Lessons in finiteness and complicated simplicity

There is something to be said about confronting one's mortality. I don't mean the flashing of one's life before one's eyes before the car wraps itself around a tree kind of confrontation. I mean being confronted with the deterioration of one's body and the message of mortality therein.

Suddenly , as one lies there actually forced to face the fact that this whole shindig is going to come to a screeching halt in a couple of decades, one realizes all the things that remains to be done. There is a certain paring down that comes into play until life is whittled down to its bare essentials.

 It isn't meaning that one is concerned with anymore. In fact , there is a certain regret at the hours wasted in the constant whys and wherefores. I mean, honestly, if the constant belly-aching had yielded results that would be a different story. But honestly, who's going to solve a question that has been asked through several thousands of years with not an answering blip in sight. Not me.

Source: here

So, yes, this is finite. I'm not sure about the rest. I mean, at this point I don't even know if I care that much about the rest.  But this right here- it's heartrendingly finite. I follow a blog and the person who maintains calls it SLOW LOVE LIFE. I began looking at it because it was so pretty. The author had of course her own reasons for starting it. I have made it a place I go to to see how ephemeral everything around me is. Ephemeral and beautiful.

Astonishingly, I find all of this a relief. It's become simpler really. And complicated. A complicated simplicity. Like cherry blossoms. The transience and beauty and simplicity. They're there. They're beautiful. Then they're gone. I'm here. I'm whatever it is that I am. And then, one day I will be gone. Simple really. Don't you think?

Lives of quiet desperation and that red balloon

I'm nearly at the end of Theroux's book , Ghost Train, and I cannot help but feel impressed by his description of Vietnam. It strikes me as an almost ridiculously optimistic place and his account of it makes me want to jump on the next flight to Hanoi. And I probably will in a few months' time. I do feel an urge to run away that must be acted on quickly.

All this made me start thinking of the people where I live now. One would imagine that in a country so desperately poor ( yes, in spite of whatever maybe shining for the chosen few!)- and chaotically and suffocatingly overcrowded and with its urban squalor-  one would imagine that in such a place people would be leading lives of quiet ( and sometime, not so quiet) desperation. And yes, many do. I personally know several who don't see any end in sight.

Source: Here

And yet, even here, in this place that defies description or generalization or any kind of theoretical pinning down ( and not for want of trying either), there exist those who are optimistic to the point of being deluded. Or maybe that's just my curmudgeonly way of looking at things. A friend went trekking the other day to a forest resort.Her guide there, a young man of twenty or so, knew every kind of plant and bird they encountered on the trek. During the trek, he pulled out a book about the birds of India and proudly told her that he'd learned it by heart. He went on to tell her that he planned to become a forest guard. He was going to sit for the exam ( for which he had been studying since the age of 15) and get selected. She asked him when he intended to do this. And his rather surprising answer was that he'd do it as soon as he'd saved up 200,000 rupees. It turns out that when he went to register for the exam , the officials ( employed by the government , of course) had said that this was what he needed to pay them if he hoped to sit for the exam.

So, there you have it. Here's a country with young men and women willing to serve ( and he was doing it out of a genuine passion for the forest and the fast dwindling forest resources) , and the government, or at least those who claim to represent it, were doing their best to discourage him. Still, it's good to know that this hadn't dissuaded him completely.

Maybe that's good. Maybe, if we had more like him, some of the despair may by some weird alchemy transform into hope. So,here's to him and the nameless others that still hold out hope. Here's to those like him that make you believe- in something... the future...the human spirit... whatever. Here's to that elusive red balloon.

A state of wordlessness

There has been so much happening and I have been trying to put it all down. I sit in front of the computer and watch the blinking cursor and the empty screen and the words refuse to form. I open my journal ,pen in hand , stare into space and pray something comes.And nothing does.

It was a sad weekend with Whitney Houston's death. The soundtrack to some of the happiest times in my life contains nearly all her early songs and her remarkable voice. And with her death a silence has descended in some part of that life. But that cannot be, can it? The songs live on - and with them the memories.

It was a happy weekend with Adele winning the Grammys. This other diva with her songs of sadness is a near perfect soundtrack to these past couple of years.

