In solitude does your voice peak

In loneliness does it whisper.

I wait in anticipation

To trace the voice to your presence.

To reach out. See. Touch.

Chiseled out

It was just you everywhere...

Every moment.
 

I parted with nights reluctantly

As my sleep would steal your thoughts away

And my dreamy mind would wander elsewhere.
 

I have no witness.

No proof.

Of my truthfulness

Or respect.
 

But it is all there.

Chiseled out

Deeply. Happily.
Inside me.

The Journey was so desired, and took so long to reach...

The Journey is over. But was it worth the wait?

Some dreams are best left as dreams. Thus they remain beautiful for ever.

And as I wondered why,

The reason came

Without letting me think through.


I just had to move along

Move on

Like caught in a flood

With such force ...and

with a tinge of enigma...

Distance seems nearer than I thought...

What is love, without a bit of distance, after all...?

I felt the first drizzle in Sudan - a few days back. Was out having coffee with some friends... a few drops fell on my hand... it was a welcome feeling. So different from the thunderous monsoon of the tropics where I used to look for places to hide!

Appearing on this space after nearly a year. I have posted many stories - in my mind. But not good enough eh? Life looked one big theatrical performance, having to manage crises of sorts - mostly work -related. What seemed a priority one day became insignificant the other day - such was the pace with which events seemed to unfold.

In Khartoum now. And it really feels I am in a different continent.

More later.

Unearthing the Precious

Of late, I had been taking many trips down the memory lane. They were exhilarating and meaningful. Memories of growing up – amidst chaos, complex situations and unbelievable diversity- are still vivid and etched so deep in my memory.

 It is amazing how we can remember details of an event, when we focus recollecting it. In one of those journeys, I resurrected a precious piece of paper, which I had un-earthed a few years back…

Syam (alias Syam Kumar B.G- names were said with full initials, way back in 1983 yes!) was my first best friend. We were together always for any cultural (or non cultural) events. Group songs, solo songs, recitation, drama … you name it, we went together. Also, we had a common woe (at least for me)-  an elder sister, who was strict with our studies and marks) - The first question my sister threw at me, once an answer sheet was presented was “How much did Syam get.”  He used to say, he was grilled the same way (Our sisters became our best friends in life later).

I used to love standing next to Syam for no other reason than his small stature. I felt much taller than him, which gave me immeasurable satisfaction of having outgrown our age!   

This was in 1983, which means exactly 29 years ago. That makes me sound pretty old, but not old enough to let a precious memory slip. I was finishing my lower primary (4^th standard) in Chinmaya Vidyalaya School in Vazhuthacaud, Trivandrum. Time had come for friends to part as the school was not to receive approval for conducting higher grades. 

Thus came the time to part.  Syam gave me a note to say good bye. I was so touched. Did not know what exactly it meant to say good bye at the age of 9 or 10. It just meant no playing together, no ‘helping hands’ (a game where one had to run for help and hold hands with another in order  not to get out of the game), no climbing up the stairs and sliding down (sometimes it scraped the buttocks), no singing together etc… 

Little did I know, life was to reveal itself as one long drawn story of good byes of varying intensities…

I kept that note along with my collection of stones of different colors and texture. Those were my treasures and I used to think they were really worth millions. That was the hobby those days, to collect stones from broken bangles, chains etc.  This was a secret hobby, which went public only when I thought I was extraordinarily rich and that I should proclaim my loot to the outside world!  They were kept in the lower rack of my wall cupboard, which had to be protected against white ants during rainy days.

I still remember Syam wishing me good bye and walking back. The pain of my first parting with a bosom pal was felt that day, in which ever depth a child’s mind could travel. 

Fortunately for us, the school got the approval to continue with the higher grades. So we were back again, till the 7^th standard, and remained best of friends, still going for cultural events and bossed around by sisters ( which progressively increased with higher grades-)

We left  Chinmaya Vidyalaya  for High School. A group of us, left our primary school with fond memories, for different pastures.

But this note remained. Forgotten too, after many years.

