Vedic hymns

Rise to the skies

Fervent prayer

~

Marigold, ashoka leaves, jasmine

Festive crowds but no jostling

the red of the shamiana reflected on eager faces

Such is the power of the presence

What must happen when avatars visit?

~

Young boys enunciate in precise sanskit

Proud heritage

of limits, bounds and standards

Reciting from memory, perfection

I watch with envy.

Back home

the loafers, the idle, time pass

Mohawk cut and long tressed,

smoke weed, play cards,

begin every second line with the F word

These guys don’t even hobble to the starting line

Karma!

Amongst beautiful things encountered:

A perfect alphonso mango, an aaphus, from my friend V’s ancestral lands somewhere along the sloping hills of Ratnagiri; I wait for this one since it is the only mango I shall relish this season,

The glittering shimmering sea from the 19^th flr at NP,

The wow factor of my first ever telepresence conference…astounding!

The brilliant look of Madame Tutli Putli : YT
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7icAFa8fdLY
those eyes!

Awe at this poem from Rasala

http://www.rasalabooks.com/krishna-as-magician/

I crave the sun. I thirst for it, like a junkie needing his fix. Or his eyes go all wonky and his hands shake…or whatever it is that happens--but a fix all right, this walking in the scorching sun, walking as my skin warms and then sizzles and tans, and my brain makes whatever connections it does to energize my day like a shot of electricity. I thirst for it, like the green that lines the track, chlorophyll coming to life as sunlight seeps in, nourishing, validating a reason for its existence. I think of Karna, paying homage, arghya, to the Sun by the lazy waters of the Ganges. And then walking back, bronze-rippled even as the Sun coasted overhead, aloof but watching. I think of the wife of the Sun god who’d created a shadow personae, Chaya, because she couldn’t withstand his brilliance. And mostly I think of the play of light and dark, and the unending cycle of seasons, and lifetimes.

the gulmohur are in bloom.
delicate and generous.
glamorous!

Today’s beautiful thing was the celebration this evening with my friend X.

She  celebrated her four walls becoming her own, her loan repaid in full. Now she and her son are secure for life.

The mandatory six-month wait for her divorce will be over next month.

Peace of mind, freedom from mental trauma is a truly beautiful thing.

That line of mountain-valley
Hovers over my day
an invisible charm


#


deft line strokes
haiku masterpieces.
in translation:
The effrontery!
enchantment vanishes


#
lines on a map
hop, skip and jump
a ribbon to the horizon
neat


today's beautiful thing: Google images for Valley of flowers + India

Today’s beautiful thing: The art of Henry Darger



Discussing with my friend A, abt whether imagination limits what one writes, specially if you’re writing essays, CNF, and what happens once you’re done, you reach the limit?


She pointed me to Henry Darger.


What a story.


What amazing art--- what ABANDON… his figures fly off the plane of the page into the ether with a whistle


BUT to think of all this while plodding on at a day job? A lower level one, cleaning floors and rolling bandages?


To think and make such AMAZING art cloistered in a room, WITHOUT the pat on the back that you and I and every single one professing to be CREATIVE craves?


HOW?

(If we must put Darger in a box labeled strange and borderline psychotic—a lot of artists belong in there, starting with Van Gogh, and I can live with that, damn and ptoee to the labeling.)


Google images for Henry Darger

Today’s beautiful thing:


Yesterday, thanks to my friend N, I watched some fantastic work: Motley’s presentation of One Act Plays by the redoubtable Mr. George Bernard Shaw. Prithvi does not tolerate the unprepared---with that perfect-acoustics amphitheater there’s no room for goof ups. GBS would have been proud of that perfect British diction, sharp accent and polished acting.
Three One Act Plays were featured: English Pronunciation, How he lied to her husband, and Village Wooin’ (see links)


English pronunciation was amusing and an eyeopener; I learned how much of the language I happily maul. But as long as I don’t have to present anemones to a Viscount in Islington, I should be all right.


Yes, the diction was so sharp it could slice a brick. Given our Indian propensity for rounding edges, bringing in a dash of local flavor from all the vernacular languages  we’re proud to know, and mumbling words-- I wonder how they did it.


Perhaps this is what professionalism is, delivering a flawless performance despite.


The cast deserved every single clap of that standing ovation.


