Hibernation
I have been in hibernation for forty years, waking up with a stiff body and the remnants of a life lived as if in a dream.
I have been sleeping for the past 40 years.
Not a sound restful sleep from which you wake refreshed but a troubled one - riddled with despair, vivid nightmares, rich with pain and anger, lust and desire, frustration, and the futility of it all. I slept through it, feeling the emotions as if underwater; everything muted and muffled. Swimming underwater is hard. The water resists your movements and it takes all your strength to move forward. My sleep has been similar. My mind fights while my body wishes to drift with the current. It would have been easier to change my direction and follow the flow, like everyone else. But that would take me far away from where I needed to go. So, I resisted and fought for a very long time.
I don’t remember wanting anything. Want is for the privileged. Despite my cushy upbringing, I did not feel privileged. So, I will stick with need. I say need because for the past 40 years, I have deeply needed many things – love and support, comfort and compassion, space and ownership, liberty and above all, freedom.
I was brought up to believe that you needed to fight for everything. Life is not meant to be easy. It is designed to challenge you every step of the way. You learn to protect yourself early. While in hibernation – for to be honest I wasn’t really sleeping – I did not have time to think. I only reacted to the constant onslaught of situations that came my way.
I oscillated between extremes - love and hate, desire and disgust, strength and weakness, success and failure, care and loathing. There was no middle ground. I am a classic example of someone who has lived in survival mode for so long, that I know no other way to live. I moved from high levels of anxiety to high levels of joy – rarely feeling the warm embrace of calm and quietude.
While fighting against the current can strengthen your muscles and hone your body, it can also completely exhaust your resolve. How long can you keep up against the surging tide of expectations, raised eyebrows and whispered rumours?
Eventually, I gave up fighting. My body sagged with relief, tired and sore, muscles aching from long hours of resisting, drowning in relief and self-pity. I could not go any further and let go. I drifted for a while, floating in limbo – allowing the current to take me where it pleased. The minute I gave up, the current changed in rhythm, from furious and raging to a gentle lull. The battle was over. The waters had won.
I landed up on a soft sandy shore with huts and homes faintly visible on the horizon. Some had chimneys with plumes of smoke rising gently. Tall trees lined the small unpaved road, plump with fruits. A light breeze brought in the faint smell of jasmine – my favourite flower. After my long and arduous journey, it looked very warm and inviting – like a fairy tale. I no longer had the energy to question my decision nor the will to turn around. And so, I walked down the unpaved road and found a house that was not occupied. I lit a small fire and spent the first night watching the flames crackle and dance till the only thing left was a pile of ash and the afterglow of embers.
I lived here for a long time. I made friends, found a partner, and watched my house grow into a home. I fell into its rhythm, becoming one with the people, their customs now mine. I created a life acceptable to this society. I was a good wife and mother – always home on time, always ready to help, ever the fabulous host, ever the smiling, easy-going friend.
While in hibernation, my life found a rhythm, without my knowledge. There was routine and structure. There were no surprises. There was calm. This is so easy; I remember thinking to myself. Why did I resist this life for so long? I often sighed in contentment – pretending that this was what I wanted. I avoided the mirror – unwilling to look at what I had become. When unpleasant feelings of stagnation and despair crept in, I gently suppressed them. I told myself many lies, trying hard to believe that they were in fact the truth I had been evading.
If I was in a fairy tale, my story would end here with a happily ever after. But I was not a story and this was not a fairy tale. The small hamlet I called home was a mirage that eventually began to fade, revealing the real picture – one of arid land, hot winds, dry sands and endless dunes.
I began noticing the cracks; its flaws, rigid rules and unquestioning faith. I did not resist. I stayed quiet as I watched people stomp on their dreams, stomp on their children’s dreams and allow the walls around them to grow thick and impenetrable. I did not help them. I watched, in silence, a society so bound by its limitations that it had caged itself. I had caged myself. I did not know how to escape. For centuries and over generations its inhabitants had forgotten that there was a cage at all.
Have you ever noticed a lake? Its smooth waters unbroken, like a mirror, reflecting the vast expanse of the sky. The clouds scatter across its surface, the blue of the sky merging with the blue of the water. But the water is not blue and neither is the sky. Both are a trick of light, reflecting and refracting, designed to fool you. Below the pristine surface of the lake lies the layers of muck, dirt and garbage that has been thrown in. The lake absorbs it all, silently. The garbage rots, creating the perfect environment for fungus and algae to thrive. And yet it does not disintegrate. The only thing the lake can do is bury it deep within itself, hoping that your feet won't touch it, your eyes won’t see it and the filth will remain a secret, a shame carried by the lake alone.
Once a year, the skies open up and torrential rain raises the level of the lake. Wind dishevels its perfect appearance. The dirt at the bottom is disturbed. The pristine façade is exposed, bare and naked, for the world to see. No matter how hard the lake tries, it cannot hide the muck. The pieces of garbage loosen in the dirt and rise to the surface. When the rains subside, the lake is still again. But now, its surface is spotted with garbage, plastic bags and bottles, wrappers and trash, that it can no longer hide. The vast expanse of the blue sky reflects on its still waters once again, the clouds – a tapestry over the objects lost and now found.
I am the lake. Sit on my shore, enjoy the breeze and the view that I offer, but don’t go swimming in my waters. The dirt will muddy your feet. The stench rising from my belly, unbearable.
The stench is what woke me.
It was overwhelming, all-encompassing, filling my nostrils with its putrid-ness, heavy and damp. It was not coming from anywhere, yet it was everywhere. Seeping through the walls, rising like steam from the ground, swirling like a dense mist in the air. I tried to find its source. An opening in the earth perhaps? A whiff of something the air carried? The more I searched, the stronger the stench grew. It was agonising and yet familiar, with a faint hint of jasmine.
Then I looked at my body. I smelt myself – arms, underarms, hair, fingernails – anything I could put my nose to. The stench was coming from me. I was the stench.
I needed to get away from it. But how do you escape yourself? How do you rid yourself of years of rot, fungus and algae so lovingly collected and buried deep within? It was time to wake up. I moved my body, slowly stretching my muscles. Every inch of my being protested, wanting to go back to sleep. But the hamlet had disappeared and I had no home to go back to. The only way was out of the cave.
I took a tentative step and then another. Slowly, hand on the damp walls, feet gingerly feeling the floor, I made my way through the dark, towards the faint sliver of light. I stopped when I reached the entrance of the cave and looked back one last time – smelling the damp familiar smell and sending a silent thank you for sheltering me all these years. Then I turned and walked out.
The lake waited for me – calm and pristine – reflecting the perfect evening sky in striking shades of orange, purple, and pink. Pretty clouds scattered across its surface. I was tempted to take a dip but I remembered the dirt beneath its surface. I was not ready to face it just yet.
As my eyes adjusted to the fading evening light, I looked at myself. My body had aged. Layers of fat covered my once flat stomach. My thighs touched each other when I walked. My hair was dirty, lacking its luster and shine. My eyes looked tired, framed by dark circles. My cheeks sagged. I flexed my jaw, trying to relax my face which had contorted into a permanent grimace. I lay down on the soft grass and let the evening breeze calm me. I closed my eyes, smelling the faint smell of earth. The wind carried the scent of rain. Perhaps I would stay till the rains washed away the stench. Breathing deeply, through the odor of my aging, stinking body, I waited.
Samira, I’m amazed at the brutality, sensitivity, vulnerability and courage you show in your writing. I love this!
Brilliant! Awesome !God your words bring out the strongest emotion effortlessly.