Come Alive Again by Sai Pradhan
- 7 days ago
- 3 min read
Updated: 2 days ago
The canvas is a bit askew because the wood bars it is stretched on have warped from the
humidity. I should know; I live behind it. It’s early in the year for this heat and moisture which
gently bends and distorts the art, but that is the way now.
On the outward side is a violent whirl of colour. Finger-painted storms upon etchings of dainty bougainvillea blooms, blooms that mirror the plant in the balcony I undulate out into, in my occasional quest for a meal.
My movement is that of a rising and depressing wave. Forward, nonetheless.
I am a gecko, and if a sampling of Indian grandmothers have anything to do with it, I am
mythically endowed with the full spectrum of human desire and fear: prosperity, luck, and
death. When I chirp from behind the canvas, the residents in my home think of me as a portent. Their grandmother told them so, and now they cannot shake the superstition.
Tales matter to them, and I confess, I might even enjoy this one. If they so desire a symbol, let it be me. I shall be Time, my chirp a gong for change, both good and bad, for movement, both wanted and unwanted. It is the way. My movement is that of a rising and depressing wave. Forward, nonetheless.
The bougainvillea - a friend that hosts the occasional caterpillar I lunch on - is a lot like me. We both freeze and look dead when we are stressed. When conditions are secure, we appear to come alive again. We breathe, we bloom. Brilliant magenta bracts spring from her stems when the weather is as it should be. They flood the balcony trellis, audacious in their luxury and abundance, spilling down and out of the pot, and hanging over the rails. This is possible.
Now, we move from a warm winter to a hasty summer in unsettling starts and stops, and her
blooms skip their spring cycle altogether.
On the few cool days, the little dog that lives in this house munches on a fallen bract while
keeping a steadfast eye on me, the pink papery leaf slipping out of his tiny jaw so he can make a game of it. I have learned that we have a pact. He is not to attack me, and I am to keep a distance. We are both creatures, alive in this world that is twisted and kneaded, shaped with avarice. It’s the least we can do.
The canvas is a bit askew. On the outward side is a troubled, violent whirl of colour. My
movement is that of a rising and depressing wave.
That is the way now. But, it is still art. If I am an augur, so be it, but need it always be something you fear? I call to you: come alive again. Ride the wave, and delight in the uncertainty. Pat a dog and water a plant. Hug your grandmother, and make something good.
This is possible.
Author's Note:
Being in a peaceful place with creatures I love is a reliable avenue to joy. I walk my dachshund Wystan along the beach in hopes of catching a waft of breeze. We look at seaglass fragments and shells together, or perhaps I look, and he looks for smelly things to roll around in. In times when it is particularly hard to find joy, I have found solace and solidarity (which often feels necessary to get to joy) in reading the published diaries of interesting people who came before us, and seeking stories of people who do things against the odds.
Sai Pradhan (she/her) is a writer and artist. She has lived, studied, and/or worked in Washington DC, London, Edinburgh, Los Angeles, Louisville, Shanghai, Mumbai, and Hong Kong. Her writing has been published in The Iowa Review, The Prairie Schooner, JMWW, YOLO Journal, Ghost Parachute, The Dodge, and others.
Twitter/X: @saisays
Bluesky: saipradhan.bsky
Instagram: sai_pradhan_art
Website: www.saipradhanart.com
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