ATALA by Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand

Christmas Eve I sat down to a dinner of roast turkey, plum cake, and this delicious little novella, and savoured it all thoroughly. I had never heard of Chateaubriand before, but am so glad I found him and picked up his book. It's so different from much of what I read. A lot of the author himself seems to overflow into the story: his religious beliefs, his fascination with the native Americans, and an almost gluttonous devouring of nature. If you are a lover of nature, you too will wolf down - smother yourself - in his luscious descriptions of the American land.

It's an odd, strange little story. A bit Romeo-and-Juliet-ish, but also, not. Atala is the name of a young Indian girl, and the story is told through the words of her love, Chactas. Given my peculiar fascination with all things Native American, I thoroughly loved getting drawn into the story, the ambience, the words. Of course, it's a translation, but even so, I found beautiful lines to hold on to. Here are a few:

"Why do I mourn for you in your cradle of earth, O my newborn? When the little bird becomes big, it must look for its food, and it finds it in the wild bitter seeds. At least you have not known sadness; at least your heart has never been bared to man's destructive breath. The bud which dries up in its encasement passes away with all its perfumes, like you, with all your innocence, O my son! Happy are those who die in the cradle: they have known only the kisses and smiles of a mother."

"Happy are they who have not seen the smoke of the stranger's celebrations and who sit only at the festivities of their fathers! If the bluejay of the Mississippi said to the finch of the Floridas, 'Why do you weep so sadly? Have you not here beautiful waters, refreshing shades, and seeds of every kind as in your forests?' 'Yes,' would reply the finch, 'but my nest is in the jasmine .."

"Take courage, son of Outalissi, rebel not against your fate. The heart of man is like the surge of a river, which sometimes swells with muddy waters when the sky has troubled them. Has the river the right to say, 'I thought there would be no storms and the sun would never be burning hot'?"

"Men, my son, especially those in your country, often imitate nature, and reproductions are always trivial. It is not so with nature, when she seems to be imitating the works of men, she is actually offering models."

".. age, like maternity, is a kind of priesthood."

"It becomes you, young man, hardly grown up, to complain of your misfortunes! Where are the marks of your sufferings? Where are the injustices you have sufered? Where are your virtues, which alone could give you some right to complain? What services have you rendered? What good have you done? Eh? Wretched one, you offer me only your passions, and you dare storm the gates of Heaven!"

"Jealousy crept to the grass altar on which the kid was sacrificed; she ruled under the tent of Abraham .. "

from
ATALA
by Francois-Rene de Chateaubriand
(1768 - 1848)

Once Upon A Sinking Ship

Once upon a sinking ship they cried, "Women and children first!" For the longest time, I thought that was because women and children were weaker, and needed rescuing, while men were brave and strong, and could take care of themselves.

But the other day I thought: in an emergency, what do you grab before you run? That delicate bouquet of roses? The soft white bread that would go moldy in a few days if left unloved? No, you grab what's most valuable to you, something you deem vital for your survival.

And it struck me that I had got it all wrong. It's women and children first, not because they are weak, but because they are more valuable. Men are going to hate me for saying this, but it really does seem to make sense.

I'm talking about the issue of survival. Survival of the species, the human race. In terms of procreation and keeping the species going, men are not indispensable. If you had to populate a new world asap, you'd be better off picking eight women and two men, than eight men and two women.

Women have the womb. That's where the creation happens. I can't help wondering if deep down, this is what is at the root for man's need to be in power, to show strength, to be "men"?

It seems to me a huge amount of misspent energy. I suspect women have also, deep down, known this. We do have a sense of being stronger - not in terms of brute strength - but of a sense of resilience. Men, perhaps, are never quite sure that they are truly essential. What a terrible insecurity that must be.

I know there are men out there who have seen beyond this, and I hope that there will be more such men soon. Men who don't feel the need to assert their manliness in the funny little ways they do. I'm waiting for the day when men don't have to be men. They just have to Be. That's the day when everyone lives happily ever after.

We will never forget?

There's been so much talk of this, ever since the terrorist attack on Bombay last month. But I just came across this - and I wonder - how long we will remember? I, for one, never even knew until reading this, that India Gate was a war memorial.

India Gate

Situated on the Rajpath, New Delhi, India Gate i.e. originally called All India War Memorial was built by Edwin Lutyens to commemorate more than 70,000 Indian soldiers who died in World War I and the Afghan Wars. The names of the soldiers who died in the wars are inscribed on the walls. Burning under it since 1971 is the Amar Jawan Jyoti (eternal soldier's flame) which marks Unknown Soldier's Tomb. India Gate, the 39.62 metre-high and 27.43 metre-wide arch commemorating the British and Indian soldiers who died in World War I and in the Afghan War of 1921. Each brick has the regimental number of the fallen hero and each tells a tale of the battles that were fought in France, Flanders Iran, Mesopotamia, East Africa and in the North West Frontier Province.
On a brighter note, I just found this.

"They went looking

I wrote this in the nineties, and turned it into my Christmas card for that year.

They went looking for a king,
and came across a baby.

They went in search of wisdom,
and came away with love.

Merry Christmas, everyone!

FORGIVING OUR PARENTS, by Dwight Lee Wolter

This is a slim volume I bought a year or two ago, but only got down to reading today - as part of my ongoing "decluttering" quest. Now the book itself can move on (to Enfold's library, if you want to read it!) but I wanted to save some of my favourite lines here, for me to come back to.

Forgiveness is an issue often juggled with by survivors of any sort of childhood trauma - and by "the experts". There are many different perspectives on what it is, and how important it is. And of course, many different definitions of what it means to forgive. I do recommend this book for any survivor of anything. I like the way he explores the progressing of feelings in the healing process.

"Forgiveness is not amnesia. It is not a drug we take to forget the pain. Dismissing the past as over and done with - and therefore not relevant to life today - is not going to make the problem go away."

"Cliches and slogans are intended as easy-to-remember summations of knowledge and wisdom, but they can be misused. Unfortunately, they are sometimes used to silence people or to deny feelings."

"Many of us who who were raised in dysfunctional homes use unforgiveness and resentment as a means of keeping us away from our true feelings. .. Rage, fear, and anger lurk within an unforgiving heart. Who wants to look at that? Many of us have had so much pain in childhood that, as adults, we avoid pain at any cost."

"Anger, sarcasm, and wit make a potent combination .. Anger became the fuel that propelled me through difficult situations. Anger became the passion that let me know I was alive! I didn't HAVE anger. I WAS anger. Anger was my first name. And blame was my middle name. Then I realised that it was not getting angry but remaining angry that had become a problem for me. .. If someone hurt me, I would get angry instead of feeling the pain. It was difficult to let go of my attraction to blame and anger."

"I want to wear my anger like a suit of armour to spare me from the pain. But I can't. I never had a childhood. Now I am losing my anger about never having had a childhood. What I am left with is ... sadness. And facing sadness is not easy. All of my life I would rather have been dragged across a field of boulders by wild horses than to feel the immense sadness within me. Anger was so much easier to feel."

"I am now allowing myself to feel the feelings I have never felt before. I must listen to the child within me that was ignored. And if one of the feelings that comes to the surface is blame, then I want to feel all there is to feel about blame. Then perhaps I can feel the anger behind the blame. And then the pain behind the anger. And the sadness behind the pain. And the acceptance that is rumoured to lie behind the sadness. And the hope behind the acceptance. So that someday I may have a chance at leading a contented life."

