"You turned us ..

another poem found in a diary from April 9th 2001, 1.30 .a,m

You turned us into liars.

You turned us into sluts.

You made us fat,

You made us thin,

You got us hooked on heroin.

Did we really mean so little

or did you just not know

that by playing blind or silent

your reply to our cry

for help was a "No"?

my parents had just left after confronting the abuser .. i was getting really into my therapy and boy when i think about it now what an intense time .. so much anger and pain and letting emotions in. this poem is to parents, I think, parents in general .. or perhaps to adults in general .. who by their inaction, help the abusers.

dear diary feb 10th 2001

So the children are back, sort of. It's both wonderful and terrible to see them when I know there is only so much I can do.

Sometimes I wish I had never let us all love each other as we do: perhaps this will cause us all more pain than if I had cared less.

Mrs. H talked about destroying myself if I put them first. And I said, What about the children?

They're already destroyed, she answered.

...

I still think of them as "my boys" ..

it's like "but Fran SAID I could have them, she SAID they were ours .. "

Ha ha .. but look how it turned out, that neither of us has them now.

dear diary 2nd feb 2001, friday. Noon.

No one can give me power. Power is something I have to take, something I can give only to myself. But ... we DO give power to people, don't we? We allow them power over us. So I guess its power over ourselves that I mean.

A list

Here's a list I found at the end of my diary, circa July 2001.

Play:

Once a day, a game - tennis, chess, pick up stix, anything

Dance when you're alone

Reread a favourite childhood book

Throw a spur of the moment party

Jigsaw

Marbles - floor games, hopscotch

Circus

Learn:

Follow an international news story. Memorise names of key figures. Research background issues.

Read 3 different books about a single famous person. Do the authors agree on facts or motivations? What do YOU think?

Jot down:

Outline of intended activities for next year

Five year plan

paragraph describing yourself in 20 years.

buy a 5 year date book and use it!

STretch your mind:

Step out of patterns.

Take a different route to work. What do you notice?

Eat a meal in a different place. Is it less/more satisfying?

Sit in a public place - make predictions about what people around you will do. When you get 3/5 right, quit.

What a funny list. I'm not sure where I got it from.

11th June 2001

The best part of the day is watering the garden after I come back from work. I feel like The Little Prince watering his rose all alone on his little planet.

DEAR DIARy 23 may 2001

in the initial stages of creativity, critical judgment is the one thing you MUST send out for sandwiches.

(not me .. a quote from somewhere.

another ..

if the only prayer you e ver say in your whole life is 'Thank you', that would suffice.
5 june 2001

Once Upon a Flight

Once upon a flight, I made a politician cry.

"I had a lovely flight and made a new friend, a 77 year old man who turned out to be a big politician! A Dr. Balram Jakhar - he was a lovely person and we spent the whole flight chatting.

He was Speaker of the Lok Sabha twice, Agriculture Minister, CM of Punjab .. etc.etc. Has led a full and busy life with good accoomplishments to look back on.

No doubt must have the usual political dusballs under the carpet .. but I liked him, and he liked me. He told me I'm now his youngest daughter and must come stay with them in Delhi. "

from my diary 12 mAY 2001

Once Upon a Friday Afternoon

... friday lunches with Seema an dTalat.

irani food

"He shuffled out of the room and stood in the doorway, a gaunt old man in kurta pyjama. His clothes hung off him limply. His face was blank.

We all turned at his arrival. He looked at his wife, and stretched out his arms to her.

His face crumpled. As his tears began to flow, one word left his lips.

"Ma!"

2 May 2001, Bahrain.

The things we find!

Going through my old 2001 diaries can be HILARIOUS.

For instance:

Nov 29th Thursday. actually 1.15 am Fri morgening.

Hey last night I dreamt Osama bin Laden wanted to have sex with me but then he had jet lag so he fell asleep.

And sometimes just so touching:

Tues 4th Dec 2001

I believe that it is a good place I am in, and that I am going to be able to help others.

