From the ashes

As a child, I loved epics. Now, as my mother narrates to me tales from memory and hearsay, of an era that I had not witnessed, it is with the same passion that I listen. Someday, I shall compile all those narrations into a book.

As years add to my life, the urge to know where I come from….the urge to dig deeper into my own roots, dominates my inquisitiveness. I urge my mother to narrate to me episodes from her childhood, which give me glimpses of life then, and of people who were my own blood, but people who faded away into deep recesses of time as yet another generation unfolded.

I never cared much for my lineage or my roots when I was young. It was only as my mind grew with the experiences that life treated me to, that I paused to marvel at and treasure the emotions I felt and the thoughts that crossed my mind, most of which seemed to operate at a purely subconscious level. I never knew where they came from, and I seemed to have no control over them, but to flow with their natural flow, was to experience paradise. They took me across untrodden paths, undiscovered lands and uncharted seas….they took me to my first feel of infinity.

It was for the first time that I regarded my mind as if it were something distinct from what I knew to be ‘me’, and I realized that my mind was a gift from my lineage- an immortal treasure that had been passed across generations, and perhaps the only immortal link between me and my ancestors. In science, they call it genetics. Suddenly, I felt very close to my ancestors. It was as if they stood by my side, watching me experience this moment of eerie elation.

I had always believed that I borrowed from my mother’s lineage, much more than from my father’s. And I felt this special reverence for those ancestors I didn’t even know.

My mother is my only link to my family clan. She tells me about the 300-400 years old ancestral house which was recently demolished. I always feel an ache deep within when I see its remnants, but then it was falling apart in any case. Now, only the foundation remains, and it is overgrown with grass and weeds. Where generations lived, the earth has now claimed back what belonged to it. The trees stand tall, some as old as the house, perhaps older, and I look up at them in silent reverence, for have they not witnessed my past? They have stood through time, witnessing all. My mother’s great-grandmother, who was a very religious and pious woman, and who mysteriously disappeared because of an apparently agonizing pain that brought into her life a lot of suffering. My great-grandmother, who would bustle about the house, seeing all, missing nothing, shouldering responsibilities with a composure that defied their magnitude. She was a beautiful woman, with profound emotional depth, and an intellect that surpassed her years. When she was eventually bed-ridden by a fracture than never healed, we cut her hair short, and she could have easily passed for a Caucasian. She was the picture of radiance….and of tranquility. Her absence remains a permanent void in my life and in my mother’s life. And then my grandmother, who I have no memories of, because she passed away from cancer, when I was barely an year old. Music was her domain, and all her children inherited that gift from her.

 

My mother tells me of a second cousin who was very philosophical from a very young age. He had no inclination towards materialistic aspects of life, and in his teens, he left home to lead the life of an ascetic. Even as a child, people found it hard to imbibe his philosophical and spiritual thoughts. I do not know why it left me with tears. Perhaps because I can on occasion feel what he felt. Those moments when a series of emotions and thoughts flow across the mind, dettaching one from all that is ‘real’, connecting one intimately to something that is more real- the inner self. For many people, this is madness. Simply because it is beyond their comprehension.

I have often wondered what madness or mania means. These days, as I learn to integrate what I have learnt from Medicine and from life, I often believe that mania is a state where the subconscious mind unleashes itself from the conscious. And the subconscious mind is very powerful- like the sun. If we were to be exposed to the sun directly, it would blind us to everything external. In mania, we drown in the radiance of our own subconscious mind. Even in the brief moments of subconscious writing that I experience, I find within me a powerful emotion that overpowers all else, that makes me slave to it, that shuts out everything else. Words escape my mind much before they have come to the notice of the conscious mind. The conscious lags, and eventually fails, to keep track of and keep a check on the subconscious. In the end, I am drained, for it has been such a powerful emotion that has just left me.

