skies almost forgotten1
“If I go this fast, I won’t see anything. If I slow down—
Everything.—then I won’t have seen everything before it disappears.
Everywhere. I’ve been everywhere. I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.
Land’s end. But there’s water, O my heart. And salt on my tongue.
The end of the world. This is not the end of the world.”
From ‘Unguided Tour’ (1979) by Susan Sontag2
This series of vignettes started as a challenge to myself: what if I were to recollect skies from my life so far? Would I remember anything? Over the past three decades? The exercise felt doable until I got stuck and realised that in most instances what I remember are my ponderings about the colossal, precarious, unreliable, yet beautiful nature of the sky and the emotions they led to. This is thus an ‘unguided tour’ as Sontag defines it; with an (un)balanced pace and nostalgia of vast emotions with a connection to the sky—something I would want to write before I reach the end of the world.
May 2023: My friend turned 30 and she insisted that we spend time together in the south of Sri Lanka. The rain disturbed our shared affection for a swim in a pool when we got stuck in Hiriketiya on the rooftop of MOND, a beautiful guesthouse/restaurant and from its rooftop we could feel the strong winds. From a distance, we saw the sea acting with dark anger; the sky was covered in a mist heading our way and tiny, almost invisible droplets of water. While watching the sea merge with the sky, we forgot that we were stuck until the rain receded, which was almost two hours later. Upon returning to Colombo, neither of us was tired and dreading the thought of going back to work the next day—I was too busy scrolling for the numerous photos I had taken of the tumultuous sky and sea.
The sky is made of particles of air. What happens when humans breathe in oxygen and breathe out carbon dioxide into air? Does that mean that humans become part of the sky just by breathing in and out, the minimum they must do to survive? Kiran Desai begins The Inheritance of Loss (2006) with the breath of Sai, one of the protagonists, interacting with the air which is already contaminated by smoke and mist in the hills of Kalimpong:
“Up through the chimney and out, the smoke mingled with the mist that was gathering speed, sweeping in thicker and thicker, obscuring things in parts—half a hill, then the other half. The trees turned into silhouettes, loomed forth, were submerged again. Gradually the vapor replaced everything with itself, solid objects with shadow, and nothing remained that did not seem molded from or inspired by it. Sai’s breath flew from her nostrils in drifts, and the diagram of a giant squid constructed from scraps of information, scientists’ dreams, sank entirely into the murk.”3
When I breathe in and out, I remember that I may contaminate the sky—an element that is bounteous and fascinating that it looms over all humanity. How ironic is it that the sky can morph itself into many shapes purely through movement but can be contaminated by vapours caused by humans? How ironic is it that in today’s discourse of mental health, meditational breathwork is highly effective in purifying humans when that breath could contaminate the air?
April 2023: I travelled from Bangalore to Delhi by flight. I exited the Delhi airport behind a young woman who was greeted by her partner, who was ecstatic to see her. He rushed to hug her and, in that moment, anything beyond her was of no significance to him. During the short cab ride from the terminal to my Airbnb, I could not stop thinking about it. On a spring afternoon, the sky was blue but there was dust in the air. Yet, I remember the exact light blue hue and the hug.
March 2023: I was visiting India for the first time. I had never traveled on a plane on my own before and it was my first flight in seven years. I landed in Bangalore at 7 pm and in the darkness and overwhelming anxiety, I could not spot the driver who had come to pick me up. Once I got in the car, the driver did not say a word to me—he double-checked if the name of the hotel was correct and kept driving while calmly speaking on the phone in Kannada, a language I do not understand. I had no internet since I had left Sri Lankan territory, and I felt compelled to look at the night sky. I cannot remember a thing I saw in the sky. What I remember is the billboards of McDonald’s branches spread across the way. Familiarity and quiet solitude brought me to my hotel room, safe and sound, but to a large number of WhatsApp messages and calls from friends and family who wanted to know if I had landed safely.
