I have been thinking a lot about earthworms these days. I haven’t actually sighted them here. When it rains what becomes most visible are slugs and vineyard snails, which are utterly fascinating to watch. I remember seeing so many earthworms in our colony in Kurla during the monsoons, and I remember being so fascinated by how unstable they were as beings, how they pushed their body forward, wriggling in order to move. I have this vivid memory of being asked to collaborate with a classmate named Wayne Gracious during one edition of the science fair. Wayne’s vermicultural project proposal had been selected to represent our school at the district level science fair and the teachers thought I would make a good companion as you generally needed two people to explain the project to visitors. Wayne and I went to the graveyard during the monsoons to find worms. We needed to build a compact soil enclosure with the worms to show how they fertilised the earth through their castings, their excrement. It must have been my first close interaction with the politics of caring for soil, and nurturing the earth, and I don’t think I have ever communicated to Wayne how grateful I have been that he welcomed me to be part of his project. Science was never really my strength, as a subject, but I happened to participate in so many science fairs because I had a flair for talking to people. The first time was with my then best friend, Imran, who had proposed a display on laser technology. It was his project, but he invited me to participate as his partner. 

I recently came upon a brilliant text by the composer, Pauline Oliveros called, The Earthworm also sings. It’s a meditation on the art and act of deep listening, and at some point forays into an exploration of how sound registers itself in the ear. In another text Oliveros has an instruction called Native in which she says, “Take a walk at night. Walk so silently that the bottom of your feet become ears.” I tried to do this a few days ago with my partner, at a walking path on the outskirts of the actual Kaltern lake. We were walking on wooden boards and we tried to still our bodies such that our footsteps barely registered. Our experience of the environment suddenly changed. The insects could no longer anticipate our movement and they continued to exist unmindful of our presence. Our feet, indeed, felt like ears, like receptacles. I am still learning how to invert this trick so that my feet can signal what my body is feeling. I am still striving to be embodied, to bridge the gap between body and mind, to be a more whole, sentient being. 

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Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D’Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx

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