When I Write

it is usually a tribute to a feeling

that I am currently in
or one that just passed
leaving me on the shore of

a more peaceful place
sometimes you may find
yourself in it

and sometimes
you may wonder
who caused the pain

sometimes I write from
the lens of another
whose situation is
very inspiring
or thought-provoking

as when I wrote about
being released from
Arthur Road Jail
(never been there, magar yun-hi)

either way
let it be
as I am
letting you

live your life
by your rules
what else is there

but to observe
and walk by

especially when
you chose that option
long ago..

stay safe
know that you too
are special

who caused the pain
or you
who were the best friend

why wonder

did I even once
say your name?

Freedom Of Another Kind

The soul-mate ring I bought
for myself
at the Ex years ago adorns my
heart finger
and matches the silver
that shines in my hair
deeming me an Elder

And I smile
when I realise the freedom of that

the angst comes when we expect
people to do for us
what we want for ourselves
and I guess I can nurture myself well
if I recognise
that I know myself best.
oh the joy of that
the peace

All the love I have
is still in my heart
it is sent to you and you and you
and of this I am not ashamed
nor sad
'cause all the selves I ever was
who love you and you and you
are still there
inside me
to keep me warm
 
and with those soul-hugs
I feel your love and laughter
that was once lost
and is now found

Coin purse

In from the softly falling snow

buying coffee
to keep me going through

the next few hours
the change in my purse
makes me smile

some rupees, some two
some dollars, some quarters
and dimes

just like me
all mixed up together

the Indian and Canadian bits of me
with a `small decaff, one milk please. To go` here
and a `kitna hua`there

and each part special
each part just right
just me

Sleepwalking

Milliken Mills Library

Tutoring on a snowy day

January 15th, a month
after I made
my last heart-bursting trip

I think back to
all your wisdom
your softly spoken words
and your reassurance

This too shall pass
You do not know how strong you are until
you are thrown into the deep end
I live for thee

and many more

I now whisper them
as I shush myself to sleep
pretending as if

it is really you
who talks me through
my dreams

and I oversleep somedays
meandering through the twisted trails
of oblivion

hoping I bump into you
we'd stop for a chat
sit on a park bench together

walk a while
and laugh as we did before

yet the incessant alarm bells
of technology
and my own clock
trapped inside
nudge me forward

to wakefulness and
to face another long day
with just
the whiff of you

Look Amma, I am growing up

The disbelief comes and goes and that is okay. We fear the emotions because of how they make us feel. But it is the real thing to sit quietly and acknowledge them as they swirl through the fog and rise to the surface. We cannot neglect them or negate them or ignore them. As I take them to the front of our consciousness, I find that they change, they evolve from grief to sadness to acceptance and they move on to become a deeper connection with something special that Amma means to me, just me. As I take from that pain perhaps one smile, one memory, one tearful laugh, it is now some other feeling.

Sometimes two feelings exist side by side and I am surprised at them too. Relief that she is out of pain and grief that I can never hear her voice. Then relief that I remember how she sounds and joy that she enjoyed her birthday. This is meditation. We do not have to go sit under a tree to find salvation. The Buddha did it for us and His lessons are out there for us to learn from.So I sit and without judgement, observe my pain as I would observe clouds change shape in the sky, watch a fish glidethrough the water or a bird fly in front of me. I observe and let it move through me.

This seems to be working for now. I do have moments of gut wrenching grief and soundless sobs that wrack me and sometimes quiet tears that slide down my face. That too is okay.How unrealistic it is if we expect to feel nothing after so many years of being gifted this wonderful person in our lives. That would not be fair. So I must not expect ourselves to 'recover' from this ever. We will get better at the 'observe and move through' stages and also with the realigning of our frequency with her current wavelength.

What dreams may come, I must acknowledge them.

Look Amma, I am growing up.



We found her

We finally found her
both of us did
together

that girl
from 25 years ago
who  is a silver haired Elder now


and she remembers one thing
after another
as do you
and you wait patiently

as she sifts some and
you pick something up
a trinket here, a sliver there

the trip to IIT on high heeled shoes
the fainting after
the blood donation at the gym

the Annamalai trip
sleeping on an icy bench at Pollachi

and how you looked after her
when she was in pain
as you travelled without reservations
on a shoestring budget
the whistling school boy
as we sat in sunshine
under the sprawling tree
on the hill

she does not remember
your eyes
when you decided to leave

she does not remember
the goodbyes
there were none

she doesn't remember asking why
or begging you to stay

she did not plead
because you did not say
you were on your way

unwillingly
your hands bound
by the aspirations
of others

and she believes that
the parting was bigger
than both of you

and sometimes, just sometimes
when the Universe

has unfinished business
it allows U turns

Make Music

The floodgates have opened,
there is no going back now.

silently, without warning,
another thought drops
into my consciousness
making me smile

And I wait for more..
Music
and your voice
to find the tunes again

to receive a tiny airplane
fixed with tiny pins, (taachni I said and
you smiled)

until then we have my poetry
till your prose turns
into melodies

Lenses

A visual treat of

photographs

viewed by sensitive eyes
woke me up
to my reality
this early morning

as I inhabit
the time zone of my birth
once again, waiting for pieces of
myself to coalesce into who I am

