A delicious scoop of golden light is drilling a hole on my ochre bedroom wall, when I wake up. A whiff of fresh, citrus air circles in my ears and a delicate shadow of a new bloomed lily falls on me. I turn sideways to see my asleep, eleven year old who has climbed our bed sometime at night and is lightly snoring with parted lips stuck to the puddle on the pillow. My fingers comb his velvet hair and involuntarily drop over the cool, swollen quilt. Our limbs peep out of the asymmetric blanket arrangement. I match up my toes to his. He stirs and I withdraw.
My comfortable eyes stretch to the window. A bunny is sitting and waiting in the lawn where the dew is still shinning. In between, a spider is crawling while weaving silk in the air. Some water from the sprinkler has made its way to the wall. I fancy the damp smell of concrete – it reminds me of the first monsoon in India. Making a mental note to get it repaired, the silken silence in my ears gets interrupted by careful jingle of the cutlery in the kitchen followed by the inviting sound of pouring tea. I know that my husband is pulling out the tea-cozy from the lowest drawer of the dining table to tuck in the boiling kettle. To let it dream and thaw. I hear him putting two teaspoons out on the table next to our favorite, laced cups fitted in their saucers. I know he is staring at them now. I stay still as he does ten feet away. Then, he shows up at the door, signals and leaves with a smile. A yawn follows and the ritual is complete.
I am ready. My bearings are loaded, my senses are sharp. I walk out and marvel at their spontaneity and their neural link, something like the spider web – gentle yet strong. Like five fingers, five basic elements. I turn on my favorite music – a calming, Tibetan incantation that rhymes with the chiffon breeze. I sink in the tranquil moments with my eyes shut. A random thought surfaces about people who lose one of their senses and get a sharpener for the other. If it is a willing choice to dull one and awaken some more of other, which one it’d be? The thought of blunting one sends my spirit to a shredder. The chanting continues and I dare myself to think – which ones will I trade?
Vision is involuntarily the most nurtured of all as the occipital cortex is one of the biggest areas in our brains. I think I’d sacrifice some of that real estate to my sense of touch. While the world is exceptionally beautiful and alluring, lately it has been gruesome and obscenely sensational that I wish to lower my eyes in shame and embarrassment for being a human being. It will be my way of saying that I don’t wish to see its corrupted image, instead I wish to enhance my sense of caress into healing the ones who suffer and the ones who torment. Especially the ones who torture. I wish to lose my ability to judge based on sight and never develop one based on my sense to feel.
I walk outside into the patio, where the tea awaits. I watch my husband who lifts up his affectionate face from the fresh pages of the newspaper. I see the statue of peaceful Buddha meditating in our lawn. It draws a circle of peace within me. I realize vision is a rare gift. What do I know about dulling it or even losing it? I can make a claim because I am not connected to the reality of losing it. Then my eyes travel to the newspaper – a raped kid, a hand rising for help from a war ravaged soil, a school swallowed in gunpowder flood them. My gaze is lowered holding the load of grief and tears.
Is dulling my personal sight to an advantage for the rest of the world a small price to pay? I think so. Did somebody say there is a magic potion for this?