One portion of our grove houses the dead; their ashes and their bones lie deep within the earth here. I wonder where the dead go. Can they hear us? In the silence of the grove, I always feel the invisible presence of my ancestors- their faces a blur, save for the ones who have been a part of my life in the past. In the fading light of dusk, I experience them within myself. And I want to tell them that I am indebted to them for their immortal gift that I harbour within. They have heard me. A soft wind blows and leaves rustle, as if echoing the acknowledgement of a hundred ancestors. For I have finally learnt to take pride in my lineage and to value it.

I have watched death-rites being performed on the banks of the Bharathapuzha, which to me, is the soul of Kerala. The river fascinates me in a mysterious way. The culture that thrives along the regions that this river flows through, is what I relate to the most. Despite the fact that in reality, the river is alien to me. And yet, all the glimpses of life that are based on this culture, which I have experienced by way of books and movies and people, fail to surprise me. For that is the culture that thrives within my mind. Is this where I belong in truth? Is that why I experienced a supernatural connection with this river, even as a child, when we passed its banks on train journeys? It is my greatest desire to spend a day on the sandy banks of this river, for I know that I shall experience something profound. And it is also my greatest desire that in death, I would want my ashes to merge into this river. For this is where I have come from, and this is where I belong.

Now, I find myself standing at a juncture, where I spread my tentacles deep into my roots, integrating with a past that is spanned across time, and from this pedestal, I look at a future that emanates from me, and that will span across time. Past, present and future merge at ‘me’. Did I just spell out ‘immortal’?

 

Freedom

I was home and the whole day lay ahead of me. The very thought was delicious. It was one of those rare holidays when the day was all mine, with nothing that demanded my immediate attention. I cherish the state of mind such days bring with them- unhurried, with a slow tempo and the sort of silence and stillness where every sensory perception percolates deep within, generating an emotional flavor that floods the heart with unbound joy.

I felt like Tom Sawyer, delighted at my freedom. The author has so beautifully captured in that little story the worth of freedom. A child perhaps values freedom over and above everything else. When I think of my childhood, it reverberates with the perceptions of a mind with unrestricted freedom. An adult is perhaps ‘conditioned’ to prioritize a million things over and above his freedom. But given a choice, there is nothing that he would perhaps value more than his freedom. 

Today was one such day- a day that spoke of promises…of possibilities…of miracles. I watched the leaves fall from the trees- there was some grace in the way they fell. Clouds moved across the sky…so very slowly. The coconut palms swayed gently with the wind. The eagles flew high in the sky in slow circles. I drank my tea in slow sips, allowing the flavor to flood my senses. Today, I could feel the warmth of the sun rays. Today, I was all that surrounded me. I was the cloud in the sky, the bulbul chirping on the tree, the butterfly fluttering its wings, the sun shining in the sky. Today, there was no ‘me’….there was only the world around…and the beauty that it radiated. Today, I was at the heart of nature. Its slow tempo percolated effortlessly into the nothingness of my mind, healing and rejuvenating my mind. 

The ideal purpose of a holiday or a vacation in the course of our fast paced lives and our faster paced minds should be such a rejuvenation- a liberation from the millions of thoughts we feed into our minds each day to keep pace with the world around…to keep our places in this world- our career, our relationships, our possessions…to stabilize ourselves at the expense of the stability of our minds. And then, most of us take that ‘vacation package tour’ to exotic places and return with the happiness of having indulged in an ‘exotic’ vacation. Our mind sighs, but we refuse to acknowledge it. We dope ourselves all along with fancy foods, extravagant houses, trendy cars and clothes, social status and enviable lifestyles. Our life appears full from the outside. Deep inside, the mind yawns. We dope ourselves more to overcome this ‘boredom’ and take quicker strides towards obesity and cardiovascular disease.

I found myself moved by these words from Anne Frank’s diary:

“I looked out of the open window over a large area of Amsterdam, over all the roofs and on the horizon, which was such a pale blue that it was hard to see the dividing line. As long as this exists, and I may live to see it, this sunshine, the cloudless skies, while this lasts, I cannot be unhappy. The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quite alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of Nature. Riches can all be lost, but the happiness in your own heart can only be veiled, and it will still bring you happiness again, as long as you live.”