I saw in those images
the wistful touch of gnarled hands
on cool marble floors
praying for something unseen

my own people
seen as the other
a sister, force fed
to prevent tainting
the conscience of
those who don't care as much
as they are supposed to

souls, soles and stories
told by an unseen brother
Sanjay

who lives up to his name
and helps me see
sights far away
from my physical self

Monsoon Girl

I grew up on the west coast of India where the Monsoons herald a break from the stifling heat and bring cool breezes and green vistas. ( and food in bellies too) Now in Canada, I hear so many complaints about the weather ( sure it snows, did we not hear about that in that latitudes lesson in geography class?) Clearly the himmat of Mumbai has spoilt me.

I continue to revel in the rain and this sometimes irritates people around me. Someone once grumpily said to me: Stop smiling, you are not in Mumbai anymore. Stop enjoying the rain"

And I quipped, still smiling: "The trees and plants in Canada need water too, don't they"

I am glad we have not yet messed up up this beautiful pattern and pray that we never do. The turning cycles of the weather teach me hope.

Monsoon girl is still smiling.

Sleepwalking

Milliken Mills Library
Tutoring on a snowy day
January 15th, a month
after I made
my last heart-bursting trip

I think back to
all your wisdom
your softly spoken words
and your reassurance

This too shall pass
You do not know how strong you are until
you are thrown into the deep end
I live for thee
and many more

I now whisper them
as I shush myself to sleep
pretending as if
it is really you
who talks me through
my dreams

And I oversleep somedays
meandering through the twisted trails
of oblivion
hoping I bump into you

we'd stop for a chat
sit on a park bench together
walk a while
and laugh as we did before

yet the incessant alarm bells of technology
and my own clock trapped inside
nudge me forward
to wakefulness and
to face another long day with
just the whiff of you

Coin Purse

In from the softly falling snow
buying coffee to keep me going through
the next few hours

the change in my purse
makes me smile

some rupees, some two
some dollars, some quarters
and dimes

just like me
all mixed up together
the Indian and Canadian bits of me

with a `small decaff, one milk please. To go` here
and a `kitna hua`there

each part special
each part just right
just me

A new year, a new me?

I did not expect to feel so settled therefore pleasantly surprised. The first few days back were brutal and then it sinks in that this is it. And I have to move forward. Small routines, like waking up at 5 and sitting with a candle lighting up the serene face in the photograph. The candle flickers on and I brace myself to get through the next step: just get ready and get through that door....

The siblings sounds so grown up now when they call. They want to see how I am doing as I am here by myself. They apologise for asking questions about this and that related to our loss. "Do you feel as if you grew up twice, Didi? Once when Pappa died and again now" Oh, they were so little. And to think now they stand taller than I do.

The void is what got to me at first until I look inward and in doing so fill in the gaps.

And the circle of love that held me this week: the children with their unconditional love, Deval with his no-nonsense management of day to day matters, the students who scan my face for signs of grief and even when I am not teaching them, pass my door asking " Are you okay, Ms. Karnad-Jani" They sometimes just stand there and watch me go about my filing and marking and then they say bye and off they go, reassured that I will make it through until I see them again.

My sisters at school, with an early morning hug, a passing smile, a kind word. And the stoic presence of the brothers who stand beside me; the banter, the silent glance, the wave across the hallway.

I am thankful for so much love, so many blessings. A new year, a new me. Amma has left me with enough to get me through the rest of my life. She has left me the resilience to face each day, the grace to give thanks, the courage to keep standing. And above all to believe in her oft repeated reminder: This too shall pass.

Three weeks ago, I remember sitting and observing myself beside her still form. Today, I marvel at the innate strength she left in each of us.

This too is immortality.

Mee Mumbaikar

Mornings meant tending to the ceremonial lamp for 13 days in my parents' home surrounded by memories. And in the early hours before my daily puja, I walked the streets of my beloved neighbourhood.
A former hub of the textile industry, Naig...aum-Parel is now the elite mid-town for those who have the land. For those who did not have anything, tuberculosis was the gift.

Slum Dog indeed. What do you know?
It takes a certain grit and determination to live through the squalor. And to live with dignity, to wear crisply ironed clothes to work and to school, to line up for crowded trains where at anytime the random bullets of a glassy eyed gunman can make one a mere statistic. I return to the street of my Mumbai, as a Mumbaikar. Never as an expat, never as a First World Citizen. I return as a daughter and I am welcomed with open arms.

Mee, Mumbaikar.

Just sitting

this is not even grief: no stages here
it is a deep despair
like oil slick
that threatens to cut off my breath
like falling down the rabbit hole that never ends

and when people
however well meaning
console and counsell,
I wish they had learned to just sit
and be there
instead of wanting to

make themselves useful
and get inside my thoughts

and not seek to tell me
how their grief was worse

and mine is better
as I had three hours before the end

why is it about you I want to ask
and risk the outraged looks: after all the trouble
they went through to support me

I have one title less than before
I have one question now:

Do I cease to be a daughter,
now that
I am an orphan?