My head feels like a marinating pot. Ideas soaking in emotional juices. But once the food gets the flavour, the juices are poured down the drain. I have a vivid imagery of my internal body systems. It resembles the inside of the drain pipe of a kitchen sink. Repression - that feels like swallowing puke, eating something that is supposed to excreted. It’s only the first few times that make you scream in agony. ‘How is this fair?’ , ‘ What did I do to deserve this?’. You roam around in search of justice. You try to make people understand, try to give them eyes, so that they can see you. You try to puke it out, so that they see what you tasted. You try to be grateful for their lack of disgust towards that undigested juice. They make a note of it, and add it to the list of things they see you have swallowed. They start identifying you based on that. They try to understand your behaviour as the symptoms of the kind of things you have swallowed. They imagine the plight of your food pipe and judge your words accordingly. In their eyes, you become what they have seen you swallow. They start talking to that, making friends with that, to the extent where you feel like screaming “you are talking to my digestive system, not me!”.
Well, that’s just the first few times. After some point, you got used to it. You start keeping it as your little secret. Notorious though you become, when you begin to develop an appetite for it. You start liking what you swallow. You become the secret veteran puke eater.
I walked into the cafe. I noticed that the outer walls had changed colours. They had become bright yellow. I pushed the door open. Through the glass of the door, I saw a man wearing the armour, walk towards the door. I let him pass and smiled at him as he did. The slit in armour near his mouth moved slightly. He was smiling back. The inner walls had also changed colours. They had become multi-coloured. One was light blue, another bright green. The big wall had turned purple. I hadn’t seen a purple wall before. The tables were neatly arranged. The roasted smell of coffee filled the room. I took three deep inhalations. I liked that at least for sometime, I was just smelling coffee, rather than my own puke.
People wearing the armour were seated all over the place. Some in pairs, some with their groups and some in their own company. All of them had the armour. A few of them had coated it with different designs. Some couples had matching designs. Some had tried to be creative with it. A girl had frogs on it. Another girl had painted ugly looking pink roses all over it. Some men had written things on it. Some left it plain. They liked the rusty old colour.
I walked up to the waitress. The slit near her mouth moved drastically. She was a nice girl. I really liked her. “What’s with the new colors?” I asked her. She said, “the owner is now studying colour theory “ . I could hear her laugh from under her armour. Her laughter grew wilder. The armour started evaporating making a sizzling sound. I could see the dark blue gas in the place where her helmet was a few seconds ago. The gas was spreading faster. Her laugh was getting wilder. People turned towards her. Even though everybody wears the armour, they do like it when it melts. In fact, they yearn for it. They get some joy and hope when they see somebody’s armour melt. They are reminded of the possibility.
I turned towards the waitress. The gas was gone. The armour was back in place. She was done laughing. The previous week, the owner was reading Egyptian history. He had a 3D model of the Pyramids mounted near the billing counter. It was colour theory this week.
The waitress handed me my usual Cappaccino, the extra strong and half sugar. She said, “he is planning to read Immanuel Kant next week. I don’t know what that’s going to do to the cafe”. I couldn’t help but smile. A little wider than usual, I guess.
I walked to my table thinking “if only people were like the waitress, knowing how to melt the armour on their own, at least for sometime”. There was the sound of another armour melting. My eyes scanned the room for the dark blue gas. I found it in one corner, on a table with just one chair. The guys had smelt the coffee that was just served to him. He must be a genuine coffee lover. I thought I must go talk to him. For what joy; I don’t know. Maybe see the armour melt once more? That seems like a valid reason.
Once again, there was the sound of the armour melting. The dark blue gas was spread out in front of a painting hung on the purple wall. Somebody was seeing art. “The owner would probably get this armour melted if he had seen this …” I thought.
I took my first sip of coffee. I was alive, a little too much suddenly. There was the sound of the armour melting again. It was louder than the others. It was two armours. A couple were kissing. “This is how she must have felt while kissing him” I thought.
I am tired of transient emotions. I have stopped liking the fact that I feel something now and feel something else ten minutes later. I want to feel something that lasts. I want to feel something that I can know I will feel ten minutes later. I am not against change. I like changes. They make me hopeful. I like feeling things unexpectedly too. I liked the feeling when I listened to Mahler for the first time. I still remember that moment. It felt like the bows were playing with your stomach instead of the violins. It was the music of well mitigated silences. I liked that feeling. Speaking of which, I feel like listening to Mahler now.
I turned towards the waitress and asked her if she could play Mahler. She did. There was the sudden noise of several armours melting. You could see the dark blue gas spreading in different parts of the room. Music, well…that should be called magic.
I like listening to music. I like how it makes me feel. But, that’s not what I am talking about. I want change. But, I still want to feel something that lasts. So I went into myself looking for it. You know what I found? Longing and Vanity. Jealousy, fear and delight were also there, but they were still subservient. Those are not what I am looking for though. I want a feeling that lasts and a feeling that I can feel without thinking about whether or not I am supposed to be feeling it. Every time I feel jealousy, the first thing I feel is that I am not supposed to be feeling this. So, I pour it down the drain as soon as I can. I am filled with a lot of such things I poured down the drain, into myself. There is probably a stinking lake of it inside me. You know what I have started feeling every time I look at that lake? Nostalgia!
It’s no longer remorse but rejoice. It’s no longer the guilt of carrying it with me but the relief of it being inside me. I am starting to feel proud of myself for pouring things down my drain. At least, I didn’t pour it on somebody else’s face. I am starting to celebrate the fact that I hold this safe within me, outside the reach of somebody else. It’s a silent nostalgia that I feel for myself.
I moved my legs and heard something collide and squeak. I had gotten the armour of my own.
— Ayalavan