Mostly in these diaries, I've written about all the flashbacks I had as I worked through the CSA stuff .. I had forgotten a lot of it, so reading it was interesting. But I want to let it go. And so in the bin most of it has gone. It makes for interesting reading, but I think the world will survive without it.

Dear me, today I'm letting go.

Today I started going through all my diaries and journals, in my attempt to let go of the past. Most of them are from when I was working with a psychotherapist on my Child Sexual Abuse experiences from childhood. They are pretty intense. Interspersed here and there are funny little anecdotes and nonsense rhymes. Some of these I've saved and they'll no doubt reappear here as a Once Upon, a Haiku Noodle, or a Dear Me (see my blog labels if you're wondering what this means).

It feels glorious to pull out the pages and rip them up. I read through first, of course. The whole experience is liberating and inspiring and reassuring. Some of it makes me very sad. But mostly I can see how I've grown, and how I've fulfilled at least a few of the dreams I had back then (which sounds like it was decades ago, but I'm talking about 2001 right now!), and how I've been able to answer some of the questions I had. It's also amusing to see that there are some questions I'm still asking, and I'm thinking today that if these questions are so very stale, I might as well let them go.

I was angry in a lot of the entries .. wow. So very angry, and hurt. But today I can see how every bit of what I went through in therapy was So Very Worth It.

On one page I found the funniest quotation, scrawled at the end of a very enraged and frustrated bout of journalling:

"The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off."
- Ken Martin, A Silent Strength

nov 6th 2001

from my diary

I bore the curse of the abuse

and now I am blest.

oct 18 2001

from my diary (private)

John Lightfoot called this morning. When I told him I was diagnosed MPD he said, "And who's the genius who figured that one out."

"Do you see ..

Dear me .. From my diary, Oct 12, 2001. The American attack on Afghanistan had just begun. Tony Blair had just realised that 80% of their heroin came from Afghanistan (odd how this realisation came at the same time they needed to attack).

Do you see, Big Brother,

do you see what you have unleashed?

Why blame Eve?

Why Pandora?

It is man, not woman,

who takes us to our doom.

The civilised, developed man

in his three piece suit

will make the earth our tomb

Somewhere in a little room

cow dung on the floor

perhaps there is a woman

who can help this world be more.

The Awali Storm

I don't know what label to give this .. it's just a story I found in the Oasis and it was so sweet I had to jot it down in my 2001 diary. So am sharing it here.

April June 1967The Awali Storm -"This is the story of the bad Awali storm that came last weekend, with over a hundred trees blown down .. The next morning I went round Awali to look at the trees. The Crawford's garage had been blown up in the air and came down all smashed. The Westras path had been blown up about one yard. There was a big tree blown down at the coffee bar. The Andersons fence was blown down, and about 2 or 3 roads away by the Walkers a big tree was blown down and a little bird was killed. A lot of the Arab boys were cutting the trees to clear the roads when they should have been on holiday. I don't know what Daddy meant but he said, "It is an illwind that blows nobody any good." He said he would explain to me some day."- Bruce Buckley Age 8 years 2 monthsJunior 1.

Once Upon Looking

Once upon looking in my mirror, I saw someone else. I was combing back my hair before getting into bed .. my face reminded me of my uncle (one of my abusers) and I thought yuk, and I thought it's the glasses, that's why I prefer the thick black ones my eyes don't look like his. And I remembered thick glasses when I was 12 and then I took the glasses off .. and my face started changing -- it was old, all the shadows sunken in. I thought it was the light so I lifted my face into the light from the window and I didn't want to look again but I had to .. it looked tough -- and then it looked masculine with long sideburns (but I combed my hair back .. ?) and the faces were ugly -- and then the face stretched and just smudged into grey nothing above my neck and the print on my nightie's neckline.

from a diary entry I had made on:

Tues night, 4 Sept, 1.15 a.m. Wed actually.

"The Lebanese Trio ..

