“Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain…”
This extract from a famous soliloquy from Shakespeare’s play, Macbeth set me thinking about my own rather enigmatic soliloquies! Hamlet and Macbeth should not be the only ones going down in history. “To be or not to be. That is the question “, mused Hamlet and so did I. I often talk to myself without fear of being labeled crazy or delusional. These are mostly random forays into my own psyche. There are times when I talk intimately to the wind or to the grinning pansies, jubilant jacarandas, peacefully grazing buffaloes, or even to my own hands. No, I’m not getting senile. It’s just my sly way of saying such stuff to myself that actually needs to be heard by another human being. It could be someone who doesn’t care enough to hear my plaintive koel calls or is too busy to lend his or her ears to my futile gibberish.
Speaking to myself besides being hugely cathartic can also be a sure-shot mood elevator. When I am my own punching bag, then there’s no holding back. One can scream, hurl abuse, whisper sweet nothings, or simply smile oafishly into the gaping void. A monologue, an aside or even lampshading ( is when a character draws attention to something unrealistic or hard to believe )are all great fun!
Sometimes I gnash my teeth and mutter under my breath quite like my furiously fuming grandma in distress. A monologue is truly satisfying as there are no holds barred at all. There’s much joy in pretending to have a make-believe conversation that you know will never really occur. The visualization of an almost impossible scene is a secretive act packed with thrills. The tiny sunbird who builds a shabby nest in the hedge outside my sitting room window, each spring, doesn’t mind my jabbering. It goes about its intricate business with immaculate concentration while I confide my fears and dreams to it. My friend swears by the empathetic listening capacity of her wide-eyed dog. The canine feels her joy and grief, letting out encouraging woofs or miserable yelps as the situation requires. Who could be more informed than the walls and taps of the washrooms of any house? Pathetic, earth-shaking sobs and volleys of unladylike mirth both find their nesting space in the hallowed precincts of the safe haven called a bathroom. Believe me, it’s much more! It’s a confessional box where one can be one’s own priest.
“Tum itna jo muskura rahe Ho Kya gham hai jis ko chhupa rahe Ho ..”
In Romeo and Juliet, Juliet speaks her thoughts aloud when she learns that Romeo is the son of her family’s enemy:
“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name.
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.”
How many dusty desks in intellectual classrooms have been engraved with confessions of love-smitten young hearts. They could write reams about Cupid’s arrows darting and piercing unsuspecting mortals.
“My Love wakes in a puddle of sunlight.
Her hands asleep beside her.
Her hair draped on the lawn
like a mantle of cloth.
I give her my life
for our love is whole
I sing her beauty
in my soul.”-wrote Roman Payne
There are soliloquies immortalized for posterity in seasoned wood just as much as the lewd declarations in public utilities shamelessly proclaim hidden fantasies.
“And finally, nothing can say it better than this Punjabi folk song
“Ni ik meri akh kashni,
Ni ik meri akh kashni..
Duja raat de uneedrey ne maareya..
Sheeshe nu trerr pai gai
Vaal waundi ne dheyan jdo mareya..
Ni ik meri akh kashni..”
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