English Pronunciation: http://seit.unsw.adfa.edu.au/staff/sites/hrp/useful/EnglishPronunciationGBShaw.html

How He Lied To Her Husband : http://www.gutenberg.org/files/3544/3544-h/3544-h.htm


Village Wooin’ : http://www.indianexpress.com/news/by-george-its-classic/823976/

Today’s beautiful things

When I picked up yesterday’s images from my long-patient flickr account, I found these.

Stone work from a window at the Nizam’s Chowmahalla palace, Hyd.
Stone work from a pillar at Baroda Palace gate.


Spectacular craftsmanship.
When I see good work, it pokes and prods me, what have I done recently? Anything chiselled?

Today’s top beautiful thing:
http://www.rcahms.gov.uk/news/lost-imagery-of-india-discovered
Have you seen THIS? Photos from the Raj, 1912-1914. What a gift!
Don’t miss the Sahib in sola topee and suit in sweltering Calcutta, and the tea party.

Compound interest is one of the more beautiful things on earth. As lovely as dividend income, preferably tax free. Compund interest pays the bills and school fees when you have to downsize your job to take care of your ill wife and young daughters. Some of my earliest memories are of depositing dividend cheques at the bank, at a time when perhaps the teller counters were higher than I was. That change from a driver-driven car in class 1, to class 3’s pushing into a crowded school bus , first weeping and then damn well learning how to. Art class- batik work, clay work... Hobby Center.. Music lessons on and off and on. Sleeping on the terrace-- silver on concrete,  the cool touch of bedsheets, that endless array of stars in the sky, feeling scared at an odd rustle in the night, and pretending to sleep. Those vacations spent reading all the books at Cinderella’s, the neighborhood library. Those vacations at tourist spots in the state, Tithal, and Chorwad and Saputara and Dandi.



Perhaps that  was mindful living.

I returned slightly fuming from the park this morning—if such a thing is possible. Something’s off about this man playing so intensively with this child that’s not his, taking her on bike rides and all, does her grandmother not see?

Then on the other hand, my intuition has tracked way off radar in the past, so perhaps I should just shut the fug up.


Ma would never have allowed it. Never.


This—personal space, not letting someone touch you in certain places, walking away, even hitting if someone acted funny, telling her no matter what—this is one of the first things she’d taught me at seven.


Ma as in Mummy, my stepmom. As Lincoln said, his angel-mother.


My own mother (who’d been very ill for most of her life) died when I was five, and then for a year I was a vagabond, traipsing from house to house, bai trailing sometimes, sometimes not, hair uncombed, meals not eaten, homework undone. A skinny unkempt brat.


Just as I was about to be packed off to public school, a family friend introduced her once-classmate in distant A’bad, aka Mummy.


I just guess I was just very very lucky.


I still remember—now someone would tell me what time I could come back from play, someone would pack my lunchbox. Instead of vagabond avatar, I began going to art class and music class at Birla Academy. Ma made a wall calendar from my first painting. That year, I remember I got a prize for civil deportment. That was Class 1.


Class 2 and life tumbled all over again. The doctors who were taking Ma through childbirth in A'bad, goofed horribly, and while the princess was perfect, thanks to God’s grace; Ma was in coma for three months and paralysed completely when she miraculously awoke.


But she was a different person. The loving, sensitive, generous woman, a classical sitarist, had become a poor joke of herself, a parody—she couldn’t move a finger and boy was she going to let you know about it. So there were these tornado-like downtimes but there were genuinely caring and fantastic times too, you never knew which was coming next. She waited for me to come home from school, asked me about my day, she nursed me when I ran raging fevers of 104. Music lessons, art , how to talk how to walk, how to behave, how to speak, how not to, how to hit out—all of this she taught us. In time, the kid and I developed private code to identify the weather. Sudden dust storms, sudden cyclones and lightning were phenomenon you learned to live with and navigate, tip toe past and sure enough calm seas would ensue, Sometimes I think I adjust too much, give too trustingly and expect little in return on account of this conditioning. It is only now, at 47 that I have learned to watch myself and to demand and yes, stomp my foot hard, literally and figuratively, too bad if you don’t like it.


Ma was very bitter when she died after 22 years of illness, the princess’s death added to the toll. But she had her good moments too.


And if I walk with a straight spine and can converse equipoise with beggars as with kings, I know where the credit is due.