It turns out that I had such fun writing the poem about my meal, that immediately after, I tried writing another. When I turned the page of my diary, I found this other not-so-little nonsense poem, based on the Lebanese band who first sat down at the table next to mine, and disturbed me with their coughing and proximity for a while, till they moved away to perform.

The Lebanese Trio's Cigarette Break

I do not understand

a single word they say

But they are whispering, I think,

about something risque.

One has a puff like Elvis,

one's got too much gel.

One has no hair to mess with.

I think that's just as well.

I think I have taken their table.

I think they resent this fact.

They think my smiles as I write this,

suggest my mind has cracked.

And now that they have gone away

you'd think I would feel free

But they drive me suicidal

with their dirge of misery!

Perhaps it is a love song

Or a victory theme, who can say?

For though the words change

the tune remains

the same from day to day.

Could it be that's all they know to play?

Could it be time for me to go away?

The answer to these just wouldn't rhyme

so let me end by saying its not nay.

- also written on 16-8-01

Once Upon a Toyshop Shelf

Once upon a toyshop shelf, I found someone to love. The most adorable baby doll. I called her Periwinkle - 'flowering evergreen' - well, she certainly won't age. I loved her from the start. It was a bit like having a little baby to cuddle. Perhaps this was the safest way I could find to express my emotions. No need for fear or guilt or responsibilities - I could love her, then leave her all day and go to work, and come back and love her again, and she would be as sweet as ever.

Later of course, I would want someone to love me back, and a doll wouldn't do. But for then, it did. I was 36 years old, and had just begun therapy for the Child Sexual Abuse I'd been victim to as a little girl. Periwinkle was perhaps the doll that little girl needed to finally come out of the dark corridors of my mind, and help me heal.

5th August 2001, Bahrain - bought one Zapf baby doll, BD 17.500

Once Upon A Blackboard

Once upon a blackboard, war was poetry. My father was in high school, and the world was at war. Every morning, when the children went to school, they would find a war update chalked out on the blackboard. And every morning, that update would be written out as a poem.

I wonder what happened to those poems, if anyone bothered to collect them. Did they just get erased and dusted away? Did the man who wrote the poems copy them down in his delightful handwriting? Are they lying in an old diary at the bottom of some mildewed box among decades of clutter in a church somewhere? Or have those paper leaves long since crumbled back into the earth? I wish I knew.

The reason I know the author of this "war poetry" had a delightful handwriting is because I have seen it. In an old carefully rebound hand-printed magazine that my father created in 1950, there is a lovely long note from Rev. A. J. Tellis, the headmaster of Milagres High School. Delightful too, to read words such as 'augur', 'replete', 'doffed', 'garb', 'justly', 'splendid' .. words so infrequently heard in today's impatient texting world:
Hv u bn 2 c K3G?

(Translation for the technologically-challenged: Have you been to see Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham?)

(Translation for the Bollywood-challenged: K3G is the title of a mega-starrer Hindi film with much weeping both by actors and audience).

But back to my father's magazine, Roshani, an annual that he produced by hand: it contains articles in Kannada, English and Urdu. There are India-inked landscapes, pencil sketches, watercolours, cartoons .. and there is a poem by Rev. Tellis titled "Boating Down The Suvarna and Back". It's probably not great poetry, but that really doesn't matter. Perhaps there's greatness in a man who ten years' earlier had painstakingly rhymed every pair of lines in a daily war update for schoolchildren. Why did he do it that way? Did he want to camouflage war's horrors in a poem? Or did he think the children would be more motivated to keep abreast of the news if it rhymed? Perhaps he needed to say it with poetry, perhaps the need was something in his own heart, that, for whatever reason, found expression this way.

I shall probably never know. But I see my father, once a young boy reading Tellis' wartime poems; and now, over eighty years old, my father still remembers what this man did. That is worth something.

Gladys goes on a manhunt.

Gladys has a thing for older men, she says. So naturally, she was looking forward to meeting some eligible octogenarians this evening. All dressed up and someplace to go - the place in question being The Little Sisters' of the Poor Home for the Aged. It was party time! Birthday party, with cake, candles and prezzies, and eighteen residents seated up front as guests of honour - these were the people whose birthdays come up this month. There was also one lady, Marjorie, 95, celebrating her 25th year at the Home!

