Ek girti huie aurat

A falling woman

One second, I was listening to the man in front of me grumble about the slipperiness of concrete paths on rainy slopes. In the next, my right foot flew out from under me, taking the left with it, and an open-mouthed gasp froze on my face. The landing sounded like a large sack of flour dropping to the ground. Thhhudhh. But I felt like a heavy ball of that sensory nightmare called slime. Like someone had hurled a massive ball of slime onto a wall, and the ball had unfurled midair, taking up more surface area on landing than it had in the palm. Splaattt was what it felt like when I landed on my bum, my flesh splaying out. Thankfully, a few muscles clenched, protecting my spine. I let out a few embarrassingly shrill shrieks, echoed by alarmed fellow hikers. I hadn’t yet noticed what they had. If I had fallen a little to the left, I would have gone crashing down the cliffside. Before I could process this, an arm shot out to help me up, and I took a few steps. I found a place to pause—patted my thighs, bum, and all the tingling flesh that was hanging around—and smiled mental smiles. You did good, mama.

For heavy people or those who feel heavy—for us who carry some undefined burdens or chanchal minds —I advocate a safe out-of-the-blue fall. No, not scuba diving and the weightlessness underwater. Not anti-gravity rooms where you float around, and not paragliding or parasailing either. Just a sheer, safe, accidental fall, anywhere.

I’ve been the chronic faller. I had (have?) unstable ankles. They’d go gaj-jig if I stepped on even a small pebble, throwing me off balance, arms flailing. My spine waving like we flap handwashed clothes before hanging them to dry. Sometimes, I’d fall so suddenly and surprisingly that I’d find myself laughing in surprise when I recovered. Every time I’ve fallen, I’ve been alone—mostly on regular tar roads. Usually, I’d have checked out of my body a few minutes before the fall. But each time I’ve landed with a thud and almost no damage, I’ve thanked my stars and the flesh that protected me as my mind came back to the scene.

We were driving down a familiar flyover when I noticed the construction progress of three new buildings beside it. My parents made a remark, and it sent me on a mental trip for about five to ten seconds. When my mind landed back in the car, I realised I had lost the conversation thread. I had checked out so completely that I didn’t even remember what my parents had said about the building that sent me on a mini roller coaster ride. This is what my mind and I were playing with:

• “Oh, the building is so tall! Will I ever be okay living on higher floors?

• But S and G live on the 11th floor, and I’m comfortable there. Why do I think I won’t be ok on floor 30? What kind of DDA-flats thinking is this? Strangely classist also.

• Oh! Those other buildings that were razed because a new flyover was coming up? Once these flyover plans are made, do flat owners get wind of it early and manage to sell their flats in time? Maybe some people buy these at distress prices and then make a profit with the government buying them off or through compensation. How does that even work?

• If I had to get compensation from the civic authorities, I wouldn’t know where to start. No one would respond to my query anyway. Oh ,wait! But these days I look quite swami-like, no? Maybe if I wear a white sari and apply sandalwood paste on my head, the sarkari babus will give me a minute. They may fear my curse!”

Once I had made myself laugh with the sad Nirupa Roy -Amritanandamayi - Butch-Ascetic image, my mind and I came back to the car. I told the fam, for the first time, the journey my brain had taken in less than ten seconds. We laughed, but I could sense they were astonished.

For the longest time, I thought everyone’s mind did this. For the longest time, I’ve also known that not everyone’s mind does this.

“Ee daydreaming chaiyade, go clean your room.”

Before there were reels, there was my mind. It kept me quite entertained. I had favourite fantasies that I played on repeat like running into crushes in unexpected places and rehearsing reactions for it, slapping nasty bosses, or unexpected journeys like the flyover one—hypotheticals that didn’t include a single entity from my real life. I could zone out in the middle of reading a book or watching a movie, mostly in the middle of conversations and come back just as entertained, if not more. Of course, I could also make myself miserable and morose. But you know by now that all superpowers are also a curse. That’s just the way it is.

Each time I’ve fallen, I have wondered where I was in my head just before the fall and usually it was never in the moment. For many years I saw it as punishment despite the joy both the safe falls and mental detours brought me. A fall is nothing to be proud of and a wandering mind is not really a gift I told myself. Bzzzzzzttt. Wrong.

I’m getting to be okay with my hyperactive story-weaving brain. I look at the impossible places we go to and feel grateful for the trip when we come back. We also spiral, not just in anxiety but in anticipation of joy. As I judge lesser and let myself roam in the park and in the mind, I realise—there are fewer leaps of fantasy involving terrible people, slaps, and angry retorts to imagined insults. Instead, there’s more of: What if that tree is magic? Does the dog in the park recognise us from 50 metres away, what about 100 meters? Does she like her name? Is she half-cat, cause she can ignore us at will? If we were to adopt a dog, will Begum ride it like a horse or forever live on the ceiling-touching perches we’ve made for her?  Everyone is plucking this tree bald, it must be magic!  Then suddenly I will freeze in response to a runner whizzing past me and just like that I will be back on the path -mind and body together.

Letting your body take the lead to bring your mind back to the room is a great idea. I’m not sure you can counter thoughts with thoughts—it hasn’t always worked for me. I hope we keep experiencing that mini space and time that falls occupy -when surprise turns to fear and then finally to relief and maybe laughter. You feel, but you cannot think. Your body has cushioned you. Nothing broke—just a bit of pain, a little squealing. I hope, in our imperfect and outright outrageous bodies—stiff backs, stubborn knees, and anxious hearts—we get the accidental joy of those weightless seconds, where we feel like we are without body, mind, or weight, and then re-enter the body, mind, and weight, and feel pleased with it.