Unchanged and changed

I have had many homes and yet have remained homeless. I have traveled to many places and yet remained strangely still. The people I have met, the people I am yet to meet- I have been involved with them ; I have been taken in- into fragments of lives, loves , joys and sadnesses.
I have tasted the joy of several homecomings and I have tasted the sadness of many a leave-taking.
I have loved and I have lost.
I have been loved and lost that too.
The many skies and the many roofs that have sheltered me ,
They have stolen from me too.
The seas I have crossed and the paths I have traversed-
Ancient cities , older deserts,
Towering skyscrapers ,immense mountains,
Noisy bustle,profound silences,
They have all become a part of me .
And yet,I remain still-
Unchanged and changed.

There was her and there was me

I stood this evening at the ISRO signal at rush hour waiting to cross over to the other side - a busy part of town no matter what time of day.I stood there with my dinner shopping hanging from one hand and a heavy handbag hanging from the other.A strange kind of exhaustion had overtaken me from the lack of sleep of the previous night, the long commute and a day spent staring at a computer screen trying to arrange Bourdieu and Baudrillard and Rajagopal in some semblance of order for my report. As I watched the two-wheelers,three-wheelers and four-wheelers whiz by , I suddenly became aware of her standing a few feet away from me. She had the same look I imagine I had on my face- a mix of exhaustion and alertness.There was also a strange manginess ( for want of a better phrase) mixed in with the dignified serenity of her bearing.It was apparent from certain rather obvious signs that she was a young mother with very young offspring. I wondered where she'd left them- a warm, safe place perhaps, while she went to provide for them or whatever errand it was that she was returning from. I wondered too for a moment about all the other young working mothers in this city.

Would I ever be able to leave my babies in the care of perfect strangers? Perhaps , I would.It's all circumstance after all isn't it? But then this one probably had some degree of trust in someone. Be that as it may , there we were, two females quite exhausted at the end of the day and I could almost bet that she wished too that this mad rush around us would just stop for a tiny minute. But then, things were what they were. I had a quiet apartment waiting for me and she probably had somewhere equally comforting to get to. Besides, there were the little ones of course-always a priority.

A dance began between us. We'd take a step forward and then as we noticed the approach of another mad man on a bike or in a car or an erratic three-wheeler, we'd step back. We'd try again and back again. A certain rhythm was established. We were looking at each other and yet trying not to make it obvious.We were companionable in our mutual predicament and yet wary.It never hurts to be careful I always think.

There was a weariness seeping in.My bags felt heavier by the minute and all I really wanted was to get home and to my couch. Suddenly, one of those inexplicable lulls in traffic occurred and taking a deep breath I stepped onto the road. She followed suit almost immediately. I took three more steps and she did the same. Suddenly I noticed another mad man headed toward us on a scooter. I quickened my pace while glancing back at her. Would she follow too? Would she make it? I reached the other side and looked back. No, she'd decided to turn around and go back. Perhaps, prudence really was best under the circumstances. I'd reached the other side and stood watching to make sure she made it too. I was compelled to almost.There was something about her.Finally,she took the plunge. Slow , quick steps led her to where I was standing.She'd made it too.

We looked at each other for a moment and then turned and headed in opposite directions and with a wag of her tail she was gone.

Dreams and a memory...

I'm having one of those days. Ever had them? You have a ton of work to do and yet, you never seem to quite get down to it.

I woke up at 3 am for no reason I could see. I lay there wondering what woke me. My sleep is usually filled with dreams. Sometimes those dreams are omens.I'm a great believer in dream interpretation , not always in the Freudian sense but more in the Biblical or Koranic sense, possibly even in the Jungian sense? The psychologists among you could possibly clarify that.

I believe that our subconscious often knows things and they come through in our dreams.I know, I know. This sounds like a bunch of " new-agey" mumbo jumbo. But I have never found it so.I believe in signs-good ones and bad ones; I believe in instinct and intuition; I believe in those " feelings" one gets from a place or from a person. And yes , I believe in my dreams. I don't think I ever paid much attention to them until the year I dreamed of my best friend's baby , two months before she even fell pregnant. Ever since, both she and I pay rather close attention to them. I'm not saying they're always premonitions of things to come, but they do tell me a lot about the things that preoccupy me even the ones that I'm unaware of.