Gladys, Put-put and Bindas were just in time for the birthday song and cake-cutting. Gladys wasted not much time getting acquainted with the gentlemen, who were, oddly enough, quite shy. But Gladys tells me that's just how it is with strong beautiful women .. apparently it scares the boys.

Mr. Gorman's knees weren't up to dancing (or so he said). Mr Watt and Mr. Gomes did have a lovely chat with Gladys but remained firmly seated. (Gladys says she thinks they were playing hard-to-get). Mr. Selvaraj was busy with a nap, though he did wake up later to graciously receive a farewell rose from her. Still, one courageous chap Raymond did get up and waltz a bit with old Gladys. Made her day. I think he must have been quite a dancer in his day, because he actually managed to follow some of Gladys' more bizarre dance moves. Put-put meanwhile decided to pull up the ladies for some dancing (they seemed a bit more energetic) and even found a Dancing Queen! (And yes, her name really is Queenie).

Bindas, who's just finished the Dr Clown workshop and is still in training, was a bit shy. But she has connections. She brought Spiderman AND Batman with her. They were a lot shorter than Gladys expected - they could have passed for 6-year-olds. Odd, that.

Well, the fun went on through cake and tea-time, as the clowns introduced themselves to well over a hundred startled people. Gladys was reminded of my childhood pictures, where my sister and I often appeared in matching outfits. (God, she must have hated that .. she was seven years older than I was. Oh. Actually she's STILL seven years older. But I digress). Back to why Gladys was reminded: looking after all these lovely ladies and gallant gentlemen was a huge family of SISTERS. It was quite remarkable, Gladys thought, and very sweet that they all liked to dress in identical clothes. And looking after all the sisters was a mummy. Gladys wondered why they called her "Ma Mere" .. really, none of them looked French. And mummy spoke with an American accent. Hmm.

In addition to all these, was a gaggle of highly excitable, giggly and occasionally hysterical girls. Gladys insists that these creatures are known as The Pestilence. (Upon checking later with Ma Mere, it was revealed that they are, in fact, the postulants. Whatever that means.)

Bubbles, music, song, dance, and much laughter. And then, too soon, it was over. The gentlemen quickly made their escape while Gladys was distracted by yet another pair of sisters - Isabel and Noreen Russell - who WEREN'T dressed in identical clothes. A last dose of bubbles got Isabel a-singing "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles" accompanied by Gladys' rather frightful rendition on the melodica. The evening ended with Gladys promising to practise more songs and come back soon for a singalong.

Back home, and I am exhausted, even though I did very little all evening. Really, it was all Gladys. Now there are clown clothes strewn all over my apartment (she's such a slob and leaves all the tidying and laundry to me) and of course, Gladys is nowhere to be seen. But maybe I'll excuse her just this once, because, let's give her credit, she did put in a lot of sweat and soul into this evening. Judging from all the smiling, laughing faces I saw waving back at Gladys as we drove away, it was worth it.

Seven sixes.

Priya tagged me recently and as a result, I'm supposed to share 7 things about myself on this blog. So I thought and thought. And thought. For days. And then, minutes ago, while sitting on that magical thought-inspiring potty of mine, I just had an idea. I'm 42 (for a few months more, at any rate) and 7 x 6 = 42. So here is my list of seven things about me:

1. Six years old, Awali, Bahrain:
I had the reading level of an eleven year old.

2. Twelve years old, Bishop Cotton Girls School, Bangalore, India:
I woke up with a sense of dread and despair every morning.

