Memoir
Orwell says somewhere that no one ever writes the real story of their life.
The real story of a life is the story of its humiliations.
If I wrote that story now--
radioactive to the end of time--
people, I swear, your eyes would fall out, you couldn't peel
the gloves fast enough
from your hands scorched by the firestorms of that shame.
Your poor hands. Your poor eyes
to see me weeping in my room
or boring the tall blonde to death.
Once I accused the innocent.
Once I bowed and prayed to the guilty.
I still wince at what I once said to the devastated widow.
And one October afternoon, under a locust tree
whose blackened pods were falling and making
illuminating patterns on the pathway,
I was seized by joy,
and someone saw me there,
and that was the worst of all,
lacerating and unforgettable.
By Vijay Seshadri
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On life's humiliations:
In the not too distant past, I spilled coffee on a mother and her sleeping newborn baby while I was trying to wave to someone. It was cold coffee and I thought the cup was empty...but knowing those things does nothing to quell the humiliation and shame of doing it. Boy did that baby cry! Of course, it doesn't help that I continue to see this mother around my neighborhood and she looks at me like I'm a leper...or, I imagine that's what she's doing and really she has no idea who I am.