"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

"What gifts ..

Dear me. What do I make of this poem? By these standards, it's no wonder I am still single. Again, no idea when this was written, although I like to think it was around 1990-91, which would mean I had written it for a certain man-who-shall-remain-nameless, the only one I can think of who came close to loving me this way.

What gifts do lovers exchange?

Bodies entwine
but grow shapeless and old.
Lovers exchange that which never goes cold.

Roses of red
lose their scent, fade and dry.
Lovers exchange that which never should die.

Champagne and song
thrill the heart, then are gone.
Lovers exchange that which always lives on.

Jewels and gold
can cost more than they mean.
Lovers exchange that which means more, unseen.

These objects we give
on this path we are set
are treasured, and hoped for, and valued, and yet

lovers exchange
that which sets them apart.
Lovers exchange that which comes from the heart.

HAIKU NOODLE: In defence of anger.

Anger is such a misunderstood, underestimated emotion. Often thought of as a "negative" emotion, it is full of potential and energy. I believe it's only when we misuse it - or don't use it at all - that it has negative effects. It rots within; it turns to something quite unpleasant. But used well, it does wonders.

I've always had a good stock of anger, but much of it did rot and turn into many unpleasant things. It was only after I went through my CSA therapy that I began to actually get in touch with anger - and with most of the emotions I'd stuffed inside.

Today, anger interests me. Not quite an obsession, but I do pick up interesting books on the subject (some of which you'll come across in Book Fair Junkie some day). Studying anger has taught me a lot, about life, about society, about relationships. I've learnt a lot - and I'm still learning. The most important thing I've learned is this:

Anger is just fear.
The snarls of a threatened cub.
No need to snarl back.

All anger has its roots in fear. Think about it. There is always a fear behind our rage or resentments, even behind our irritations. We fear that we are being taken for a ride. That we are being treated unjustly. That we are going to experience loss or abandonment or new burdens. That people are going to see we are not good enough. That no one loves us. Name any anger and I will show you the fear behind it.

And fear .. where are its roots? Back in that place most of us like to deny ever had much impact on us: childhood. It is perhaps the first emotion we experience when we enter this world, and most of us will find ourselves experiencing it again on our way out.

This haiku I've just written tells me how to deal with two angers - that of others towards me, and my own anger towards others. In the first instance, it reminds me that any aggression towards me is less about me, than about the other person's fears. That can give me the presence of mind not to retaliate in kind, but instead to show kindness.

In the second instance, my own anger, the haiku's message can flag me down to tell me that there is a fear that needs to be dealt with, and this becomes an opportunity for introspection, self-awareness and growth.

Anger's good for me. I need it!

Sometimes I surprise me.

Having decluttered closets of clothes, shelves of books, drawers of toiletries, cabinets of expired food products, I've finally got down to the paperwork. I keep finding little gems that I really like, yet can hardly believe that I wrote. Here is one I found, that - to my surprise - is written in the 5-7-5 haiku form. I'm not sure I intended it to be, but then again, maybe I did. My memory is awful. But I do remember why I wrote this: it was when what I thought was the most wonderful love affair, turned out to be just another abusive relationship.

My heart aches. It breaks,
I think -- but really it is
the pain of waking.

That's the thing. All the nasty shit in life is the stuff that ends up being good for me. I need it, in a way, in order to grow. And well, after all, what is fertiliser made of?

Delightful Obsessions I Have Had

1. Oscar Wilde

I had an entire imaginary life where I would go visit him and his arty friends in London, and have cucumber sandwiches and tea with them all. It did not strike me at all odd that a 14-year-old 20th-century girl should show up and be welcomed heartily by these people. I got most of the background material from a TV series titled "Lillie". Peter Egan played Oscar Wilde and he was brilliant. Later, I got down to actually READING what Oscar Wilde had written, and become even more obsessed. And again, on holiday in Houston with my brother, I found The Letters of Oscar Wilde at the Rice University Library, which of course, presented more background material and return "visits" to London for more Oscar and cucumber sandwiches. (Anyone with a dirty mind, please note: there is no symbolism here. In those days the sandwiches and their contents were literal, not metaphorical).

I now own that book of Oscar's letters, after hunting it down on Amazon.com when I was a wealthy adman. (A nice thing to be sometimes, and infinitely nicer than being an impoverished madman). I own all his works, in fact, as well as collections of his poetry and aphorisms - what a brilliant wit he was. I have biographies - one by his son Vivian Holland. And pictures - my friend Roberta sent me a postcard with an old photograph of Oscar and Bosie printed on it. I've framed it and put it up. People have asked me if it's one of my ancestors. Yes, in a way, I suppose he is.