The laburnum are blooming, their color a match for the scorching sun. Last few nights the moon has been magnificent, a giant helium balloon riding the sky. Wonder what it must’ve been like in places where it spills silver on the ground. Wonder what Van Gogh would have done with a moon like this, as magnificent, as crazily generous.



In other stuff, that Tagore thing didn’t come thru, licked my wounds but I shall survive and recycle.


Satyamev jayate is piercing and cool but takes away 1.5 hours on a precious Sunday—I dusted and cleaned shelves during the ad breaks. Solid guts the man has, to make this. female foeticide is a tough one to tackle head on.


Was on thin ice, y’day morning my aunt had reminded me of all the vows and boons and beseechings the parents went thru to have me, and how I’d been dressed in second hand clothes for the first five years to keep a promise. Guess I’m lucky, superbly lucky to be born in a household where my birth was keenly awaited, where I had the freedom to step out and make my own way... But for the grace of God.


Lucky too, to be born on this side of the border, and despite myself am reading Tehmina Durrani’s My Feudal Lord, parts of the story remind me of a certain someone.Yes, the grace of the Lord.

The great Mughal Emperor, Jehangir, is believed to have said about Kashmir, “If there is Paradise on earth, it is this, it is this, it is this.”

My very modest attempt to salute this enchantment, “These Secrets of Spring” is published in The Valley Scribe.

A poem, “May Morn in Mumbai”, is on page 10.



http://www.cwc-sfv.org/ValleyScribe/


(page 8, 9,10)

These last few nights

I’ve been dreaming-- recurrent dreams
Of health emergencies
that you didn’t have
not on that last journey
never ever
Each worse than the one before
I awake thoughtful, perplexed.
Perhaps in a part of my mind
A space
still holds fast
still denies
Perhaps I still need to surrender
What I cradle in these thoughts
To the five elements;
Let you roam free where your spirit soars
and infinitesimal slivers of your soul,
finally free
dance with the sunlight
to rebirth

Nagphani. And that steep incline to the top, after the level, walk-in-the-park bit… That thudding-heart clambering about on rocks and climbing on, ever upwards till that steep rock face with no toe-holds and no-shrubs-to-hold-for-dear-life incline Perhaps it was the slope of the treadmill or its speed, but while the doc continued to make polite conversation, the machine hummed and the probes recorded, that’s what I thought of. That stress test was neat, no fuss.

*

I’m delighted to announce publication of a short story, Brittle, in Them Pretentious Basterds, a smart, cool magazine out of Chennai. The artwork is amazing.



http://thempretentiousbasterds.tumblr.com/post/22042722353/them-pretentious-basterds-teal-issue


(See page 45)


*

Other people, other places

Slices of memory, wisps really, that seep through the indifference of an ordinary existence. Sentences remain, disjointed, or the memory of a look, and add color to the arc of a life lived, somewhat. Sentences of unexpected concern permeate the thick cloak of an everyday-thick skin that one sheathes oneself in, the better to do battle with the contingencies of the day, and reminds one of the kindness that we bring to our transactions merely by being human.

Years later, these lines reach out of the ether and pour the salve of kindness and understanding on wounds that may otherwise remain raw lifelong.

The high school teacher, rumored to be from an old Chicago family, who’d brought life to history in small town India. Else all kings would have built roads and planted trees and had wells dug for travelers.


That sub-zero day in DC, and that tall lady in afro hairdo who’d taken pity on my shivering self, the trail of moisture from my eyes, and said, “ Your stole’s about falling off, dear.” Its been eight years, and yes, I remember. And its her I remember when I think of the US, and not the slights at check in.


That wizened tribal who’d offered us a hand up, that day that we’d gone to remote Amboli in a rattling, empty state transport bus. She’d almost lifted the parent and helped him alight.


Amazing what stays alive in this storehouse of memories.


The kindness of strangers on the writing circuit, sheer goodness that goes way beyond the scale. Rob of six sentences was the first to give me a break, my sentences terse and staccato, and strung along on a bonanza of commas. But his acceptances had helped me gather up and put together scattered parts of myself. A few lifetimes may not suffice to thank MS, who like an angel from some scripture, had stepped forth to direct me to the IWW that day in 2006. Yes, it has been as long..


And the generosity of strangers on IWW, strangers who’ve become closer than family in some ways.


How do you even begin to thank them?
#

Once upon a time, my neighborhood’s maze of buildings, shanty-towns and glitzy hi-rises was a jumble of forest, tiny velvet fields tucked in by an ancient Buddhist shrine. A story, *A Kondivita Girl*, featuring a puzzled ghost, won a prize and was published in *The Mahakali Voice*.