"Ultimately, we have to forgive ourselves for being ourselves. Have you ever sat in your room, staring out through the window, feeling a little down, watching people walk by? Don't they look great? They are just chugging along, dressed so well, clean and fresh looking, on their way to their meaningful jobs, leading their meaningful lives. We imagine them with no holes in their socks, no blemishes under their make-up, no ghosts in their closets, no drunks in their families. We imagine them happy that it is Monday morning again, that now that they are well-rested from their weekends at the beach with their flawless lovers then can get back to being productive in their lucrative, high-visibility careers. And what about us? If we break a shoelace, we can trace it back to being from a dysfunctional family. If we do anything less than perfectly, we are flawed human beings, the objects of self-pity and scorn. If we make a simple mistake, it is a relapse."

"In order to forgive my parents, I must have already decided they are guilty of whatever I am about to forgive them for. That means I have placed myself in the position of knowing who is guilty and who is not. Then I decide who is to be punished or forgiven. I have adorned myself with a crown of resentments. I am the standard against which all goodness is measured. I am a self-appointed judge and executioner. I have relieved God of most of his duties."

from
FORGIVING OUR PARENTS
For adult children from dysfunctional families
by Dwight Lee Wolter, 1989.

DEAR ME: Life is ..

I remember this day, although I can't remember now who the bereaved colleague was. Feeling some of his pain, and going home to find those two letters in the mail, one for my mother, and one for us all.

Life is a young boy dying
and his friend
who can't cry,
and who won't leave the office
in case he does,
and who won't cry
until he is too drunk tonight
to hold it back.

It is opening a letter
and finding that your friend
died.
Three months ago.
And her daughter
could not bear to tell you
till last week.

It is opening another letter
and being invited to a wedding.
And seeing that the nikah
is on your niece's birthday.
And trying to recapture where you were
and what you felt
on the day that she was born.

(written on 17 March 1997, Bahrain)

MY NOSE IS BLOGGED: Clowning Those Ills Away

Found an article written by Archana Rai for Livemint.com, all about Docteur Clown India.
Click here to read it.
Incidentally, Archana and I were school friends! Some of you will know her - as Archie!

Blame

Every day, I find new things to be angry about. Yesterday it was the Kerala Chief Minister's over-inflated ego, that responded to a distraught father in such an immature and hurtful way. The father was Major Unnikrishnan's, killed in Mumbai while fighting against the terrorists. Perhaps he did not want politicians using his grief as a Public Relations opportunity. Perhaps he was angry at the people whose governance (or lack of) were partly responsible for his son's death. Whatever the cause, he was justified in asking them to leave, and, when they continued to push on, to shout at them to get out.

CM Achutanandan's response, on camera, was to state that he had gone to the Unnikrishnans' house only because of Major Unnikrishnan's death, and that "even a dog" would not go to visit them otherwise.

Achutanandan is an old man. He proves delightfully the adage that while growing old is mandatory (unless of course you are gunned down in the name of duty), growing up is clearly optional.

When will India learn that respect must be earned? Whether it is the politician with an over-inflated sense of his importance, or an incestuous grandfather - age does not and must not buy respect that is undeserved.

Another adage: When you point a finger at your neighbour, there are three more pointing back at you.

India, wake up. We can rave and rant about our politicians and our messes, but at the end of the day, we need to look at ourselves honestly and see what we, the individuals, have done - or not done - to help create the mess we are in today. To borrow a quote from I-forget-who, we are meeting the enemy, and it is us.

DEAR ME: How dangerous to love ..

This is a poem I wrote about a decade ago, the day I heard the news that my nephew Sameer had been killed in a motorcycle accident. I found it in my papers and wasn't sure if I wanted to share it, but after the recent events in Bombay, I thought there may be someone out there who needs to hear these words.

How dangerous to love
to fill your heart with hope
to invest in dreams
to care
to share precious moments
and create happy memories.
How dangerous to gamble with joy
that sorrow can snatch away,
when death, that one surety of life,
can take in one swift move
the hopes the dreams the moments -
and all one is left with
is the love and the memories,

and the fear that one cannot forgive
the Hand that moved
against the one you loved.

I cannot hope to understand
so how can I explain?
I know only that life is here and now
and so is death
and their balance follows no law we know.

With one Hand He gives us life.
With the same, He takes it away.
This Birth is Mine, perhaps He says.
This Death is Mine, perhaps He says.
Between the first wail
and the last breath,
is My gift to you,
and your gift to Me.
Live it well:
love, hope, care, share, create.

I dreamed Him once (and this is true)
and He told me:

There is a Hereafter.

Perhaps it was an answer
to a question I haven't asked yet.
We can ask Him for time and for love
and for mercy and strength.
But we cannot ask Him: Why?

So I still cannot explain,
and I still do not understand the answer.
But I know that He does,
and I can take comfort in this.

Infinity is everywhere
Before the first breath, beyond its ceasing,
Before the seed, beyond the sealing,
is a secret arc we may not know,
till we gather our gifts and
step forward into His reality.

Symbols

I have a lot to write about. Ever since the terrorist attack on Bombay, the words, thoughts and emotions have been swirling round my mind. For some reason, I haven't been able to bring myself to put the words down on paper yet. Today, though, I think I'm ready to write, at least just a few lines. I happened to look up at the sky this morning, and noticed a large puffy grey cloud being slowly pushed across the sky by the wind. It had the most glorious, brilliant silver lining I've ever seen. For today, that's enough.

DEAR ME: Men are sweet, if foolish

Men are sweet, if foolish creatures.
They think that they rule the world.
Women are not much better,
for we let them think it so.

"The face that launched a thousand ships" -
the woman got the blame
but not the husband's ego
that could have been contained.

Though testosterone's no trifle,
our hormones make good jokes.
So men go off to battle,
and we pick up their socks.

Peace when it comes is rarely true,
a temporary quiet.
Bought in the name of man.
Paid from a woman's purse.

MY NOSE IS BLOGGED: Gladys in the news

Click on the scan to view an enlarged version of this article that just came out in the Oct 31- Nov 13 issue of Time Out Bengaluru, a local fortnightly magazine. The article's been very well written by Akhila (good writing style, thorough, concise and interesting - well, she's a fellow Cottonian, after all!) and photographed by a rather gorgeous young man named Aashith (which might explain Gladys' adoring expression). I must add, however: although I can't honestly confirm that I DON'T have multiple personalities, I can say with conviction that Gladys isn't one of them!

"If you love me ..

If you love me
you should know
how the full moon
fills my eyes and my heart.
You should know,
so when we are apart
you have only to look up
when the moon is full,
and we shall be together.

#

(written in 2002?)

This poem is written for four little boys, sons of a friend, four little boys that I love dearly but lost to time and distance. When I left Bahrain, I told them to look up whenever there was a full moon, and they would know that wherever I was in the world, I would be looking up at it too, and thinking of them, sending all my love soaring up to the moon so it would bounce back downwards to them.

By now they are teenagers and adults, but I hope they do remember whenever they catch sight of a full moon. And I wait for it every month, and send them my love, and soak up the light of theirs. My four lovely little boys - Hisham, Abdullah, Sameer and Shishi - held tight in my heart for always.

(post-script 2010: they found me on Facebook. And they remember.)

Tree #7: a picture!

Here's a lovely pic of a little chikku tree planted for me in Bombay, by my friend Jill and her three girls (yes, they're triplets)!
If there is an art to scanning, I do not know it. After trying several times to crop all the white space around this picture, I gave up in frustration.