“In French, a billet-doux is a ‘sweet note’ passed between lovers. But a ‘billet’ is also a ‘ticket’, or an order for one person to pay another’. When I write you a love letter, I am demanding something from you. This demand vanishes at the moment of its appearance and is thus, unanswerable.”4
Why does the demand for a payment vanish when it is a love letter? I rarely write letters and have become used to faster methods of communication. However, whatever form a letter could take, it places the burden of a response on the recipient. There are many of us who apologise for “delays” in responding and “answering in our minds” but not in fact sending it out. We seem to think that the anxiety of the sender as they wait requires an apology, as communication becomes faster by the day. Can we look at a love letter as a declaration of longing? As words, emojis, gifs, and personalised stickers meant to reduce the recipient’s anxiety and be their source of comfort? Can the endless and enduring sky be a love letter, an expression of longing? Could we use it for comfort when no words can capture our innermost desires? But then, what happens when the love letter causes heartbreak?
December 2022: I looked at a dark and cloudy grey sky while waiting for my vehicle in the morning. This sky was new—a layer of thick smoke was all over Colombo. Later that day, the National Building Research Organisation5 announced that it was a temporary fog caused by an air quality of 249. They blamed strong winds travelling from India.
August 2022: Due to the rising prices of fuel in Sri Lanka, my mother found a staff transport bus6 for me to travel back and forth from work. Every day, I would wait for 10 to 15 minutes on the main road for the bus to pick me up. On the first few days, I would forget its license plate number and would stare at the incoming traffic to make sure I did not miss it. Glimpses of the sun and sky peeking through several high-rise buildings were visible from the tinted windows of the bus. On a good day, there would be a soft drizzle that would stop just before my destination.
March 2022: My sister and I decided to go to Galle and spend a few days together. Power cuts due to fuel shortages had started in areas other than Colombo and we did not expect the Southern Expressway to be pitch dark with no streetlights. She was driving and I kept checking Google Maps to ensure we reached our hotel safely. We were yet to realise how serious the economic crisis would turn out to be. She and I had an argument, and the tension in the car was obvious. As black skies overwhelmed us, we reached Galle and finally made up. She could not leave the country until October 2022 because of the crisis. She had planned to leave in April.
Sometime in early 2017: I was standing at the bus halt in front of the University Grants Commission (UGC)7 . I was a second-year student at the University of Colombo, a public university whose students were vehemently protesting against medical degrees offered by a private higher education institution. On this day, students from my faculty had taken over the road in front of the UGC protesting privately funded education There was tear gas, and I was in a place I did not belong. The road was closed, and no buses were available. I remember looking at the open road and then switching my gaze to the gate of the UGC which students were trying to climb. The sky felt distant and hazy.
annotations
1 A shorter version of this essay first appeared in the publication inordinate skies, part of the writer’s curatorial project for the Curatorial Intensive South Asia 2023 organized by Khoj International Artists’ Association and Goethe-Institut/Max Mueller Bhavan in New Delhi, India. The essay was first developed with feedback and support from workshop leader Holly Melgaard and fellow participants in Paratextual Play organized by The Poetry Project in October 2023.
2 Granta, 1 Sept. 1979, https://granta.com/unguided-tour/.
3 Desai, Kiran. The Inheritance of Loss. publ, Penguin Canada, 2006. pg. 2. Although I read this novel many years ago, the story and the description of the opening have stayed with me. Coincidentally, as I retrieved the book from my shelves, the dust entered my own lungs and later contaminated the air around me.
4 Webb, Toyah. “kisses on the lips of [g is for] ghosts.” Runway Journal, https://runway.org.au/toyah-webb/. Accessed 13 Oct. 2023.
5 This governmental organisation is responsible for ensuring a disaster-free environment in Sri Lanka. It operates under the Ministry of Defence and specialises in geotechnical engineering, landslide risk management, human settlements planning, environmental monitoring, building materials research, and engineering project management.
6 A staff transport vehicle in Sri Lanka is a system where many employees of the same workplace or neighboring workplaces can travel together at a reduced cost. These vehicles are considered to be more comfortable, punctual, and safer (although more expensive) than public transport in the country.
7 This is the government body that distributes funds to and manages higher education institutions in Sri Lanka. They are also responsible for authorising private and non-governmental institutions to offer valid, locally recognised educational qualifications.