A few years back, while clearing up my home and my old loots, I stumbled upon this note – which opened up a whole new memory chip right in front of my eyes… I went back in time, as if in a trance… remembered every detail of my schooling in Chinmaya – starting with my kindergarten… the day I came off my stammer and ran to my sister in the evening with such sense of pride after having pronounced ‘R’ properly...  She was elated and hugged and kissed me. The little brat had finally pronounced ‘R’ properly. It was always close to the voiceless dental fricative “th…”  Many, many more fond memories flashed through my mind’s eyes…

I took the note with me to Colombo to laminate. It had stayed in my wallet for about 3 years. It was torn, but yet, was clear. The memory of that day even clearer… so here it is… Unearthing the Precious.

I now know exactly how Tagore’s Kabuliwala had felt… carrying that torn piece of paper with him…I have cried reading that story a few years back. I still may. 

 I got in touch with Syam and told him about the discovery and resurrection of an antique piece of a memory. He was flabbergasted to hear that I still have a note that he wrote 29 years ago. He said, his son is in fourth standard now, exactly the same age when he had given this note to me.

 Time, sure had been on its wings… immaculately.

But We Still Fight....

Third time in 18 years, got a chance to meet and closely engage with a few Pakistanis.. This time it was in Goa. A small group of us, a few Sri Lankans, a few Pakistanis and yours truly hired a taxi for the beach. It was a long drive.

I met  Pakistani friends the first time, way back in 1994. In late teens and brimming with nationalism (mostly when it came to cricket!), I had, what I would call a defining moment in life, when I first met them. It was in Japan. South Asia Youth Exchange Program.  A couple of people were speaking in Hindi;  I turned around. Later realized that it was Urdu, they were from Pakistan, and also had come for the same Youth Exchange Program. The next two weeks saw me ‘growing up’ with a whole new world open to me, which I started seeing through my own eyes. That world was distinct. It still is. It is largely free from parochialism; it is built by people whom I have met, spoken, ate with and have had a coffee with and laughed about basically anything.

Those Pakistani friends went out of touch, but what I felt about them stayed live.

In Goa I re-lived what I felt in 1994, even more precisely. As an adult. A woman,  after having rowed the boat of life; its ups and downs. This time, what struck me most was their sense of humour… sometimes bordering on cynicism, just like any free thinking Indian’s, on social issues. That long drive was spent on ‘shayaris,’  talks on Sufi music and literature and what not. What took me mostly by surprise was ‘semya’ (payasam in Kerala) is called the same in Pakistan! For lunch it was served for us in Goa, and those from Pakistan loved the Semya! Apparently it is a must-have sweet in their Eid Festival. Phew!

It is the same people. Same language. Shared history. Culture. Literature. Could not help but contemplate why do we fight? What for? When people become institutions why do we cease to think as people?

RANDOM

So much has changed. Even the look of the blogspot. The dot com (s) change so fast, even if nothing else does.

I have earned the reputation, in own conscience, as a perfect  procrastinator. This is especially when it comes to blogging. This is the time I am reminded of an earlier post of feverishly wishing for longer days; and nights; months; years.


So it is all about change. And having to adapt and move on. A dear friend gifted me with a book. It is the story of a river. I have only read the preface. But yes the imagery was so clear. Life of a river. Realise mine had been one; as is every one else's. The river has its turns and bends; and sometimes even needs to conform.  But no stagnation, except drying up for want of its life giving water. (Wonder 'conform' is the correct word. May be not).

When a lot around one changes, it is hard to keep pace. That happens to be my  continuing epic. Had tried  writing in a note book. I realised, the most guarded thoughts have a way of finding their place in there. So much nice and intimate to see the handwriting. The smudges... the spaces... long pauses.


A lot of faces have changed around me. Many have left. Only the moments I spent with them remain. Distance is what connects me now with feelings. Relationships;  of course sustaining them. It seems hard at times. Yet... the river is flowing...

You speak out, but it is own echo that reverberates. You turn , it is own shadow that reflects...It is a vast space.

More later. For the notebook. And for the blog.

Cheers!

Our share

Your share in this love is not fair
Because I am so far and distant

Complete with Nothing

I wished for a corner

You gave me a world

With its innate intricacies; yet colourful.