TUCK EVERLASTING, by Natalie Babbitt

This is a most unusual children's book. It is a book about the importance of dying.

It's about the Tuck family, who is blessed with (or rather, doomed to) eternal life after drinking from a magic spring, and a ten-year-old girl who stumbles on their secret.

I often think we hide from death too much. Like babies who cover their eyes and believe that what they can't see doesn't exist. Sweet - in babies. A bit silly for the rest of us, given that the only certainty in every single person's life is that we will die one day. Most of the world likes to pretend that death doesn't walk around with them wherever they go. And then someone dies, and we are shocked, immobilised and offended by this "horrible" thing that has happened.

I suppose I think about all this more since my father was diagnosed with cancer. He's recovering now, but the experience forced me to accept that death WILL come, some day. It could come for me before it comes for him, for that matter. It nearly did, back in 2003 when I had the dengue haemmorhagic fever. Since then, I've started looking at life - and death - not just differently, but also more frequently. I decided that, like the baby, I need to keep growing. I need to uncover my eyes, end an endearing but pointless game, and dare to look, explore, find truths, and grow. I want to be ready. I want to die better, and also live better.

Finding this lovely little book, at this time of searching, was one of those pleasant coincidences that I often suspect are not coincidences at all.

Tree #6: an update

Alas. The poor thing did not make it. Well, we tried ..

"We who have no right to grieve ..

 This poem is no longer true to me. I still do feel this way at times - guilty for all that I have, judging myself and my depressive illness - far more harshly than anyone else might judge me, in fact. But I call this poem untrue because I have learnt this: EVERYONE HAS THE RIGHT TO GRIEVE. To hurt, to cry, to want more. We are human - and rich or poor, safe or uncertain, we all have the right to our feelings.

We who have no right to grieve,
grieve the death of great ideas.

We who have no right to cry,
cry for the little we do not have.

We with everything at our feet
look at the moon with longing.

We whose lives are full,
look at the emptiness inside.

We with all the time in the world,
sit and weep so many moments away,
thinking our lives colourless and gray.

In other worlds,
there is the colour of night,
the colour of blood,
the colour of one against another.

In other worlds,
they fight for their right to smile.
Their tears are not wasted on the grief
we have the luxury to entertain.

(4.23 pm Sunday 22 Dec 1996)

HAIKU NOODLES: A dampened Diwali.

Perhaps this rain is

Lakshmi weeping for the rage
exploding "for her".

The rockets, sparklers, anars and chakras I can understand - it's possible their bright brilliance do mark the way for the goddess Lakshmi to arrive at our doors (albeit coughing a bit as she breathes in the muggy gunpowder-filled air).

But where does the concept of exploding crackers fit in with the concept of Diwali? The Festival of Light, we call it, but every year I see it is more a festival of noise. From the half-hour long rat-a-tat-tats of little red crackers unfurled down a residential street, to

i hope she doesn't look back over her shoulder to see where she's been the night before. She'll be horrified, and insulted, by the mess.

*anar - also known as flowerpots or sparkling fountains

**chakra - Hindi for Catherine Wheel

"Shadows crossed my window ..

Shadows crossed my window one night
(trees across the path of a garden light)
I thought it was the Angel of Death
(though it might have been the wind)
and in the morning I heard
women wailing next door.

Tonight he was here again
but he knocked and went away.
I think it was his way of telling me
he'd be back for me one day.

(written in Jan 92)

"Across unexplored distances ..

Across unexplored distances
part of our souls are entwined
in an intimacy that can't be explained.
We know each other,
but are strangers.
We may never meet again,
but we have come together.
A man and a woman,
but not as men and women do.

There is a bond,
and there are no bonds.
There is a kind of love that cannot be called love.
There are secrets behind each other's eyes
that we are beginning to understand,
and secrets we are too remote to share.

Finding everything my heart has longed for,
and nothing of all my body desires,
I cannot call him friend or lover.
He is both less and more.


(written for R,  on 13-3-95, 1.45 a.m.)

HAIKU NOODLE: fresh from my freshly-shaved head.

This just came to me in a blink, as I was pottering through my blog, tidying up old posts. I caught a glimpse of a picture I'd posted (see label "gardens") and ..

What is a graveyard
but just another garden
nurturing new life?

Sometimes I think that, whether or not it is true (there's only one way to find out if it is - but I'm not ready to die just yet), it's a good thing to believe in life after death. Of course, many of the world's religions, mine included (I'm a Muslim, in case you're wondering) believe that our death from this world we know, is not the end. But I am beginning to think, given the state of the world today, that it might be a good idea to believe in reincarnation. How else will we get ourselves to take responsibility for the terrible things we do to this planet and to ourselves?

Perhaps we need to give ourselves these fears: that what goes around, comes around - that the mess we leave behind today will be there abundantly for us to struggle through as the children we'd be reborn as - that the lessons we take the time to learn here, will be the bonus points that give us a head start in our next game - and that, in the end, it will be okay to die.

You complain that love is fickle

I suppose I wrote this when I finally ventured into another chance at romance. The only trouble is that I don't think it's entirely true that we can heal our hearts and move on. We always carry the scars and perhaps that is how it should be.


You complain that love is fickle.

I am thankful for this mercy.

I do not think I could have carried
a broken heart with me all my lifetime.

#

(wrote this in 93? or 94)

Edited 11 April 2014

Dear Chief Minister Yeddy

Dear Chief Minister Yeddy*,

Thank you for all the lovely smooth roads and new traffic lights that seem to be cropping up all over Bangalore. I hope this is all you meant when you said you hoped to incorporate "the Gujarat model" here in Karnataka.

Looking forward to seeing you approach the task of nurturing and enhancing secular democracy with as much enthusiasm,

Yours minoritirially,
Me.

*Mr Yeddyurappa is the current Chief Minister of India's Karnataka state, and belongs to the BJP.

Post Orifice; or All Those Letters I Stuff Away And Never Get Down to Mailing

Poetry, poetry, poetry. Seems like that's all I've been posting lately. I felt it was time to add a new flavour to the blog so here we go with a new label: Post Orifice. I'm not too sure where it fits in with this whole art, earth, ink, soul thing I have going. I suppose it qualifies under Ink.

You know how it is when someone in the news - politicians, entertainers, corporations, etc - do something that is just begging for a retort or at least a sarcastic come-back or maybe just a little pat on the head - that's what Post Orifice is going to be about.

Of course, with my non-violent leanings, I shall endeavour to make these letters as nice as I can. Should be interesting. Or not. This is the joy of blogging. As long as it interests the blogger, it gets published.

That reminds me: all you lovely affirming people who keep telling me I should publish my writing (dead-tree publishing as opposed to this virtual stuff), first let me say Thank You for your appreciation. However, if you'll note my byline reads "Clown, Poet, Warrior" and I haven't added "Writer-in-search-of-publisher" to it just yet. Several reasons.

1. I have a small readership on this blog. I'm not sure it's worth the effort or the dead trees to try and get my words in print on paper.

2. Between Clowning, Poetics and Warriorism, I really have neither time nor energy to type it all out neatly and mail it to publishers or scout for agents.

3. I'm happy. I write, I post, and some people read and like what I have to say. The words will, I hope, last longer on the web than I shall on the planet. Sure, it would be nice to publish the normal way, but if you'll re-read the first sentence of this point #3, you'll get the jist of why I don't find it necessary. I'm happy. That's enough.