My portfolio is on tumbhi!

http://www.tumbhi.com/dowatch.html?watch=xyz24950abc

Go read. If you've read, then re-read. And so on.

“Perhaps its me.” All this time the man would talk some and switch off, talk some and yes, you get the drift-- connect and walk away, this over YEARS—and all the time I’d keep wondering what happened, what I’d said wrong, and then I’d go on living my life. My reticence and thankfully traditional 17th C mores kept me out of any nonsense. Of course there were tears, and much beating of chest, I was an emotional idiot those days. Now I’m the cynical bitch (and loving it).

NOW I’ve learnt what

The man is a CYCLER.

Yes, a bipolar, MDP.

Explains so damn much.

So where do you step in. Should you even step in, people resolve their own karmic paths, their own journeys, life lessons, and all that. Not to discount the ego-build up brownie points, that do-gooder pat on the back, which creeps in automatically, can’t miss those red flags of I, I I…. The new lady who cleans the washroom had lost her husband in a nasty road accident a year ago, the kids are pretty useless and the family distant, as it sometimes is. So where do you step in, if at all--do you? A note or two passed wouldn’t make much of a difference to me, but might help her. Usually by conscious effort I try hard to stay uninvolved, preferring people to sort out whatever they have to, would helping interfere with a path of repair and learning that is already on?



I wish I knew.


I wish I didn’t remember what kick-in-the-gut grief feels like, every time I see her

Trees laden with yellow cassia

laburnum trembling awake

To birdsong

And someday perhaps I shall write of these

In happy, complete and content stories,

plump and placid with ever-afters.

Until then I find delight

In giving shape to

The sly and crafty, shrewd and cunning,

Shortcut prone, gritty underside

The city trembles when they walk.

Women with rich pasts and edgy tempers

And smiles like steel

Stories that waft in with the wind.

much as you’d like to believe otherwise

When I dot my I’s and cross them t’s

Tis with glee, at least, or a smile.

An underworld-inspired story, A Day of Silent Prayers, is now published on Pure Slush



http://pureslush.webs.com/dayofsilentprayers.htm

It is your birthday today. April 17.


I shall do all the usual things one does on birthdays.


Then I shall stare at the skies.

Yesterday I’d dug deep, googling an author who was a very distant name (my stepma’s grandfather) and I’d almost fallen off the settee. The accomplishments were awe inspiring, numbing, even a hundred years after- Bar-at-law, fellow of the Royal Asiatic Society, reference works that are perused even now. Yet, the immediate family, his third and fourth generation descendants, does not quite give a damn. Got me thinking about legacies, particularly of the written word. And lineages that go beyond the geneline.

Delighted to announce publication of a poem, Spring, on 7 beats.



http://www.7beats.com/herenow.html

So little time to the day. And there are personal commitments I will NOT cut down on. I will walk. I will cook. I will write even if its scraggly. Work is not too easy, not too tough, requires I keep up with a barrage of information, just keep moving. Personal time is limited—very. Just realised that it is personal ENERGY that is limited. Must be very careful about who and what I invest that energy in. If I spend 1.5 hours in front of the idiot box staring at a Balaji story that really is my problem. If I tell bai that locking someone’s keys inside their house and running around to hunt and find the keys was a result of her perpetual hurry—but I frown about this all day, then that energy drain is MY problem.  Why should I play any part, however reluctant, in anyone’s life dramas? Tumhara natak, tum sambhalo. If I fritter away energy, where will I find the time to invest it, direct it?

Link OD

Chanced upon a dream home in kota stone and white. Perfect for dry hot cities (like back home), where temperatures are above 40 degrees C most times and above 47 C a few months.



Loved the way they’ve used stone, light and splashes of color.


http://devyanijayakar.com/guggari.pdf






The AT small cool entries are drool-worthy…


http://community.apartmenttherapy.com/contests/smallcool/2012






“Wish-I-had-written-that” envy at the tumbhi shortlisters, specially Vibha Batra’s The Survivor. Perfectly crafted.


http://www.tumbhi.com/short-story-writing-contest/somewhere-sometime.jsp

There is a time for all seasons....



What a googly life throws at you sometimes.

You can butt your head against the wall, and to no avail.

And then be surprised out of the blue.


