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An exercise in letting go

Am at a movement workshop.

I am feeling stuffy and uncomfortable doing this. Then I give in, like most times, in a cowardly fashion. The exercise takes me to places I am familiar with.

Then she joins in.

I don’t know her. Too short a while have I spent with her. There’s this rawness about her, a tender bit, that brings out the showoff in me. I become a total jerk by competing with her.

Till I stop.

I shift focus to what I want to do. I move to places where there is balance, finding sense in my moments, making them concise and precise. I breathe. “Just do that,” I tell myself.

Then a chair gets placed nearby.

Immediately, I want to sink into it. I wait for 10 seconds, just to show that I am doing it so unconsciously. Yeah, right!

The smell of wood, or lack of it, gets to me. I sniff it some more. It makes my back ache; a rush of blood makes me age.

He places another chair facing mine.

We sit on them. Eventually. One at a time. We have to, because two chairs are placed facing each other. We stare, laugh, get naughty and understand. I use my breath — she refuses to let hers go.

I do, I really do. At some point she does too, still scared. Now I can hear the music and other sounds around us. A carpenter going thack-thack, crows, kids, cars, wind rustling — it goes on. Then it stops. Now I can only see her — ears, eyes, forehead, fingers, shoulder blades and then some.

He blinfolds me.

Our feet reach for each other, each refusing to let go. Then our hands reach out. We take umbrage under this blindness, all hands, feet, joints, meshed, stumbling, caring, pining, uncomfy, messy, totally wanting to not want and still giving in.

Then he separates us. Pushes me to a wall.

I give in. Not because i want to, but because I am forced to.

I press my head, palms and feet to feel the texture of the walls, waiting for time to heal them. It doesn’t. A voice tells me ”suffer”, “wish for”, “keep wanting”. I succumb and sink.

Then he hands me a mirror — makes me walk with it. I forget all about her. I remember only me. Everything is from my pov. My views, my face, my mess, my mischief, my music. All else is lost — workshop, partner, mentors, facilitators…

What am I getting into? What have I got myself into?

I have to let go. Will this help? I don’t know. Will see.


Published by appamprawns

soni writes about children and people in controlled spaces, in his quest for appam stew. homi writes in the hope of being able to buy prawns to make patiyo.

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