I wished for a touch,

You gave me a moment’s infinite joy

Inexplicable; yet so silent.

You disappeared just as a fleeting thought.

Yes, fleeting; wild and accurate.

In your thoughts that I saw each morning

And slept off in the darkest hours.

But I know, you are yet, but a thought.

Not near. Not far. Somewhere meandering... 

With little I feel fulfilled

With nothing I feel complete

But I know, you are yet, but a thought...

Splashing colours- latest hobby!

I Asked God

I wondered
What this day is for me.

I asked God today
To make him
See me. From near. Yet far.

I have looked at him closely, sometime ago.
Yet did not see him at all.
In his absence did not think of him.
Yet in his presence
I cherish the chatter. The laughter.

This sure sounds bizarre.
Because mine is a private space. Gated. Locked.
But I know this is new.
These footsteps. Vague. Yet present.

So I asked God what this meant.
He said, listen to them more...

Welcome2012 !!!!

The calendars on the table and walls have changed ! Wow it is 2012 ! Welcomed the eve of new year at the India House on the invitation of a close friend who is more a family than a friend !


Welcome 2012. Please give the world good memories !

Tsunami - 7 years Ago

Yesterday was the 7th anniversary of Indian Ocean Tsunami that ravaged Sri Lanka in 2004.

Leslie was on my mind for some time. Do not know why. I met him about 6 years ago, in the Galle district of Sri Lanka during a field trip to assess the impact of a tsunami recovery project of the organisation I was working for.

Leslie left an indelible mark on my mind; and his face kept re- surfacing when many a time; I was on a roller coaster ride with life.

I am not a good architect of words to explain the destruction and havoc that 2004 tsunami caused in the island. The least I could say is... it was apocalyptic... A doomsday movie coming true in real life. I sincerely hope that I do not get to witness the same in my life time again. The tragedy was unprecedented. The trauma of those who survived was benumbing. The shock of it froze the bones of all those who witnessed and heard the tragic tales. The wailing of those who vanished continued to echo for a very long time along the shores.

Leslie was affected by the tsunami. He had lost his job, since the hotel where he worked as housekeeping assistant no longer existed or only partly existed. The business was closed and he was left with a family and no job – just like thousands of others who had survived by sheer stroke of luck.

Humanitarian assistance also flowed in like the tsunami. The island witnessed the height of solidarity to reach the needy – in pain and tragedy human beings relate to one another better.

Leslie received a small financial assistance to start a new livelihood – carpentry. The institution that I was working for was assisting people to rebuild their lives. Leslie, despite all the tragedy that met him, was smiling. It was evident that many people visit him to hear the living tale of how he braved the tsunami, when I noticed that he was already getting ready to be photographed.

One of the challenging (and sometimes painful) moments of a development worker is to meet a ‘beneficiary’ to evaluate progress from a project perspective. The whole paradigm of benefactor and the beneficiary. The benefactor’s over sized sense of benevolence. And the gratitude of the beneficiary. The whole development jargon tends to be clinical – just like a doctor’s approach to a patient. Faces hardly matter. I know I am digressing. But still to drive home a different point, I would like to mention the film Patch Adams, a humorous but soul-searching film, inspired by a true story, enacted by Robin Williams. Still I remember a scene, where Patch Adams, the black sheep of that particular batch of medical students follows the Professor, when he takes his students for the ward round. The doctor refers to the patients in terms of their ‘illness’ or as a ‘case.’ Patch Adams wondered why they could not be called by their names instead...! I remember this scene, very often, with photographic precision.

My colleague and I had to walk down an interior lane to trace Lesley’s house. There he was, waiting for us, shockingly surprised that we had been on time! Leslie’s hospitality never got washed away with the tsunami. He explained his new beginnings when I listened intently. Leslie had bought some new tools which would enable him to start carpentry at the basic level. His eyes welled up with tears when he said ‘ your agency’s assistance mattered to me 200 percent, not just 100 percent! I am so thankful...” I sat there wondering it was such a miniscule contribution – not even half a drop in the ocean. Yet, someone was expressing 200 percent gratitude. Unbelievable.