But, despairing readers who feel I MUST do more, must reach this full potential or whatever it's called when one becomes a published writer - if reading all this is giving you angst, then by all means get in touch with your publisher/agent friends. Give them the link to my blog and let them have a read. If they really think the world needs to see these words of mine nicely printed out on paper and bound between the pages of a book, then they'll come to me. And I'll welcome them with a smile and say yes.

Till then, though, it's just the blog. Read it. Enjoy it. Be happy. I am.

"The promises we never make ..

The promises we never make
are the ones we never break
but the hearts we keep to ourselves
for the fear of hurt or hurting,
break anyway.

(written on 24-2-95)

DEAR ME: "Every day that I live ..

Death is something I think about, almost every day. Not in a morbid way, at least I don't think so. But I'm very aware of it, very aware - and yet I never come up with any real answers about it. Here's something I wrote back in 1993 about it. Mulling through some answers, I end with just another question.

Every day that I live
I am more alive
and closer to death.

Every day that I live
I have more left to do
and less time left.

Every day that I live I die a little
and every thought of death
brings more life to every moment of living.

Accepting life is not enough.
Accepting death is all there is.

Between life and death is a lifetime.
Between living and dying is a moment.

And when I die, will I have lived?

(written on Nov 12, 1993)

I wrote this after reading a wonderful book "Knots" by R.D. Laing, which explores contradictions.

One thing leads to another.

Yesterday I went to a poetry class to rave and rant over Yeats' poem "A Prayer for my Daughter".
Somehow Thomas Hardy's poem "The Darkling Thrush" came up in the discussion.
At dinner, while devouring a plate of spaghetti bolognaise, I wrote a haiku on birds.
After dinner, I went home and wrote it up on my blog, then thought I ought to read The Darkling Thrush first.
I googled The Darkling Thrush, and found it, along with a review.
I posted the link.
I went back to read the review in full.
I noticed it had been written by a contemporary poet.
Her name is A.E. Stallings.
I googled her.
And found this.
Enjoy.

necessary evils?

The dogs howled last night.

Maybe they mourn in advance

for culling to come.

written when corporation got into the stray dog business ..

DEAR ME: "Fools and puppets ..

Here's another poem I wrote around 1993 .. though I keep using the word "you" I suspect it was really addressed to myself. This was around when I started getting jaded with all the glamour and fun of the advertising world, perhaps when the seed was sown for me to get out of that career and into the life I lead now?

Fools and puppets,
junkies and whores,
peddling your souls away
on oil-soaked shores.

There's more to life than what you think.
There's more to life than 'me'.
There's more than what's between your legs,
but it's nothing you'd care to see.

One day your bank account will close.
Someone else will be sleeping in your bed.
One day it will all have meant nothing
and all you will be is dead.

There's a love you would never have dreamed of.
There's a kindness you never may show.
There's strength for your fears and peace for your pain.
There's a man on the cross makes it so.

(written in 1993)

I wonder if that last verse should just be a separate poem.

Japanese landscape ..

(everything is a poem to someone)

.. milky tea simmers.

This evening was the first session of Lit For Life III, a wonderful 12-week workshop that my friend Wendy holds from time to time. I had attended the first workshop, on poetry, but missed the second, on T.S. Eliot's play The Cocktail Party.

Beauty

This poem is how I wanted to be.


Beauty without function is not beauty.

Her mouth is beautiful when she smiles at a child
and speaks tenderly to an old man.

Her hands are beautiful when she touches souls.

Her eyes are beautiful.

With them she sees each shade of a sunset
and the perfect symmetry of a flower at the roadside.

Her eyes are beautiful when she cries someone else's tears.

Her ears are beautiful.

With them she hears symphonies in the wind,
and music in a wristful of bangles.

Her ears are beautiful when she stops to listen
to what no one else wants to hear.

Her body is beautiful
when she forgets
that it is so.

(written in 1991? 1992?)

Reading this today, I think, just maybe, I turned out beautiful after all.

grass haiku

Grass could be humble,

patient, accepting, or just

resigned to its fate.

ONCE UPON The Count of Ten

Once upon the count of ten, I found out what I was here for. I was on the edge of a new millennium, and I was searching. When I heard that a hypnotherapist was visiting Bahrain, and would be holding past-life regression workshops, I felt the need to see him.

I find that odd now, looking back, because at that point of my life, I had never before turned to the past for answers. The past, for me, had always been a collection of anecdotes and photographs given to me by others, and the collage I pieced together had created a pleasant enough picture, of a past I could not actually remember. Besides this, I did not - and am still unsure if I do - believe in past lives. I told myself I was going for fun. For a lark, and to be able to say that I had done that. To add a quirky anecdote to the old collage.

Now I know that some part of me knew I needed to take this step, that dominoed into step after step, little painful falls towards healing. That first hypnosis session was followed by five or six more, each one opening a fictional and yet more real past than I had ever known. But that first session - well, it was the first. Every step I've taken ever since has been a result of that first visit into my subconscious.

And so, with a count of ten, I was standing before a tower, on my way to meet an inner guide. The gentleman who had hypnotised me, Lee Stone, told me that this inner guide would answer questions, show me ways, and take me on journeys.

"Ask him," Lee said. "Ask him what your role here is."

So I asked, "What is my role here?"

And I got the answer: Just to be.

Just to be. What kind of role is that? In my mind, “to be” meant “nothing”. I defined life by doing, not being. If I am to be, rather than to do, then I am wasted, inanimate, useless, pointless. Actions, accomplishments, awards. Roles, diplomas, milestones, items ticked off on a list of errands. You don’t get gold stars for doing nothing.

Just to be. Those three words still waft about me today. For a very long time, I found them hard to accept, or even understand. I am only just beginning to understand. What kind of things just “be”? The answer took seven years to come to me: nature. Nature just is. There is no conscious will or decision-making. Nature just is, and somehow by its being, exerts its influence on those of us who think we are the masters of this planet.

We, the people, "do". We do lots of things. Lots and lots. We always have done, and will continue to do. And searching for answers is just one little thing in all those thousands of millions of things that we do. We do, we die, we search, we go on trying, year into century into aeon and we are still searching and doing and dying.

I will never know if those past lives I saw under hypnosis all those years ago were real, or beautifully creative visualisations. But now, knowing what little I do know, I think I have an idea of whose example to follow, and what to aspire to, should there be a life after this one I'm living now. Trees.

When you look at them, they don’t seem to be doing anything. They’re not visibly active, although in some passive unseen way, they are wildly and widely awake. There is photosynthesis, and osmosis, and all sorts of interestingly-named processes going on. They’re producing oxygen, carbon dioxide. They’re filtering toxins. They’re cooling the air. They’re housing birds and insects and animals. They’re sheltering smaller plants. They’re even growing anthuriums at their feet, in the rotting mulch that was once branches or fruit or bark or leaves. And under it all, their roots are holding the earth together. Effortlessly. Just by being.

A lesson in self esteem!

And this lesson comes to us from a tiny cabbage-coloured bird - my pet budgie Gobi (which is Urdu for "cabbage", by the way). She is about four inches long, and stands about three inches high. She knows what she likes, and what she dislikes. She hates being cuddled, but loves sitting on my shoulder and stretching out to touch her beak to my nose (er .. we call it "nosies") while I mumble sweet nothings to her.

Today my dad decided to record her usual array of non-stop twitter-chirp-whistle, and when I listened to the recording this evening I discovered that she's obviously being paying attention to what I say, because in the middle of all the jibberish she suddenly says, quite clear, "Gobi such a sweet bird!"