"Moonam pakkam" : The third day

Review:

Moonam pakkam, like all other works of Padmarajan, is a piece of creative ingenuity.
The movie is centered around human relationships- the delicate nature of human relationships, their complexity, and the way the ordinary pattern of our lives revolves around these relationships. It focuses on the simple things that give meaning and purpose to life.
In this movie, the main focus is on the relationship between Jayaram (grandson) and Thilakan (grandfather). Jayaram gives meaning to Thilakan’s life, justifying his continuing existence.
But, on a closer look, we are made to realize that the movie portrays a delicate network of intertwined relationships:
Nalini, whose life is solely nourished by Thilakan’s generosity.
Bhadra, whose dreams and goals revolve around Jayaram. While her grandfather fills the void of her parents, Jayaram gives her life a direction, a goal.
Jagathi- yet another lonely soul, who integrates himself into Thilakan’s network and fills the void in his own life.
The old doctor, whose association with Thilakan is so old and deep that one tends to overlook it.
They are all people deprived in their own ways, but the deprivation is buried by the social network that these people have created, filling the void in each others’ lives, and giving warmth to each other.
On the peripheries of this network of human relationships, are physical factors, which derive meaning from the rim of human existence that surrounds them- the lovely old house built in wood, the pond, the trees and fields, the sea and sands, the forts and ruins…
Death will always be a haunting fiasco in all our lives. This movie addresses the impact of death on our carefully woven lives.
Death targets our near and dear, and we learn to come to terms with it…we shift our goal and focus, and we continue to live.
Sometimes, death brings to surface the depth of a relationship. Also, death is powerful; it puts back the focus on all the negativities surrounding us, highlighting our hollow existence. Both these are highlighted with great sensitivity in this movie:
The grandson-grandfather relationship is so deep, that it is ordinary and natural. Had the grandson not met with death, the essence of this relationship would have been lost on us.
Also, while the grandson lives, Thilakan’s platter seems full. His grandson’s death brings to light the frightful loneliness and emptiness in his life.
This movie has a simplicity about it. It is so ordinary that one would mistake it for real life. Like Vincent says- simple works of art are the most difficult to replicate coz they have practiced the most rigid elimination.
Like all of Padmarajan’s movies, the location is a tranquil place, with immense natural beauty, and very little people…where one can hear the sounds of nature.
This movie is built on a deep rooted emotional plane- there is no element of heightened emotion all along the movie, and then it terminates abruptly with a haunting climax, throwing on our face, the horrors and the powers of reality, that we so cleverly choose to not acknowledge.

The purpose of life

I remember myself as this weak-minded, vulnerable and sensitive girl who was almost terrified of pain as an emotion. When I see little Swathi shielding her eyes from the TV screen because she cannot bear to watch the scene where a little child is being kidnapped, I am reminded of my own self. I feared pain…I feared having to feel pain. Perhaps I believed that I would eventually learn to build a fence around me- a fence that would not let pain in.

Often, the contact with pain for most of us who are brought up in a protected world comes in our adolescent years. Somehow, this predator that we have been hiding from, deceives us by disguising itself in a cloak of love. Vulnerable that we are, we let ourselves be lured and we wander astray. When we have wandered far enough from the safety and security of our protected worlds, the predator suddenly removes its cloak, and there we are- face to face with pain! This time, there is no escape from it. We run, but we have travelled too far to even know the way back to the safety and security of our homes. However hard we run, pain manages to eventually catch up with us. There comes a point when we can run no more, for we are exhausted and we have lost the fight in us. So we give up and face pain. At first, we cry…we wonder why it happened to us…we scream that life is unfair. As pain gnaws at us, many of us even think of giving up on life; we lose hope and optimism. We do not realize that this is the true beginning of the journey of our lives.