The general trend among human beings and those who receive assistance is to complain what is not given. Leslie was an exception.

About 6 months later, the second tranche of assistance was given. For the final evaluation of progress I travelled down again.

There was Leslie, in his new home, built by his hard labour and the financial assistance he had received from some other agency ( I think the government). I hardly knew that I was going to listen to an incredible story of astounding integrity.

“Give madam that piece of cake.” He was ordering his son, who along with his father had built the two small but two-storied, house.”

Leslie was able to finish the construction of his house for a lesser amount than the aid he received because of his contribution in terms of carpentry / masonry work along with family members. So, he RETURNED the balance money so that it could be given to some other needy person. 

I could not believe my ears. I had not been humbled by anything before or after that moment in life... In this divisive world, where profits matter more than relationships, where corruption is treated more like a right than a crime, in a remote village of Galle, Sri Lanka, there lived a man, who returned his aid money, which was his due, so that it could be useful for someone more needy.

Period.

Six years ago that I met Leslie. But his memories are still fresh. Now as I write this, I am encouraged to make a trip south to Galle, to visit Leslie, and sip an over-sugary cup of tea, which is a symbol of the highest level of his hospitality. I do not take milk tea; no sugar either. But if Leslie offers, I think I will.

As this Year is EndingU EndingU...

As the year is marching towards an end, as crackers light up all evening, and illumination on the main roads brightens up the holiday season, contemplation on the passing year also reaches a near end.

2011 had been a quite a year, to say the least.

India became the Wold Cricket Champions! Hurrah! The nail biting finish put me on Antacid for a few days. Man! Many bets went fut in Sri Lanka. And back home in India, it was as if an entire nation’s poverty and corruption issues were forgotten; for a while!

Many shifts. Many turns. Many surprises.

The dramatic end of Laden beats any Hollywood espionage material, though they say it is no free-entrance ticket for Obama for the second term. News reports managed to release loads of adrenaline into my system for quite some time. The intrigue lingered on. Pakistan Government is still lashing out at the military for having ‘housed’ the man.

The Arab Spring sent a message across the world – people are tired of tyranny. They need freedom of expression, freedom from corruption, unemployment etc. They need the fundamental needs addressed. They are sick of autocrats and people becoming larger than institutions and governments themselves. Give us a break! Several regimes fell; leaders either fled or got killed. Mubarak resigned; Gaddafi, they say, was sodomised and killed. Tunisia started it all, it was just a matter of time that the fire spread...

Rags-to-riches story came true in Buckingham Palace. Kate Middleton walked the isle and became the Duchess of Cambridge. Millions world over watched the “I do” part and felt gratified for reasons best known to them!

Later on London was also ablaze. The youth unrest and uprisal was a symptom of a burning problem plaguing the British society – social and economic reasons, inequality, unemployment and a protest against some government policies and the power of police were some of the reasons cited.

Europe was in bad shape; the eurozone debt crisis still lingers...

Steve Jobbs passed away. His life story is one that I will need to refer to many times, in future. Wonder why such stories come out only at people’s death!?

Back home in Incredible India, incredible things continued to happen. Tihar had a galaxy of high-profile political prisoners; corruption became kind of acceptable in India (so sad to say this), only the level of corruption mattered. It was dirty linen out all the time – the tax-payers became dhobis, trying to wash all those mucky linen. Demo-crazy it was most times. Well, that is the uniqueness of motherrr yindia – it is the land of extremes – the best of bests and the worst of worsts. But Indians also have had enough of corruption. They just want systems to function. Was the answer Team Anna? As much as the system is chaotic and dysfunctional as it seems in one level, the fact that an old Gandhian (whether his mission is right /wrong or the best way out is subjected to debate) could hold an entire nation’s and government’s attention, loudly speaks of the space still prevalent in our social and political space. Whether someone takes note of you or not is one thing – but still you can air your opinions, notwithstanding the fact that lathi charge and tear gas might be your only reward. But think of a system where there is no space for such expression? Suffocating – especially for live democracies. With all its chaos, crudeness, unfathomable inequities, something in the system still functions. Incredible India...!

