a stream of consciousness

Silver puddles of light reflected the blue and white umbrella…like a tent. Tents. Water for elephants. Silver. Sounds like sliver. Sliver—a fish. Or a sliver of grass. Oh, the green grass, the clouds today, were…the most beautiful sky in the world. It made her a happy panda. Pandas. Like the one in Eleanor’s book named Ku. Every time you greeted it, you would say, “Hi, Ku.” That was wonderful. It made you feel like a happy panda.
Shhh. Breathe in. And out. No thoughts.
Impossible!
In. And out. You are a part of the universe. In Out In…
The grey sky, misty. Taste of sweet, sugared milk in her mouth. Scent of dogwood fluttered past her nose. She gulps it in with her nostrils as warm, muggy breezes stick to her cheek and kiss her. She wants to kiss them back. Like Mother. Grey skies. Like the sky where she and Blair and Julia ran in the rain, trespassed property to see the Tennessee River. A slow, steady current with rising steam. It went on. They watched. Grey, silver mist.
She is in the car, the grey one. The rain falls, gently, gently. The wipers never cease. Everything is made of matter. She is matter, is made of atoms, silently and softly jiggling in Brownian motion. Her mother instructs,
“Pani ka jurna bo-huth soonder hai.”
The words rolled out of Mother’s mouth, dipping off the tip of her tongue, sounding crisper and more wise, more sophisticated than even Italian. Like coffee shops and soft ukuleles.
Her own attempt was feeble.
“Paanee kha jhurnah bu-huth sunder ha.”
Giggling erupts.

Relax your muscles. In Out No thoughts.
Impossible!
Chaattha kaha hai? Heda ai. Hindi to Kutchi, Kutchi to Hindi. Why were they so different? You couldn’t guess Hindi based off knowing Kutchi. You could do things like that in Latin, though, because Latin is the mother of the romance languages. You can roll your r’s in Latin, too.
Don’t frown. You exist as a beam of light, as a stroke of love on God’s canvas.
Hush your mind.
In Out.
She sighs, letting the Hindi and Umbrellas slip out of her mind, fall down from her ears to land squarely on the hard, knobby floors. They can wait.
Om.
Silence.
For a second, almost a second, there is nothing.

Then the noises come back, like rush hour traffic, filled with ideas like taxis, honking for their right of way into her conscious interstate. The eternal bliss, the everlasting knowledge, drifts, slips away.
“Peace. I want it,” she cries, searching amongst the faces, the noises, the blustery weather in her mind.
“Share the road,” pipes up an internal voice.
Bicycles. Like bicycle monarchs. One of them looks like her aunt…
In Out.
She strains her neck, veins robust with blood, pinkie toe asleep, back arched, craned to reach the silence once more, yearning to reach nothingness, to know no light, no dark. To know nothing, that is everything.
In Out.
Honking taxis and a graffiti artist blur her instead.

Jaya Todai

RIVER REVIEW 2008-2009- GIRLS PREPARATORY SCHOOLL