Snow

The furious rustling outside was not the wind but snow. It had begun by snowing softly, the flakes dancing gently on the wind, riding the air currents in a curious ballet. But now it hurled itself through the air ferociously, capriciously driving itself this way and that in some random rhythm. Great masses of it fell, blinding out the light like a sandstorm that hissed and crackled.

The wind direction was mostly southwest it seemed and it smashed the sheets of snow against the balcony wall, piling it up in one corner outside the window where she sat, in her arm chair, right at the glass with her nose pressed up against it, so that it seemed that the snow hurled itself straight at her face. A gust of strong wind driven snow attacked the window at reckless speed and she recoiled, instinctively throwing her arm up over her face and ducking to protect herself. It smashed itself against the glass, futile in terms of breaking it, but making it rattle and shudder.

The wind dropped now and the whacks became infrequent. But it still fell relentlessly and determinedly to the ground some flakes now much bigger than the others.

The shrouded cars stood lined up in the parking lot like a tame obedient herd in its stalls. One lone man struggled up the road battered by the sharp stinging pinpricks and driven back by the resistance of the flurry and reached his car. After a while she noticed that he drove off, but the zigzagging tracks showed his cautious search for the road now hidden under the uniform white. The heating in the room she sat in gurgled, another car hesitated in the middle of the road trying to make out where the road continued, it turned, the wind picked up again the flakes now defying gravity and moving in a upward swirl like confetti thrown by a wayward child in maniacal glee, the pile outside her door grew higher, the flakes fenced and clashed with each other in a deaf roar, the car now stood still in the middle of the smooth white flat stretch, its tracks behind and the road ahead swiftly hidden, lost.

Her came to her his heart breaking

He came to her struck down by bewildering pain and loss.
He came to her for comfort as all children do, seeking out the reassuring warmth of her love that flowed constant and unbroken towards him, unaltered by his actions, successes or failures. The first hours were awkward as they negotiated their new relationship to each other, not helped by the foreign surroundings and unfamiliar atmosphere. At first there was anger, resentment even. Unspoken but reflected in his short sentences, quickly taken offences, shrugs in the place of answers. But then it became better. Especially when they reached home to the modest house with its warm furnishings.

He walked into the kitchen as she bent over the kitchen counter cooking him a meal.
It evoked memories. As a small child he would trail her curiously in the kitchen observing her every move, asking about things he didn’t quite understand, his big black eyes noticing every small detail, waiting for the moment when she would finish her task and sit him on his high chair with his own special little patterned plate in front of him. He saw her now and the familiarity of the posture and the recognition of the care broke down his barriers.

"Ma" he said brokenly and opened his arms to her. She held him to her, head reaching only as high as his chest, her heart cracking open with the paradoxical joy of being reached out to and sadness at the loss reflected on his face. She felt the breath shudder through his large frame.

"Why, Ma, why?" The tension in his shoulders was incredible as he held himself back from breaking down, trying hard to be the man, pretending he had it all under control. It was just a part of life after all, just a failed relationship, just heartbreak, just a simple shaken self belief. It was too much as the tears coursed down his cheeks. For the first time since she knew him the tears were not from anger, frustration or rejection. They were born of pure sadness. An agonizing sense of loss.

She felt the warmth of his tears on her face. The knowledge that every mother holds about her child was present within that moment. The years of striving, of failure real and perceived, the hopes that rose and were dashed again, of trying to hold on to self belief despite the being of the outlier, the odd man out, the strange one.

She cried too, full of compassion and sad understanding. She had no words, no reassurances, and no wisdom to give him. She cried with him as he bid goodbye to one stage of life and ushered in the next, and felt their collective tears pool on her face, warm and full of the essence of life, in the space between them.

Devotion is human endeavor

Our world is ever changing, insecure and unsteady. Our happiness is momentary: so fleeting and elusive that we can hold it only momentarily before it dissipates. Our sense of feeling grounded and of our world being in order is nebulous and often short lived before the next crisis brings us to a precipice.

How do we see and conceive of ourselves against this ever shifting background?
It is my assertion that self concept is the shadow that changes and distorts itself as is falls upon the geography of our mental landscape. Just as the shadow of a mighty tree that falls upon even ground is straight and strong as the tree; its shadow upon uneven ground is twisted and distorted. Similarly when we think of ourselves as powerful, we stride in the radiance of positive thoughts and our shadow is full and strong as it soars out invincible from under our feet and leads the way. When we feel weak and ineffective or are suffused with shame and self loathing it cringes under our feet twisted and distorted, creeping about in a cowardly fashion behind or beneath us. In the dark oppressive void of doubt and dread it vanishes altogether fleeing into the darkness, annihilated by anguish and despair.


