Have you ever seen anyone make the cane baskets that hold flowers in bouquets? Have you known how numbers get on number plates? Who makes the buttons that stick one fold to the other of a cloth that hides what is to be hidden of your body? Who decides what is to be hidden of a body?
There are beings in the spectrum which are invisible to eyes, undetectable to animal ears. They pass through each other, these beings and the animals, all the time, only one aware of the other’s existence. It is widely accepted that the beings function out of deprivation. That the minds living in the darkness of dungeons conjure worlds for the dragons, fairies, gremlins to live in. They go far on islands to make castles out of pollen, but are themselves only in front of a sock. Their sock. It sets them free. Minds that are shackled in rooms make voyages and the ones that attempt voyages write of home.
These beings make the buttons, numbers, the fake cherries to put on cakes. People, a politically insensitive way of addressing animals, are also created by them. They are, like all other buttons, tires and shoe-soles, made in the image of their creator. They are made carelessly of color, conscience, fate and a feeble will to survive. I suppose they all also want dignity. In their world, telephones ring and are answered. Lights turn on and off when switches are clicked. Reproduction is not the main business of their lives. They are pumped with feelings. Feelings keep them alive. These feelings too are made in the other dimension.
The first feeling they made for the people was curiosity. Wonderment, eagerness, numbness were made next. Then they made the subtle but more persistent of joys. They made pain, love and in careless excitement, sadness. Two feelings were mixed in secret proportions to make other feelings, such as the brittle elation at the relative smallness of one’s misfortunes, the sense of something that has survived its own ruins.
These feelings usually pass into the three or four dimensions understood by humans in the hours of the day when birds begin to chirp, in the form of clumps of symbols. Each clump is a brief, urgent message – describing a situation, a scene. People read them all at once, not one after the other. There isn’t any particular relationship between all the messages, except that the author has chosen them carefully, so that, when seen all at once, they produce an image of life that is beautiful and surprising and deep. There is no beginning, no middle, no end, no suspense, no moral, no cause, no effect.
And once the feeling is passed into these dimensions of the five senses, people feel them. They think them, brainlessly with their spinal cord. They try aimlessly to make sense, words and images out of them. They create create create, lead by these second-hand feeling from the outer dimensions. They say the second-hand lines in their second-hand play and fight their second-hand battles about land, water and egos. In them, go water and loaves of black-bread and sausage and feelings, out came shit and piss and language.
I was created in the image of Daddy Long Legs.
Words: Prachi Bhutada
Edits: Sanjana Takru
Prachi – writes, passionately and persistently, about things. Like color-pencil shavings, stray humming in the air, the place where it hurts and the sound of a bone when it cracks. She hurts on paper and insists she can change the world with her sheer belief in the inherent goodness of humans.