I'm not sure where this is going except that I do have a lot of work and even though I have been awake since 3 this morning, I haven't gotten round to any of it.I'm restless. I'm distracted. I've been eating too much chocolate and watching too much TV and reading things other than what I should be reading.And now it's 5.30 in the evening and I had just about got out the Baudrillard , when I decided, I should write this post.

Before that though I did get distracted by facebook and saw a friend was to be in Paris this week. This bit of information of course set me off on a whole other train of thought. I miss Paris. I spent four gorgeous days there two years ago.It was my first and only time there and I was alone and it was beautiful.

Most of that trip and what little I managed to see of the city has remained in my memory in a picture perfect montage. Three of my fondest memories : the day at the Rodin museum, the lunch one rainy afternoon at a little cafe just outside the Musee de Orsay and the night I went up on top of the Arc de Triumph.I remember the friendly staff at the cafe and the rather overly attentive waiters.I remember too the middle -aged gentleman who ran the grocery store in my neighbourhood -always ready with a smile when I went to buy the chocolate brioche I had become addicted to. It was a couple of weeks before Christmas and the city was filled with shoppers and tourists.I think at least one person from every part of the globe passed me by while I walked down the Champs Elysee that evening.

I remember walking down numerous streets-elegant,quiet-refined in a way few places I have visited are.I remember thinking that I could easily get used to that life. I remember being able to understand the language when people asked me questions but not being able to speak it and my correct English answers to the French questions always elicited understanding smiles and more French. I think that was possibly the only time in my life when I carried on conversations with perfect strangers in two languages and near perfect understanding. It was wonderful.

I don't know how to describe the feel of the city.It was different.I had been warned of course about all sorts of dangers that lurked in every corner- none of which , luckily , came to pass. I remember being slightly surprised at the ease with which I navigated the metro system that I had been told would be confusing.

I'm not sure to what I should ascribe all the chance occurences and friendly faces that accompanied me on that trip but I am grateful for it. I do remember one evening though, in the Jardin des Tuileries that struck an off note. An old woman dressed in a tattered winter coat approached me and spoke in a language that I later figured must have been Serbian. She carried a little card on which was written something of which I understood only the word Serbia.She was begging and she looked so thoroughly miserable and lost.I emptied my pockets of whatever change I had and gave it to her and quickly walked away. I'm not sure why I was in such a hurry to get away from her.Perhaps, there was something about my experiences till that moment in the city that I had decided was beautiful and did not want marred by something that I could not quite tie in with what that woman represented? Even writing this now I feel uneasy about her presence there.

But this feeling also reminds me that I want to go back-that I will go back. I am quite determined that I must see what lies beneath that beauty.Next time, I'll go with someone who knows it and will help me see it...

Breathless

My heart was racing today for no reason that I could fathom really. A strange restlessness filled me. My head was rushing from one thing to another like it had to be somewhere and just needed to get these things in hand done here and now and move on. It is as if my mind, my soul knows something that I don't. There are places to go,things to do, people to meet, questions to be asked, answers to be sought, roads to be traveled, mysteries to be pondered.
But all in good time. Be still my racing heart, be still.
We'll get there - you and I.
We have dreamed the dream. We see the future.
We will get there. We will.

A strange day

This has been a strange day.Among other things , an unexpected short, swift shower soaked the city. Suddenly the oppressive heat and haze of the morning was no more. A cool breeze , cerulean skies with shreds of ice-grey clouds and clean green trees took over.
There's a dissatisfaction. A sense of something missing. A sense of something that cannot be quite grasped it seems.Not completely or even in parts.
There was an article in a magazine-about graveyards being paved over in Gujarat to lay roads.
Roads- yes, carrying people,back and forth-toward destinations of all sorts. What will they name the roads I wonder.Why that question? Perhaps because I can think of no other.Perhaps because my mind cannot grasp the enormity of some things. I feel nothing thinking of it.I probably should. But even as I wait for it to come- the shock, the outrage, anything. But there's nothing.

