! Ya that’s right, a simple brown dusty potato. Getting to the point now.. long long time ago.. actually just about two years ago.. Mr. now Husband and then Boyfriend and I were cooking.. something (don’t ask me what as even if it’s rare it’s not all that memorable; purely because it’s my cooking)with potatoes. And we put 3 buggers in the cooker leaving only one small round fellow out. And I said to him ” Don’t leave him out, he will get lonely” He turned around and gave me the smile (oh ho not the potato the man) as if he was going to propose to me. He said” What did you say?” I said ” What DID I say?” He said ” Bout the poor potato?” I said ” Cook him along with the others..the guy might think we like him less” And that’s it. We both confessed. ( NO not our love for the vegetable) We confessed how we both believed that “every”thing lives…or shall I say “even” things live.
I’m sorry if I dragged the story bit much but you see I have to be honest and hence telling you why I thought of what. The why is above and the what I am beginning to tell.
As a little girl I always believed Every single thing alive or dead, breathing or not, moving or still has a life. It feels things around it. It hears me and others, it sees what’s going on. It knows. And I knew that.
Let me try giving you examples. Well every summer my mum used to take me to her mum’s house. It was in the farms of U.P. in northern part of India. There was much work to be done in these farms too. While the women took care of the home front my uncle and grandfather used to do the work in fields. Needless to say I hung around with them. So what was I doing there all day? I was never bored or lonely. I spoke. To? The trees, the grass, the little butterflies, the spiders, the mud and even the buffaloes. Somehow all seemed happy but the poor buffaloes. I wiped their tears, asked them if I could get them a glass of water or fan them and somehow cool them on the hot summer day. But all in vain, they just never smiled. I even boycotted my grand dad for riding the bullock cart. I mean doesn’t he know the poor guy wants to walk free??? He obviously thought I was some city freak and allowed me to walk along back to our home. Next morning I’d sneak out and go to the cattle with a soap. Tell them if they have a nice bath they might feel cooler, but the crazy ones rather eat it so I took it back.
I have wondered what the
balloons felt after the party was over. How the wrapping paper dealt with being chosen so carefully and torn so quickly. What about the chair that nobody likes to sit on? The pillow that isn’t the favourite? How do you tell a bag he is just not your favourite? While growing up has reduced the sound of the voices in my head but as I am writing I know the looks that talk. The candles that hardly get burnt complain, and the plant that isn’t my favourite too. I know I am not as fair as I would like to be. But hey, so isn’t life. Now who can say things aren’t alive?