Why this Kolaveri went viral. It legitimised the Tanglish (Tamil English) and it became a fad. Why it took aall this TimeU TimeU to understand regional idiosyncrasiesU? First when I heard, I heard nothing in it and wondered what has happened to our taste? I felt a fossil when millions were dancing to it. Then the second time around, something struck... and then it went on non-stop. Affected my system too. One more to add to my obsessive compulsive rewinding of songs.

In Sri Lanka, the first highway was opened. A journey of 3 hours now takes only 45 minutes flat. If that means Phew!, it does really! A few dogs have died so far on it and a few accidents have taken place. I yet have not hammered down the road, but will soon.

In a political tug-of-war, two parties fired at each other. One died, and the other is still (almost) living with one bullet in the brain! This is only in Sri Lanka!

The government’s Lessons Learnt and Reconciliation Commission released its report on the conduct of the final phase of war, accountability and all those international jargons. This is the report that the UN and the international human rights watchdogs had been waiting for. I have not yet seen the look of the report, but was told yesterday that it is two huge books, which can also serve as pillows, if the need be it. Not the coffee table kind, excuse me ! The island may be small, but not a dull moment or want of happenings I tell you!

Lots and lots more about the world...

And personally,

THE year started with the hum of the Bee. A fresh, revitalising Bee.

It had been a year of vivid and colourful dreams, a bit of bad health and a lot of contemplation. Wanted to get younger, so that my parents would be healthier and younger ... I looked at them, and wondered ....where did all those years go by... when my father would just pick me up in his arms at the East Fort junction to board a crowded bus... how he had a special way of lifting me up - not from the arms, but from my bottom, where he would bend down; .and when we grew up, he taught us that is the way to lift kids up because it does not hurt; how I would finish my lunch and reach the hand out so that he would wash mine along with his fingers...where amma’s relentless chores left her a busy body all the time, how all her rules irritated the life out of me at one time and make me laugh now...how my parents got old in bringing us up, then seeing us getting married, then seeing the grand children, and one of their children stopping the journey of marriage half way... Their wrinkles say a story each. Their forgetfulness is a reminder of something or the other. It tells me they are into their second childhood and that I am the parent now...

They brought me up. My parents. After a while, we grew up together. We still continue to...

Huh.

With very little ‘things-to-do’ for the new year and hardly any resolutions, I am just going to start reading The Argumentative Indian ... hopefully I will understand why, Indians need to be that all the time...?

Happy New Year to all. Good health. Lots of laughter. Good memories!

Fleeting

One month and 19 days. I had gone missing that long. Purposely kept away from looking at the blogspot. Mine or any one else’s lest I will start feeling miserable. Cannot call it a phase – can I ? Then this phase had been quite a prolonging one. Not to my liking either.

This time Diwali was a full day affair with family. Each time it is a new home that I go to. One thing that does not change, and I do not wish to seen changed is the face of my anxious and excited mother, in the verandah, anticipating my visit. This is the thought I nourish from the time I board the plane. The night before I go to sleep with that thought... I never want to miss this -My first glimpse of her and my father. Each time I see more wrinkles on her face, which I hate to see. The very next thought takes me back to my childhood, when one day I visited a grand old uncle, whose ageing hand held mine with affection. His sagging skin, I remember, was the softest thing I had ever felt. That was my first touch with ageing… the fragile state of being old. Immediately I turned to my mother, and looked at her skin – and in my innocent mind visualized amma’s skin as soft and wrinkled some day… As much as it hurt me, I hated the thought…

I still hate that thought.

Each time I see her now in the verandah, holding the pillar, waiting for me… I shift between that child and the woman I have become. My world changed. Our worlds changed. We travelled the same journey with different views and perspectives. Sometimes no words were spoken. I just need to lie next to her for a few minutes, thinking that her ageing body once housed me for nine months and liberated me; gave me the wonderful opportunity to breathe on my own… and now, live on my own too…

Transition. Of faces. Memories. Reality. Yes, changing realities brush past me each time I transit. It takes a while to shift back into what seems to be Current. Present. Now.