Liminality

I've never known this feeling before, except perhaps at international airports. It came upon me like a wave on January 1st 2013 and hasn't subsided. Like burrowing into a rabbit hole and staying put. Hesitant, tremulous and yet feeling on the verge of something new. With Liz Lemon I said "Yes to life, yes to love, yes to staying in more!"

Liminality. That's what it is. From the Latin līmen, meaning 'threshold'. A state of 'in between-ness', so to speak. To exist between states...between solid and liquid? What's that? Like jelly? Yes, no, maybe, ok. It's the feeling in between something and something else topped with a sound helping of the between-ness of  somewhere and somewhere else. Whaddyatalkinaboutgoddammit... Ok, this -

We are currently living in a fragile space between the city and the farm, between 58 St.Mark's Road and Infinite Souls. And now I damned well understand the meaning of liminality and airports have got nothing on this, baby.

Evenings we sit in the garden, lit by the fairy lights and stars, drinking and talking, remembering. By daylight we memorize precious views.

1. The one of Mrs.D'Mello's gabled roofs and her avocado tree
2. The one down our lane where Ramani used to sit, where Geeta watered her tulsi plant, where Mrs. George peered out at us from behind her curtains
3. The one of the bamboo through the alcove and our bedroom window
4. The one of the roof and beams above our studio and soundproof room
5. The one of the tiles of the attic roof that I can't think of without wanting to weep for the quantities of beauty and rapture that went down under those tiles
6. The one of Zui's pink attic wall with black roses stenciled on and Jimi Hendrix peering through his smoke
7. The one of the holy archways created by the Pink Cassia, the Eucalyptus and the Christmas tree
8. The one of Barny parking his Suvega and walking in the driveway "Hi Patta...I've got some whiskey for you from the Army Canteen."
9. The one of the Lovely Room with its blue and white stripes...through the kitchen French doors
10.The ones that only Kuki can see: of Mrs Doherty and her potted cactii, of Gunboard Jack and his motorbike, of the Vedamanikam's and their girls, of the rikshaw man who parked his rikshaw in the garden and in exchange drove Grandma Lil to Bowring Institute to play cards, of Powell Thatha's roasts hanging in the kitchen

The dogs rush around our legs saying to us "But we'll be there. We'll form the bridge between the old and the new. We'll love you as always, unconditionally, yadda yadda woof woof."

We'll be gone, dear home. September's round the corner. We've loved every pore of you. We loved you in the winter when you were at your beguiling best, dressed in Santa curtains and plum cake. We loved you as we lay hot and desiring electricity, afternoons of the summer load shedding. We even loved you at your worst, wet and flooded during the rains, walls damp, mildew filling cupboards and making a mockery of our books and paintings. We are melded to you. But we'll be gone. Would that you go peacefully too.

In the rains...
Pic credit: Lekha Naidu