Perspectives

There are times when I am so overwhelmed by life that I need to escape- escape my own head, escape the mundane , the sheer fact of life even. Or life as we seem to have made it-one devoid of magic and beauty. In this day and age of technology, there is one place I go to that gives me a sense of what is true-the NASA website. This is not an advertisement for them. But I guarantee you that a visit to their picture gallery puts one right in a way nothing can. The images of the stars and planets and supernovas and comets and galaxies remind me that while I struggle and fight and rave , there goes on around me an entire universe in silence working away unquestioning, completely unconcerned with our problems. They seem to have learned a truth that we are yet to fathom - that nothing matters really, not in the end. We came from the stars and somewhere deep in our ageless souls, we know these truths. We know the truth of transience. We know that all we are today will not be tomorrow . We know that what is in this hour, will not be in the next. That to me is a comforting notion...

A moment

He stood there silhouetted against a blue sky where white puffy clouds chased each other in some eternal game. Puffing his chest out , he exclaimed ," My God! What a beautiful day!" She stood next to him wondering if she'd ever forget this moment. Not likely she thought. This man standing next to her ,so completely oblivious and yet, so completely aware. How could he not know, she wondered.
They started walking. In silence. It was often like this she realized. Their silences were always so easy. As easy as their conversations. Silence as easy as speech. Do other people have that she wondered. Perhaps not.
Is this what it's going to be like forever? This complete awareness and this complete oblivion? What of it then? Is there a meaning she is supposed to fathom? Some greater question of the human condition that she needed to understand?
It is a bondage in many ways, isn't it? This thing they call love. The greater bondage then is unrequited love. But what binds you there? Hope, perhaps?
She suddenly looked at him and realized he'd been watching her. They looked away almost at the same time.
There was something that needed to be said. Would this be the moment that would finally free her? There seemed to be something in the air between them. She turned to look at this profile. Perfection , she thought. That would forever define perfection for her. Should she just say it? Why not? They were just words after all. Who would hear? The trees, the skies... he? That's what she wanted wasn't it? To just let him know. To bare her soul. To cry out ,even or scream. Or hit him. Shake him into seeing what was before his eyes. How could he not see , she wondered. Her face was an open book.
He looked at her again. The sun came out just then and shone full on his face. Blue-green eyes , looked into brown ones.Thoughtfully. This was it. This was the moment.
And then, just as suddenly, the sun disappeared. Someone called out their names. They were among people again.

The unspoken remained there- in their eyes- between them... the oblivion,then, was surely only an imagined one...

The puzzle of the " Love Jehad"

Over the past few weeks , a new phrase has been making the rounds- the so-called " love Jehad" . My immediate reaction to it when I first heard it was one of complete incomprehension. What could it possibly mean-this " love Jehad" ? Was someone sacrificing themselves for love? Was there a battle on to reclaim a lost love? What was this new obsession? And then the articles went on to explain the " conspiracy" to "convert" girls " unwillingly" to Islam by " Pakistan-backed" Muslim boys in India. At this point, I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Just what the hell was going on?So, when these boys were chosen by the "Pakistani agents" , what was the basis for qualification? Were there height-weight requirements? Was there a minimal educational qualification? Where did they find these boys? Did they advertise? On a matrimonial site perhaps? Were they lured into this nefarious plot through some kind of monetary and sexual compensation? I just don't get it. One would assume that if they were being backed by "outside agents" that there was a process of recruitment and adequate compensation promised. Why else would perfectly healthy young men go through all the trouble of seducing these girls ( I mean it is hard work , unless , of course their charms are so great, all they had to do was curl a finger in the direction of the girl. But then not since Don Juan would such prowess be seen and certainly not in college boys.)
The implications of this brand new attempt at humiliation and discrimination of a minority community doesn't show merely the depths to which we humans can sink in alienating those we presume different from us, it also shows how willing we are to poison the minds of our young with our own baseless prejudices. Do none of these parents remember what it was like to be young and in love? Do these people honestly think that when people choose to fall in love , they see the labels of Muslim, Hindu, Christian , whatever, written on their foreheads? What's even more shocking is that a case of this nature would even be heard in a court of law. Do we not have enough injustices to be put right without dragging in such ridiculous cases?
What is this obsession with the " Muslim boys" who seemingly cannot keep their hands and eyes off these girls? Is it really that hard to understand that there is a beating heart in the Muslim?
I read a book by Martha Nussbaum recently where, among other things , she speaks of the stereotype of Muslim men as hyper virile beings who are out to abduct girls etc etc and this was given as one of the explanations for this fear of the " other". Of course colonialism came into the argument. This is also one among many arguments that have been put forth by many , many academics. We can go on justifying all sorts of mad behaviour on the part of those we fear with all manner of psycho-babble and we often do. Intellectuals often theorize everything under the sun. When one model doesn't fit , another is found and made to fit. But in the end , away from the psycho-babble, the theorizing, the utterly tiresome debates of majority, minority , and all the rest, is it so hard to remember that people meet ,fall in love , have disagreements, break up , go their separate ways or live together happily ever after and none of it has anything at all to do with jehad or religion or all the rest of it? This is about people being people. Humans being humans. Let me end with the immortal words of Elizabeth Browning -

" There's nothing low

In love, when love the lowest: meanest creatures

Who love God, God accepts while loving so.

