Ready to die yet?

 I remember 

a few years ago 

when I was boarding 

a flight to get to

Mumbai suddenly 

as Amma was sick 

I had a thought 

on the way to the airport: omg 

I haven't taught my kids 

how to cut a mango!! 

I can't die yet. 

And yesterday I saw 

my son

expertly cut one. 

Now I must make a list 

of all he needs to know 

and teach him all that 

and quickly.

In the meantime 

I'm enjoying mangoes! 

I shall teach him how to cut 

a pineapple next. 

And then breadfruit 

and jackfruit... 

I can't die yet,

I can't die yet. 

An everyday ladhaai

An everyday ladhaai 

They said that about

Wars fought to

Conquer others' lands

Or subjugate evil

That a battle fought

On many fronts is successful

So we do that now

In classrooms

Boardrooms

Admin meetings

And election platforms 

On twitter 

And through the stories

We tell the children

one by one,

You and I, every day

Alone,

Apart

Together

In spirit 

We break 

the master's house 

with the master's tools
and some others, we craft together

one 

brick 

at 

a 

time. 

2014 (c)

The glow of an Angel

Your daughter's 

child

Is a link 

I see

With the cheeks

that we all share

And perhaps 

a 

glimmer 

of 

you

Sometimes I wonder if

It's shapes in clouds

That I see

Or is it something 

beyond DNA

That makes a child look

Like a grandmother 

she's never seen

Yet whose presence 

Is imprinted into her being

I remember 

how much my Pappa 

loved you

And called you Angel

Perhaps it is you then

Whose star light shines

Through Swara's smile

(In memory of my aunt, Anjala Karnad-Dhume)

(C) 2014

Art for art's sake: not at my cost

A recent piece written by an unseen friend and one childhood friend regarding  the backlash against pictures in a public transport setting are making me think of Epistemology- why do we know what we know. And how do we acknowledge the layers of responses with a compassionate setting. You know what they say- you had to be there. I'm a woman who to this day in urban spaces in my adopted home marvel at the space bubble around me. What? No groping? 

While I would agree with the response to the backlash against the photos and points made regarding the issue of "professional" jealousy and sabotage of careers, the picture of the two men with the girl between them did evoke a visceral distaste and panic in me. As a Vipassana meditator I was able to breathe through the twists in my chest and trace their origin. 

Travelling on Western Railway trains at 10 pm after doctor calls as a medical representative, I've dreaded everyday the signal stops of the train over the Bandra Creek. I've also experienced the slow inching forward of predatory men in trains and in Mumbai over two decades ago. In Goa four years ago in broad daylight, I've rushed away from a beach shack at Colva with my two children to the safety of a CCD just so that the leery beery gaze of men did not result in a whole scale follow- who wants fish an chips at a time like that? 

And it's nothing to with being a woman alone. I'd worry for my son too. Remember Arundhati Roy's movie theatre scene in God of small things? I've clutched my belly then with my boy still inside. 

So, before I throw away the backlash as backward or not appreciative of art, I'd look at the epistemology of the discomfort. 

The male gaze, the colonial gaze, the hetero gaze, are all deeper potlas that need to be unpacked one skein at a time. 

Think Bandra Creek and slowing Western Railway Train. Would you let our niece or daughter or son be in that situation alone? That's the litmus test. 

(C) 2014

When ceilings cave in, what do I do?

There are writing days and not writing days, I realise as I sit with jazz playing on the phone and the sunshine dappled outside. The fragrance of mogra agarbattis waft through the house. That's got one more shade of yellow in a bathroom that was unused for many months.

I remember the shock of the evening, as I was preparing to drive home after a very meaningful workshop on culturally sensitive pedagogy in May. 22nd it was. As is my habit, I checked my cell phones to confirm that the kids were okay before I drove off to get home. What in the world is that, I startled, looked again at the photo that filled my 4S screen. Red, black blotched, and all over the bathtub, the ceiling had fallen into the bathtub. I was shocked and delighted that while this was OMG a huge expense, my son was not injured due to a delay at school. Else he would have been in the tub showering after school. And hurt. 

It was a very odd and sad night. Is the house falling apart, do we have to move, where shall I find the money to get this fixed? Many questions swirled through our minds and I am sure we said less to one other than we did to ourselves.

And now looking back, I wonder how those weeks were a metaphor for life at this time in my life. The ceiling came crashing down, there's debris everywhere. So what did we do?

We shut the door, turned on the exhaust regularly to let the mugginess reduce, we started using another space until this got sorted out. We did not sit at the door of that crashed-in washroom and weep, we did not moon over what now and what next. We just shut that door and waited for each day to work itself through. And it did. 

So now there's this matter of an incomplete form that has to be sent back that made me feel incompetent. I know now to brush off that feeling as someone else's judgement from an oppressive past that is not, over.

I shall just print that form, fill it out, sign it and fax it off to wherever it has to go. Before long, that matter too will be resolved. 

So that's all it is. Until the ceiling gets fixed, just shut the door and live one day at a time.

And think of the day when the skylight streams sunshine down.

For Abshir, on this sunlit day

What kind of a world is this

Where young men call their friends in the wee hours

To tell of a brother shot dead 

At the kerbside ?

 I find out from 

An app alert

And hope 

that it isn't you

Naah, I say

Surely there's more

Of your name, Abshir 

Though I knew that

There's just one you

Who found time to chat between classes

And apologized for a late response to an email 

just a few months ago

I hope and 

block out 

all questions swirling 

like fallen leaves 

through my scattered mind

But confirmations come

"Our Abshir?" I ask

And a response: yes, 

our Abshir!

then the numb hollow

In my heart

In this 

tortured, 

twisted 

space

An email mocks me 

My inbox, 

With your heartfelt words 

Just like at

Winters and TEL

"I'll come to your class someday

I promise"

Come to my class today

You did, Abshir 

we 

taught 

poetry 

together

Like 

we'd 

planned to

Me, trapped in this

Heavy cage of bones

And you, 

a wisp of mist

This sunshine day

already a memory

What kind of place is this

Where we mourn 

young men

Dead before their time

What 

kind 

of place 

is 

this? 

July 8th, 2014(c)

Parking lot of summer school

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.