I wish I could've told you.


But I shouted to the skies anyway.

Today I tracked down the closest bank branch where they’d do a Western Union transfer, and collected $50 (or Rs.2482, to be precise), but how rich does every pence feel when its for your writing.

Bai’s son has flunked his 9th standard. Yet again. Bai slogs at 5 homes, an endless round of “top work” chores, stretches her limited salary and pushes her sons to an English medium school and tuitions. The vagabonds skip classes and play marbles or whatever is the equivalent thereof. Her eldest, a driver with some travel agency, took his boss’s car on a midnight spin with his coterie, crashed the car, and the lady slogged to repair and return the car to its owner to avoid a police case. For a calamity, any of the memsahibs would have helped, but who wants to throw money at a lost cause, the boy is a scoundrel? Of course it is not the son’s fault, he is good, his friends made him do it. Why does she not make the 9th class–in-limbo a wireman or an electrician or plumber instead? No, he must clear his tenth boards and he must go to college come what may.



One can take a horse to the water but one cannot make him drink, as Baba used to say.

Had I known installing plants on that tiny window ledge was going to be as inspiring, evoke a sense of ownership and yes, contentment, I’d have done that long ago.





In the shanty town these days there seems to be a season of nonstop recital of the Ramcharitmanas.




Yesterday from 4 till ten I visited two worlds. Negotiated a single person-only, winding alley in a shanty town to reach a friend’s engagement ceremony. Later, dined in understated opulence elsewhere, making polite talk, calculating the manhours it would take to keep the environs as pure and pristine white.

In a story: That breaking point, that’s what interests me. A commenter said that strong people stayed strong all the time, even pushed to the wall, they battled and found a way out. No, not always, and when people don’t act true to form, the stalwart giving in, the strong man buckling under pressure, the saint turning to crime—that last feather, that X factor--that’s captivating....

So- destiny, or none?



In the falling evening light I see a five-year old surrounded by toys in her playroom, playing with make-believe friends and believed-to-be friends, and I think of the changes a kind soul would bring to her life just by stepping into it and shaping it, the values, the backbone, the slant of her head—and think, yes.


I see this girl in her twenties returning to her home town, the brightness in her eyes dimmed, shaken and broken at the turn of events, learning anew about grief and sorrow--and a new workplace that started off as a place to go to, but changed, changed and changed again -- yes, destiny, and yes, she probably wouldn’t get that job today even if she wanted it.


I see a woman brokenhearted, cowering , picking herself up and walking away free, and I see the kindness of strangers and a reality that is unsheltered in the barrage of workshopped stories, lifestories, and the guiding hand of kind spirits never to be met—yes, destiny.

All luck by chance.

Change is the only constant. Happinessinthisworld has a great post on Change.



Yet something as simple as a supermarket closing down throws life out of sync.


Goodbye, More. You were great while you were around. Fruits were fresh, vegetables were straight from the fields, the staff was helpful and courteous. Poor kids, what happens to them now? Discount and range were decent, not earthshaking, and I reciprocated with my loyalty and solid billing.


Unlike a traditional housewife, you did not do in-season purchases, you did not tie up with the producer, and margins got hit—even my aunt stocks up on spices and grains in season, so how complicated is that?


Now I have to figure out how to deal with conniving, silver tongued sabziwallas who’ve made a religion out of short weights.


The positives? This opens up two free hours on Sunday morning.


And DD1 is showing a series based on the Upanishads.


This morning I got a rejection on a story that is almost as long as the story. And have decided to put up stuff on Tumbhi, starting with stories that are anyway online.

Kahaani. What a brilliant jolt-of-electric-adrenalin of a movie.
No spoiler alerts here-- go see it!
Fantastic storyline. So that's the first hero. Happy to see someone has as much of a bent criminal mind as I have.
And the CITY... magical, maddening, pristine, filthy, modern and dilapidated by turns, pulsating energy, but what awesome photography, almost like a painting, a living mural, it reaches out and touches you, the simple humanity of the place...
Like that fleeting time in Birla art gallery where I sat singing with complete strangers.

The more things change, the more they remain the same, and on and on and on again we use the same template, only this once it doesn’t evoke a reaction—no storm, no tears. Thoughtful passivity. If all of life is a choice, does it have to be this way? Or maybe a change from status quo, the venturing needs an extra shot of energy or special bravado… and I’m too attached to my security strings. Surely, if I keep returning time after time to the same point, perhaps I should give it some consideration. Other than sweeping it under the proverbial carpet.
Pat on back: drove to the lab and back without mishap.