And what I feel, across the inferior features

Of what I am, doth flash itself, and show

How that great work of Love enhances Nature's."

Random thoughts

This story is perhaps the hardest to begin. There are horrors and sadnesses that are difficult to articulate sometimes- not because they are extraordinary but because they are ordinary , happening to ordinary people and who then have the extraordinary task of coming to grips with those horrors. Or sometimes not coming to grips with them and instead simply breaking their spirits, their minds and sucking out all hope.
There are always incidents in one's life that make us question the arbitrariness of it all. But if it really is that arbitrary, does that make life the greatest horror of all. If we can never really know what's going to happen next, on what are we running? What faith carries us through from one hour to the next and from one day to the next? How do we love? How do we trust? Is it our desperate need to be not alone , to fend off the silences that come out of our loneliness that binds us sometimes in bonds of such awfulness that we'd rather not look at them or examine them too close lest we see things that in our desperation we have missed out on.

I have often longed for silence myself. A silence of the mind where my thoughts are not buzzing around like so many dragonflies. My mind that so restlessly tries to find an anchor. It doesn't know what it's looking for. At least it isn't looking for anything that it is willing to acknowledge as being part of the search or an end product of the search. I am told I will be happy if there are a certain number of things that I can achieve. According to those older and wiser who have set the rules, if there a certain number of boxes I have ticked on that check-list ,then I am told happiness or something closely resembling it will surely follow and become second nature. But here's the problem – that checklist doesn't contain anything that I want. Not really. So, I took that proposition to the elders. “Nonsense,”they scoffed. Of course , those things don't look like anything you might want. But trust us and try them out, and you will see that you will come to think of them as things you could never have imagined not having in the first place. But isn't that just settling ? I asked them. Child , you think too much , they admonished me. Enough with all these books you read. It's time you took your head out of the clouds and learned what life was really like. But those books are written about life , I said to them. They are about people who searched like me and looked at people like you who settled for what went before and they tell me a very different story from what you just told me.

They stared at me for some time. Yes, I know. I had insulted them. I had made everything they lived for, everything they believed in , seem like nothing. That's never fair is it? But they had me feel like nothing too. Or at least , made me feel like a woolly headed dreamer who was looking for something that wasn't there. But surely, if it wasn't there, would I even be looking for it?

But what is IT? What is this panacea for all that's weighing me down, that's making me turn to something within because what lies without fills me with a kind of self-loathing that needs to be experienced to be fully understood?

Does it matter?

You are the thought that I cannot articulate.
You are the word that I cannot capture.
You are the dream that I wish never to wake from.
You are my speech.
You are my silence.
You are my pain and my pleasure,
My laughter and my tears .
You are the best in me and the worst in me,
My hope and my despair-
My almost answered prayer.

I hate you or I love you. I love you or I hate you.

Does it matter?

My incomplete poem

I know, that somewhere
A little past my own reality
A little past what I can see

You are going about your work

Living your life

Thinking your thoughts

Taking a breath.

Do thoughts of me ever

Intrude?

I look at the half moon

Suspended in the night sky

And wonder if you ever get

The time
to look up

To see it too.

A cool breeze caresses

This sleepless , restless city
That has become mine
And yours

And I wonder in those
Dark , dark hours
What do you think of?

And then ,
it's morning again
life starts
for me
for you
The city that never slept
is awake again.

And like an incomplete poem
an unfinished painting
you follow me
everywhere-
That presence
ever present

A thought I can never capture
quite right...

Untitled

I am infinity.
I am what came before; I am what comes after.
I am everything; I am nothing.
I am you; I am everyone.
I am inspiration; I am desperation.
I am all that is best in you; I am all that is worst in you.
I am love. I am hate.I am all that is in between.
I am the space between. I am the space within.
I am infinity.