Until that point in my life, I had always seen things…perceived them…absorbed them…even stored them. But I hadn’t processed and internalized most of what I had imbibed. They all lay hidden in my mind, an invisible ‘barrier’ existing between ‘me’ and ‘them’. That barrier constitutes ego. 

Pain was painful. It was like a little fire that threatened to slowly burn all of me. It succeeded in burning a little of that barrier (ego). I remember feeling like a ‘nobody’…I remember the ‘nothingness’ that replaced months of sorrow. I was neither happy nor sad… only empty. In that emptiness, I could feel something rising within me- an uprising from that quiet corner where I had tucked away all that I had stored from the world outside. In that emptiness and silence, ‘they’ made noise…they knocked at my molten barrier…and I let them come in. They spoke and I heard. They said beautiful things to me. Hidden in all that I had stored, lay deep messages…a deep philosophy. My mind had suddenly learnt the art of decoding them. It was a moment of supreme elation. I suddenly felt that I contained within me a person I did not know…a person who had absorbed so many things from the external world without my awareness…a person who had been dormant all these years. That person had woken up and was wanting to be heard. And when I turned around, it was to find my predator- pain, laughing at me. I smiled back. We have been companions ever since. Whenever he comes up to me, I know that he brings with him something beautiful…just that it needs to be decoded. And thus, I have lost my fear of him. I have grown enough to carry his burden until I can make sense of it.

For the creator, his creation is supreme. There is more value to the overall masterpiece than to the individual elements of his masterpiece. The invisible thread between the individual elements is what sustains the masterpiece, breathes life into it and makes it beautiful. At each level, creation is not an independent assortment of elements; it is a profound and delicate interplay of elements. Take for instance, the human body. No doubt the individual organs go into the making of the whole individual, but only their mutual interplay can sustain the life of the human being. If we extrapolate this to the universe, we would understand that our identities lie in being a part of this universe.

With new eyes, I see the world around. I realize that the purpose of life lies in internalizing as much of the external world as we can…and from this internalization, recreate…and thus, enhance and sustain creation. We imbibe, process and give back. This is the only right we are entitled to. When we are born, we are only ‘self’. Our motives and drives are selfish for they only cater to the needs of the self. As we grow, we slowly learn to fit into the larger scheme of things.

Each day is in reality a process of internalization of the external world- be it places, people or experiences. Internalization generates emotions. Emotions are in reality, coded messages. If we were to listen closely to our emotions, we would understand that they are trying to speak to us…trying to unveil something hidden in them. Our mind decodes these emotions into thoughts; here lies our potential. Thoughts give us a direction in life. When we take that direction, we burn a little more of our ‘ego’ and integrate a little more into the larger scheme of things. Our goal in life then is to find our proper place in this universe- that place where we fit best so that we are able to use all our potential to sustain creation without creating conflicts with the self.

In this regard, an artist (be it a writer or a music composer or whatsoever) has the greatest potential to internalize the external world and thereby to ‘recreate’. An artist imbibes infinity. His emotional spectrum is wide and each shade of emotion is deep. An artist has the power to see the invisible- to see that delicate, invisible thread that operates between all the elements of this universe…and to bring to visibility this invisible aspect denied to most ordinary people. An artist’s medium may differ, but his art will always contain this invisible element. An artist has the ability to get into the crux of things and to decipher the hidden inner meaning in every phenomenon that surrounds us, for he is able to see the universe as a whole.

Love is not a destination or a goal…it is only an inspiration that rejuvenates us and renews our drive and motivation when we are exhausted or depleted in this journey of life. It is the banyan tree beneath which you can rest when weary…the spring from which you can drink when thirsty…the fire that keeps you warm on a cold night.

You have mail!!!

I get back from work, unburden myself of the bags I carry, and thankfully sink into the sofa. An assortment of envelopes stares at me from the table- they have arrived in the afternoon post. I go through them disinterestedly, and find a telephone bill and some letters of official significance. I make a mental note of the things they demand of me, and place them back on the table. In a couple of weeks, during the course of a dusting-cum-cleaning session, they find their way into the bin. An occasional greeting card breaks the monotony of these mails.