I also had a visit from a remarkable man who has changed my life for better or for worse- sometimes I can't seem to decide.He always leaves me dissatisfied with myself. It was wonderful seeing him after three long years. It also brought to mind more starkly than ever how time passes and the traces it leaves of its passing. But it also brought news of possibilities for the future.

There seem to be so many things that I want to say and I can't seem to say any of them. My 'chronic dissatisfaction' seems to be at a peak. I have immersed myself in Paul Theroux's travelogue Ghost Train To The Eastern Star. Apparently immersing myself in another person's restlessness provides some relief. I'm new to Theroux's writing and find that I love his razor sharp observations and general 'curmudegeonness'.

Signing off -always hoping for the remarkable...  

A rant , a moan and a celebration (?)

Quite an eventful week this past one has been. Ms Winfrey arrived in the country and a burp in an espresso cup  gripped the chatterati up at the Jaipur 'Glit' Fest. Things were read that apparently should not have been read. I say 'apparently' because I am yet to be offended by said piece of 'offensive' literature. Unlikely assassination plots were revealed concerning individuals with positively farcical sounding names. There were denials and protestations of innocence and eventually all blame settled on the elusive 'central intelligence'.

The 'offending' author eventually said his piece by video interview with a certain Ms Dutt. Everyone and their mother spoke of freedom of expression. A bunch of fundamentalist cretins showed their disapproval of god knows what ( as all evidence points to no one involved having read a word of what they were protesting) by bursting on to the venue of the lit fest and doing a namaz! For pity's sake - get a life!

Ms. Winfrey got it absolutely right when she called India 'the greatest show on earth'. We love making fools of ourselves it would seem even as we take ourselves too seriously. How we manage such extreme paradoxical behavior is beyond me. We can in the same breath extol the virtues of cleanliness in every country we visit and yet seem completely complacent with public urination in our backyard ( sometimes quite literally in our backyard!) . Gentlemen , public urination is NOT a fundamental right- just so you know.  We preach ritual purity in a hundred ways and yet cannot seem to stop the practice of public spitting.

Okay maybe these disgusting behaviors are the result of some kind of pandemic of incontinence of oral and other varieties. But what about space? What pray explains the need to stick like a limpet to the back of the person standing in front of you in any number of lines waiting for any number of things?  A word of advice to those who think it's perfectly okay to stand 'that' close- it is absolutely disgusting . An arm's length is a respectable distance. And I would say that it's an economical distance considering that we seem to be really pushing the envelope as far as the population is concerned and showing no signs of stopping- EVER!

End of rant.

The current week began on a sad note with Sukumar Azhikode, that giant of  Kerala public life passing away.  He will be missed.

Also waiting to see what happens at Tahrir today. Cannot believe it's been a whole year!

Across the Empty Quarter

Wilfred Thesiger (Source: Here)

I've just finished reading a slim volume titled Across the Empty Quarter- an account of the late British explorer Wilfred Thesiger's journey across the fabled Rub al Khali or the Empty Quarter in southern Arabia between 1946 and 1948. The journey is a story of a lost way of life and the story of the endurance of man in the face of the most extreme conditions that nature has to offer.

This is a travel diary that recounts in great detail the journey across one of the harshest landscapes in the world. Thesiger has captured the romance of the Bedouin way of life as well as its perils. This story of a lost world and time are beautifully told as only a person who has completely immersed himself in it can.

While being a keen observer of those around him, Thesiger is also brutally honest about his own feelings , experiences and shortcomings. My favorite parts in the book are the vivid descriptions of the punishing climb up the treacherously steep dune of the Uruq al Shaiba as well as Thesiger's recounting of the three nights that he spent without food while his companions went looking for supplies in the desert settlement of Liwa.

Source: Here

Of course for those interested in a detailed record of Thesiger's travels through Arabia nothing beats the brilliant Arabian Sands.

Thesiger's life is an inspiration to every restless wanderer. And for those of us who feel compelled to lose ourselves in the beauty of the unexplored his is a life that is testament to the rewards of such compulsions.

Also check out this photo essay about the Rub al Khali in the Saudi Aramco Magazine.

