Forced
A friend and I were wildly excited about the hyacinth bulbs we ordered online. She planted hers one week before mine. Her bulbs peeked out of the mud, mine were buried deep down in the pots. Almost a month later, her bulbs have white flowers. Imagine that – hyacinths in Mumbai!! She very sensibly left the bulbs to do their thing and her infinite calm and patience are now reaping rewards.
My bulbs have had a far more tumultuous life. Uncle Google advised planting the bulbs deep in the pots and giving them plenty of sunlight. The balcony gets erratic sunlight at best so I carted the pots off to a sunny spot at the office. Two weeks later, staring at the inaction and mud, I’d had enough. Back home the wanderers came, and without too much thought, I proceeded to dig the bulbs up. Up they came, trailing bright white roots. Of course, panic immediately reigned. I shoved them back into the mud before they realised they’d been traumatised, though I left the tops peeking out of the soil this time.
Then came the saga of desperately seeking sunlight…Two hours on one windowsill, two hours on the floor in the far corner, back up on the sill to catch the setting light..the family, amused and resigned in equal measure, left me alone: the crazies have to have their out, it seems. Where the mind is weirdly wired, into that country of sunlight, let my bulbs arise (Apologies to the great poet).
My friend’s hyacinths bloomed today. This galvanised my morning. I spent it lugging the pots between kitchen window and precarious spots on balcony ledges, getting an earful from the driver on whose spotless vehicle a small amount of mud may have fallen (I deny it, milord), and retiring hurt with cuts and bruises (the son wanted to know if I was growing the plants or wrestling them into submission). Finally, battered, exhausted and with nothing much to show for all the frenetic activity, I called an end to the madness.
Sometimes, I have to sit myself down and have a conversation. This entails some sulking and pointing fingers, some stern fact checking and reality bites: it’s not something I look forward to but it’s necessary to keep the peace. I, me and myself had one of these chats this afternoon.
We agreed that we couldn’t force the bulbs to grow. All this hustling and cajoling was not doing any good, the bulbs would grow if they felt like it. Or not. We agreed that like the bulbs, most things couldn’t be forced. Our conversations have a way of meandering away from the point.
It isn’t enough to want something or someone very badly. Force alone won’t do the trick. Take love, for example. You can love someone very much, but you can’t make them love you back. No amount of rationalising or reasoning will help. All the logic and statistics in the world will fail. All we can do is love and hope that the object of our affections will return the sentiment in full, partly or at least temporarily. Or will let us down kindly. Or hope that the madness passes and we can see the person for the little shit he/she is. But first, we have to let ourselves do the loving.
You can’t force someone to stay. Children, cats, lovers – they go their own way, you must go yours, and if you’re very lucky, the two paths may run alongside for a while. Our son left home today to walk his own path. We watched him go, happy and grief stricken all at once. A friend wrote to me: they go to grow and so that we may know how much we love them. Fair enough. It might feel like my beating heart walked away through the airport doors but it’s a good sort of sadness…
Talking of sadness, you can’t force emotion on anyone. If it were that simple, we’d all choose to be happy and optimistic and calm all of the time. But sorrow has its time, and so does rage. There are days or years when the mind is numb or the soul drowns under waves of grief or despair. Fight the feeling, and you’ll likely be overwhelmed. Ignore the emotion, and it will wait, biding its time, roaring back when you least expect it. The hard truth is to learn to accept all of it: to accept the battering and let in the emotion. Years may pass before the battering becomes less brutal, the wash of emotion becomes less about taking your breath away and more about learning to breathe in imperfect conditions. But the acceptance of emotion comes to all of us, just maybe not when we need it to.
What else?
Memories: like ’em or deny ’em, but they remain impervious to force or pressure, even of the magnitude that might produce diamonds or mountain ranges. Memories are wilful, sly creatures, all sharpened claws and vampire fangs. They roost in leafless trees, hiding in plain sight, just out of reach. You can be awake for years, awake and alert, and those same memories will sheath their claws and Cheshire cat smiles will hide the fangs. Lulled into complacency, it only takes one unguarded moment, one afternoon nap, and they swoop down and engulf you in dreams or nightmares.You can’t force memories into heart shaped boxes. You can try, but the same smoke and mirrors memories turn out to be cast in stone, if you try and forget, forgive. Best not to fight the memories. Instead, let them come, let them in, and trust that a day will come when they sheath their claws and leave you alone to make new memories.
Thus went the meandering chat in my head. Conversation over, ruminating done, deep breath taken, I try to leave the hyacinth bulbs alone. Twenty four hours later, a tiny green patch appears on one, the forerunner to a shoot perhaps. I only snatch peeks at it three or four times an hour, and concentrate on life as it goes on. My son leaves for university half a world away, friends are ill or recovering from the virus, the parent is sounding low and weary when we speak on a telephone call. As with love or longing, life too can’t be forced. All we can do is live it, event by event, moment after moment, and hope for a little green patch of good to appear every now and again.