The Days of Our Lives

Bob House, Lonavla.

The days of our lives were spent listening to Bob Marley’s songs at the tiny house named after him. They were spent dancing to Live Yourself Up, getting wounds on our feet by stepping on the slivers of stained glass, and letting the blood flow to the beat of the passionate reggae like a vivid red river, coloring the dewy green grass with its rage. They were spent spraying bottles of wall paint on to each other’s faces to add a little color to life, they were spent telling each other that we couldn’t sing, and realizing that we didn’t care.

They were spent walking down offbeat roads and throwing our arms up towards the sky, letting the winds capture all that we wanted to release. They were spent letting our hair down and dressing in what defined us, because those days were all about being ourselves.

We hiked through the hills that smelled like fresh earth, as the last rays of the setting sun shone green through the thick canopy. We spent our days rolling down the grass and to the edge of the lake, not paying attention to the thorns that dared to be an obstacle for us; instead, we pretended the thorns were withered flower petals, because what is life without a little fantasy?

We ran into the lake, screaming, and let our feet drag into the wet, mouldy mud of the bed. We trudged forward until we were underwater, and once we were, we pretended to be mermaids. We let our hair sway around us like a great black mass, and we took off our clothes and embraced our nakedness and accepted the imperfections of our bodies and let the cool water heal our scars.

We watched the ripples grow into waves, and marveled at how quickly noon had turned to the grey shades of twilight, then remembered the lighter days of our own lives that were now in a perpetual dusk. We spent those days wondering whether we could ever return to our dawns, or if we were doomed to the night.

The boats lay on the surface of the water, but they were unmoving. We were curious, that day, about the stationary nature of those little plastic things, only to learn that they were weighed down by a heavy anchor. We were struck by the realization of our own anchors: grief, apathy, and indifference. We spent our days learning to find solace in each other instead of pushing each other away. We spent our days learning to love in this cruel world, instead of pretending that nothing mattered to our transient existences. We spent our days trying to be compassionate, like the waters that let the heavy-hearted boats take rest.

The winds grew stronger, churning whirlpools around us, but we were in the eye of the storm, as calm as the looming clouds. The cold fell upon us like the sudden drizzle of rain, and we ran that evening, we ran to our shelter, but we recognized ourselves as our own saviors before we found a roof for our heads. We watched the storm recede, and felt our own emotions settling into the softness of a lullaby.

We spent our days becoming as deep and thoughtful as the waters we’d bathed in. We spent our days becoming as lusty for life and as vivacious as the winds that had swept our hair across our face, blinding us to what was coming. We spent our days becoming as benevolent and beautiful as the trees that offered us shade. We tried to acquire the strength and resilience of the mountains that didn’t quiver even when the thunder roared as hard as possible.
We spent our days learning to be as human as possible, and we took our lessons from mother nature herself, the mother of everything that breathes.

We slept easier those nights, I think, caressed by the moonlight and serenaded by the stars. We slept peacefully because we had spent our days wandering in search of ourselves, and we had finally reached our goal.