Passionflower for Thursday

I worship the way she walks. How gently, yet confidently, she floats in. You do not deny passage to princesses. She walked in today too, just as the princess she was.

Her hair is a cascade of liquid crystals, and her steps leave joyful blossoms of diamonds and grateful earth when she walks. She is a princess. Her name is panacea.  She is rain. My rain.

Thursday was an angry day in our fetid, sweltering city of Dimapur. The day was interesting. I cooked a wonderful pile of something. Later, I would fail to recognize my creation at the dining table. Nevertheless, mom was all too happy to care what I concocted in the kitchen. United and standing tall, mother and son vanquished whatever it was that I had prepared in the name of glorious hunger.

The food followed a bout of what we now call “Imkumtime” (No, you may not ask what the name means. It is classified space).

So there we were, bloated in God’s rich nutrients and seated for Imkumtime:  It is a leisurely moment where we spend time with each other. Sometimes we talk; sometimes we just sit and read that day’s headline; sometimes we exchange our theories about why Chelsea (our team) has had a poor run since winning our Champions trophy the previous season. Imkumtime is a time no other human dare intrude. Ever.  

After Imkumtime, I made tea and cleaned the house. The day outside was pleasant on Thursday morning. It was warm but not searing. It was perfect for another writingthon for me.   

Restlessness is my name. I do not remember a time that I wasn't writing three articles side-my-side, or have a guitar in my lap while writing (or typing, in the recent years). I am the king of multi-tasking. I love how ideas converge, fight, and bloom into a clear perspective. I worship how they piggyback a string of random ideas, each as disconnected as the other, yet still managing to make sense. Multitasking can be an obsessive but rewarding foible if you made a habit out of it.

All of us have capricious writing habits. For instance, my friend and writer, the accomplished Easterine Iralu, wrote to me recently stating that she junks entire manuscripts to restart writing if she found it didn't appease her literary hunger. I can empathize with the first novelist from among the Nagas: By sheer habit, I open three-four new Word documents and start recording my thoughts. The article that fails to satisfy is fodder for the recycle bin. 

There are those times too, when I delete entire batches of completed articles only to start writing “new ideas” again. Sometimes, it is not one, but an entire batch of completed articles that I delete.

Thursday was yet another writingthon for me. When two articles failed to pan out, I erased the lot and started another. The third piece was progressing well, but then the weather began picking up in the afternoon.  So did my restlessness. Alongside the in-progress article, I began parsing some HTML and programming Codes for the Eastern Mirror website, my current employment.

As the afternoon peaked, the work began turning insufferable: the ideas in my writing became erratic, parsing errors began creeping into my HTML and I wanted a cup of tea – if not for the gradual hum of winds that began around 4:00 PM from somewhere west. I smelled her. She was not far.

She came. She came gently at first, before announcing her regal self fully with a joyful shower.

Mom was too happy welcoming the rain. She opened all the doors and windows and let the winds in. Summer fled.  She was here.

She wears panache.  I love the rain. I love how she brings a gift of memories and the beautiful face of the woman to whom I have given my heart.    

'Passionflower’ is a song by British musician Jon Gomm. This song has no doubt that the rain belongs to me. 

 

© 2014 Thursday and Rain Al Ngullie © 2012 Al Ngullie