Posted on by Sonia Dogra

Like a Midnight Bloom

Dear Readers,

We never had summer vacations where I grew up. Spring kicked off the year in my town and then winter came after nine months, and it was brutal. So, we only had time to work between these two seasons. From December to February, the town was in a deep slumber with many people going down the hill to the plains, where winter was bearable. We used to visit my architect father’s perfectly planned city every year.

Places have sizes and hence a certain kind of superiority. One of the many conversations my cousins and I had was about ‘my small town’—boring, slow, with nothing to do, not even a proper playground, no swimming, not even cycling and absolutely no chance of a late-night ice cream. The city, with its benevolence, treated me with these luxuries. Something was always going on there, a frenetic energy surrounding it.

Every year, I would experience this crazy energy for three months, then–silence.  I’d go home and spend hours just staring out of the window. But it was probably here, and not in the bustling city, that I learnt to listen. There’s so much one can discover in silence. I learnt to distinguish between the chirps of a cricket and a swallow because they were so clear, un-muffled by the sounds of hurry.

Silence has a fertile ground. Of course, I didn’t realise it back then, nurturing the desire to live in the city. And that’s been the case, since I moved out for higher studies. I think, over years, it made me lose the ability to pay attention. Or, maybe, we’ve all lost it now.

Mindfulness stands on the precipice of an imminent collapse. As does listening. I sit at my desk, still, and type relentlessly even when I know it’s mostly a void I’m writing into. There are no ears bleeding to be pricked by this scribble today. There are constant chatters that drown listening. I, too, am this chatter. Maybe, our loneliness(es) is so big that it only knows how to echo through words to claim its moment.

I’ve been into Indian poetry recently and Eunice De Souza’s penchant for short, unadorned poetry led me to pen a small poem that took its own sweet time to come to me. It should also explain my long absence from the blog.

The poem relates to my earlier complaining about not being a (good) listener anymore—do you need to listen to a whole year of silence to write a poem? Maybe.

Anyway, here you are:

Writing A Poem

In the morning

I think hard about

what to write—

a burning nation,

Baba Vanga’s prediction

on melting glaciers

not too far, or

learning ten different stitches

on one handkerchief

when all I wanted to do was,

what spring does.

There I know: a nightingale’s song

should unfurl like a midnight bloom.

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In other news, I have finished the final proofing of my children’s chapter book, and hope it will see the light of day soon. I will keep you posted on that.

I also have a flash that will be part of the Flash Flood on June 14. It is titled ‘Submission Recipe for a Woman/Wife/Mother’.

One of my essays, titled ‘The Grand Canyon’ is now part of a beautiful collection ‘My India My Gods’ by Bare Bones Publishing. The book can be purchased here. Sharing a snippet from the essay. Thank you for reading. See you next week!

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17 Replies to “Like a Midnight Bloom”

    1. Hello Joylene. Thank you, would love to get s glimpse of this beautiful life of yours. The comments on your blog are closed. I loved your post on perfectionism being a writer’s possible roadblock.

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      1. Thank you for your comment, Sonia. No idea why my comments were closed. I checked settings and hopefully it’s fixed. Thank you for your continuing support. I appreciate you and your blog.

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  4. “I, too, am this chatter. Maybe, our loneliness(es) is so big that it only knows how to echo through words to claim its moment.” — love these lines and your matter-of-fact poem.

    –Namratha

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  7. Silences have always been rare for us growing up, since we’ve always been in cities, big or small. If not outside noises, the TV or radio was always ON. I don’t suppose anyone in my family likes silences, so we grew up around noises. Maybe that’s why we grew up silent.

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  8. Ah! Those long afternoons filled with silence – I don’t know where they went. I guess I can see that little girl with cute chubby cheeks gaping out of the window and crickets and the swallow.

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