And there is this thing called fever. Somehow, ‘fever’ never seems to gain the appropriate amount of nullity that ‘jor’ stands for in Bangla. Jor is a numbness, a dullness seared with painful clarity. For it is then that the light from the tube light reveals its atavistic quality, strangely yellow and hurtful. The moisture dried on your cheeks seems to stretch the skin until you’re sure that it’ll tear. The television in the next room, perfectly innocuous when you’re normal, plays out like the brass band in the street, except that the sound has been distorted to resemble waves. The world’s physicality thrusts itself in your face when you’re lying face up, blinking at the light and trying to shake off the disorientation that threatens to sway you. But all this is frightfully linear compared to the true nature of these impressions when they are being imprinted on your mind. Whenever this happens, I feel immensely thankful for the activity that keeps us sane. The television, mealtime, coursework—all terribly trivial when considered in the clarity of detachment—acquire this central role of rescue, so at once they are derided and sought for. To leave all this and go back to...nullity, is a painful prospect. But then again, it isn’t completely correct to call it nullity, for as I mentioned before, we are then laid open to a host of impressions, mostly unfavourable.
These reflections take me away from the desire to pet cats, in general, or ruffle bird feathers. The undeniable defiance of the pale curve of their heads, and their refusal to be petted (stray cats, that is) adds to the vision of the physically satisfying act of fingering soft, warm fur. Birds, especially crows, otherwise brazen in their attitude, would instinctively shirk my contact. Even if I’m bringing them food. They would wait until I have placed the food and retreated a little before swooping down to feed. That’s why I steal long, lingering glances at them when they are preening themselves after a rainshower, pecking this feather and that, exposing pale grey bellies and pale grey rings hidden in the creases of their slate-coloured necks. Sleeping cats are a speciality. They tempt and they thwart a desire for contact. While it’s easier to pet a sleeping cat, it is not nearly as satisfying.
They also take me back to my fears as a child, fears of blue-distempered walls lit by ancient lampholders, of greenish-blue doors in the dark, of lights in general. A light here and a light there could evoke startlingly different responses. Artificial lights, mostly. Daylight never troubled me. But the tints and shadows produced by artificial light in generally unfamiliar, stark surroundings brought out these feelings of irrational fear and revulsion. Also, I remember dreaming of our bathroom, newly whitewashed and empty because it had been stripped for painting. Only a fat geyser near the top and nothing else. This fear of starkness lingered for a while.
