A true poets house.Inside a dappled pale-blue house, a small corniced corridor leads to an opening and a room with a single chapped leather sofa, a barred window above a dusty stretch of books of varying thickness and length leaning from it's own weight in words. Some are new and untouched, others with worn spines and folded corners from years of escapist pondering. In the bathroom shower there's a cavernous brick at chest height that holds an old light bulb, grey and burnt out, candles, match boxes and cigarette butts. In the his bedroom, a dark sea-green shelf is built into the wall, the edges are black from years of searching fingers and greasy wrists, just like the marks in the hallway entrances at chest level, a few higher maybe from pauses for thought or as something to support the weight of a drunk India man whose heart has been consumed with love from his homeland and an inquiring mind to make sense of it all in words and songs or transcribed into feeling through text.
The shelf is packed with more disjointed books, cooking oil, old sweet jars, a few glass trophies from his youth as a veracious writer, a small sculpture of Jesus and Mary in deep red and waxy cream, old aftershave bottles, incense sticks and three dark patches of paint where the candles have burnt the wall. A single deer horn balances on the top. Shakespeare, broken chess pieces, ripped spines and the cabalistic markings in Hindi sketched into the wall from delirium or maybe a lack of paper. The moisture around the doors spread upwards, cobwebs hold up the frames and drift from the single roof fan, more markings in black ink and pencil permeate the walls.
Wilson and I go for a drive in his car. He looks around giddily over the blossoming fields of palm mangroves where he played as a child and where he first started to exploring the storms under his skin. He touches his heart with three fingers and a thumb as he drives past the church where his parents are buried. We light incense over their graves and surround them with candles. He prayers to them, his chin dropping onto his chest in sort of surrender, I put my arm around his shoulder and hold him for a moment watching dragon flies scatter around the headstone. We go to the murky backwaters surrounding his village. He wraps himself in a small hand towel and submerges into the hot waters somewhere in the rural stretch of land surrounding a tropical mesh of south India and it’s torrent of abundant, twisting forestry. The river stretches a 100 meters across and glides under a towering green corridor of palm, mango and Jack fruit trees, and on the surface a thick islands of weeds and lilly pads, three spiky flower heads bob on the surface in mustard yellow and marble white. He submerged as if reciting a spiritual procedure of cleansing. A light and deep comfort overcame him after his reconnection with the water. Then he bursts into song in gorgeous Malalayam, head raised and slightly twisted upwards. He sings to the water with his hands resting on the surface. He sings to his home. A man at one with his land, a real product of that place, singing about it, through it, into it.