I think back to the days of inlands, airmails and telegrams….to the days when the ring of the cycle bell in the afternoon saw us awakening to it in a fit of hope and enthusiasm….to the days when the postman carried on his bicycle a bundle of scribbled emotions, and greeted us with a knowing smile when he had a ‘gift’ to deliver….to the days when the sight of letters peeping from the slits of mailboxes brought with them an abrupt shower of joy in our hearts. Letters addressed to my parents were received with less enthusiasm, but if a letter was addressed to me, I would hold it close to my heart and speed off to read, as if I had just won a lottery!

The immature handwriting of a friend or a cousin stared at me from the address, and I trembled in excitement as I slit open the letter. I am sure I read each of these letters a hundred times, and I read them for days on end. I would enthusiastically hunt for an inland at home, and if I was lucky enough to find one, I would set out on the joyous task of writing out a reply, the very same day. Next morning, on my way to school, I would promptly drop it into the mailbox, and shove it extra hard to make sure it went right in.

And from that moment, commenced the impatient wait for the reply. The postman in his khaki uniform, with the ring of his cycle bell, was such a welcome presence in my life.

We had pen friends too. I was proud of mails from friends in Bhutan, Malaysia, Finland and America. My Finnish pen-friend sent me a beautiful postcard, and also a picture of her, and they fetched me the envy of my friends.

Over the years, the culture slowly faded away, to be replaced completely by revolutionary technological inventions in the form of the internet.

The last hand-written mail I received was from a classmate from school, while we were both in college. It finds place with older letters I had preserved, as an antique that I am proud of.

The world that was childhood

Very recently, I stumbled on a copy of ‘Swami and Friends’ by R.K.Narayan, and that book effortlessly transported me back to my childhood. I blended with ‘Swami’, and re-experienced the bliss of my childhood.

The anxieties with respect to teachers, parents, textbooks and exams…the joy of the 3 o’clock bell, when we dispersed from school, to run home, and to break loose from the world we didn’t understand. The joy of finally teaming up with friends, and experiencing freedom in its most absolute form- freedom to run, to jump, to throw, to bake in the sun, to drench in the rain, to soak in mud, to play with stones…every part of my body experienced freedom.

We grew up in the open, with loads of sun, soil, water and people. Our toys were simple, and in any case, they were only accessories.

We dreamt ardently- of owning a hoop or a catapult or a tricycle, and we would fantasize over it day and night, as if it was the ultimate goal in our life.

Holi, Diwali, and Christmas were all special, because holidays signified unrestricted freedom. We would break loose from our homes early in the morning, and celebrate our togetherness with colors and crackers and cakes.

Childhood, to me, was a perpetual celebration of togetherness and freedom.

It was an effort to let go of ‘Swami’, and to get back to myself. But when I finally did, I realized that we were fortunate with respect to childhood. It might have been a bit of an ‘urban childhood’, but it was far from being a ‘technological childhood’.

Today, childhood has a completely new dimension.

My brother’s son was only an year old, when the computer made an entry into his little world. He was fascinated by the animations and sounds on the computer, and this fascination turned into an obsession. To the extent that his surroundings failed to evoke any curiosity in him. Over the next couple of years, when he should probably have been growing up amidst his grandparents’ love and pampering, amidst other children, amidst his parents’ care and attention, in a world of stories and pets and parks, he grew up with a machine. His parents reveled in his computer skills, until the teacher at his playschool identified a subtle speech deficit in him. A visit to the paediatrician confirmed a speech deficit, predominantly with respect to comprehension. Inadequate environmental stimulation and communication were identified as part of the contributory factors. In the subsequent months, the child was subjected to an overdose of speech therapy, and it was agonizing for the parents.