What do you do when a friend gifts you the perfect, spherical eggplant?
Cook it. Poyemn it.
I’m thrilled to announce publication of a poem, Eggplant Rhapsody, on Pure Slush
http://bit.ly/xOPBcp
http://pureslush.webs.com/eggplantrhapsody.htm

So Columbus discovered America.
As the late parent would say when I learned or stated something that was obvious, even easy.
AUDACITY.
That’s the name of the software I downloaded, installed, used on Thursday even as the rough town beneath my living room exploded in color, light, sound. Disco on steroids for holi.
Feeling quite PRIM about using the software to record in the native, a translation of basics, cat mat bat, suchlike, for mylanguages.org.
And the shock at the size of audio files and etc.
Columbus khush hua.
Wah Taj, wah, collars up.

Aaj rang hai, Hey maa rang hai rey
Mere mehboob ke ghar rang hai rey

An ecstatic Nizamuddin once wrote
Drunk on the colors of life
invisible to but a chosen few
Today was Holi, the festival of colors
But my celebration has been ongoing for days
The colors dancing in the air-haze
In the delirious plurality of green
the burst of sunlight
cascading chorus of bird calls
My gulaal, my abir in the play and turn of the breeze
In the kesu and jasood brimming over
Nizamuddin may have long written his verse
there is hope
Yes, the world still celebrates

Granny Smith magazine features my story, Reflections.

Sepia colors
All that remains
Footsteps
A child’s prattle
That heady run-rush of youth
Executed with a dancer’s grace
Then the reel turns blank
Burnt sienna, no soundtrack
Just the whirr to the end.

Standing room only at the Kabir concert


For a day now I’ve been trying to unravel
The import of all I’ve seen and heard—and barely scratched the surface
Of a pure voice reaching for the heavens,
Sometimes I think I’ve caught a glimpse, a sliver of light, quizzical
A gigantic kaleidoscope of swirling colors
(Then the rest of life takes over)

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Even as his loom clicked through weft and weave
He wrote of the connection beyond
A line as fine and real and fleeting
As the line on the horizon, racing
As the sun dips into the sea
Past the gulls wheeling overhead
Unnamed colors fill up the sky, then dissappear

Ages ago, the poet wrote
Of life in every thing
Of the essence in every being
Of having found the source, free of book and worldly reign
Simple words that still ring true
Yet why so difficult for me to unravel
This simplicity of the singer
So content in his village life
Inheritor of his lineage, his spiritual wealth

As the hours quickly progressed
Glimpses of the mystic alphabet, fleeting
Humbled by the remembrance of poet-saints and princess-poets
Glimpses, like an electric jolt to the brain
Yet the power of the word…
(then the rest of life takes over)
Even as new champa dance in the sunshine
unfettered.

I must be the weirdest person that I know
A grin so huge it doesn’t fit my face
At a friend’s nervous trepidation, joy
At a super brand new stupendous time
A grin, walking taller, lighter
Sunshine
Leaves like engravings, so detailed
A lily so fine you can see the curve of the green as it holds up the bloom to light
Nonchalance, grace in the kite’s roll
Echoes of A Brand New Day
The percussion filtering out, feather-touch, into the gentle night.

Yesterday evening at the movies
I was reminded
That an hour or two
Of gut shaking, rip roaring laughter and bright colors
Is good for the soul.
Clears out the dank, the cobwebs from the mind
As much as a good shaking-do.
Quick, smart, young—
But what’s wrong with quick, smart, young?
If the locale was not part of my psyche—Vegas, uptown Mumbai
Neither is the grimy underworld, guns ablaze
I came home laughing
With a decided spring in my step
My head held higher
Smiling
paisa vasool.

RIP Whitney H.
48! Bloody hell.
HOW can one die at 48?



This song I've heard too often long ago, tears streaming mode.

The other day I heard some scurrilous gossip.
Remember those wooden dolls where the eyeballs pop out of their sockets, something like that? I consciously stepped away from taking a righteous stand, unctuous holier-than-thou. I must admit I was tempted to.
But yes, I wondered about the way people choose to INVEST the short time I, we, you, they have on earth.
What a surprising time we live in.
Me? I get heady on words.