The Girl with the Encyclopedia of Bottles

Source: Here

There's a girl I know and quite an unusual creature she is too. A ridiculously talented artist with the most peculiarly wonderful way of seeing the world around her. She seems to have a thing for bottles. Bottles that to you and me are just that ,somehow in her eyes transform into magical things that make you feel you've gone through the looking glass or fallen down a rabbit-hole. Come to think of it , I wouldn't put it past her to have done either or both those things. See for yourself...

Check out her latest work here.

Encounters

Lali was a fisher-woman who came every other day. She sat in her black abaya against the white wall of the house next door. A woven basket containing chunks of tuna, big pieces of king fish , pomfrets the size of plates , sat in front of her. She sat there from 9 in the morning until 12 . Cats walked up to her ,their eyes glazed over with pleasure from the smell of the fish. The housewives , a mix of Indian and Pakistani expatriates and Omani-Baloushi  women, trooped to where Lali sat. But this was not just a business. It was, for Lali and the women in the neighborhood, a place to exchange gossip about everyone living in the homes under the great acacia tree.

I think my love of fish dates back to that time.I can see her still in my mind's eye as if it were just yesterday. The fish was bought fresh each morning at the Muttrah fish market. And it actually smelled -good even before it was made into all the fragrant curries in the different households. Odd thing to say about fish I know. But it really wasn't smelly. The basket smelled like the sea as did Lali herself. I sometimes wish I could draw her. There was something wonderfully interesting about her face. She seemed of indeterminate age. But now that I think of it she could easily have been middle-aged or near enough. Her plump happy face framed by the black hijab with the sun-browned skin and the big silver nose stud and the twinkly eyes immediately invited one to spill whatever secrets one may or may not be carrying. Her smile was wide and her teeth crooked and yellowed. I wonder what kept her so happy. It could not have been an easy life.

Another thing- she was always good tempered. Even when the haggling began with her customers who invariably quoted ridiculously low prices she never once lost her temper or shouted back. Then again, her voice was loud and booming enough to be heard without her having to shout/shriek/scream. She was nice to the cats. I remember that too. No matter how annoyingly close they got or rubbed themselves up against her -ingratiating themselves to her no doubt in the hopes of having a piece ( or wonder of wonders- an entire fish!) thrown at them.

I always wondered about her. Did she have a family? Where did she go when she wasn't sitting there? I don't think anyone asked. My mother, one of the most curious women you'll ever meet, never knew much about Lali except that she was a Baloushi woman. Did no one ask her? I wish sometimes I'd been old enough to ask. How did it all play out for her- life, love, family, I wonder...

``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Another encounter a couple of decades later- this time in the 2000's. I was in Jebel Akhdhar in Oman. It must have been sometime in November. I went trekking there with my parents. We came to a point where stone steps had been cut into the side of a steep hill. The way down was dotted here and there with walnut and almond trees- bare at that time of year except for a few leaves. Somehow , slipping and sliding over the lose stones, we managed to get down to the wadi which was dry and filled with tan colored boulders and rocks of various sizes. I found a ledge to sit on and rest a bit- taking in the pleasant silent solitude of the place. In the distance on the mountains lining the other side of the wadi there were ruins of some old settlements. And then we heard it - a slow steady dull thud of something hitting the rocks in the wadi. It came closer and closer until suddenly round a bend close to where were sitting, a wizened old man in a dishdasha and muzzar came by on crutches. His left leg had been amputated above the knee. But he seemed perfectly balanced on the wooden crutches and deftly negotiated the rocks in the wadi.

Source: Here

Seeing us , he flashed a nearly toothless smile and came closer and struck up a conversation with my father. Dad being fluent enough in the language sussed out that the old gentleman was on his way to a village nearby to meet his friend. The friend's village was five kilometers away from where we were and his village was about seven kilometers in the direction he'd just come from. Further questioning revealed that he'd lost his leg in the war in the 1950's that the Omani forces had fought with the British forces against the invading Saudis. He had apparently been a young lad of 17 or so at the time. There had been shelling and his unit had been hit. He had survived but they had had to amputate the leg. The story was punctuated with lots of  Allah Kareems ( Allah is Merciful) , both by him and my father. We then asked him why did he have to walk to see his friend- it seemed an exhausting thing to do. He said he enjoyed it- the weather was wonderful at that time of year and he couldn't wait around for his children to drive him down as he had already put off the visit for too many weeks. He was his best friend you see- this one that he was going to see. We talked some more and then he was off.