A documentary comes to my mind. A girl child, with her tresses uncombed, falling on her shoulders, sitting by a pond studded with water lilies. There is silence around her, and that serenity is reflected in her expression. She dreams as she plays with a water lily, and nature caresses her in its lap. In stark contrast is the picture of a boy who sits in his room, playing a game on the computer. The room echoes with noise, as the boy fires bullets in the game. There is something profoundly disturbing in the contrast between the two scenes.

Somewhere along the line, childhood moved from the open into the confines of a room. A child now grows up within the 4 walls of his room. There are stress lines on his face, as he desperately tries to fit into the world around him. He goes to school with a heavy burden on his shoulders. The 3 o’clock bell is no longer exciting, because he has to rush for tuitions.

In the confines of his room, he finds solace in machines and gadgets- the music system or the computer or the DVD player. He grows up with gadgets. He develops technical skills at the expense of emotional intelligence, at the expense of artistic creativity. He struggles at all his relationships, and battles with stress in his day to day life, unable to deal with the pressures. Relationships break, marriages fail….

And my mind wanders back to the little girl by the pond, feeling her peace, her contentment, her joy………

Talking to dusk

Life ahead is for memories...for reminiscing precious emotions that had touched my soul a long time ago...emotions that I will perhaps never again feel in real life. How naive I was! I used to believe that I would see in real life the same world that books and movies treated me to. Books and movies treated me to the entire spectrum of emotions that I wanted to feel in real life. It was with shock that I realized that they were inspired not by the 99 per cent of the world we see...but by the one per cent that stood out...that held on to its inherent beauty.

Emotionally, Man is the only creature I have given up on.  Intellectually, it is still inspiring to share thoughts and ideas. But emotionally, I have given up my garb and I only don the garb of a writer now- one who feels the throbbing of every soul around him...the throbbing merging into and echoing the throbbing of his own soul. There are no attachments in the real world. Like a twig floating on a river, I am happy being carried by the river to wherever it wants to thrust me. It is only external turbulence I dread. For it breaks my reverie. In the absence of external turbulence, my mind is at peace. I have no expectations of people, for they are what they are. I am happy to recoil into an inconspicuous corner where I do not come in the way of any passing soul.

Like a butterfly, oblivious to the beauty of my own soul, I long to bask in the beauty of the world I see. I long to fly and flutter, sampling every bit of nature. In my eyes, I long to carry the beauty of the world I see.

To me, dusk is the most mesmerising phenomenon in this world. I treasure every dusk I spend at home, looking at the sky...the setting sun...the last birds on their way home...the last flutter of wings...the last sign of activity...and the red hue that the sun leaves behind. The evening star appears in the sky, announcing the arrival of night. Another dusk to add to memories of life on earth- this is what I cry out to myself each time. Every dusk speaks to me powerfully. I feel a strange closeness to my dead father in the setting of dusk. It is a time when I can gaze up at the evening star, perceive him and show him the ocean of sorrow I harbour within my heart. If I ask myself what that sorrow is, I have no answer. For it is the collective sorrow of years of life on earth...the collective sorrow of all the aching lives I have encountered in this planet. A deep, diffuse sorrow, mixed with the awareness that it can never heal. But then, it is this failure to heal that makes every simple joy on earth immensely valuable and beautiful. A child-like joy at every little phenomenon that percolates into my heart. It makes me immensely rich...and it makes me incapable of being hurt. It is this sorrow that connects me to the emotional world of the past that I treasure immensely. It is this sorrow that dettaches me from the harshness of reality, for I live in the world within my mind, built from the treasures I have collected from real life. It is a paradise that I constantly experience.

I am deeply indebted to all those books and movies which have helped me see the beauty in our struggles and sorrows...helped me belong to that one per cent who hold on to the inherent beauty of their minds...

An unequal trade

With the onset of summer, there was a general change in the character of this place. I particularly looked forward to the immigration of ‘banjaras’ into the state. Banjara camps cropped up at various places in proximity to rivers and streams, and they endowed color and activity to the dry terrain. 

