My Love

I think I truly came alive,
The day you arrived on earth.
We have known each other,
Through lifetimes,
And have been close.
It will be so, through eternity
For you,
Are my life’s breath!
Different lives, different stories,
Different ways and means,
To find each other.
Scripts that contain a myriad hues
And so full of mystery today,
Only to unravel as the days pass.
And each of us doing
Our little dance
On the stage,we call -
The Universe.
I may forget my lines,
Miss my cues,
Yet,
All I know is that I come alive
And make contact,
With the very core of my being -
When you are around.
Love you.

Lovesong

Breathe.....
Inhale.
Exhale.
Life’s blood,
Courses through....
Carrying, much needed
Oxygen
For the body,
To stay alive.....
But,
What about
The soul?
All it needs,
Is love....
And the void,
Shall be filled
With a,
Lovesong!!

Photo Courtesy: Google Images

Letter to my Harasser - Noorjahan Akbar

Sipping my morning tea and dreaming/planning my day, I came across this post shared by my dear friend Suchismita Mazumdar (http://suchismita-wwwsuchsimita.blogspot.com/). And there, out of the windows, flew my best laid plans for the day. I was swamped with memories of my "street fighter" avataar which had my friends and mother worried sick for me.

Noorjahan Akbar, says it like it is, not just for herself or the women in her country but for all those of us who are fighting the patriarchal mindset. This is responsible for that certain extra tension we carry around our personal space when we are out in public; and some of us unfortunately carry it all the time, even in the confines of our homes. This then translates to a kind of awkward body posture and movements when you negotiate the space and yes those ugly predators are quick on the scent of a supposedly easy "game". All this is very much at the subconscious level, atleast for me and I never quite realized it until I landed in Lagos, Nigeria!! Currently, this place is home too and my experience here has been the total opposite. Just to give an example, Lekki Market here is quite the treasure trove of a place to visit and quite crowded but not once did I have to do a weird pelvic movement or move my buttocks or my breasts out of the way and catch my breath and thank my stars for having just missed a grope. And now reading Ms. Akbar's letter made me wonder if it is a sub-continental behaviour of the Asian variety!

While in travel mode, whether in India or abroad, my radar goes into serious overdrive. If any airline got a whiff of that extra baggage, they would make a killing! But it is a legacy of my father's boot camp training and a combination of my own survival instincts and I guess I also picked up a few pointers from my canine siblings (they have been most kind with sniffer and instinct training). As a kid using public transport to school and later on, to college, I became quite adept at using the safety pins and instruments from my geometry box. And when I could, I would use my nails, fists and knees too. Then, there was this one time, I was returning home from college and in the not very crowded bus, had my butt pinched. I was so furious and disgusted that I actually told this guy who pinched me, that he had to pay me for the service. It was quite the shocker for everyone around and the guy was shamed enough to get off when the driver braked. I went home, put soap on my tongue and gargled and promptly threw up........

Noorjahan, I stand with you, as defiant and now over to you:







A Letter to My Harasser

By: Noorjahan Akbar - Afghanistan Correspondent for Safe World for Women

Hello sir,

I do not know your name, but you passed by me a week after Eid-ul-Fetr in the Bazaar in Kabul. You might remember me. I was the young woman wearing a white scarf and a long red embroidered tunic with dark pants. I was standing by a vegetable stand and bargaining the price of fresh mint when you passed me and nonchalantly pinched my bottom. I turned red. The old man who was selling vegetables noticed but didn’t say anything. He probably sees this every day. This had happened to me more than once, but this time I felt more embarrassed because the old man noticed.

I ran after you and grasped your wrist. Scared and sweating I started yelling. “Why did you do that? How dare you? Do you do this at home to your family members too?” and you started yelling back louder, “you crazy woman! I haven’t done anything. You are not worth doing anything to.”

I was still ashamed to tell people what you had done. You probably remember how everyone was watching us. Other women advised me to keep calm that this would only ruin my reputation, but I wasn’t going to give up now. I started yelling. Soon the police arrived and took us both to the station.