I think it's amazing, and extra lovely that she chose what she must have felt was the best thing to echo! Obviously, she doesn't speak English .. but I'm assuming she has picked up on the tone or emotion of my voice and decided that these are the words that make her feel most loved.

My niece Reshma was so impressed that she has decided to follow in Gobi's footsteps (clawhops, actually) and I think that's an excellent idea for us all. It's quite easy. Tomorrow morning when you get up, go to the bathroom mirror, smile at yourself and say, "(insert your name here) such a sweet bird!"

What a wonderful way to start the day. Let me know how it goes!

HAIKU NOODLE: Perhaps this is what courage is supposed to be.

Always so afraid,
I thought myself a coward.
(But no one else knew).

Fear is a big part of my life. Anxiety, panic attacks, nightmares, phobias - the lot. And also the not-so-dramatically expressed fears that seem to have gone with me wherever I go, ever since childhood.

I've been thinking about fear a lot this year. Been through a lot of stress and nearly had a nervous breakdown. Once, many years ago, my friend Pervin told me how inspired she was by my courage and strength. I've always wondered what she meant. Didn't she know what a coward I was? Couldn't she see how scared I was of life? Apparently not.

I read a quotation a few days ago, "Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid". That's what inspired today's haiku. But I do see that courage is not just about hiding one's fear. It's not about being brash, or reckless. It's really about going on in spite of the fear.

I don't think I'm all that courageous, because at times it is so very hard to go on, that I don't just hide my fear, I hide from life too. But I shan't negate that I have survived this far. That is something. I may not do all that I want or hope to do, but I am still here.

Maybe that is enough, maybe that is something worth celebrating. And now I feel that perhaps it is okay - perhaps it is courageous - to let the world know:

I am scared.

The little specials of life.

This is no ordinary cup of coffee. In fact, it's not a cup of coffee at all, it's the DREGS of what was once a cup of coffee. And this cup was made for me by Mrs. Seshadri, my history teacher back in school, whom I'd not met in years - decades even - but was reunited with just last month. I had such a lovely inspiring morning with her, and when she made me a cup of coffee, I just had to take a picture of it! We were all so in awe of her back in school, and the idea that I had just drunk my very first cup of coffee MADE BY MRS. SESHADRI!! was too momentous not to immortalise on film!

Look Again

Look Again

O how the mighty fall.
Jesus turns to Judas
and Hamlet to Macbeth.
Men fall off their pedestals
when love falls to its death.

(I probably wrote this in late 91 or some time in 1992)

I do like this poem - its sarcasm, bitterness and humour - it reminds me of Dorothy Parker's style of writing. Incidentally, she is one of my favourite writers and I was titillated to discover that we share the same birthday.

DEAR ME: "Even when your heart ..

How desperately we search for solace from what we lose, in what we have.

Even when your heart is breaking
your diamonds shine for you
Even through your tears
their light can still shine through.

Nothing lasts forever
not hopes, not dreams, not love
But the diamonds stay
and shine.

You'll find the women with
the most diamonds
are the most content
or the most lonely.

(written in 1991, sometime after the war)

DEAR ME: "You never said ..

You never said you would.
I never said I do
and yet we knew that you were mine
and I was part of you.
No one witnessed
this sharing of souls
or heard them tear apart.
No one knows
that for a while
we lived in each other's heart.

(written in August 1991)

I like this poem very much. Not sure why, and not sure why I felt the need to announce that I like it.

DEAR ME: "They say that men ..

It's interesting that these four poems quite clearly show the path this doomed relationship took! And also my changing perspective (as you will see in the fourth poem!)

They say that men are hard
But I know a man as soft as
the seldom-touched flesh of my thighs

They say that men are strong
But I know a man who is
scared of the truth

They say that men don't cry
But I know a man who crushed me
tight against him
and buried his head in my breasts

They say that men don't know
But I know a man who said
I was the best and the worst
that had happened to him

They say that men don't feel
But I know a man who recognised my love
and loved me and hated me for it.

(written at 9:40 pm on 19.5.1991 Bahrain)

"Through the eyes of my lover ..

Finally! It took me four years to get over Bops. Then I met and fell in love with the sweetest man (who must remain unnamed!) and, but of course, my next set of poems were all inspired by him. I shall post these poems in order, over the next four days.

Through the eyes of my lover
my mirror lies to me
and I am all the woman I want to see
and my imperfections were meant to be.

Through his eyes I am much, much more.
I stand taller than before
he came.
He gives a name
to feelings I'd abandoned
and though he does not hold my hand
and leaves me to walk alone
I am never quite on my own.

(written at 8:36 p.m. on 11 March 1991)

There are a few little "secrets" hidden in this poem. I will leave them that way.

Come back tomorrow to read the next in this 'series'!

"DEAR ME: "Take a walk ..

This poem came with a dedication!

To D.D.L. (Hamlet - National Theatre, London 1989)

When I had gone to London to visit Akila, she gave me one of the finest times of my life. Those experiences and stories will surface in future "Once Upons". One of the shows she took me to was Shakespeare's Hamlet, with Daniel Day Lewis in the title role. He was brilliant. He BURNED.
And then two days later, it appears, he burnt out: collapsing on stage and having to retire to recover.

When I heard about this, emotionally unhealthy person that I am, I felt his pain, huge waves of it, and wrote this poem.

Take a walk when the rain is gone,
when the clouds hang uncertainly in the sky,
and the trees stand with bowed heads.
Soon the sun will return and
with a gentle hand lift their faces
up to him.
The earth breathes easily, damp,
challenged, refreshed,
and the evening sky speaks to me of heaven.

All around me is beauty born
again and again.
When I am faced with my own frailty,
knowing this brings me some peace.
I shall have to die one day,
but the sky and the earth
will thrill, will soothe other hearts.

I wish you shelter from the storm.
A warm mug of coffee, clasped in your palm.
Someone to love you, nestled
in the crook of your arm.
These are the things I wish for
you and everyman.

As for me, I am content to bear
the brunt of a storm
or the dull dry weight of a windless day.
I will take the bad for the good
that may follow,
the hard that will with time be easy,
the cruel that might teach me
to be kind.
I will take from life what I can.
Laughter and sunshine.
Thunderstorms and tears.

(written on Dec 13th, 1989)

I love the line about the earth - challenged, refreshed - it says so much, it's so wise. I also like, at the end, the way I have used 'may' and 'might' to underline that in life there are no guarantees, no entitlements.

Dragons: better eaten than chased.

I had a new experience recently. I got to eat a dragon! On one of my evening jaunts to Namdhari's, the veggie shop down the road (I count these jaunts as "my evening walk"), I discovered the most exotic-looking fruit I had ever seen. The teller informed me that it was a dragon fruit. It certainly looked like it might have been born from one of these mythical creatures, with its rich colours and "scales".

Of course, I had to buy it! I had never eaten a dragon before. My only previous experience with a dragon had been in my juvenile delinquent days, when "chasing the dragon" (junkie jargon) was the thing to do. Oh - and a few years ago, my Jungian therapist recommended visualising a dragon who would go with me and protect me, whenever I got panicky walking down the road, which, at the time, I found hard to do. Walking, I mean. I had no trouble visualising the dragon, and took many pleasant walks after that, leaving in my wake many oily men with singed bottoms!

The dragon fruit turned out to be just as delightful! I googled to discover that it is a native of Mexico, and also cultivated in Vietnam and Taiwan. It's called a pitaya, and is the fruit of a flowering vine-like cactus hylocereus. This plant has large white fragrant flowers that only bloom at night!