I watch goggle eyed, the cars vroom vrooming on the TV, revving from zero to zwoop in a blink, a dust cloud trailing--the smell of engine oil, the real adrenalin, racing heartbeat. And I think of my sedate wonder on four wheels, primly cruising along on second gear, L plates prominent--and I smile.

Time marches, I steal slivers, poke in clichés and invest moments in that tiny space and rejoice in them, just as I rejoice in sunlight on my skin, or the measured grace, the sweep of a kite’s flight, sure and persistent, practicing rolls and dives in an emptying peach sky. Life is, life respects no clock or drumbeat, it just is.

It was republic day yesterday, the day we signed the constitution, ages ago, of course now several political parties swear allegiance to the writer of the document and choose to forget that probably a committee drafted it in the first place, and given our propensity for all things British, there must be chunks thusly inspired. January 26th, now another holiday, a day to salute the flag, sing patriotic songs off key, and walk about waving paper flags stapled on to softdrink straws. Later at night, there was Gandhi, on TV, but to get to it you had to surf past footage of march pasts, missiles and tanks and what not, and one wondered if those men of steel of which those on the screen only were a depiction, were from a different gene imprint, and where did that steel go, and the man singlehandedly credited for cobbling together a country from a hundred and ten fiefdoms, kingdoms, headstrong rulers, where did that steel go? Though as protests and clamor go we’ve had a pretty neat year, a new drama a fortnight and I watch wide eyed—but something’s off in this land of two Indias, the chasm deepening every damn minute.

A friend’s going to a literary festival
Hulla hulla jamboree
100,000 and counting
Dust clouds and shamianas
Speeches and milling crowds
a regal façade and a roll of drums
will they wear hats, I wonder? And gloves!
and much too much of chatter
echoing, rebounding, ricocheting from ancient walls.
Me?
My literary festival
Is 400 word quickies
And my barrage of obtuse. “cut, cut cut” heavy crits
As also poem a day (that alas I often miss)
That pulls out dark stuff from shuttered tight corners
Of my brain and mind, such that it is
And yes, heart sometimes
(but the heart is pokey holey, not much to count there)
And my literary festival is:
Trying to stretch words to not bloat, stay afloat and more
Clenching, grasping crazy deadlines
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And my jamboree is
Merrily switching words tenses weights across languages
If I can I must, or so shouldn’t I?
And this year, I admit, the first of for-fee subs
multiplying by fifty as I hit send...
So even while the flashing lightbulbs
And newspaper double spreads
Devote eulogies, quotes, reams to the craft
I shall put my head down
Squiggle out a line or two.
Sing along to my sing song
Hulla hulla jamboree

The formal year 1 date, and today I shall release you of all promises but one, and I shall let you go to the space of the four directions, to the glorious sunshine and the green and the mountains you loved so much, and to the word, spoken and unspoken, written and read in all your languages, to drama and literature and marching numbers and erudite philosophy I don’t even try to understand, but crisp and without need of that magnifying lens. And I shall release you to the wind and the rain and the million and one stars in the night, and to the brilliant sunsets over water, and images of places never seen but on TV and you’d remark “what a view” and to intricate melody and to Rashid khan and to stories I’ve only heard, of night long concerts and weekend trips to any place on a whim… and I release you of all promises but one, that in this endless cycle of soul paths and nights and days, that we shall meet again, and I shall guide your step again, and again I shall know your thoughts without your framing them into words. Adieu, and see you soon, or how else shall I live?

Flashes in the Dark has published my rather nasty flash, DARK.

http://tinyurl.com/84nkbq8

Once again, it is uttarayan, the day the sun changes direction, the golden orb lasting a mite longer in these stark winter skies. Also the day the sky is spilling over with kites of all colors and sizes. Also the day the mighty Bhishma (in the Mahabharata), long vanquished and in repose on a bed of sharp arrows, bided his death for.
Uttarayan. And I see that young girl in her usual uniform of cap-T-jeans, prancing about on the terrace, her voice hoarse with cries of victory, even as her kite soars higher in the glorious sunlight, higher than any other in its exclusive blue sky.
And I watch closely, try to unravel the victory cheers and bursts of songs from radios from the neighboring terraces, and all of a sudden the sound predominates, and the girl’s image begins to blur, shake and dissolve into a pool of golden sunlight.

