That sound

That sound grips my memory and subjects it to revisit it over and over, not as an event to ruminate over and analyse but as a rhythmic expression of devastating pain; a shattering experience that numbs the thinking you. That wailing sound was but of one. One would wonder how mournful cry could be anything but singular and privatised. Breaking into tears is deemed emblematic of the zenith of the expression of grief. Moaning and that too collectively in front of those you love and who identify you with strength and care and bank on it for their life, would be alien to some brought up in urban life culture. But here you have them toiling for sixteen hours a day for their kids exemplifying grit and mettle, and breaking down in spontaneous authenticity of a rarity in a whole family space.

I struggled to reconcile routinised rituals they delve in and find meaning from, with that sound. One represents continuity in face of the force of tradition, deciphered by few but valued by the most. Its practice signifies adherence to prosaic societal diktats with guilt and fear as much with faith and reverence. The other is a break from continuity and is in defiance with rather mechanistic rituals even as it can be pictured as another habitual ritual. Rituals lack life;their performance depends on codes and rules operating under certain form of hegemony. That wail celebrates life, even as it mourns loss of it. It unashamedly shines on fragility of life but more so on the undying will to feel and love.

There are moments that prove intervention of our thinking faculty unnecessary. In those moments, we are not to play observer or watcher but a distinct kind of feeler. We are right there involved in the experience of that which goes under the skin of others. We hear what we hear and let it all get inside us. I had such moments a few days ago.