Observations #1

Forty-seven minutes past eight in the morning. I’m late but I’m there, and that’s a relief. I have a few moments—precisely thirteen—until the grey-clad security personnel start wanting me out. I must hurry, but I must also slow down.

I must practice what I preach I will practice.

The heart’s heavy or loud. On second thoughts, maybe it is fast and loud. The cut-out shirt, one size too small, clings on to my skin through an interface of a mixture of salts and water. It’s black and has the outline of three pairs of bipeds etched in grey.

I had picked it up from a table littered with same-sex merchandise. In exchange, I had parted with two currency notes, maybe three. The other stuff was too loud, like my heart is now. The people were loud too, relatively at least. Some would say they were just expressive, they were just free, they were just liberated. But all of this is only within the  walls that surround the table and the people. Once they walk out, they become quiet; they become subdued and suppressed. I too will walk out, but I will not be remarkably quieter.

Once you are at the bottom, you don’t have the drive to dig any further.

Not to forget the cycling shorts that confine my modesty. They are black too but no grey figures adorn them. There is a neatly cut out cushion sown in, to not let the hard seat dig in too far. Funny how when not on a bicycle, someone like me is supposed to look forward to hard things being dug in. Not too far because then won’t fun anymore. Until it gets to be fun again at least for one of the two.

My mind’s racing. The parts of it that have gotten lost somewhere must have made it light and nimble. But my mind is always heavy. Okay, a bit of hyperbole. Not always, but most of the time. That’s why I’m here trying to slow it down. The brisk jog must not have helped, but then the mind is not the heart even though hundreds of poets might have tried to convince us otherwise.

Focus. Look ahead.

I’m surprised to realize that my eyes were open all this while, but I hadn’t been seeing things. Not to imply that I’m blind, which I am not. I can see longer and clearer than I ought to, something I lean on to distance myself from my lineage, many of whom indirectly brought food to the tables of the families of optometrists. The first signs of the eventual submission to the ravages of old age have made their appearance as evidenced by blurring of gigantic signs planted far away. The psychological barricade that seems to install itself between the optic nerves and the temporal cortices seemed to be fueled partially by this optical loss. The cycle might be vicious, but my frontal cortex is up to scratch.

Observe and record.

Five types of palms, the names of which I’m not sure of, are probosces of varying length sticking out of the freshly watered lawn. One is a Chinese fan palm and another is a date palm, thanks to lessons lent by the lover during past lolls. The names of the other trees are even scarcer, but not those of the avians resting atop their branches. A family of flying rats dispersed across five trees, with a solitarian grooming itself, its grey outline sufficiently contrasting with the light blue sky. The nebulous army seem to have declared a ceasefire unlike its counterparts in Myanmar and Russia. Three black crows and a mynah are also in the party that did not require RSVPs.

Good going, but check back on your heart. Nothing in there or so it seems. Not even the loudness in the ears. Did I lose my earphones? Phew! I hadn’t, because I would be even more blind thanks to the noise.

Now let’s look at some mammals.

Unfortunately, not even a single quadruped one available for observation. Among the ones that are, one is learning to not use his two longer limbs for locomotion. He is on a skateboard, wobbly at best, sticking close to the median, propped on either side by his friends. A couple walk slowly past them on the far side of the road skirts the garden, lost in conversation. None of them have masks on, by the way, maybe as a sign of protest to the authorities.

Wait a minute, do I have mine on? No! Mine is on my neck, but then again I was alone and I had just finished a run. My excuse is better, at least until I get the dreaded virus one of these days.

Back to the road.

The most elegant posture. On a pink bicycle about thirty seconds behind the trio with the skateboard. The woman on the saddle seems to be the only one at peace with the world. She is wearing pink too, what a coincidence. A gentle brisk pace, maybe nine kilometers per hour. I know because I ride at thirteen when I’m not trying to race.

Now that she has gone, I need to find something else to look at.

I’m sitting on a wooden garden bench, and across me is another. Too close to each other, placed awkwardly toward the center of the ramada without much thought. Or maybe too much thought for the pair of security guards to nap during the day when no one’s looking. There is even a cast iron bolt that sticks out from the front where it shouldn’t have been left. If someone were to draw blood around where I am sitting today, they would be somethings and have four legs.

I think I have looked enough. Time to close my eyes. Making myself physically blind again, but now without the chorus of the heart in my ears. It’s time to try mindfulness and grounding.