The Leap

        

             The Leap

Hop a little, Jump a little one two threee.... 

The rhyme is a significant part of my growing up years and very absurdly annoying to my struggling years. I could only hop a little but never jump even little. JUMP is not a verb nor a word but a colossal emotion pervading the sanctity of my living. 

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Rolling into the living room, I struggle to grab Tagore's Gitanjali from the highest shelf. The flower pot put next to it tumbles and the stale water in it splashes on my stupefying senses. Aaaaargh... I gasp for breath as if diving into oceanic waters. "HELP!" I shriek in exasperation. 

"Ninu, its just few drops of water and you are panicking like a wave has engulfed you." Dadu comes to my rescue but not without a piece of advice. 

"Beta, you are the shark of dark waters and not a remora surviving on frugal pieces of mercy." His words reflect wisdom of greying hair and cracking joints. Such an influence he is in my life but only his love for poetry is imbibed in me. Right now nothing except Tagore is tugging at my heart. 

'The morning sea of silence broke into ripples of bird songs; and the flowers were all merry by the roadside; and the wealth of gold was scattered through the rift of the clouds while we busily went on our way and paid no heed.'

Wow!  How could one not pay heed to such a magnificent composition, intriguing every moment of your existence! SEA, I want to see it from very close, feel its rippling appendages clasp me in an embrace. But all I can now do is watch it from the shore, without leaving footprints in the wet sand without leaving a legacy to follow. Maybe just for the lone romantics for me the legendary Bengal tiger has roared some quietened melody in his poetic musings. Tagore seems to understand my turmoil and I his, spanned over ages, uniting over passions of the futile, fertile mind. 

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"Jump Nina, Jump!" Again this word stands as the biggest challenges of a middle aged woman. A woman who has no spine and keeps coming to these pools of cold atrocities. The coach is prepared for this push but I'm heavily pregnant with fear, anxiety and doubt of the uncertain self. The self might betray me again. It might drown me to the bottoms of guilt and shame.

"JUMP Champ, Just take the leap!" With this siren of encouragement, I finally JUMP. Yes I jump. The comforts of the chair have left me. There is nothing to hold except for my own belief system, except from the eternal hand of the Almighty. I again struggle, search for a support but fluidity keeps escaping from the desperate grip of wanting to hold always. Bubbling my way through cold waters, I waddle each combating current. 

"Your body will go numb. The tumor will leave you paralysed. Don't attempt, for it is a risk to your life." The doctor's warning echos in the ears that are shut to any advice for better. Why has this not come to me before? Why do the right things come to you at the wrong time? Had I followed the medical advice, I won't have gone numb now. 

"Ninu, my darling, life is worth every jump taken in direction of your passion and yearnings of the heart." Dadu knows when to set the wrong into right. Years of graveyard musings, he must be now even a wiser soul. This is adrenaline to me. I straighten the palm that was in quest of grip. The fingers create ripples in the water that is now warm due to an energetic mammal's warmth infused into it. The limbs feel full of life as if walking on water. I remember Tagore, 

'My whole body and my limbs have thrilled with his touch who is beyond touch; and if the end comes here, let it come -let this be my parting word.' 

Today let the risk meet its destiny. Let the passion meet its love for undying enthusiasm to swim, to jump off the cliff after arduous hops and climbs to the top. 

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At 50, when I need to worry about hot flushes and fibroids, here I am not caring a damn for the resurged tumor. I care only for the gushes of Yamuna that await my record. A record to prove to that uncertain self that life is all about shift of paradigms, about clearing the cobwebs, of leaving the cowering under shadows of fear and seeing bright light. 

"JUMP!" This time the voice is familiar, provocative and it evocates the emotion called JUMP. I jump into the Yamuna to call her mine. A woman will never let down her tribe, we promise each other. Together we will rise to fame, we assure each other without naming ourselves. I tide over your currents, you tie my numb limbs to your strong waves, we keep floating each other. 

'Oh, dip my emptied life into that ocean, plunge it into the deepest fullest. Let me for once feel that lost sweet touch in the allness of the universe.' Gitanjali keeps Yamuna and me flowing. Next sixty minutes are a trance. 

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'Nina Mallick yet gain proves herself. Limca Record for a paraplegic to swim the Yamuna.' The Times proclaims a victory I have achieved by jumping across that flash of flower pot over my imbecile senses into the arms of Yamuna. When people jumped to conclusions of different sorts, luckily I became indifferent to them, independent to myself. Standing on your own feet requires jumping off your feet for rising above the bottoms of being smug and comfortable. Handicapped are thoughts that don't allow the limbs to jump. 

Hop a little, Jump a little one two three..... You are free!!! 

Author's note : This is written as a fictional take on Deepa Mallick's attempt at swimming the Yamuna, one of her multiple attempts towards pushing aside the paralysed life and paving way for a revolution.