Monday, August 13, 2012

Long distance love

I speak to my sister regularly
two beads on a single strand
that must not unravel in this lifetime

yet our busy lives at opposite ends
of this global village
are disconnected

my question: who was that child in the picture
is met with surprise
and we Skype immediately
to set that right
my ignorance and lack of knowing
that the little one
can walk briskly
and has so many baby teeth
and talks and asserts

like the Blind King of long ago
I wait for the screen to clear
and I see my face in the corner
so like the one I will never see again in that space

the girls are grown, including their mother
who was a baby I held the day she was born
and I, the Elder
give thanks
for invisible heartstrings
and modern technology.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Why do I write?

Awareness of audience and purpose is one of the first things I teach my students when I teach them to write different forms.

And I sit here, this sunny Monday morning wondering why I write. I realise that having the time to write is a luxury with so many things waiting to be done. It is a Monday long weekend, Civic Holiday so I do not have to rush off to my summer course.

All I want to do these days is sit and write these days but there is just no time. There are classes to attend, buses to catch, groceries to buy, lunches and dinners to cook, homework to complete and dreams to dream. I am also preparing to watch my first born go off to a city 5 hours away for her first year of university: a milestone.

I am fast approaching the age that Amma was when Pappa died and am five years younger than what Pappa was when he passed. I am extremely mindful of the wonderful opportunities that I have to get fit, stay well and also to stand up for what I need, opportunities that were never available to either of them.

I guess therefore the responsibility to make this life worth something by paying it forward and also to commemorate the memories of our parents is immensely valuable for me. After all, Pappa is the one who encouraged me to write from as early as grade 5 and Amma taught me to read, long ago in Panaji, Goa. The siblings weren't even born then, there was just them and me. Now from that long ago trio, I remain. With my memories that I cannot share with anyone as they have no context of a time before they existed.

When I write, I write for them too. I write to share my memories with my siblings, my children and their children. I write to invite my students to understand who I am and I write to tell the world that I am here. I was here.
So writing then is a quest for immortality, especially in this day and age when everything I write leaves a footprint that will outlive me.

Scary and comforting, the paradox of being remembered, even if it is in the past tense.

Saturday, August 4, 2012

Thunderstorm thoughts

it rained last night,
a crashing thunderstorm
with clouds rolling in
and it appeared
as if someone up above
was throwing down
enormous buckets of water

and as I sat there
at the table, working
chair pulled closer
to feel the breeze
I smiled at other memories

this morning, at the start of a busy week
the world reassured me
freshly washed and all new
all is well
do not fear
all is well

No bags this July

It comes suddenly,
this pain and loneliness
and the question
whether you are awake yet

and then I realise with a cold hand
that grasps my heart

that half a world away
you have left a void in this physical world

and I have no bags
to pack
this July

and no stifling humidity to stare at
with sleepy eyes at midnight
no familiar, 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 well
in whichever form
of energy
you currently inhabit

and the slanting rays
comfort me
as you always have

My son raised me today

July 2011

Ashray made his own lunch
just now
and for a brief second,
I just stood there
and stared to both the me's

the mother who has always sought
to raise a child, independent
and a recently 'unemployed' me
so I smiled at them both
and sat down to eat.

Me, the enigma

I have always had this visual
of myself as a wheel with many spokes

and each one is
a set of needs

it is okay to have many of those
for years, I was tired
of being asked to explain

why I need to wite,
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 never did answer the question: who are you
asked with confusion in your eyes

just smiled and
continued my journey
lived my life

therefore I am the enigma
I do not seek your approval

ot wish to answer the questions
that arise in your mind

With you, as you grieve

In August 2011, many parts of the UK had exploded with pain and violence as the world watched in horror. This poem is written to those new Londoners who grieved.


You, so proud
of your new country,
all the joy in your eyes

when you spoke of your people
and their strengths
and foresight
even their administration
when they ruled over
your ancestors' land for years

Now as the fires rage around you,
I hold you in my heart
and say this

forgive the lapses
for we are all people
deep inside

with anger
and prejudice
and hatred
and envy

yet there is also
deep, deep love
and this too shall pass
nothing lasts forever
not the mirage of normalcy
nor the anger

all passion is spent
sooner than later
and then comes the calm
the regret

and the peace
slowly poking its head
from amidst the ruins
and we build again

as we have always done
through centuries
of existence

all that lives on is love
remember that
as your heart beats on

and place your hand over it
as I would have done
had I been beside you tonight

Me, in you

My niece on
Christmas day 2010
at a quiet park
where I used to go
as a little girl,
says,
nose to nose
"Akku, I see myself
in your eyes.