A tall man in uniform asked me what had happened. I told him. You opened your mouth and the police officer yelled, “You, shut up!” Next thing I knew he was beating you. You were on the floor and he was kicking you with his gigantic shoes. Sweat was dripping off his thick eyebrows. He must have been as angry as I was.

I didn’t see you again, but the friend who was walking with you followed me all the way home. He told me, “what is the big deal?! It is not like he f***ked you.” But I was too tired for a second fight that day.

You and your friend probably both claim to be Muslims. You probably even pray at the mosque every Friday or more often. You probably tell your wives that they should not get out of the house because the world out there is filled with horrible men who will disgrace them. You probably even believe that you had a right to touching my bottom because you think a “good” woman would never be out on the streets without a man. Your sisters are “good.” They stay at home when you pressure them to. If I were a “good woman” I would do the same. These streets belong to men.

I am writing this letter to tell you that I never intended for you to get beaten and humiliated, but I am not sorry for speaking out. I am writing to tell you that I know what you are up to. You want to threaten me, scare me, and keep me shut at home where I will learn to tend to many children and cook food for your kind and be submissive to a man that might someday marry me. You want me to be terrified of the world outside and not find my way and my place in it. You want me to believe that the only safe and “decent” place for me is in the kitchen and the bedroom. But I am writing you to tell you that I am not buying that ever again. Not you, not the Taliban, not this government, not my brother or mother, nor anybody else can convince me that I am less than a man, that I cannot protect myself, that I cannot be what I want to, and that the best life for me is in a “safe” kitchen where a man or a mother-in-law has control over my every move. I am not buying that. Not ever again.

I will come out of the home every day and walk bravely down the streets of my city, not because I need to, but because I can and neither your harassment or sexual assault nor an oppressive government will ever be able to take that ability from me again.

With Defiance,

A Woman You Harassed

Note: The letter was taken from http://www.asafeworldforwomen.org/about/safe-world-blogs/noorjahan-akbar/3319-kabul-harasser.html

Photo courtesy: Alex Motiuk

Virtue

I wonder if they teach us
To be ashamed of
Our libidos
So they can tear us apart
Limb on limb
Like beasts on a rampage
And devour the very essence
Of the innocence
That was once us

I wonder if they teach us
That there is virtue
In covering up in order that
They may rip open
The very fabric of dignity
To shame us.....

So what happens,
If I stopped believing
In being virtuous?
I guess I would have
The most powerful weapon -
Of knowing no fear and no shame!!
And the fool that I am,
I allow them access
To the inner recesses of my space
Empowered thus, I imprison my mind
And thereby keep myself from possessing it.......

But a Mother

"You just hound people down using your towering size and matching sound box," said my friend Mathew to me when I told him that I had yelled at the kids and come down hard on them. Cannot remember what it was but the old boy was rather scathing in the clipping that he gave me online. This little poem was my response to that!!



Oh ye of little faith
Ne’er a word can I say
That’d make thee believe
For I am but a mother
With responsibility unlike ether
Cannot but bestow care and thunder
Lest they run asunder
My fledglings
Need grow stronger
And be proud and confident
As they soar the skies yonder



Note:
1. Matt with Tam - photo courtesy Aarzoo Kaveri Sen
2. Eagle - wallpaper images courtesy Google images

The Nomad's Home

I was a nomad
Even before I became this body
A result of the union of two souls
That met
In the high mountain ranges
Of the mighty Himalayas
A long way from the place
That once served as their individual cocoons

Conceived in the plains
Birthed in an ancient land
Of universal learning, scriptures and spirituality
And the journey began
One with no particular destination
Or so it seemed

The wilderness was familiar territory
Swimming across the choppy ocean waters
Was no big deal
Enclosed spaces meant nothing to me
Did not make me feel secure
For it was in them that I was violated
Neither threatened
For when innocence is taken nothing more is left to be
Surviving was easy
Yet the turbulence ran deep

Home was just another word
In the dictionary
Till the day you walked in
Through the door
Ambling in with the gait
Of one who could easily
Break down the walls
Of the fortress round my heart
And then the moment came to pass
That I sat next to you
And rested my head on your shoulder!!



