Crossroads Wisdom

10 days over. Of observing, accepting, letting go. This morning after all the residents of A and B had made their way home and I finished saying goodbye to all the me's scattered through the forest paths leading all around the Centre, I went through the rain to the kitchen to fill cereal containers and jars of yeast for breakfast. I realised that I belonged here as much as I possibily could anywhere else. The safest place I have known so far, to have slept so soundly without even a lock on any door.

So many memories are infused into the new me: the little pink nose of the mole that did not hear my footfall through the torrential rain yesterday, the subtle fragrance of the trees at 4 am, the soft light of dusk that caressed the trees as we came out of the 6 pm sitting and the shared smile at a pre-mature ever-so earnest 'sadhu' chanted by that one faceless voice with endearing regularity. And finally the freedom to chuckle at this.

I learned so much from everyone just by being in the same room, or walking the same path: how to weed a rosebed when you are deep in thought, how to stand by the edge of the ravine in deep concentration after aditthana, how to check your carotid pulse when you have finished a sitting, how to wait and let someone else pass, how to watch what happens to the person ahead of you who ate that berry off that bush (and lived).

And we were driving on home...

Just as I was looking out in the distance and the car was waiting at the stop sign at the end of Egbert and Road 56, there was a bump. A car behind us had hit us. My ever-so-patient husband, fuming now, jumped out and walked over to get the information of the driver behind us. And a familiar face popped out from the car, one of our fellow students,a server with whom I had just washed lettuce. Her husband had picked her up at the same time mine had and they must have left a few minutes after we did. I knew her name, we had laughed together just moments ago, I had thanked her for her service during my stay.

As the men sat in the car through the pouring rain and exchanged information, I stood with her in the rain and waited for her to stop shaking. I look back now and see myself at crossroads. I had just stood there and watched the horses grazing, I had reassured my fellow traveller that it was okay and neither they nor we had been hurt. We stood together for a while and soon it was time to go our separate ways. One to Kingston, one to Markham.

I had also remembered the horrible crunch of my car from last June when I was hit at dawn, just minutes from school on a quiet Markham street. As I stood in the rain, I felt the sensation of that sound subside, the taste of that fear dissolve, I felt the 'panya' and relief that this was just a fender-bender. After months of physio, tests and early morning tossing and turning with pain, this was just a scratch. As they drove off and we did too, my husband looked at me quizzically. Since my accident, I had been jumpier especially as a passenger. I wasn't this morning. My side of the car had been hit, and he said I had barely flinched. Wierd.

I had lived my first real life 'anichcha' a mere 5 minutes out of the centre.

The Buddha does not wait for the grass to grow now does He?

And Dhamma works.

Me

I have always had this visual
of myself as a wheel with many spokes
and each one is
a set of needs and
it is okay to have many of those
for years, I was tired
of being asked to explain
why I need to write,
or listen to music when I cook
or walk in the rain
or hug the kids to bits everytime I see them
or kiss the cat on her soft head
I did not explain it
just smiled and
connected with my journey
and lived my life
therefore I am the enigma
I do not explain you see
and I do not seek to solve the questions
that arise in your mind

Journeys

I told my brother I was going to Inglistaan tonight and he asked: Why UK.
Well, why not UK? For one, if dear Kate and Wills can visit The True North Strong And Free, surely someone should pay a return visit. We know our manners. eh?

To answer that question less facetiously: to meet Amma through Shakespeare, Jane Austen and a visit Westminster Abbey. She opened the world of language and reading for me as a little girl as did Pappa. She sat patiently on the stone bench in Panaji, Goa teaching me to read. Even before that, she would read aloud to me and translate difficult words to Konkani. Gently, every so firmly, she reminded me to write like myself, not someone else; a tall order for a while who devoured Enid Blyton's stories of eggand cress sandwiches and hard boiled eggs, heather and moors. But I did it, slowly and steadily, I learned to tell my own stories and the tories of my people in words that were authentically mine.
As the first born with three younger siblings, I had been sharing her since 6 and left home to get married at 27. I was never given the opportunity to travel alone with Amma in her lifetime, so this is it. Now I can take her with me wherever I go and this is the place that comes to mind. My literary jaunt with my mother.