Thus our mind is the battlefield where the battle of opposing forces takes place. Of being lifted up by life events versus being thrown down. Life finds itself in chaos: the constant surging up and the constant slipping down. We are the flickering lamp in the wind: shining steadily only for a brief moment before the winds of destiny threaten to extinguish us. And yet the light, the concept of ‘light’ that the lamp is a part of, does not flicker. Light itself is unwavering is it not?


Human endeavor is a striving for this unwavering state of serene steadiness in the face of constant trials. Devotion is one of the paths to attain it.
It (devotion) is a way of focusing on something which is beyond the quality to so fluctuate. It is invulnerable, indestructible, impervious but not impassive. To connect with this entity is to feel held steady, held safe and to share these qualities. One can then go about ones life knowing that though the light flickers and quivers; at its core it burns strong. When we can identify with this steadily burning core, or at least connect with it, we find the strength to endure.

Piety is one way to do so. It is however not the only form of devotion that can fulfill this need.

Devotion to an Art form also keeps us steady. Art is infinite and springs from an eternal source that is beyond good and bad artists and beyond criticism. It is never less than it appears, only more. We can let ourselves down in our pursuit or mastery of it but it never lets us down. We can fail to live up to it, not comprehend it, or be simply mediocre. True immersion in Art, true immersion in its discovery, an immersion that takes us beyond the social confines, can also be the devotion that keeps us safe and steady.


For those of us who have neither piety nor art - there is Social Order. Steadiness comes from rigid fixed rules and expectations. Norms provide protection through predictability and chaos is kept at bay. An illusion of being unassailable is created. The order of things, the scheme of life, and the concept of family, patriotism, ideals and duties we pledge unwavering loyalty to: These keep us anchored. Our shadows walk strong and steady when we walk this line well.


The end goal is then the same. The world burns us. Trials throw us down. We have to pick ourselves up repeatedly and walk ourselves to the end line. And what is this end line? It is not death or about facing death. It’s about getting through life. And piety, devotion as well as obedience are only different paths to this end.

Silence

I have Tinnitus.

It is surprising to learn that the sound stems from my own hearing system. From the apparatus itself. Mostly it sounds like a roomful of insects humming a constant high pitched orchestra. Sometimes it is so loud that I feel forced to put my hands to my ears in a familiar "shut out the sound" motion, except that I cant shut out whats in.

It keeps me awake at nights, drowns out out voices aggressively, muffles the sound of music, is strident and pervasive. I feel disabled. Yet, there are times when it is so low that it can be ignored. At that time I feel close to silence, relative silence. And then I know I am not stressing myself out.

It is then also a indicator of my anxiety, my own biofeedback apparatus.

Tennyson. To yield or not to yield

Tennyson says famously: "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield"

And of course its true.

And how should it be interpreted?
I would think it applied to not yielding to discouragement, fear, temptation, to time, despair, disappointment, old age and more.

But not yield? To be unyielding? To be firm? That I cannot see as a positive attribute. Of course man must yield to chances, to opportunities. To life itself!

When seen against earlier lines in this very same poem it poses a contradiction.

"How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little..."

And then yet again later Tennyson says 'Come, my friends, "Tis not too late to seek a newer world."

Therein is the contradiction in my opinion. How can one move forward, make new discoveries, indeed shine and be burnished if one did not dare to yield? The being able to yield, to be able to put aside ones thoughts, fears, 'shoulds' and 'should nots' and melt into the moment, become the moment, go with the impulse- that is the real challenge. Only then is movement and true change possible, true transformation and true participation. Only then can one say

"I am a part of all that I have met"

Shadows then

Everything there is to know in this world is inside of us.

Listen, and when you hear, listen again. Maybe deeper, maybe not.

See and when seeing, see again. Not to see more but to see better. Not deeper but clearer; without shadows. For one such glimpse ...!
Does one get better at going deeper or does the deeper only become more accessible?

Shadows then. Clouding what is real, true, pure, urgent. The Russian poet Marina Tsvetayeva wrote: 'It may be that a better way/To conquer time and the world/Is to pass, and not to leave a shadow/ on the walls...'.

Shadows then. Ghosts that live in our minds, on our minds. To survive them is the battle. Love and separation from ones own children is not worse than separation from ones own self.

Shadows then. How best to escape their influence? One needs a semblance of a locked room where silence becomes inevitable. Everyday conversation falls away, its superfluity and redundancy revealed. Over time one loses the ability to speak cleverly, to express oneself in well rehearsed ways even platitudes. This falling away of articulation is a gift. It leaves only emptiness and the deep nothingness that is full.