Note:
1. Tibet Nomachi Nomads in Nagchu - photo courtesy - Google images - anjalidsouza.blogspot.com
2. Tuareg Nomads with Camels in Sand Dunes of Sahara Desert, Arakou - photo courtesy - Google images - art-posters-prints.posteravatar.com
3. Otterly adorable - photo courtesy - Google images

Anthems & Growing Up

“The years teach much which the days never knew.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

I have never really gone with the anthem, “18 till die”. More the one moment in time or its my life kinda girl. Greatest love of all by Whitney Houston inspires me.....The Top Gun Anthem is my all time favourite. Exhilarating!

To think of being stuck at 18 when the cells continue to divide and grow and commit hara-kiri on a continuous basis is akin to being stagnant for me. So never mind if one follows this up with the Oh! I meant in my heart or in my mind or whatever (and yeah some unprintable stuff I have heard about some libidos), 18 till I die to me suggests being in a limbo, being stationary, being in the same place, time, et al. Too much of a free spirit and as wild as they come, you may as well kill me. I am high on life and greedy too. Because, no matter what one may say it is in growth that one gains not just weight but wisdom too and eventually one hopes for enlightenment.

A wise woman once said, At 20, you are worried about what people think, at 40 you don’t care and at 60, you realize that no one was looking in the first place. Lucky me, I was 18 when these gems were shared with me.

And then of course, my wise old man always said, you have only one life. Live it. Experience it. Only word of caution, never hurt another. Years later, explanation given to this by my Baba was very simple, you don’t want to tie yourself up in karmic time zones. For you will have to do that to make up. It is tough to get out of the life and death cycle if one is not careful. I reckoned, it was all up to me, folks.

So my bucket list began quite early and there are checks against some and I keep adding some. Save for the time I fell in love with the man I consider my “my one true love” and proposed to him only to be turned down, I have never really mulled on stuff and dwelled on failures much. On hindsight it was a good thing to be nursing a broken heart rather than be saddled with someone who does not want you. Or to be privy to the farts and warts of one’s muse and trust me dearies, even the hottest of them will have those.

Also the need for the person could lead to the understanding of the nature of life and love and beyond it to the Realization of self. Distance makes the heart grow fonder. Imagine this in eternal time and juxtapose this with the attachment and moksha theory. Attachment = No moksha and No attachment = moksha. Simple formula that.....

So attach myself is what I do in the hope of an eternal love that is mine and mine alone. Moksha be damned. Yet enlightenment is what I seek. And so I live life out. And to its fullest. Not as a 18 year old in heart, mind or whatever, but with a song on my lips sung, like only a 40 year old Barbara or Whitney or Celine can belt out. Recall Connie Frances who did not fall for an excuse and belted it out to the man straight with the “Lipstick on your collar, told a tale on you”?

Well, I have gotten to a stage where I have no time or patience for crap. Especially when you have a brat at home to deal with. Try stepping into the washroom and just when you have fixed the bolt in place, you have the three year old banging on the door with the query, "Mommy what are you doing in there? When will you come out?". Now if there is anything that needs you to be grown up in real terms, this is it. Helps if you have a fine sense of humour in place and telling her you are flushing the bogeyman down the pot.

“Life is calling. Where are you?”, lines that go abuzz every morning and get me to move it. Better to walk towards eternal peace rather than get stuck in a time warp. And yes Denzel Washington, still manages to take my breath away! “What’s love got to do with it?”, you may well ask. Go figure.

The past year has been one of reunions and it was, “Soup for the Soul”, like no other. Took me to another time and place wherein I was relatively unfettered. But was quickly reminded of the facebook status of my friend, JJC (John Jacob Cherian) which went, “Note to self: Just because you are meeting your college mates after a long time, doesn’t mean you are 18!”


Having said that, I agree with Jim Fiebig – “Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone!”