This is magic"
I, The Elder
now that I am
officially in the frontline

and the little one, the future,
making memories together

Neither knew when
we would meet again

and I don't think we cared
that crisp afternoon

Last September, my first class

Today, I start my Masters course work. My son insisted I take one more pen and my daughter placed three well sharpened pencils in my hand yesterday as the three of us organised our bags and binders yesterday. After a day of doing nothing and a dinner for four, I went to sleep with memories of my first school days at Shishuvihar coming back to me, also Mary Immaculate in Goa when I was still the only child when I started grade 1. I did not speak a word of English in my grade 1 class and sat through the whole day peeking to see if my rain coat was still where Amma had hung it, salmon orange with large yellow daisies, Oh I loved it so. Sister Angela spoke to me in Konkani the first week and then miraculously forgot how to do it, so I had to learn how to speak English.
So much has happened since then: utaar chadhaav of fortunes and the twists and turns of life. Today perhaps 41 years after I first started school of any kind, I am off again. This time to complete my Masters as a step towards my PhD: I am now a dreamer where I was then a runner. I still want my Amma, just as I did then. Except then, I could run out of the school building with my teacher and EA in hot pursuit as they cut me off on the way home (did I even know how to get there?). Today there is nowhere to run to, I can find her in my heart and I am still getting used to that. And I yearn to hear her voice.

Rez ready

In less than three weeks, my daughter is going off to university.

The feelings and sensations are amazing and extremely overwhelming at times. This is a person I have known as a thought first, then as little flutter. Every steps seems to be guided by my decision to invite this child into my life, although of one thing leading to another there was never a guarantee.

I remember falling in love with the name first and the idea of having a daughter in 1988 long years before I even had a father in mind! That's all it boiled down to in the end I suppose: the courtship as we socially know it, is then perhaps just a mating dance to pick the right DNA. Candid? That's what I'm thinking right now!

And now it is time to sit back and wonder about who this child is and what she takes with her into the world. What she has inside of herself as experiences, desires and aspirations and a unique quality of seeing the world with her own eyes.

Simple tasks such as bringing out her passport and health card and leaving them for her to pack, buying a toilet brush for her to take with her and helping her do laundry or use her ATM card are as poignant as teaching her to walk. Because this is what it is: I am teaching my daughter to walk into the world, knowing some things, not knowing others. I am also teaching myself to walk in mine.

And as my vision blurs, I am aware that she has what it takes to create her own destiny with the tiny hands that had one tapped me from the inside. She is still here, in every fiber of my being.

My daughter, my friend, my Guru.
Khudha hafiz.

Monday, June 4, 2012

Monday

the backyard is verdant,
blue jays, the avian kind, beckon
guess who's dragging her feet
Ah, another work day: mixed blessings

Saturday, June 2, 2012

The long road of mindful activism


Dear Fellow Traveller, 

Those who stay within the boundaries of professionalism for the greater good of communities are not sheep. Those who work tirelessly without fireworks are not sheep.

And because they are not sheep, they do not follow mindlessly.

If that understanding were true then all of us who are within the system who are working in our own way would be sheep. There are times to nod and smile and there are times to forge ahead. 


Both have to be planned approaches, therefore strategically used.

From my experience, I know that when I stand up for people, I am not popular. 


When I stand up for core beliefs and issues, I am challenged. 

That is part of the learning and growth for me. 

All I know is that if I keep issues in focus, things begin to make sense. 

And I have to learn to trust somebody, sometime. Else, the loneliness in activism is deafening.

Friday, June 1, 2012

Rainy Friday





drenched peonies and
rainy day, hot samosas,
chai, weekend un-plans

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Set me free

Knowing what I do
that when I reached out
I clawed into empty spaces
searching for someone
to reach out
and hold my hand

Isn't it the law of Karma that
I do not find it in my heart to stand
and wait
for one more needy grasp
of one more SOS
of one more false scare
each one, a shackle
on my dancing feet?

all these years
all those times
all those ignored moments
all those, "later maybe"
and "when I have a moment"
and "why can't you do it yourself,
"if only you tried harder"...



One question here:
where were you
when I needed you


Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Afghan Sister



I remember her vividly, from a life long past. She was all over the media, whatever little there was then. The National Geographic photograph of the riveting gaze. And the intrusion of the photographer's gaze not unknown to me, as a Mumbai girl. I knew only too well.

You cannot live in Mumbai and notknow the Colonial Gaze. We, young folk then,  scoffed at the camera toting tourists clicking away at the faces, the urchins, the pigeons, the Taj Mahal Hotel, the Gateway and streedside squalor as I nimbly side-stepped the puddle to get to the bus and go home. Even as I write this, I am transported to Kala Ghoda and the dusk rush to the train or the buses that belched out smoke and people in my beloved city. I wanted to stay back in the City, walk along Marine Drive a while, but home beckoned with its dutied lined up neatly row after row. Mothering work for me started earlier than expected, long before I was a mother.

I forgot about her for a long time, went on to live my life and do my mothering work. Then suddenly she came into my life again, this time with a weather beaten face, a middle aged woman, with the gaze still strong yet the lines telling stories I could not imagine. This was perhaps the time of The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns and I admired the resolve and the lives, much like the ones I had left behind. One has to eat, I chose to eat here, in my adopted home. She continued to live where she was placed, perhaps until someone does a 25th anniversary special.

Then yesterday, I met her again, in both her avatars: on the pages of my soul-brother's assignment. I read the first few lines of his paper and admired the fact that at such a young age, he had the resolve and untainted courage to know the heartfelt good of his own people fromoft- repeated "truths". We went on to work together and finish the seminar presentation. And at the end of that 14 hour day, due to the mad pace from the work day to the school day, I was hungry, very. Although I have a Bamiyan Kabob right beside my home, I had never been there. And here it was on my path. So in I went and I just sat there. And looked around me.