AND they speak the language !!!

My camera, my journal and mindful moments are on the agenda.

Also I need the experience of travelling alone without dread to break the cycle of seeing Amma hurt and in pain. Both times in 2009 and 2010, I did that. When I flew to Mumbai within 24 hours armed with an emergency visa from the Consulate, I knew or at least anticipated what I was going to.

This time, it's for me. The moment I saw her lying there, minutes after she passed, the picture I carry in my cellphone, I was inspired to live my life not just for my children but also for myself. Although I have Veena, my new born niece waiting in Mumbai, I do not yet have the courage to land in my city and not find Amma; yesterday I had a meltdown just thinking of that.

UK tonight and Vipassana on July 20th are two such attempts.

Yesterday, Disha helped me plan, pack, cull and repack. Ashray helped me pick a camera and is going to teach me to how to operate it. It takes great courage for parents to let their children test their wings. However it takes immense and unconditional love on the part of children to let their parent be a person.

Amma gave birth to me, but my children are helping me grow. They are pushing me out of the nest and waiting for me to test these new wings. What more could I ask for?

"Look Mamma, I made my own lunch, you don't need to worry about me"
" Go Mamma, just go"
" Mamma, I am soooooo proud of you"

I must have gone through multiples lifetimes of misery and strife to be gifted two children as caring, loving and so soul-connected as these two. Now, does that somehow sound better than being asked: "What have I done to deserve children like this". I must tell Amma that when I see her in London.

So back to the question" Why UK"

Surely there is a primordial connection between this place and my soul. The language I learned as a 5 year old has paved my way to take my place in a new world on my terms. Although I mostly think ( and rant,... Oh no, I DO NOT SWEAR) in Konkani, English is my language of expression whether to appreciate the thinking of others or to express my own. I am fascinated by history and how that of my people and my country of birth are intertwined with this place. I smile when a dear, dear friend urges me to sign up on Multicultural Day on behalf 'of the Mother Country' and then curl up in a chair laughting beside her at the gaffe. We went to London for our visa interview in 2001, I delight in the narrative of P.G. Wodehouse and believe me, have received the serendipitous visual treat of seeing a fine gentleman step out from the Underground (I am told Professor Dumbledore has that map on his thigh) in a bowler a la Bertie Wooster.

So this is it: my first ever solo pleasure trip. I have travelled on work, travelled to welcome, travelled to say goodbye, to mourn and grieve. I have travelled to answer questions about my suitablity to settle in Canada and I have travelled to get somewhere.

This time, I am travelling just 'cuz I can. And a soulmate on a sunny patio reminded me the other day that it is okay to do just that. Hungry eyes here too.

Who knows where I will go next: Panama to visit my brother, Antarctica to pay tribute to Jacques Cousteau, snorkelling at the Great Barrier Reef, the tomb of Ho Chi Minh in Hanoi, watch the sunrise over Fuju Yama....

That should be fun. Wait for the postcards.

Happy Birthday, Gurudutt maam

Born Gurudutt Padukone, this fine film maker went on to make some excellent pieces that won critical acclaim. Maybe it was more artsy to be considered Dutt than Padukone ( well, those were the days before dear Deepika).



As I was growing up, my father explained to me the play of light in the song Bichde Sabhi Bari Bari, to me the first born; the pain of the disappointed dreamer in this song. I would go with my parents to watch movies such as Sahib Bibi Aur Ghulam and my Pappa explained to me the symbolism of the clock maker and the tyranny of entitlement (zamindari in that time, another breed today). I remember him laughing with heartfelt delight when at the end of the film, I had asked where the money had gone that the Bhootnath had given Chotti Bahu for safekeeping, the empty shelves were scary; little did I know the meaning of waning fortunes of any kind. Today National Theatre in Panaji lies in ruins and I walked past with the children on the way to 18th June road to buy a classy Titan watch for my son last year. Sudhakar's newspaper stall was still there.
I must have 9 or 10 then. I had enjoyed seeing the world through my father's eyes as he connected with the immense talent of Gurudutt and paved the way for my appreciation of film and story telling. it was our time together, movies and discussion. Today when I talk about books and films with my children, he comes to visit. He stays a while. he would have loved talking about Harry Potter with these two movie buffs that are gifted to me.