If you ever come across this fruit, don't miss the opportunity to try it. The pulp is firm, with tiny crunchy black seeds - somewhat remeniscent of a kiwi fruit, but with a sweeter, gentler taste. Just cut it across, and scoop out the insides with a spoon.

The dragon fruit won't be the cheapest fruit on the shelf, but it's worth it. After all, how many of us can say we've eaten a dragon?

P.S. the little bird is Gobi, who lives with her grandparents - an absolutely amazing character full of personality!

Anger

I like this one, it's interesting. What I find, looking at it now, is that the anger is all symbolically expressed, and violent but never physically so - at another person, I mean - also how it points out the potential for anger to have a healthy expression, although clearly mine in this poem does not. And the most interesting line to me is the last, because that is what we do with anger when we don't let it out in healthy ways. It turns inward and that repressed held-in anger destroys us.

Anger

I am the sun but I do not shine
on the cold and I don't warm the night.
I am the sun and I burn in my rage
and it flares but I don't spread my light.

I am the storm
and I roar as I lash
the earth but I bring no rain.

I am the fire
cradled by my prey
I gorge on its gentle embrace.
As long as there's food for my
flames I shall burn
and when there is nothing
left I shall turn
on myself.

(written on 23 July 1989, at noon).

The shortest, and the saddest.

Prayer

To be free.
To forget,
As you forgot me.

(written for B, 6 May 1989, 12:37 p.m.)

"Is it a memory ..

Here's an odd poem I found, written in 1988. Not too sure what I had in mind - old friends, I think. Bops, probably! I do remember that this was a sad time when I had left India and moved to Bahrain, and he had broken all contact with me - and my heart in the bargain. Later on, I realised he had done the best he could, because had he kept in touch I would have returned to be with him - and smack. But he didn't, and I didn't. And the result is the Me you see today, clean and sober.

When I look at this poem now, I think of dissociation: that confusion between memory and dream, between the world's reality and one's own. I would often dream of friends back then, but never of Bops. I remember once sitting in the ladies' room at Arab Advertising and crying because I wished I could just DREAM of him - that would have been better than nothing. But it never happened, and it's only now, years later, with him dead and gone, that I am sometimes visited by him in dreamtime.

Is it a memory or was it just a dream?
I never know, for they both seem
So real.
It was just yesterday and I can still
Smell the rain in the air,
Draw upon your faces at will.
Then the faces blur and change
And I see strangers.
And the road winds down another way
And the colours are pastel, tinged with grey
And I'm going somewhere I've never been,
Though I know the way.
I hear a voice and touch a face.
But something is wrong
and everything is gone
when I open my eyes.
So how can I know if it ever took place?

(written on 26 July 1988, 8:33 p.m.)

lily yellow

stairway to heaven

after a rain

monkeys

dragon fruit

Clowns From The Dark Side.

That's what I like to call them. You must admit the Lok Sabha (Indian Parliament) is a bit of a circus. And to think that it's televised across the country. Does that stop them from acting like .. oh I can't insult the baboons nor any other animals .. and though people do frequently refer to our politicians as clowns, my being a REAL clown takes offence at that. So it's Clowns From the Dark Side for them.

Today there was an important matter to vote on and it was total mayhem. That poor, poor man .. the Honourable Speaker (is he given this title because all the others there are dishonourable?) .. he was like a substitute teacher let loose in a classroom of delinquents. Although I'm pretty sure even unruly schoolchildren behave better than our MPs.

I am really quite worried about that man's health. Not only is he likely to strain his vocal chords with his constant pleas for everyone to sit/calm down, but just think of his stress levels. I hope he does yoga. I hope he goes for daily walks. I hope he has one of those electric foot massager things under his podium.

In fact, I think maybe every member of parliament should get one of those electric foot massager things in front of their seat, activated only when they sit down. That'll shut them up! If not, there's always superglue, automatic seat belts that only open when it's your turn to speak, or perhaps good old manacles. Judging by the number of criminal records there, this might make them feel right at home.

But let's not forget ahimsa - love and non-violence. So my vote goes for the electric foot massager. Yes, they're expensive. But I know how to fund them. Just this morning, some MPs barged into the House waving a crore of rupees, claiming a member from another party had bribed them to vote a certain way. Well, the member will certainly deny it's his money. And they can't keep it, because that would be accepting a bribe, which is a crime. I think the government should confiscate that money, buy everyone their foot massagers, and put the rest in the Prime Minister's Relief Fund.

I just hope they don't forget to send me one, too. It was, after all, my idea.

My neighbourhood

A friend sent me this link to a site full of pictures of the part of town I live in. Just thought I would share it with you so you can see what it's like here! Or what it used to be like, at any rate.

Click here to visit!

You may want to turn down your speakers a bit, because there's some odd trumpety music that comes up and it doesn't seem to have a Mute button!

What it does for me.

In this quiet time
the world recedes. The leaves stir
and tell me secrets.

Around the time Daddy went into hospital, I was just getting into meditation. I used to think it was all about concentrating on something. But as I read more about it, I learnt that it was about emptying the mind. Empty minds! An easy enough concept for us humans, I thought.

It's actually very difficult. My mind would start planning and worrying and daydreaming the moment I tried to still it. I discovered that fighting the thoughts just doesn't work with meditation. Fighting is violent, after all, and trying to link it to meditation makes as much sense as the concept of killing for peace.

So the thoughts would come and I'd learn to label them: oh, that goes in the planning box, that one is for worrying later on - and then I'd move on. Gradually I found it easier. Letting the thoughts in was not as bad as I thought it was. I just had to let them go, not hold on to them to dwell upon. The only time I found meditation didn't work was when I was in the middle of an anxiety attack over Dad's cancer. That time my fears were stronger than my peace, and they flooded in, uncontrollable, and overwhelmed me. That experience taught me not to try meditating in the middle of anxiety attacks! (Deep breathing exercises are a better option at such times).

But meditating, even for just ten minutes a day, does wonders for my sanity, and it's a bit like decluttering or spring cleaning - something I love compulsively! First, I've got to do a wander around the house of my mind, just looking. That way I see where everything is and where everything goes. Then I can deal with it later in an organised way. Otherwise I rush about trying to do everything at once, and the house doesn't look any less messy when I'm done.

But when I give myself this quiet time, of just looking and being - without judgment or planning or worrying or even hoping - that's when the soul of the world opens up and speaks to me.

Hide or seek

My bed, like my grave,

seems the safest place to hide.

Life runs past. I lose.

It's an old habit of mine, sleeping away life. I'm sure a lot of people with depression can relate to it. It's not just the fatigue, the total exhaustion that comes from just getting through a day, of faking smiles and saying, "I'm fine", or even of simpler things like brushing teeth and finding clean clothes to wear. Of bracing oneself to open the front door and step out.

Who was it who called sleep "the little death"? Unconscious to the world, it's the easiest place to slip into and escape from all the terrors that life can appear to hold when I'm depressed. Everything is too hard. Drugs and alcohol are not an option for me. Nor is suicide. I have tried them all and I already know they don't work. But sleep ... sleep is easy, harmless enough? And so comforting (unless there are dreams).

So I sleep. Last month I slept a lot, struggling - not very aggressively - with a bout of major depression. I tell myself it is pre-menstrual. I repeat other people's assurances to myself .. all in my mind .. if I'd just pray .. just be strong. Sweet-intentioned lies that they speak to me - and to themselves.