The beatles.

Native American spirituality

Professor Snape

"If I could ..

Many survivors of child abuse feel like this for much of their lives, knowing that there is something wrong with their lives, but not knowing what it is, or why. Learning and understanding about the long term impact of childhood abuse changes that.

If I could only drift like a shark,
cruel and free
and not drown in petty seas of my own misery.

If I could only sleep as a child does
and wake wondrous and pure.

If I could only dive into my soul
and not simply wait on the shore.

PATHWAYS TO HOPE AND HEALING, by Patricia & Ronald Potter-Efron

I very nearly didn't buy this book, but now am glad I did. The cover looked a bit cheesy, you see. So it's true: Never judge a book by its cover!
Here are a few excerpts, about the core of shame. I was surprised when I read this. I had never made the connection.
"the fear of abandonment lies at the core of the shame experience .. these writers trace the fear of abandonment back to earliest infancy, the time you couldn't survive on your own ..
Shame is a sure clue that someone important has seen you and disapproves..
.. two other important fears regularly associated with shame. The first is the fear of losing yourself. This represents the flip side of the abandonment issue. Sometimes it seems that you have to abandon yourself, your true or real self, in order to fit in. But then you may experience the shame of being untrue to your own nature. .. This can lead to bitter feelings of emptiness, personal despair, perhaps suicidality. .. reflects a fear that it may be impossible to retrieve your real self if you've abandoned it for too long.
The third shame-related fear is the fear of incompetence. .. we are a task and accomplishment oriented society. In an era where everybody is expected to perform and succeed, people fear that they will not be good enough to avoid the shame of comparative failure."
- from Patricia & Ronald Potter-Efron's book: Pathways to Hope And Healing - Overcoming Shame
If you'd like to read this book, contact the NGO Enfold, who are now the happy owners of the entire Askios library.

Last week I rescued a drowning lizard.

This week it was a hungry dog. A mournful stray mongrel with wonderful tan fur, who has now overcome his perfectly understandable fear of the human race, at least as far as I am concerned. He lets me pat him, listens happily when I talk endlessly (gosh, it's so nice to have someone who really LISTENS!! Ever since my therapist dumped me, I've missed that!) and he's now waiting at the front gate several times a day to see if I've got any spare food or love. I'm not sure what this dog's name is. He wags at almost every name I throw at him. Except Lancelot. He was definitely pained by that one.

The lizard story, meanwhile, is not as noble as it sounds, because I was responsible (accidentally, of course) for the lizard falling into the water tank in the first place. However, I can still take credit for scooping her out and placing her in a sunny spot to revive.

Soon after, I also nearly drowned - no, drenched - a little toad who happened to have taken up residence in a flower pot I decided to water.

A few days ago, our wonderful drumstick tree broke in half during a gale, and I spent almost an entire day dismantling the broken branches. I felt I owed the tree this much; the sapling was a gift from a family friend Mr. Nellamuthu, who died the following year. We remember him every time we bring in a harvest of drumsticks - and what wonderful harvests there have been over these years.

It was amazing just how much use even a fallen tree can be. There were branches and twigs that will dry and become someone's firewood. There were huge amounts of leaves and buds rich in iron and other minerals that we were able to distribute to so many people (to cook into a veggie dish); there were a few very tender drumsticks not yet at their prime: green tendrils that we will cook into a sambar; there were random green bits that all got collected for the compost heap. I worked the whole day up on the roof, and ended up with a ghastly headache that evening. But it was worth it. I felt it was the least I could do for this tree that had given us so much.

The following day we called in two gardeners to cut the remainder of the tree down, down to the roots. I noticed a gummy substance easing out of some of the hacks. It looked like melted candle wax, and in some places it was deep red, like blood.

I felt sad for the bees who loved this tree -- I would find them even past sunset, drinking their fill of nectar from its white flowers; also the little bee-eaters (that I've never seen eating bees) who are little flittery brown-and-white birds with longish beaks and yellow bums and a "too-whit-too-whit-too-whit" song. The squirrels will have one less tree to leap about and nibble on. The neighbours' ugly walls and immodest windows will no longer be hidden by greenery. We are all going to miss that tree.