Reality-Fiction-Reality

This quote by Marco Tempest the magician and illusionist:
We willingly enter fictional worlds where we cheer our heroes and cry for friends we never had.” sums up the passion of Indians for films doesn't it? Jai and Veeru of Sholay are as real to us as our friends. Maybe Veeru still lives somewhere in Rampur with Basanti? Surely there must be a memorial dedicated to Bhuvan in Champaner? Kabir Khan of Chak de India and Silk Smitha of Dirty Picture are better known then their real-life counterparts.

Do we Indians cheer and cry more for our fictional heroes than our real life ones?

Elegy for a Home

Out of its doors and windows, corners, pores
The House constricts itself expelling me out

Left only in the houseplants
slowly dying,
the stubborn parts
of the gently fading upholstery,
the dog chewed cushions not yet replaced
by blue sequined ones,
bookmarked, lined books
not yet lent out and forgotten

The tart green scent of crushed lemon leaves
is the green in the veins of the living room floor.
Marble, like the pebbled bed of a forgotten secret forest stream
dusty from our arrivals every evening.

Only the moon still picks out the silver leaves
As they flutter whimsically to the forgotten spaces
The lipsticked tea cup, the ashtray,
the half read book
that still lies upon its waiting page

The white damask sheet with delicate paisleys
and the far left frayed corner.
The gradually fading spot
fading with careless casual washing
That one is me.

27.10.11

SOMETIMES IN BITTERNESS

Get out of my life, Man
Walk out of my door
Here, take your burden of ‘manly’ concerns with you
Also guilt
Out of my door, out of the gate
Watch it! Don’t trip over haste that trails close behind.
Take your obligatory hand away from my shoulder
Preoccupation makes it sit heavy
It weighs a ton
Makes breathing difficult (I stifle a scream of exasperation)

Let the winds fly away with your words
Nonchalant, they don’t reach the place it hurts anyway.
Don’t bother phrasing carefully
your facile reassurance
Hear it ring hollow when most needed?

Don’t try and hide the glance that slips away
To your cellphone, the TV screen, the waiter that hovers, the people who happen to cross your line of vision
Because you couldn’t see the pain in my eyes even if you looked into them
Go away, Man
Take your ‘love’ with you
It does not ring true

Walk out of my door.
Out the gate
Go.

Hmmm

I want to write but can't. I have no words, thoughts fail me. In the cage of my mind there is no opening for them. Everything reverberates inside, reflecting in the small space and bouncing off the inside upon itself till it becomes a dark, murky, swampy, floaty, mushy, soft, hard, dark, full of holes, cheesy, mouldy, rodenty, ferrety, quicksilvery, shiny, glittery, darkly forbidding .......mess

Plastic time

I asked, wished, for a revelation in the midst of one
How did the day come to have so many more hours than usual?
Time stretched while we meditated
Joining and harmonizing, breathing in unison
Alive
Every moment, every movement, in tandem with the universe.

But for you there will be no crying
Though the sun still glints off the sea that moves at the horizon from the terrace
Though the breeze still blows at the railing where we stood together,
and the gentle day still streams in at the door pooling at the chair on the rug where you had a nap in the afternoon

I ask Oh Devi, that you grant me perpetual bliss where there is no transience, no temporariness
Perpetual because I can feel this bliss within myself, call it up by myself
No longing, no missing, no emptiness created by the absence of another.
Grant that I feel the ecstasy in every moment of my life through your grace.
Grant me more...freedom from sadness and emptiness.
And I surrender it all to you.

fading

However deep our experience, however firm we think the moment is imprisoned inside of our soul, however magical the encounter...it fades. And the first memory that fades is the fragrance of the flowers that enveloped the moment.

When and why does it come to this , that one has so little to say? Is it a sign of deepening thought or the opposite?

Kabir

Just like that..without any reason..because my heart yearns for his words and because this is one of my favorites


WITHIN this earthen vessel are bowers and groves,
and within it is the Creator:
Within this vessel are the seven oceans
and the unnumbered stars.
The touchstone and the jewel-appraiser are within;
and within this vessel the Eternal soundeth,
and the spring wells up.
Kabîr says:
"Listen to me, my Friend!
My beloved Lord is within."

Do I care

Do I care if I never become a success?
I care if I fail, because that means I have not applied myself enough
Do I care if I never create anything bigger than myself?
Do I care if people dont know who I am , or dont care about knowing me?
Do I care if I never have enough, clever or memorable to say?
Do I care if no one comes to my funeral?