Wednesday, February 07, 2007

She and They

Alice has had enough adventures in her Wonder-life. She was molested 5 times. She had married twice. She had memories of sweet nightmares with men, to give her company.

Yet, she never runs out of thoughts. Meaningless, as they always were, (like Robinson Crusoe is virile, chocolate ice creams are good for health, Math should be made optional, Mc. Donald’s is deteriorating), they sit, talk, walk and caper through the nooks of HER mind. They flutter like a butterfly. Sing like a broken violin. Swell like a rain-drunk August tarn. And brew thunderstorms politely.

They have always known the chinks to slink in and have followed her religiously throughout History. Like a lizard inches towards its prey. They have taunted her like circus clowns, haunted her like her own screams in lonely dark alleys at Night.
Yet the Alice-s of All-Time love such thoughts.
Despite all their cruel conspiracies. Of shifting the ground. Of tilting the universe.

Alice masquerades under different skins throughout the pages of History. And the Alice-thoughts pulsate, similar in origin, similar in nature and function. With their incomprehensible, rhythm-less rhythm: like music from a broken violin.
So, it becomes irritatingly difficult to get HER, impossible to comprehend HER mood shifts:
Why SHE enjoys weaving her labyrinths of chaos.
Why SHE enjoys melancholy evenings.
Why a bouquet of red roses are enough for infinite joy.
Why that glint of joy in HER child’s eyes can compensate for all her mistakes.
Why SHE forgives what is unforgivable.
Why SHE forgets what is unforgettable.
Why SHE sacrifices the Impossible.
Even SHE wonders, throughout History.
And the smile plays around Mona Lisa’s lips for eternity.

Alice could have been anybody: Antigone, Clytaemnestra, Joan of Arc.
SHE could have been a faceless Afghani behind her burkha. Or Paulo Coelho’s Veronica who decided to die.


Funny are how Women’s thoughts can hurtle from one to the other, sway from one face to another: and form patchworks. Like a 4-year-old’s doodle: Orange with mauve; green with baby pink.

Outlandish are how they insanely, ardently break all rules and set up New Rules. How they swerve unpredictably like the footsteps of a drunkard and vanish.

Yes, they can hate like a Hitler. Love like a Juliet. Dream like a Cinderella. They can play more than God and help create. They can be beautiful, despite all their cruel conspiracies. Of shifting the ground. Of tilting the universe.

-Rajyashree Sen