Deep down, I know it is an illness. But deeper down, I still doubt myself. However, there is one thing I know: like any illness - diabetes, asthma - it may have a lifelong hold on me, but that doesn't mean I have to lie down and take it. I can choose not to play this game. I can choose to wake up. Even games aren't always fun. Snakes and Ladders has its ups and downs. The point is to keep going. Someone will win, someone will lose.

Return of the Living Clown.

Yes, Gladys is back from limbo! In addition to moving back to my own home yesterday (I spent the past three months at my parents' house when my dad was diagnosed with bladder cancer) I also started clowning again this morning.

It was a lot like old times - Gladys and Mamu at St. Philomena's. Mamu's been going regularly and has added lots to his repertoire - magic tricks, new dances and jokes - and also rattles on quite admirably in Tamil! (Kishore is actually a North Indian - Sindhi).

Gladys has been through some changes (I hope for the better) and is quieter this time around. She also wears less make-up and looks, well, though I say it myself, incredibly sweet. She is also clearly a little girl. Six years old, in fact, as she informed one of the patients.

I suppose this means I have put my inner child to work. Is this child labour?? Oh dear. I won't tell if you won't!

Once upon an antique swing

Once upon an antique swing, I thought I saw much to envy. She sat there swinging, surrounded by beautiful artefacts, looking out at a perfectly manicured garden. She was dressed in crisp cool yellow. When she crossed her legs I saw her feet were soft and clean. When she ran a hand through her hair I watched the gold flutter down her wrist.

Waiting for the others to arrive, we roamed through rooms whose walls hung with perfect art. Her daughter, who was young and beautiful, had a TV in her bedroom, and an attached bathroom to die for. Her husband's shoes had no dust on them when he came home at one o'clock.

They took me to lunch at an award-winning restaurant, in an air-conditioned car that had a burnished wood dashboard. Her husband called the maitre d' by his first name. I ordered the shrimp that I love but can't always afford. I wondered if they could hear me swallowing my Coca-Cola or if they had noticed my nail polish was chipped.

Something in their eyes made me feel awkward, like an unexpected visitor arriving at a bad time.

They took me home for tea, and showed me into another room. Victorian curios, plush rare chairs. Glass yellow tulips that I can still see in my mind. (Mine were pink nylon, with plastic stems). Even the window grilles were beautiful.

"Yellow is such a cheerful colour," she said, and offered me some Swiss chocolates.

What was it in her eyes, in all their eyes? I let the chocolate melt slowly in my mouth as my eyes devoured all that I envied so much. And when I saw her son, in a corner of the room, I could have gazed at him for hours, and wanted to touch his face.

It was just a black and white photograph framed with a garland of small red flowers, but I recognised him at once, for he was the most handsome young man I had ever seen.

I had seen him before, in the newspaper's obituary and memorials section: always on New Year's Day, always the same photograph. He had died with his friends in a car crash coming home from a New Year's Eve party some years earlier.

I gave away my nylon tulips eventually, to someone who wanted them more than I did. But I still remember those glass yellow tulips, and although I've forgotten her face, I still look for her son's in the newspaper on the first day of January.

My lips are sealed.

A friend shared something private with me over lunch, and I joked about posting it as a haiku. Here goes! (Don't worry .. )

Everyone's secrets
stored safely in my mem'ry.
No room for my own.

All my life, I have kept other people's secrets, and kept them so well. But my own secrets, the secrets of my childhood: they aren't here in this head, or if they are, they are stored somewhere else, out of my memory's reach. I pieced my childhood together from a bunch of birthday party photographs and other people's anecdotes.

But lately I find that the body remembers what the mind does not. I don't know which is worse.

And all because I once loved her husband.

Got you there, didn't I? Couldn't resist. There is no sordid confession forthcoming. No. There is only:

LINDA McCARTNEY'S HOME COOKING
by Linda McCartney, Rs 95 at the Kaaba Book Fair.

I was never that fond of Linda - after all, she had the man of my dreams. But with age and wisdom (mine, I mean, she already had both) this mellowed into a certain mature acceptance. Then she went and became this healthy vegetarian animal-loving activist. And then she went and died. And then the new Mrs. McCartney just made her seem even more saintly than ever.

So I was quite happy to see her face smiling at me from the cover of her famous cook book. A flip through, and the recipes seemed do-able, even for me. More than I usually pay for book fair books .. but what could I do? I who once wore a folded piece of paper with "Paul" written all over it (lovingly covered with sellotape and religiously worn as a pendant through most of my 17th year!). It seemed wrong to pass over this book, so I brought it home, and am so happy I did.

In fact, as I type, my stomach is digesting perhaps the most exquisite soup I have ever made: a sweet corn noodle soup with celery. Very sumptious, very filling, very delicious, and best of all, very easy to prepare. I used to think only dessert could taste this good.

This is the best cookery book I've ever used. (Well, I may change my mind after trying some harder recipes, but today, at this moment, this is how I feel. It could be the celery talking.)

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, 1881 - 1955

This afternoon at Manipal Hospital, I came across this quotation that was somehow so exciting to me - it said what I felt but had never captured in words - and took it further so powerfully. I mean, look at that last sentence, how MUCH is told in those few words, how perfectly he expresses love's potential for the human race:

"Someday, after we have mastered the winds, the waves, the tides and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love. Then, for the second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire."

A few hours later, back home and blog-hopping, I came across another, by the same person.

“You are not a human being in search of a spiritual experience. You are a spiritual being immersed in a human experience.”

- Teilhard de Chardin

I go my whole life never hearing this name before, and now I read it twice in one afternoon, both times referring to ideas that have been nudging at me lately. That's the sort of stuff I just have to google, being one of those we-are-all-connected-and-nothing-happens-by-chance types.

And what a fascinating chappie he turns out to be: a French Jesuit priest and philosopher, as well as a paleontologist and a biologist. And he was "green" long before we put the colour to use as a political adjective!

"Chardin's writings clearly reflect the sense of the Earth as having its own autonomous personality, and being the prime center and director of our future .. " (from a rather interesting article by Anodea Judith)

He went all over the world, got into some trouble with the church over his theory on evolution, and published rather a lot of books, the primary being something called The Phenomenon of Man. He was involved with the discovery of Peking Man. And he even provided the inspiration for Father Merrin in William Blatty's The Exorcist!

So very well known by everyone it seems, except me. Better late than never, though, I always say. And I like to believe that people come into my life when they're supposed to. I'm sure he would agree. Any day now, one of his books will leap out at me from a dusty book fair shelf, and he will make a second appearance on this blog's Book Fair Junkie section.

Till then, I leave you with this thought-provoking gem of his:

"Our century is probably more religious than any other. How could it fail to be, with such problems to be solved? The only trouble is that it has not yet found a God it can adore."

"I think there may be poetry ..

Dear me! What things I write. I found this poem while going through (and destroying) my old diary from 2001. I was in therapy for my Child Sexual Abuse experiences at that time, but in the middle of all the angst and raging and desperate scrawls about flashbacks, I guess I kept going, and managed to write something as ridiculous as this! I love it.

I think there may be poetry in
everything I sense.
Poetry that's more than words,
in each experience.
Could there be a poem, right here
on my plate?
Did I swallow a sonnet with
the last mouthful I ate?

"Bright geen pearls of boil-ed pea,
scattered in my rice,
Sunset hues of curl-ed prawn
that look and taste so nice"

No, this meal is a poem I do not see,
the poetry lies in its taste.
And the only part that's visible
is on my unpoetic waist.

