Baba’s third death anniversary y’day. The day was peaceful.
Watching the baby gurgle and turn on Thurs. has helped bring me to a place of
acceptance, this cycle of life. Yet, that
memory of the airport bus, that pinging so much like a ventilator’s. Somewhere
these memories reside in your nerve
endings, surge to alert life at a hint.
I am Kalam… what a brilliant movie. Must watch. And Gabricha
Paus in the award winner slot at 11 PM of which I watched half an hour. DD is
outdoing itself these days—for movies like these, I can sit though ten reruns
of the Dove/ Sunsilk ads.
What is it with youngsters/ not so youngsters and money? You
have to cut the coat according to the cloth, Baba used to say. I keep thinking
of the shift from chauffeur-driven by Shankar to moped, and how cheerfully and
matter of factly he made the shift. Once when the moped broke down he’d hitched
a ride on a bullock cart.
the urban village shortcut to reach the auditorium in time, just as curtains
went up. Eleven Gujarati women poets honored for their work; eleven volumes of
poetry released. Each of the poets read out a selection. All of them paid
respects to SD, the late poet-publisher. Morari Bapu briefly graced the
occasion. My highlight was a book set
gifted by the poetess lady. And an opportunity to escort an aging diva (known
for her traditional stories at a time when women didn’t write), now well into her eighties, stick in hand and
all, to her car. I stood up for my craft—how good are you? Very. Says who? IL,
MR etc etc. The first time ever I’ve been as presumptuous. The silence from H* is getting to me.
His mother is a friend I’ve made completely by chance,
introduced by a trip acquaintance. Being phone friends for two years means this
was my first trip to her home, easy to locate and not too far, despite a
longish address. After months and months of obsessing over possible names,
finally a name was given to her infant son, one for the horoscope, one for
daily use. Beautiful names both. Sober and happy ceremony, with sunshine
flooding in, incense and diyas, the chant of mantras. Quite like the practice of invoking the Gods and
calling upon the forefathers to witness and bless. Wonderful start.
Not a crease on her face. Her voice that of a young girl,
the lilt, the enthusiasm, that joy for life…and with a shock you remind
yourself of her age-- eighty summers done and some. Her poems are finely etched, like calligraphy or Japanese
line art, but so optimistic ever so optimistic; and you think of the darkness
this must have balanced out; and the chaos-turmoil she has conquered, every
smile earned. Without a stray comment on her blog you’d never have met, such is
chance and such is fate.
Too austere a diet isn’t working… well, another SL.
Watched Sonar Kella. Three fourths w/o subtitles, thanks to
the loaned CD, and the rest with; thanks to YT. Amazing how simple the movie
is. How select the trademark Ray shots (as in the shadows and beams at the
guesthouse, the train roof). The real hero is the Killa, and I oohed over my Jaisalmer shots circa 2012 over and over again. The Patwa haveli specially--is haunting by moonlight—I had
been drawn back there, had sat for hours mesmerized, uncaring of the dark and
unafraid, perhaps there is a story there.
Last night and too late at 11 PM, DD National showed Gajendra
Ahire’s Sumbaran (Marathi). What a gripping theme, about the return to one’s
roots, loss and the life choices one makes…what excellent characterization.
Could not keep awake to see the end, my loss.
After y’days death we will lose our last connection to the
village, the house of the forefathers will be lost, that front room with
kitchen and Dadaji’s swing, the back room where grains were stored in large
earthern pots, the steep front staircase to the first floor *medi*, the large cot
where I’d laid when I was so ill at 9 years old, Dadaji’s table, the staircase
to the third floor and the room with the stored books and the terrace where
Baba and all my uncles flew kites, fought, studied… the end of an era. I shall
keep with me the memory of the iron grill on the windows and staircase. In my
mind’s eye, Dadji sitting on the swing massaging his hand, speechless, a smile
on his wrinkled face even as sunlight filters past the metal rods of the front
door and casts patterns on worn stone…
Note to self, 1: NEVER, EVER take a ticket on the domestic
leg of an international flight, specially not if its Air India. It IS possible
for a 1 hour flight to be delayed by 2 hours, and to be offered a slim packet
of peanuts at 10 PM. On the plus side you never know whom you’ll meet and the
75 yr young couple, doctors both, were a lesson in self care and attitude,
greens and an hour of gym per day.
Note to self 2: After t'day's sorrow of a close relative’s peaceful death
after a lifetime giving in to schizo not
complying with medication—a good life wasted-- the lessons—self care, mental
health is vital to one’s well being. Anything that increments one’s mental, physical,
spiritual health is on. RIP, and be well whereever you are.
2014. This once I didn’t call up the relatives at midnight, didn’t
change the calendars with much show… I watched National Treasure on HBO and went to sleep, stirring awake when they set off crackers… this year I resolve to be a nicer person-- nicer to myself too.
Move from a largely reactive mode to a selectively proactive one, which is a tough one for me, need to undo decades of conditioning. This year professionally I
pray I move from neutral/ reverse gear to a forward gear, any forward gear, so help me God….