When I reached Ottawa it was mid-winter and everything was covered under a mantle of snow. Even parts of the swift-running Ottawa river were frozen hard, with people skating over it. By March the first signs of thaw began to appear. A three-feet wide swathe running from the Parliament House building to the main roads was ablaze with snow melted, tulips sprouted all over the garden. I had spent many weekends skiing at the Gatineau Hills and marvelling at the bare trees with cylindrical tubes of ice covering their branches, tinkling like chandeliers when gusts of wind blew over them. They were now covered with tiny leaf. At Vancouver it rained three days and three nights non-stop. On the fourth day I took a stroll in Stanley Park. The wet paths were strewn with snakes. I was at Victoria, where we went by boat the next day, that I saw nature at its gorgeous best. Empress Park alongside the hotel was ablaze with flowers. Peacocks and quails scampered along dew-washed emerald-green lawns glittering in the sunlight. I walked across the park to the edge of a cliff overlooking a deserted beach. The snow covered peaks of mountains on the mainland were reflected in the deep blue waters of the ocean. I stood transfixed by the scene around me. As if to complete the mystic experience, I saw a young couple come to the beach, look around to make sure there was no one watching and divest themselves of their clothes. They frolicked about on the sand, ran into the sea, found it too cold and came out to warm themselves in the sun. They embraced and started to make love. I watched them taking turns being on top, quicken their pace and collapse in a blissful heap. It was a perfect end to a perfect morning.

Reading these words brought a little sorrow back. Canada would have probably been what I had been looking for a long time. It is not escape that I was looking for. I love my life here. However, I feel a little constrained and wished to explore new avenues. I know one thing. If I had wished to go there, I will go. I have this image in my mind which will come true. That's how I work my life, I imagine things really hard and make them come true.

Labels: books, hope, imagine, sorrow

Mozart's Requiem begins with you walking towards a huge pit. The pit is on the other side of a precipice, which you cannot see over until you are right at its edge. Your death is awaiting you in that pit. You don't know what it looks like or sounds like or smells like. you don't know whether it will be good or bad, You just walk towards it. Your will is a clarinet and your footsteps are attended by all the violins. The closer you get to the pit, the more you begin to have the sense that what awaits you there will be terrifying. Yet you experience this terror as a kind of blessing, a gift. Your long walk would not have meaning were it not for this pit at the end of it. You peer over the precipice: a burst of ethereal noise crashes over you. The choir. The choir is a the heavenly host and simultaneously the devil's army. It is also every person who has changed you during your time on this earth: your many lovers; your family; your enemies. The job of this choir is judgment. The men sing first, and their judgment is very severe. And when the women join in there is no respite, the debate only grows louder and sterner. For it is a debate- you realize it now. The judgment is not yet decided. Not yet. 

Labels: books