The camps were an attractive sight- tents crafted from bright colored fabric, held in place by means of wooden poles...cloth bundles stacked into a corner...metal pots and pans stacked into yet another corner... fishing nets and round basket boats standing in proud display...cows draped in bright colored shawls and adorned with flower garlands...

These camps woke up to an early morning. Men, women and children could be seen on their way to morning ablutions. They often chose ‘private’ spots along the river- beneath a bridge, or portions of the river hidden by the density of the vegetation. Little did they realize that these were the most luxurious baths on this planet; no shower cubicle or bathtub could match the joy of this experience!

One evening, as I drove past their camp, I decided to take some pictures of the camp. As I switched off the engine of my car, a banjara girl, about 12 years of age, walked up to me, and asked me if I would offer her a ride in my car. When I hesitated, she reframed her question and asked me if I would at least drive her to a pole that stood a few feet further. I scanned her face- she had the innocence and eagerness of a child, and I was tempted to offer her a ride. However, I was inhibited by the tales I had heard of banjaras, and I feared the potential danger of being duped or tricked. So I decided against it and refused, stating that I was in a hurry to return. The girl didn’t persist with her plea; instead she asked me if I had coins to lend. I didn’t, so I shook my head. As an afterthought, I promised to return the next day with coins. She smiled.

Next morning, I happened to pass by their camp, and I caught sight of the girl; she was in a basket boat in the stream, rowing merrily. There were two other children with her, each about 5 years of age. The stream echoed with the laugher of the trio. It was obvious that they were lost to a world of their own.

That evening, I stopped at their camp. The girl walked up to me in silent anticipation. I asked her where she came from. She told me that they belonged to Maharashtra. Every summer, they migrated to Kerala, where water was never a scarcity. They camped by the river and thrived on fishing. They had been coming for years now, and she had picked the native tongue. With the rains, they moved back to Maharashtra.

I glanced at their camp- crows were feeding on bits of fish that littered the ground. I spotted the basket boats, and I asked her if she would offer me a ride in the boat. She beamed as she answered in the affirmative. 

I thrust some coins into her hand and walked back to my car, guilty and envious. The girl was perplexed. To me, it was clear that the joys of nomadic life could never be traded; even if I offered her all the materialistic comforts of my world, it wouldn’t give her a moment’s joy of her nomadic life, and the freedom that came with it.

The magic of a Sunday

Sundays at home deserve special mention- a sort of paradise, wherein the pressures of the world and the maddening pace of weekdays fail to penetrate. Throwing myself into the warm embrace of home, I allow myself to be enthralled by creation. 

Waking up to a Sunday morning at home is an elating feeling. It is a morning when sleep encroaches into my wakefulness. My mind is a calm empty bed of nothingness, for it is fresh from sleep, and the day ahead demands nothing of it. That is the magic of Sunday. I am awake, and yet, my mind has the tranquility of sleep. Today, the breeze, the moving clouds in the sky, the sun’s journey of ascent in the sky, the rustling of leaves, the birds, bees and butterflies making the most of these hours of the morning- they evoke a fountain of happiness within me. I am in love with all of them. They heal me of the wounds of the week- the physical wounds of exhaustion and the mental wounds of stress. Today, the world around me is bustling with activity, but I have come to a standstill. Today, I embody every spirit around me. I am the infinity of the sky…I am the bright red rose in bloom… I am the bird in flight…I am the unruly breeze blowing across the trees. In the nothingness within me, I perceive everything. No pain penetrates this vision of tranquility. I feel far removed from the pressures and pursuits of a weekday.

My relationship with this house- our mutual love for each other…our silent understanding of each other…it is hard to define. This house is a physical space that brings out the ‘me’ within. It is how this physical structure mirrors my mind, bringing into my heart the elements of nature, the way I want it to…helping me experience the love of the sun, the moon, the stars, the earth, the breeze, the trees…it is this aspect that makes us inseparable.