Today as I see a photo with a bird perched on the head of the Mahatma, I think of R.K. Laxman, another Pappa link and the question arose: Jinhe naaz par Hind par woh kahaan hai? And a voice softly answered: Right there in your heart, little one. You are proud of your roots aren't you. That's all that matters.

Thank you Gurudutt maam for sharing all this in such a short time. And thanks Pappa for your eyes and your passion.

Family Time

Had an amazing time yesterday with my brother and his family. I had woken up and suddenly realised that it was July 8th, the day I usually landed in Mumbai. See how easy it is to get used to something. I do something for 3 years and it becomes ' my thing' now. And the tears just wouldn't stop, I cried and cried and cried sitting on the swing for a long time.

The pain of thinking of Amma's aging and the shock I used to get every year as to how much more has gone away, how angry I felt at all the people who did not acknowledge the passage of time and treated things as if they would never end and above all my own pain at not being able to accept this change, seeing even my own mortality in her face. The inability to just blink and makes things to what they were, whatever that phase was that I was used to, warts and all.

And I wondered aloud at the Universe about how this day would end.

I guess getting up and living the next moment is the best way to move on with Life, and that is what happened. My daughter woke, we went to the gym, then we shopped some at the mall, came home to pick up my son, got dressed and left for the friend's home.

I want to write more but right now the words do not come, they will later, I know. Until then, the warmth in my heart will have to do. Do you feel it?

Irony

my honey eyed love
waits for me with open arms
yet, I am still here

Writers' Flock

unconditional
presence of friends who are here
invites me to write

Homecoming

6th July, my day
to fly home to my childhood
this year, empty home

Summertime Sisters

A sister takes naps
Another, sings joyful tunes
It must be Summer

Love, suddenly

When love comes to me
In various forms, I smile
and thank you for it

My Commendation Letters

I was invited one day
before a long ago TPA
include your commendation letters
to your binder, if you wish

And I realized that I did not have any
Not one, not a single one
I had something else though
that cannot be filed away
and framed on walls

I have a crowded classroom though
and it fills up everyday, until there is only standing room
My students are shy sometimes
And bold some days
as they enter the room
with their rich, rich schema (a favourite word in room 206)
of many things I do not know, can only imagine

I have to bring in more chairs
For their mothers and their fathers
For their grandfathers and grandmothers
For their uncles and aunts

I see their dreams shine
Whenever I meet them
And they dream just like I do
They want the same things that I want, and you do
For our children

That their child is safe
That she can learn and be happy
and cared for, and fed and celebrated for

Whatever they understand
As a respectable job, not precarious, no layoffs
Schema again.

“Doctors, engineers, dentists”
They say,
as many scoff at
their ignorance of choices

that is our ideal, too isn't it?
Of not being frowned upon
Of having food on the table
Of having enough for our children, and they for theirs?

My students are my badge of honour
They shine and they glow
Yet I have no commendation letters

I have memories,
of food brought, piping hot, vadai, sometimes pongal
Mangoes in May, of tears shed at Grad
of hands held in hallways, with sisterly concern
of phone calls when my child was ill

And the reassurance
That a women’s group at the masjid was
also praying for us

“Borders do not exist between hearts” I say to them always
Dilon ke beech deewarein nahin hoteen
Our countries had fought several wars, you see

And that warmth, this love is what I hold in my heart
Everyday, as I walk with you.

I have no commendation letters.

Dappled, green

It comes suddenly,
this pain and loneliness
and the question
whether you are awake yet
half a world away

no bags to pack this July
and no stifling humidity to stare at
with sleepy eyes at midnight
no cool floors to walk on

just this sadness
and this knot of longing

and the realisation
that this parting is not about me
it was intended
as an answer to your wish
to be safe and free
and well

in whichever form
of energy
you currently inhabit

and the slanting rays
comfort me
as you always have

Haiku one stifling afternoon

cool east facing room,
amid blue walls, enjoying
haiku and blessings