Poonam of the paush month again.
This morning, the full moon
Efflulgent and radiant
Peered over the trees, and waited.
I watched in silver silence, chilled
A year ago, about now,
Time stood still.
Time, the thief—too early-- this time, every time.
A year ago, time stood still
The whoosh of the machine no more
Your hand grew cold, in mine
That line on the ventilator vanished
White covers were drawn
Time the cheat, the thief!
Time, ever victorious, on quicksilver wings
Scorching time!
For a week now I’ve been recycling Sting
A lament , a dirge, a daughter’s plea
A Newcastle ship without coals
We sail to the island of souls
The cry of
The bridge to heaven is broken
Please repair it for me
The bridge to heaven is broken
And I’m lost on the wild wild sea
These words
A nonstop loop to the backdrop of my day
I work, I laugh, I watch myself laugh
A nonstop loop to my day
Been trying to think instead
Of a burst of light, Santorini
Of drumroll and bougainvillea in the sunlight
Morning filtering on the green
A toddler wobbling on unsteady legs
trying
My road ardous, steep
I shall try to be my father’s daughter
Your hand forever in mine.

Reading Tagore in the 21st C
Reading Tagore, the poems in particular
(all means to an end, I must confess)
D’you suppose he’d still write as he did
Or bemused, watch
Would he seek grace and music
In sunlight on green
Or the way gold traces a line through a grove
Or would he read
the face of the devout praying to the rising sun
Would he be captivated
By a child on a playswing
Or sunlight gleaming off the Petronas or Al burj
Or smile at
A gaggle of schoolboys enumerating conquests?
For the paced flow of the river, unhurried, is overrun
By the energetic rush of the latest superfast metro
And demure anklet- wearing damsels no longer fill water at the river
Now that protest-fluff-bling tend to overwhelm
Would he have taken the tide, holding his own
Or stepped away from the clamor, a recluse
To a garden, walled
Or a city with no name?
Would he have gleaned lyrics from the milling crowds
Or sought the refuge of the quiet glade?
Reading Tagore in the 21st C
I read the lines
And let it be

No, I did not quite expect this.
Not on Loksabha TV. Which is in recent times, going much beyond carrying inaninities on the latest political discussion or debate. Which is anyway a drama, an expensive one!
Fantastic program on one of the land’s greatest quawwals, Meraj Ahmed Nizami saab.
One of the pieces they performed had long ago been part of our classical music learning-- Hazrat Khwaja sang kheliye dhamar
I winced when he said women cannot sing the qawwali. Some other life time then. (Or maybe as long as it is not a prayer at a shrine, it is permitted as my faith is different, and Sufism is all about one's personal connect)
And I clapped when the youngsters picked up, supported, strengthened the aging maestro’s sur, tone.
More on him here: http://www.mabelis.nl/Qawwali/merajnizami/meraj.asp

When I channel surfed last night, I got startlingly lucky.
Riveting story. Dry wit. Detailed, intricate Claymation.
Stunning work.
www.maryandmax.com
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_and_Max

On the back-home front, the MSU Fine Arts Fair is on Dec 23 and 24. if you're there, please go!
I still own art (cards) and a fired-mud container I'd picked up from there. Maybe 20 years ago.
Amazing energy to the fair, great ambience, out-of-the-world art.

Have just returned from a long and dusty ride out of town (almost), have seen what can be done to schooling for the poorest of the poor if there is intent, resources, sharp will, using available structures and govt. facilities, and tweaking what is needed. Also, in the swing of places from last week’s opulence and creamy layer in attendance to this, I’ve come full circle. Just for the record. Dizzy.

In following routine, I find much satisfaction, even contentment, ticking off a task once done. A remnant of the “should” mentality... Or just that, comfort,knowin you're doing ok--comfort like an old chair or t shirt
Today I re-started a thanks journal.

I must record this—very slight but perceptible nip in the air.
And miracles occur—a cheque I had been praying for, chasing, fretting over, was in the mail.

I watched the expressway race away in the darkness under the star-flooded sky. I watched the city, your city, reflected in the plate-glass windows of the hotel to the quiet purr of the ac. And enough solitaires and stones glitter on the velvet lawns that evening to repay the national debt. And I watched myself watch. How completely funny life is, so surreally surprising, kaisi paheli zindagani.. .

After a monsoon of rejects, I'm glad to announce publication of a story, *Ebony has many shades", in an online anthology, In her place

http://bit.ly/rTDP7k