25 September, 2020

Memoirs Of Loss

A search for personal space

Memoirs Of Loss
"Why is the measure of love loss?" —Jeanette Winterson (Written on the Body)

ONE of Tagore's most celebrated paeans to nature was written when the poet was most overtaken by grief—the death of a favourite son. Nature's joy seemed to hold no bounds as he grappled with his loss. Why does one live? Why does one die? Why does pain run like an underground stream in both life and death? Why? Why? Why? Ajeet Cour's vignettes of a life "that is nothing but the din of pebbles in an empty tin drum" make us ponder over those "shreds, tatters and patches" that go to form it.

Peer Makki ki Gali in Lahore. Between the rippling breezes, the azure skies and the balmy sun stood heavy bamboo curtains. "Girls do not peep out from behind bamboo curtains," the six-year-old was firmly reprimanded each time she felt the need to feel the open and the free air. And so the mind wandered—and thrived in the realm of the imagination. So what if there was no Hans Anderson or Alif Laila?




To read this piece, and more such stories in India's most exciting and exacting magazine, plus get access to our 25-year archives goldmine, please subscribe.

In this article:

More from Sudipta Datta

Latest Magazine

October 05, 2020

other articles from the issue

articles from the previous issue

Other magazine section