3. Eighteen years old, Warrensburg, Missouri, USA:
I fell off the sidewalk and broke my foot.

4. Twenty four years old, London:
I stood in Charles Dickens' study.

5. Thirty years old, FP7, Bahrain:
I looked Absolutly gorgeous.

6. Thirty six years old, Jidhafs, Bahrain:
I took the pulse of a dying man, and felt it stop.

7. Forty two years old:
I stopped trying to save the world.

THE TAO OF POOH by Benjamin Hoff, Rs. 10

Yes, that was a ten. Not a typing error. This priceless little book cost me only ten Rupees. (For my American readers, that's less than a quarter. And it came with a lovely little bookmark from Four Seasons Books in Olympia, Washington).

Going to book fairs can be humbling for writers, when we see the ultimate fate (and price!) of those words (printed and published! Recognised! Acknowledged!) of which we are so proud. But mostly, I'm just thrilled to find treasure at incredible bargains.

I absolutely love this book. So light, so deep, so true, so .. Tao. Here are some of my favourite lines from it:

*
It seems fairly obvious to some of us that a lot of scholars need to go outside and sniff around -- walk through the grass, talk to the animals. That sort of thing.

"Lots of people talk to animals," said Pooh.
"Not very many listen, though," he said.
"That's the problem," he added.
*
By the time it came to the edge of the Forest the stream had grown up, so that it was almost a river, and, being grown up, it did not run and jump and sparkle along as it used to do when it was younger, but moved more slowly. For it knew now where it was going, and it said to itself, "There is no hurry. We shall get there some day."
(A. A. Milne)
*
If you compare the City with the Forest, you may begin to wonder why it's man who goes around classifying himself as The Superior Animal.

"Superior to what?" asked Pooh.
"If people were Superior to Animals, they'd take better care of the world," said Pooh.
*
What could we call that moment before we begin to eat the honey? Some would call it anticipation, but we think it's more than that. We would call it awareness. It's when we become happy and realise it, if only for an instant.
*
From caring comes courage. We might add that from it also comes wisdom. It's rather significant, we think, that those who have no compassion have no wisdom. Knowledge, yes; cleverness, maybe; wisdom, no. A clever mind is not a heart. Knowledge doesn't really care. Wisdom does.
*
Sitting contented by Walden Pond a few years ago, a Wise Observer wrote, "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation." The desperation may have been quiet then, we suppose. Now, it's deafening.
*
"How do you do Nothing?" asked Pooh, after he had wondered for a long time.
"Well, it's when people call out at you just as you're going off to do it, What are you going to do, Christopher Robin, and you say, Oh, nothing, and then you go and do it."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh.
"This is a nothing sort of thing that we're doing now."
"Oh, I see," said Pooh again.
"It means just going along, listening to all the things you can't hear, and not bothering."
(A. A. Milne)
*
An Empty sort of mind is valuable for finding pearls and tails and things because it can see what's in front of it. An Overstuffed mind is unable to.

Many people are afraid of Emptiness, because it reminds them of Loneliness. Everything has to be filled in, it seems -- appointment books, hillsides, vacant lots -- but when all the spaces are filled, the Loneliness really begins.
*
Why do the enlightened seem filled with light and happiness, like children? Why do they sometimes even look and talk like children? Because they are. The wise are Children Who Know. Their minds have been emptied of the countless minute somethings of small learning, and filled with the wisdom of the Great Nothing, the Way of the Universe.
*
A Brain can do all kinds of things, but the things that it can do are not the most important things.

The once chance we have to avoid certain disaster is to change our approach, and to learn to value wisdom and contentment. These are the things that are being searched for anyway, through Knowledge and Cleverness, but they do not come from Knowledge and Cleverness. They never have, and they never will.

- from Benjamin Hoff's book: The Tao of Pooh

I'm going to "release" this book a la bookcrossing, so if anybody in Bangalore wants it, let me know so I can set it free and flying into your hands.

Incidentally, A. A. Milne, creator of Winnie-the-Pooh, is one of my earliest favourite authors. His books of poetry, When We Were Very Young, and Now We Are Six, are amongst my most treasured possessions. I've actually owned Now We Are Six from the age of six - it was a gift from a special teacher, Miss Evans, and she signed it with a quotation by Robert Louis Stevenson--

"The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

Once Upon An Ice Cream Cone

Once upon an ice cream cone, justice was served.