Thoughts I had jotted down a long time ago:

 “It is Sunday morning. I wake up to the sound of the rain outside. My room is still in darkness. I love Sunday mornings- it is that special day when nature awakens me- a slow and beautiful phenomenon, as opposed to the distressing abruptness of the alarm.

I close my eyes yet again. But this time, I am in a trance. I am still in the realms of sleep, because my mind isn’t racing. It is picking up tempo, but it isn’t racing.

I hear the pitter-patter of the rain outside, the slow orchestra of the birds, and all the sounds from the awakening world outside- but they sound distant. I begin to dream- of things I love to dream about. Is this sleep or wakefulness? :)

As I dream, the sounds of the morning slowly begin to sound closer to my ears- I hear them now, loud and clear. The rain has stopped. I open my eyes- the first rays of the sun are streaming in through the window- golden rays that flood me in their embrace, as if instilling energy into my body and soul, revitalizing me. I bask in the magic of these rays.

My eyes are now open, and I feel wide awake. I sit up in bed, stretch, and fall in love with the day ahead. This is the tempo of dawn.”

Life: An eternal dusk

 

Somewhere amongst the ticking human beings all around, I have been ticking too…ticking fast and non stop, keeping pace with life. A voice from within keeps reminding that life is too short…that there is so much more to do. On the one hand, there are dreams to chase. On the other hand, there are memories to record. The ability to watch my own self…my own life, as if I were watching a movie, is a precious gift. In that way, I have always felt special. Everything black & white transforms into a brilliant riot of colors in my mind.

My emotions of elation and pain have always been extraordinarily intense and deep. They have always sought an outlet, and the only gratifying outlet has been in writing.  I have often wanted to revisit the journey of my life so far, capturing it in words. To me, recording my memories and thoughts is as enriching as chasing my dreams. As I record my memories, there is a greater understanding of who I am…a greater reverence for the soul that thrives within.

My childhood was a world of tranquility and bliss. It is that world which still echoes within me. I love listening to the echoes of an entire universe that I seemed to have tucked away into my mind as a child, for they help me rise above the turbulence and chaos of the world around me.

The transition to adulthood was a little earthquake that woke me up from a long slumber. Like a flower that spreads out its petals to the rays of the morning sun, I opened my eyes to yet another beautiful world. The early years were full of sunshine, gentle and mellow…and I basked in it. The later years brought in the first bouts of pain. Perhaps that was when I really awakened to adulthood. Like the rays of the afternoon sun, pain burnt me, and awakened me to my own self. As day progressed, the sun set and dusk was yet again phenomenal. I had survived the rays of the blazing sun, and dusk brought with it the same tranquility I had experienced as a child…just that there was the memory of a day within. With dusk, the world turned beautiful yet again…perhaps more so, than a world awakening to sunrise. The setting sun was the God, and the world seemed to be engaged in silent reverence of the sun. I sat in tranquil reflection of the richness of the day gone by…

“I do not mourn all that I (and this world) have lost, but I value all that we have lost.

My ‘present’ is a persistent tribute to all that we lost. My present is analogous to a tranquil, yet spectacular dusk- a slow transition from a bright and promising day into a dark and quiet night. It is a collection of moments, where day is fading, and yet hasn’t disappeared…where memories from the day are fresh and beautiful…where the fragrance of the day lingers, and builds a spirit of optimism, that lights up the darkness of the night subsequently, promising the return of yet another dawn, yet another day.

If a spectacular dusk didn’t segregate day from night, the world would have come to an abrupt standstill; the beauty of the day would have been lost upon us. Dusk…a slow ‘letting-go’ of the day. That is my present. It is never a mad rush to an uncertain future; it is a slow letting-go of a beautiful past. It is a persistent tribute to a past, where the past is an emotional world that is coming to a close in the real sense.”

Like a bird that slacks its pace as it descends and then rests upon a tree, the feel of the flight lingering, the memories of the sky fresh and beautiful, the sense of freedom persisting…

My present is a glorious sunset that connects me to the beauty of a day that is receding.

My life is an eternal dusk…"