The laughter and conversation of the family members working together in the kitchen and at the counter were welcoming. The recommendations impeccable, the smiles genuine, the lines, the eyes honest.
As I sat watching the purple twilight descend on the university campus in front of me,  I looked lovingly at those beautiful photographs:  enlarged and framed in heavy wooden frames they told a story of a people from their own eyes. The intricate carvings inlaid with azure and ochre, the curved dome of the mosque, the resolve of the devout as they walked towards their faith.

One thing is certain: media tales and one sided stories do not do justice to these ancient cultures and the true stories: they are inadequate, and unidimensional, bland and biased.

I sat there, surrounded by people yet quite solitary. I remembered the wonderfully ancient statues of the Buddha carved into the hillside, the historical twists that shaped the unreality of so many lives. And I stayed with that thought awhile. How our lives are indeed interconnected, how late we realise it.

All I could think of, pray for: please let those beautiful marble walls never be destroyed, or become pock marked.

May the Azaan never fail to call.

May the roses still bloom in carpets and gardens.

May hearts remain open to understand that all ways are possible.

May there be peace. 


Thursday, March 1, 2012

Monsoon memories

Countless times
as a little girl
I watched raindrops in Goa
chase one another
down the window
how blessed that childhood
without distractions

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Skype time

Skype Time
I am caught in a time warp.
I check my phone as soon as I wake
to check pictures of the babies and little girls
that my siblings are raising.

I am the Elder and I am not on site.

Some days it is a good thing,
as I am too busy to do more
than plod though my course readings
and write my responses.
There is no free time, not yet at least.

So I email them
and ask for Skype time.

My niece says to me: "Pachchi, I love you" in the background
even as her mother talks to me.
She knows that I can hear her
in the distance.

I holler back at her: "I love you too"
Heartstrings, underwater cables, satellites, 3G network:
when heartstrings are synched, it is all good.

Thank you, Steve.

Friday, February 24, 2012

My motorcycle brother

I am at a delightful, family-owned cafe on Main Street Markham. The radio plays softly in the background. Sounds of conversations, laughter, the clink of cutlery and the buzz of a cash register flow over my senses. There is a subtle fragrance of food, fresh baking, the aroma of coffee. In a 'double-tall-extra-hot-non-fat-latte' world, where I can register my plastic card and am just one more hit on the website, this little oasis is a gift. It is warm here, in every way. That's why I return.

It is Markham's not-so-best-kept secret, we are that proud of it. We like to flaunt it to our friends, we like to bring our children, we like to go there by ourselves. Enough of the synechdoche, I like to do all that and more. I come here to sit, to write, to dream.

Today is one of those days. With a life that is cluttered with deadlines, such a gift of time, eye appointment or not, is to be celebrated. And I have decided to break my one-cup-a day rule. Livin' it up, I am a rebel today, more than ever.

I have often sat by the back wall that leads to the parking lot. As a regular now, I know exactly which lot to park in and walk in with minimal slush on my shoes. This wall is adorned with family pictures: parents, a young boy, a lovely daughter. I notice that the mother has gifted her glowing eyes to the girl. There are also pictures of motorcycles and trips that have become stories for the rider. I dream of my own journey.

The father places freshly baked bread in the glass case. The son goes from speaking in his beautiful mother tongue with family members, as they move around one another in well rehearsed orbits and with equal fluency, talks hockey ( to me a foreign tongue) to patrons. They are all addressed by name.

I engage him in coversation and ask about the motorcycle trip and the pictures. I share with him my dream of riding across this vast country, coast to coast, on a motor cycle the year I turn 50. He shares his own stories and those of his friends, older than I am, who at 73 have made similar trips.
As he moves on to his next set of chores, I say to him: " I still have a few years. Until then, I will just keep coming back to your wall and sit with my coffee and dream".

"Yes", he says: "Dreaming is important. Dreams get you there".

My motorcycle brother, until today unknown, is my newest inspiration.

Now for one more cup of coffee and one more dream.



A day of surprises



It is a day for surprises. I like surprises, at least the ones I am prepared for. The trick is to learn how to enjoy those that spring out unannounced, the real surprises.


I had a doctor's appointment today and dropped off my son at a friend's place to catch the school bus. A few minutes later, I had to go back and pick him up as buses were cancelled, so I guess I had him all to myself all day. Now that's a good thing: as a full time working mother juggling two Master's courses and work related paperwork crying out for attention, deadlines have taken over my life. Things dont get easier, I just bet more competent at juggling multiple items. Some days I wonder lying in bed at 5 am why 10 pm is so far away, as that's the time I get back home from university. So I was quite looking forward to a day to myself with no one else at home, a rare luxury for my timebound self.

Well, anichcha. He is off to high school soon. What a blessing to have my able bodied child with me the whole day when last year was wrought with pain and indecision.

So appointment done, emails answered, we are at breakfast and I meet my MotorCycle brother for the first time.