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…"