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.

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.

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.