Malinda Words: On separating the missing from the disappeared

'Even the darkest night must end and when the dawn pushes aside the heavy curtains of sorrow all equations will be altered beyond recognition.'

This line or versions of it I have often used to console friends in distress. I’ve also used a line tossed at me by my brother: there’s nothing in this world that’s so terrible that you cannot walk away from it. He may have been quoting someone, but I can’t remember. Nice line, though. It has helped me and I’ve helped others with it.

There have been moments of doubt though: why is that the long, dark night not end with a breathtaking dawn but is replaced by a different kind of darkness? It seems that certain sorrows become part of us, torturing us in our wakeful hours and denying us restful slumber.

Sometimes words of consolation help. But like most prescriptions and prescribers, they seldom work for those who utter them for the benefit of others. And yet sometimes, yes sometimes, such knots unravel by themselves or are cut through by the sharpest blades of chance or are resolved by words found on a random page in a random book.

This is the book: the July/August 2019 edition of ‘Poetry’ which features Sridala Swami, Hari Alluri and Cathy Song, according to the blurb. It is a periodical founded in 1912 by Harriet Monroe, this was the 4th in Volume 214.

I had never heard of it until a few minutes ago. Never heard of Harriet Monroe or of the blurbed poets. Never heard of the dozens of ‘Global Anglophone Indian poets’ whose work is contained in this collection. It was a gift from my sister who tries her best to get me to read different kinds of poetry by different kinds of poets; she knows I tend to read and re-read the poets and the poetry I’ve chanced upon and taken a liking to. Pablo Neruda, Nazim Hikmet, Faiz Ahmed Faiz, the Sufi mystics, Octavio Paz, Rabindranath Tagore and of course Sinhala poets long gone as well as contemporary voices I find delight in.

Anyway, this morning, just a few minutes ago, I opened this book that has been lying around for a month and which my daughter must have picked up, glanced through and left on my table. Page 361 (the book starts with page 289; I assume that since that the first 288 pages are in the first 3 collections of Volume 214). A poet I had never heard of: Carolina Ebeid who I now know holds a PhD from the University of Denver and helps edit poetry at ‘The Rumpus,’ about which I had not known until just now.

A strange title made for reflection, I feel: ‘Chorus attempting to interpret unearthed fragments of their play.’ Whose play? I don’t know.

Here’s the line or rather the two lines:

Separate what’s missing
from what’s disappeared.

I am thinking, ‘advice for playwright and players.’ I am also thinking: a ribbon with which I could tie up these thoughts if I can get it wrapped right.

This is the thing with darkness. Things are robbed of shape and dimension. Things merge into one another. There’s no light that can help distinguish inevitable from correctible. There’s no light that allows for a sober assessment of what’s before us, what came before and what might come later. And caught in this tyranny of darkness even light that may enter our dismal abodes are kept out by thick curtains of disbelief and resignation. So how can we know what’s missing? How can we know what’s disappeared? How can we distinguish one from the other?

So here’s a confession. Sometimes I come across an interesting line and I make a note of it thinking, ‘I could write an article around it.’ Recently I came across two. One, the caption for a photo-album I posted after wandering in and around Polonnaruwa: ‘countries within countries, moments without tenses.’ Good one for a piece, I thought. Two pieces grew out of that one caption: a) And intangible republics will save the day (as they always have) and, b) Moments without tenses.

The more interesting quote was by Victor Hugo: ‘Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars.’ Cimourdain was full of virtues and truth, but they shine out of a dark background.’ It’s from his last novel, Quatrevingt-treize (Ninety-Three), Cimourdain being a former priest and revolutionary who shoots himself the moment that Gauvain, the commander of Republican troops in Brittany suspected of being too lenient towards rebels, is executed following a tribunal in which he, Cimourdain casts the deciding vote finds the man guilty. Gauvain apparently had outlined his vision of a future society with minimal government, no taxes, technological progress and sexual equality to Cimourdain when the latter visited him in prison.

Suicide doesn’t exactly help conjure an image of stars emanating from a person whose soul has been invaded by night. There is, however, some light that is discernible. Remorse is not a dark thing. It illuminates the dimensions of a heart. Admission of guilt is marked by humility and humbleness is not dark-made. It shines.

In the country of darkness which forbids consideration of borders and escape, one can still travel to the edges of torment on a vehicle powered by self-reflection. That which turned out the lights may then turn on the searchlights that enable a consideration of the true dimensions of the conscience.

I must read ‘Ninety-Three,’ which apparently speaks of the counter-revolutionary uprisings in 1793 during the French Revolution. I must read ‘other poets,’ I tell myself. It may spark some poetic thoughts. Stars left behind by nights that took up residence in the heart. It might help separate the missing from the disappeared. It might help end the night and alter equations beyond recognition.

['The Morning Inspection' is the title of a column I wrote for the Daily News from 2009 to 2011, one article a day, Monday through Saturday. This is a new series. Links to previous articles in this new series are given below]

28 February 2023

On separating the missing from the disappeared

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