The Body Makes Itself A Known Miracle
Juhu Beach, erstwhile Bombay for Mumma stores memory like bursts of rain lodge in the crevices between two buildings: each of us witness birds dip their beak into this temporal pale. As a young girl, I too, built homes out of sand and water on the beach proximate to home; carried some twigs, fallen flowers, and beach and sand toys. Once, I dug into the sand closer to the shore and it formed a shallow canal of water. I exclaimed this in somatic bursts to my mother seated beside me, called this new addition the waterway. My body still holds the image of the first blob of water: the coarsest blue. Soon, a few fishes appear- ed—for everything that is metaphysical, the body offers a tangible form. Give me something to hold against the muscle tissue: like an ascend of the wings of a bird against wild winds, the descend of rain’s soft bones, and shadows that blur anew when in motion. For all these, there is an analog—the body that goes on, the body that shrinks and grows and protects in accord, the body—the body—