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

Every morning I oversleep. Every morning I awake to the crescendo chatter of crows in the banyan tree outside. And I wonder about a cat being tormented, or a strange bird being driven away. And choice. And happenstance and nature. And I return like a faithful homing bird to thoughts that have upset me for a while, and I try to unravel reasons for errant behavior and seek instances in the past that might fit in, like a puzzle, only you’re grasping at a straw in the wind.So where do you go and what do you do, when decisions are taken for you, decisions that you only chance upon, stumble upon, so manipulative. Like someone said, leave it to the fates, to the rhythm of the earth and the wind? Or clairvoyant-like, try to foresee? I think of these questions at odd hours, and then late into the night I sit at the window and watch pinpoints of distant light fade away under a canopy of stars. What does it matter, just crow chatter and fading whispers to the one in the skies.

Come to my window, world, and tell me your tales. Come when the day is young, and the trees alight with bird chatter, and in the far distance the strain of a devotional song speak out to the day. Or at night perhaps when pinpricks of light from impossibly huddled homes are set off past the black outline of the trees. Embroider the silence with your tales when the sky is peach, and a pretty pink sheen reflects off these white walls.
to Life!

Why did you have to misrepresent? Who gave you that right? And if you could misrepresent in this instance,not expecting me to reach the truth of misrepresentation, in how many other have you moulded facts and fiction the way you wanted things, the way it suited you? The thought is worrisome. If I were not a pragmatist, I’d have headed for the woods.
kya duniya hai!
zindagi khwab hai.. khwab mein sach hai kya, aur bhala, jhooth kya...

This part of the month does look like a sledge careening downhill, barely controlled, heavy with adrenalin buzz, task rich. Split second stuff to be done on the personal front, the work calendar is heavily penciled in. Take a deep deep breath, and don’t miss any flights.

Responsibility, at a time when you’re just about learning to deal, form a nodding acquaintance with your own, an additional commitment. One only wonders why one was chosen for the honor; and what must have influenced the decision ages ago, the weight is not too easy to bear nor the choices too easy, one can only guess. Past the shock of the responsibility, an awareness of the issues, how this can break or make, and above all, an overriding need to be fair and seem fair to all. As a friend put it, take a deep, deep breath and keep a clear head.

Sometimes a fuzzy, ambiguous something puts you off a person, even if the interaction is online, specially if the interaction is online. Too edgy, volatile, intent, too intent, too persistent and decisive to the point of being rude, smart intellectual perhaps too smart for his own good. And so you back off, “thanks but no thanks”--unable to say precisely why. Just a woozy discomfort. A moodiness worse than one's own. Retreating behind that lovely cloak of politeness and genteel good manners and diplomacy you’ve worn like a second skin, to an explosion, vituperative. And then googling, a few years down the line, the news hits you like a ton of bricks, OMG! And you’re shocked and rattled and taken aback. And somewhere you thank your stars and the kind man in the skies and take a deep breath.There, but for the grace of God...

I’d stepped in for a minute out of politeness; it was late and I needed to finish my walk, but what an amazing time I had, I returned brighter and happier past the magic hour. Old world courtesy, fading sepia photos, lace and laughter. They’ve been married over 50 years-- time in which she turned from demure and dainty, really pretty, slender to gray, and he from dashing and valiant to wrinkled, unsteady now. Sepia, lingering perfume and hints of the Raj. His mother was Anglo-Indian and worked for the railways, looked so much like Jackie O. Laughter gales at the tale of recalcitrant pet hens, a special one that’d sip tea, and the grateful eggs the clutch would produce, and that had to be given away.
There is so much of life around only if we’d take the time to see.

1960's steel cupboard painted burgundy.

handmade cot in three pieces now a blatant blue and white

cane chair a light light blue. given that the walls are sky mimic- white

under the dining table formica (1950's possibly), we found teak. Polished and to be carted to storage for use as a door some day.

Colors... Step by step, but does it have to take so long?