Preserve

As I sit down to sup, the fare greets me as regular as ever - a monotonous par for course.

No birdies, no eagles- just a squaw-king duck.

At times like this when the bland baldness of an insipid existence and other such inane tautologies drone in a metronome, there is a rare aberrant synaptic impulse, out of sync with the guiding beat, which transmits itself subliminally in that weird wiring of the nerves. One starts hankering for a dash of relish to relieve the bland insipid yada-yada-yada

Opening this jar is always risky business. One is never sure what forms lie within. What new elements have seeped in to that compact, ready to burst container in which the relish is stored. What new concoctions have risen, what colony forming units have been established, how much of the original pickle is still ready for use and what part has been grown over by the moulds. Moulds which are so toxic that the slightest contact with them can have one under the weather or leave one dead. The medium of course, is perfect for all these cultures to survive and thrive - Tears, Mucous, Blood- all salty.

Carefully, like a 'cured' addict who naively believes that the battle has been won and the demon addiction vanquished, one rationalises that a tiny helping may not hurt at all. And it would serve as a test, a validation of the victory of spirit over substance. The threads are suitably lubricated and the rusty cap is unscrewed for a bit of the denied substance.

Initially, the briny taste of tears is reassuring. These are meant to be the hors d'ouvres but soon acquire the status of a full course. They have the cheek to flow on and the tiny rills find a way to the already clammy hands.

Then comes the main feast - sweet memories and sour. Bitter ones and pleasant. Most have had their sharpness increased manifold and acquired the character of the medium. Some however, have had their tang blunted by prolonged association with the others. But each one is potently evocative. In their unseemly rush to come out and overpower, they jostle with each other- the shy memory of a little girl who was so quiet that people had to bend low to hear her, is rudely cast away by the one of the with-it woman who screams to get what she wants. The wistful childhood memories of sitting on a dusty summer evening and watching stray kites soar to gain ascendancy over the skies, has to compete with the rough and tumble memories of seeking a foothold on the footboard on an overcrowded bus. The discomfiting flush of the memory of hot tears of frustration comes bearing with it those of easy companionship in times bygone. But then also come the big whammies- the painful memories, toxic stuff which is growing over everything else, which threatens now to take you down with it. Those one doesn't wish to spell out, lest they cast their net on you all over again. Intensely painful, they have left their marks in the form of physical aches and pains which serve as constant warnings of what has been endured, and indicate what lies in the tortuous path. The unpredictability of taste is, as ever, the lietmotif of the composition.

Quite as suddenly as one sought them, there is a need to put these tastes away. One longs for the safety of a routine unrelieved by these pickled memories. But then these genies do not go back in so easily. One struggles long and hard to bottle them in. Additionally, each time the culture is opened, so many more elements are added. Each new strain of the freshly introduced contaminant is likely to struggle to gain a place in the culture by feeding off other lower organic forms. The battle shall start yet again.

The preserve re-invents itself.