‘The mind is a strange soil’: On Omar Khayyam’s Rubaiyyat, the rains, and writing death

The monsoons have arrived in Kolkata, settling the dust and transforming the city into a gauzy fable. From the window seat of her childhood bedroom, the writer stretches out with a Moleskine journal and color pens, observing the rain-green landscape outside. The Bengali word for rain, brishti, carries a musical quality, evoking the rhythm of water falling through air and leaves. The scene is punctuated by the presence of numerous parrots perched among the trees, their vibrant red beaks flashing intermittently against the green foliage. Below the canopy, krishnachura trees bloom with bright red flowers, resembling the beaks of the parrots above. The writer recalls how her father often stood at this same window, hands clasped behind his back, gazing at the greenery for a specific duration each day. His advice, “keep a few minutes to look at trees”, was one of his most frequent reminders, emphasizing the importance of simple pleasures such as drinking water, walking, and observing nature. These habits reflect a life lived with simplicity and mindfulness, traits that seem to echo throughout the household, where memories linger in the form of vibrations, dust, and the ambient sounds of the rain. The concept of death looms heavily in the narrative, particularly through the lens of Omar Khayyam's Rubaiyyat. Verse 71, which reads, “I sent my Soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell / And after many days my Soul return’d / And said, ‘Behold, Myself am Heav’n and Hell,’” resonates deeply with the writer. This verse encapsulates the paradoxical nature of existence, suggesting that the afterlife is not a fixed destination but rather a reflection of one's inner self. The writer's fascination with death began early, marked by a profound awareness of its inevitability. As a child, she grappled with the idea of an afterlife, viewing it as a question rather than an answer. This perspective shaped her understanding of mortality, highlighting the tension between the known and the unknown. Her first encounter with death came at around six or seven years old, when a beloved family member passed away. The experience left a lasting impression, particularly the sight of cotton wool placed in the deceased's nostrils, a stark symbol of the transition from life to death. As the narrative unfolds, the writer reflects on the interplay between life and death, drawing parallels between personal experiences and broader existential themes. The legacy of her ancestors is palpable, with objects handed down through generations serving as tangible connections to the past. Among these items is a cherished first edition of the Rubaiyyat of Omar Khayyam, a book that holds both historical significance and personal meaning. Its yellowed pages and sturdy spine speak to the enduring nature of literature and memory. In 2015, the writer found herself immersed in a deeper exploration of these themes, seeking to understand the intricate relationship between life, death, and the human condition. This journey led her to revisit the works of Omar Khayyam, whose verses continue to provoke thought and introspection. The writer's reflections underscore the complexity of human existence, where moments of clarity and confusion coexist, shaping our understanding of ourselves and the world around us.