tales of Suchita

I feel a lot of things. None of them makes sense.

When I was a little girl, I could spend hours with myself, looking at anything that had caught my attention. I used to love loud prints, colours and chaos because there were so many things to look at. There were so many stories to discover and I was entertained, never bored. Even if I had looked at everything, there was still a detail to lock in on and find more about.

Soon, real life came calling and all the chaos had to be structured. I could no longer run to the garden because I had seen a butterfly and wanted to know where she had come from and where she was going. Why was she green and gold, and why were other butterflies blue and pink?

The curiosity had to be tamed for solving math problems like how many oranges were bought at the market.

I think it’s one of the reasons I became a writer. I am quite the scientist in that sense. I want to understand how systems – whether they’re ecological, political or human bodies – work. I want to take them apart and see the bare bones through a magnifying glass and say “ah” as if I understand the mystery.

I couldn’t be a scientist so I became a writer. Now, when I write characters or the worlds they operate in, I have an intimate knowledge of what is happening. I can no longer say I don’t understand because I have written this. It’s a different matter that sometimes they don’t behave the way I want them to. Why won’t anything make sense? Why must everything have several caveats?

I remember when I was studying economics for the first time in college, I complained to my friends that I don’t like the subject because every model, every theory has a number of exceptions. How does one understand anything when anything can be explained away by an exception?

Recently, I went on a vacation and found myself at Grandmother Sea. As soon as I dipped my feet in the sea water, I asked, “Tell me your story.”

Grandmother Sea told me, when you go back to your hotel, open your laptop and start typing, I will tell you a story. I tried but instead of her story, I started to write mine.

And now that I have found the heart of me, here’s what Grandmother Sea has to say to that fragile, warrior heart:

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Some things, dear child, are a mystery.
Some things, dear child, cannot be explained by words or thoughts.
Some things, dear child, have to be felt and experienced.

I am that thing. I am the Sea.
So vast, you can never see me in my entirety, even if you go to space.
So deep, no human can see the end.

But tell me, dear child, why do you need to see the end?
Even before that, do you see why the end is hidden?
Why it’s shrouded in mystery?

Do you see, child, why things in the universe
Are unknowable? Why you thrive
in chaos and get bored of routine?

You still don’t see
because I see your brain twisting itself
into knots and tangled webs, wondering, wondering, waiting for the “ah.”

Well…how do you feel when you come to me?
Quiet. Like only that moment exists,
everything else is silence.

That is the mystery, my child.
If you know the end, there is nothing left!
You cannot control this, no matter how you try.
The end is a certainty, there is no fun in that.

Even with all your thoughts and feelings
your presence and dreams
you cannot solve the mystery of the universe.

It’s not meant to be solved!
It’s meant to be lived, cherished and enjoyed
like a well-loved book, dog-eared and familiar
like a well-loved dish, easy to make
like a well-loved song, that brings a sigh of relief.

And like all well-loved people and things,
they’re unknowable, even to their creator.

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For Letter U, written as part of #BlogchatterA2Z