- written on 16/8/01 at 2:10 pm

P.S. The meal in question was a Thursday lunch at my favourite Lebanese restaurant in Bahrain, Tarbouche.

Beads for jewels

I always say that Manipal Hospital's greatest asset is its nursing staff - they are gems. My mom, dad and I have all had our turns in the hospital's Intensive Care Units, and every time, the nurses have taken such excellent and sincere care of us.










So when Daddy went in for bladder surgery, I decided I needed to do something special for these gems of the Urology department. I'm fascinated by all things Native American (I would like to believe that somewhere in my ancestry there is a Cherokee soul) so when I discovered the craft of cording with beads, it became a hobby. However, I didn't think the nurses would appreciate little beaded lizards, so instead I decided to make each of them a beaded name-tag on a key-ring. They were thrilled with the results, and so was I, so decided I must share some pix here.

P.S. The hand is mine.

Elizabeth Charles

To know how to say what others only know how to think
is what makes men poets or sages,
and to dare to say what others only dare to think
makes men martyrs or reformers or both.

- Elizabeth Rundle Charles
1828 - 1896

How very interesting. I liked this quotation so very much, but realised I knew nothing about the woman who said it. So I googled and wiki'd her to find out more. This lady wrote Christian hymns! Perhaps I sang some of them back in school. Tennyson was impressed by her poetry, and she was also a prolific writer of over 50 books of a semi-religious nature.

"She is described in Allibone's Dictionary of Authors as one who had reputation as a linguist, painter, musician, poet, and preëminently as the author of The Chronicles of the Schönberg-Cotta Family, 1863"

Hmm. Who are they? And why did they need a book written about them? Shall have to google THAT and get back to you!

Tree #7: a chikku tree, Bombay

I'm not too sure if that's spelt right! This is a wonderful fruit tree - little leathery brown domes that you split open, and scoop out a grainy sweet pulp .. tastes delicious! And makes for mind-blowing milkshakes, too. Some people call this fruit 'sapota' and I think the origin is Mexican.

Got a nice cheery SMS this morning from my friend Jill in Bombay, informing me that this tree has been planted for me in her garden. Jill is one of my oldest and dearest and truest friends, right from the age of eleven. I had just run away from boarding school the night before, and she had got blamed for a prank that some other girls did - and so we both had visits to the principal's office that morning, which is how we met each other and ended up becoming Best Friends. More than thirty years later, we still are. I could write a book about our friendship (and I probably should!) and all the magical fun we've had through school and beyond.

And another tree for our planet - joy! I wonder who will be next on my list!

Meet the youngest member of the family

Meet Gobi, the newest addition to my flock! Her name is Hindi/Urdu for "cabbage" as her colour matched the cabbage I fed her the day after she arrived. It seemed apt, as her stepsisters are Neembu (lemon) and Maska (butter).

Gobi lives with the grandparents and hasn't met Neembu and Maska yet. She's just a baby and doesn't fly too well, so managed to sprain a foot on her second day at home, with a bad landing. It's all better now, but she prefers hopping and running about to flying, ever since. Her favourite person is me, and she's happiest sitting on my shoulder, chewing my earlobe. And her favourite thing to do is explore the carpets for any tidbits she might find (we sprinkle a little birdseed there for her, to make it a more rewarding experience).

I'm happy to report that she is a friendly child and enjoys meeting people. She's not too fussy an eater, either. Other than the staple millet (birdseed), she chomps on coriander, spinach, cabbage, apple and also had an enthusiastic nibble at a digestive biscuit.

Yes, she poops on me from time to time. and I'm a little nervous over her interest in my nostrils. But so far, so good. Like all doting parents, I shall keep you updated on her progress from time to time!

Crocus going nowhere

Like art, it's a path that doesn't particularly lead anywhere, but
what a joy it is to walk it. I dream of planting crocus bulbs and
French marigolds on every city street.

P.S. These pictures were taken in May, in my parents' garden.

Before the monsoon

There are days like this. When I feel dry, bare, buffeted.
All around her, the others still wear green; this tree is out of sync
with the seasons. She follows some other rhythm, some African beat
that only she hears. Her pods have been emptied of their cellophane seeds,
ransacked by wild parakeets and squirrels. When they fall, these pods
look like canoes. But though the skies are grey and the wind promises rain,
it lies, and so the canoes rot slowly in the graveyard at her feet.

P.S. This is an African flame tree that grows at the edge of the graveyard behind our terrace.

THE FLUTE PLAYER, by D.M. Thomas, Rs. 10/-

This strange, earthy, somewhat unnerving book is one I picked up last week at the book fair in Koramangala where you can buy "ANY BOOK FOR Rs. 10 ONLY!". I've been there twice (so far) . Both times the guy at the counter warned me that "today is the last day for Rs. 10, after that it is sticker price". Optimistic and low on funds, I'm heading back for more tomorrow.

This book was written in the late 70s, which may be why it has a lot of sex in it, right at the beginning. Tastefully written, though. It's set nowherr a somewhere that's creepily Orwellian. Or is it? More like half-Orwellian, half-Soviet. Well, it is dedicated to four Russians, and so much of it is their story.

What I like best about this book, apart from the writing and the story, is the realisation I got, like a kick in the butt, about what a silly fool I am not to write more in this free world I live in. When there have been times and places - and no doubt still are - where to put the words from your head down onto paper could be a dangerous thing to do - a treachery, an obscenity, a crime, or simply a waste of time.

Then again, it's the struggle isn't it, that gets things growing? Even words.

P.S. I bought this book purely for its title, as I play the flute. I am halfway through, and must warn any other potential readers: there are no flutes in this book.

the best room in the house

Tree #6: an Ashoka tree, Bangalore

Six down, 36 to go. Where are all those promised trees? Last year on my birthday, I asked my friends to plant trees for me in their gardens. I wanted 42, and in just two months I shall be 43, so I guess I'll be wanting one more if I haven't met my goal by then!

This tree is courtesy of an unknown donor, who planted it most unwisely in something akin to a window box at our office building. Mr. Arasu, our gardening genius/doctor/magician, brought it over and planted it in front of our house. So far, so good. You could say it's in foster care. It's surviving, but will have to undergo another uprooting to a more suitable spot when we can find one. It currently stays alive but not wonderfully, under the shade of a frangipani tree. It needs its own space, and the sun. Ashoka trees grow tall and straight like pillars (Ashoka pillars? Perhaps that's how they got their name), and it may not be able to do that from where it is.

And now I think it is time for me to some reminder emails to all those potential tree-planters out there. Of course, anyone reading this is welcome to join the club - just plant a tree for me, and send me a picture of it once a year.

P.S. The other gentleman in the picture, seemingly wilting against the gate, is the security guard at the building next door. That's not our gate, by the way. Ours is old and rusty, and once was white.

"Wouldn't it be lovely ..

From the drug-abusing poems of the eighties to the alcohol-guzzling ones of the nineties. Which just goes to show: it's no use getting rid of an addiction if you don't deal with the SOURCE of the problem. The addiction is always a symptom of something deeper. So if you manage to quit one, you can be pretty sure it will resurface in a different form sooner or later.

Wouldn't it be lovely if we didn't need?
Wouldn't it be easier not to feel?
Wouldn't it be nice
to have a heart made of ice?

Then we could chip it to pieces
and put them in the kitchen sink
and our drinks would be deliciously cold
all evening long.


(written on 5/4/97 at 3.04 a.m.)

Edited 11 April 2014