Voices

There are many ways in which thoughts, emotions and the experience of life that flows through us may be expressed or even shared with those around us. Facial expressiveness, and the use of varied tones of voice are perhaps the most obvious forms. Some people paint, or write poetry, prose or stories; while other's create masterworks of cullinary genius, fashion sculptures in the form of fabulous architecture or perform daredevil acts in full view of an awestruck audience.

I write.

I am no poker face, and that is something that I have come to terms with. I dabble in oil colours and do various other things like firewalking and the like. But if I had to really draw that dotted line along my path, then the realisation of who I am is linked by the need, love and joy of writing. I have journals going as far back as those primary school scribble notes in perfumed diaries with delicate locks. I dare not read those for fear of throwing them out. Or something.

These years of journals are housed in a little metal chest that used to be my toy box as a child; and while the journals carry traits of their evolutionary nature over time, the metal trunk lays claim to a history of its own: it began as a carrier for cinema reels that came from the subcontinent back in the 60's, was discovered at some point by my maternal grandfather at the cinema house that belonged to a friend of his, and brought home for mom to use as a storage box for her teenage magazine and music collection. And so I came to inherit it some twenty years later, and it remains with me still, now repainted and revived, albeit almost half a century old.

Hinges of history hold its tinkering walls together to carry the evolution of me; the years of growth in my voice. Aside from the layers of paper dreams, hopes, fears and songs of lament and joy, are to be found those early floppy disks and stiffys of my first soiree into the world of digital media. The only signs of my earlier girly journals on these computer disks of memory, are the glittery name stickers that leave tinsel on my fingertips, and declare just the year of their imprint: "Shafs Ramblings, 2001"

And then, these memoirs were born. For kimya, and for me. Sometime in 2005, when I emerged from years of sociology and more time spent discovering a life of corporate surrealism that I may have been unwittingly groomed for, and found myself to be flourishing in, against my every expectation. It is quite amazing how we might exceed our self-judged limitations.

Memoirs For Kimya evolved in its own right. It started off as a canvas of silence, made noisy only by the echo of thoughts in my head.

Now a trumpet blares. No. Make that, a vuvuzela.

It called to me, once. Now it rages outwardly, to those who will hear with understanding; those who will engage it's ramblings, shared spewing forth of words and all things manifest therein.

And this great sea of voice occurred to me most profoundly when, at the Cape Town launch, my guest speaker, fellow writer and dear friend, Nazia Peer, read two of my newest works out aloud to the booklaunch audience.

I was mesmerized. No, don't get me wrong. Not as if to think, Oh my word, I wrote that! The spark of a soul moment was the realisation that all this time, the voice in my head gave life to these words, and for the first time ever, a reflective post like Revelatory Moments, or an emotive piece like Cut was being read in a voice of someone else, but more so by someone I have had the opportunity to know dearly, and who has been the source of inspiration and soul-coolness to me. Another voice. A loaded moment. A celebration, in more ways than my humble soul can count.

And yes, it all makes sense. This now and where. The why and how.
It all makes perfect sense.

six o'clock gin and tonic

I walked into Rika's apartment a little after 3pm yesterday. The appointment was set for 2:45pm, but a young driver wandering around unknown parts of the city can be easily forgiven, or so she said.

I'm always thirsty for easy forgiveness, so I didn't argue much on that. Besides, I know at least enough not to argue with someone whose three times my age, and very astute for the average 91year old. I whisper a silent prayer in awe: God, let me be that way at 91, or not at all! This is Rika Hodgson. Veteran ANC stalwart.

And so she launches into her animated chat about the days of old; you know, when you could hide a bottle of whiskey in an old typewriter, and share it with a friend of another race, even if there was the scare of the Immorality Act hanging over their heads. But not before she has made absolutely sure of the fact that I am comfortably seated with the sun from the large bay windows swathing me in a welcome embrace, and a steaming cup of tea settled withing close reach from my notebook and pen.

I scribble and try to repaint in few words the enigmatic imagery that she spurts forth in words and facial expressions, almost as if I am being let in on secrets never told before; sometimes she takes for granted that I may not have lived a time as that. She clucks incessantly at the realisation. I release a sigh of apology.

I am quickly forgiven, and the stories unfold once again. Mr & Mrs Jack Hodgson. Their journeys into Botswana, Tanzania, India and beyond. The Pahads, the Cachalias, the Sisulus and the rest of the lineage of the anti-apartheid struggle reveals itself in yet another thread of narrative. I make fervent notes. My voice recorder laps up the milk and cream of the voice and word content of this dialogue. It retells the story to me hours later, when I have returned to my desk in a less quieter part of Jozi.
Another dotted line is drawn, making for a tangible thread between her apartment in the North and my room in the centre of Johannesburg. Voices echo around me, bouncing off the walls, tempting me to make something of them. I am impatient, but its still not the time to write. Patience.

I relive the last few moments of my visit. The endless books. The endless rays of afternoon sunlight. I got invited to stay for her six o'clock gin and tonic; said with a rather mischievous grin to highlight her ample wit, as I was leaving. Ah, I know that you don't drink, she said in reply to my laughter. Everything works around traffic, here in Jozi. I had to leave, anyway... But in many ways, I stayed.

in my cd shuttle...

"Dhard mein, bhi yeh labbh
muskhura jaate hein...

beethein lamhein hamein
jabh bhi yaad aateh hein..."

I love that song! And I have it in three mixes. Thank heaven for little brother with his rotating CD collection.