"You must not dig the scoop into the ice cream," the young man was told by his supervisor. "That picks up too much ice cream. Just roll the scoop around the top of the bin. That way there will be more air, and less ice cream, in each scoop."

The young man did not like the sound of this. He was young, after all, untarnished by the profit "principle", and this was his very first step into the world of work: his first summer job. There were few ice cream parlours in Mumbai (then known as Bombay - and to, be honest, still called that by most of us except for politically correct multi-nationals - the same chaps who obediently refer to Bangalore as "Bengalooru") in those days.

When families came in to the parlour on weekends, it was for a special treat. Not all the families who came in were wealthy. But ice cream! Ice cream means happiness, and it's worth shelling out some of your hard-earned cash to share that happiness with the wife and kids. The young man did not think it was fair to cheat people of their full quota of ice cream by fluffing up each scoop with air.

And so the young man became The Robin Hood of Ice Cream. He could not always dig into the ice cream, under the watchful eye of his supervisor. So he followed his orders. But whenever a family that looked like they were there for a rarely-afforded special treat, he reminisced with me last afternoon:

"I dug!"

Seven things.

Butterfly abortions galore.

White worm on my palm
knows that I mean her no harm.
We both wish she'd stay.

This evening my friend and I went to see the Silk Mark Expo 2008 at the Kanteerva Stadium. The silks were absolutely gorgeous. Every colour, every shade, so many different textures and styles. There were fabrics embroidered, bejewelled, painted, printed .. I don't wear much silk myself (only like stuff I can throw in the washing machine) but it was such a visual feast.

At the end, well actually at the beginning, but I missed that section the first time round, there was a special display of fibre and cloth and the like. Then, to my delight, I discovered there was a special display with live silkworms at different stages of growth. They start off as tiny as weevils, and then grow from skinny adolescents into full-bodied plump white caterpillars.

I assume that I was the only woman there who showed such absolute fascination, because the man in charge of the display was so pleased by my attention that he actually picked one up and let me hold her in my palm. Imagine that! A silkworm, sitting in the palm of my hand. I talked to her for a while and told her she was beautiful, and that she was safe with me, and I apologised in advance for her future (we get silk from boiling the cocoons). She seemed so reluctant to leave my hand and go back to her mulberry leaves and her munching siblings. (Hence the haiku).

In all the displays, there was not one picture of what these caterpillars look like if they somehow live beyond the cocoon stage and get to complete their metamorphosis. Not one butterfly (or are they moths?) I wanted to rescue the little worm in my hand, run away with her and let her finish.

But yes, I have silk in my cupboard. And a leather bag on my shoulder. I eat meat and I even have one zebra-skin purse inherited from my mom (back before fur was murderous). So what do I do? Nothing, except thrill to the memory of a silkworm sitting in my hand, and cement that memory with a blog.

Later, over a most exquisite Italian dinner at Sunny's, I was talking to my friend about the worm, and it struck me that a silkworm might just be the worst possible thing to be reincarnated as. Given all the lovely symbolism about caterpillars and cocoons: the growth and struggle, all that munching and spinning and waiting, with the hope of turning into something beautiful and taking flight -- cut short after all that effort, just before the magical rebirth. A butterfly abortion.

Perhaps this is the attraction of silk: the thwarted butterfly, colourfully fluttering in the wind, off a woman's shoulder.

Gah.

I have writer's block. Or blogger's blokk. Or something. Some terrible type of inner constipation that keeps me playing games of Freecell and Spider Solitaire, hiding at home hovering by the laptop like it's a literary lavatory, and hoping that any moment now, I shall sit down and bring forth all the words congealing within.

Hmm. Perhaps I don't have that literary constipation after all. I did manage one paragraph, and a fair amount of alliteration. My music teacher once diagnosed me with verbal diarrhoea, so I should have known that when I eventually got down to typing, SOMEthing or the other would come out! There's hope.