OF CATS, BOOKSHOPS AND LIBRARIES

 “She peed on me", yelled Shyam, Founder-Partner at Funky Rainbow, and placed her gently on the floor. Kitty was pregnant and had been meowing away in discomfort the whole morning. She kept looking for places to park herself. We tried giving her cartons of various shapes and sizes, lined with towels and bedsheets, to make her comfortable. She finally settled on Shyam’s lap whilst he was working on some illustrations (look-up Greystroke, on Google).

As it turned out, it was not urine, but her water broke, and Kitty was ready to give birth. She got to the front room and had her babies right there. This was her third litter; her first inside our office. After licking the newborn kittens clean, she promptly took them and placed them in the corner behind Shyam’s photography equipment. It took her three days to move them to a snug carton in our balcony (her regular birthing place).

I don’t remember when she first came in, or why she chose to own Funky Rainbow – The Travelling Children’s Bookshop, but I remember author Kavitha Mandanna agreeing to brave traffic and traverse the length of namma ooru to visit us only if Kitty was in attendance. And Kitty, did not disappoint. She was right there, perched on a shelf.

 

Research shows that the relationship between cats and books goes way back to ancient Egypt. While they were domesticated and trained to keep away rodents, and snakes from homes, a few of these cats were trained to protect the papyrus rolls from pests. There is evidence to suggest that cats were used to protect texts containing research material and sacred documents in other civilizations as well.

Today, cats in bookstores or libraries lounge around making sure their minions, are on their toes, working. And of course, they also review the books that come in. Don’t believe me? Ask the wonderful librarians, Radhika and Sudeshna, Co-Founders of Cosy Nook Library and Directors of the Cosy Nook LitFest. One fine day, Anna the Cat, strolled in and showed them who is boss. She sits where she wants, stretches, and curls up wherever, watches the children come and go, and insists on having books, especially picture books, read out at a time and place convenient to her.

 

Such stories abound across the world. Many articles have been written on the topic and pages on cats and books exist aplenty on social media platforms. As for Kitty, Team Funky Rainbow has not seen her for almost three years. She went missing soon after her litter grew up and moved out. Only the empty cartons remain.

 Notes: 

1. An abridged version of this piece was first published in the  August 2021 edition of  Pawprints, a quarterly newsletter, published online by Pugmarks, the community of pet families in an apartment complex in Bangalore. Pawprints is a tapestry of love, laughter, grief, wonder and appreciation that features heartwarming stories about pets, neighbourhood rescues and lots more.

2. "Namma Ooru"  - Local reference to Bangalore

COVID AND THE K9 CHRONICLES

 

Recently, a friend forwarded a video of two dogs at Helsinki Airport who were able to detect people who were positive for the Corona virus. All they needed was a swab of their neck and wrists. I responded saying that Zooey, my Dalmatian possessed this superpower without the swabs.

I have experienced TLC (tender-loving-care) quite a few times with my dogs - a head on my tummy/lap when I am in pain, staying close, a cuddle away and constantly on guard. It always felt like they were ever ready to return the pats, behind the ear scratching and the belly rub favours; I just had to ask.

With my Mom nearing eighty and my immunosuppressed state following my renal transplant, topped off with comorbidities, we as a family were extremely careful, ever since the pandemic hit. The year 2020 had gone past without a hitch. But we were not out of the woods and continued to follow measures for hygiene and safety. 

It was the early days of the second wave, I noticed that all three of them - Zooey (the Dalmatian), Tanny (the Dalmatian-Indie mix) and Lincoln (the Rottweiler) - were being very clingy. They usually “look me up”, when I am not feeling too well but this was different. Sure enough, I soon began showing symptoms and the RT-PCR test came positive. My husband and younger daughter tested positive as well. Covid had found its way into our home. We informed our neighbours and the Covid Response Team of our apartment complex about the test results. Our home was promptly sealed in accordance with the protocols in place and we home quarantined ourselves. 

I was quite surprised to receive a call from  our our dog walker, within minutes of our sharing the news with our apartment complex. He told me that the news had reached the complex nearby and the dog owners there forbade him from coming to our home. We had not even entertained the thought and told him that our flat was under quarantine. He was not to come until the BBMP sticker on our front door, had been removed. News sure travels fastest in the concrete jungles.

Though it would have been the ideal course of action to be taken, we were clear from the outset that we would not send the dogs away to a boarding, for two reasons:

1.       Lincoln, would not take to anyone unless he was introduced to them, by the leader of his pack - my husband

2.       All three were aware that something was clearly not quite right at home and they would not be comfortable, to say the least.

The decision to keep them home was not easy, but they stepped up to the plate. 14 days without walks or going out! Think about it - no sniffing, no marking territory, no catching up and barking hello/expletives to other dogs and unlike their "hoomans", no online classes to make up for it either. No Siree, not a whine or a yelp, from the three of them. Flowerpots without plants but with mud in them were emptied and mounds set up in two balconies. All three of them got the drift from the word, go. Sniff the mound and mark territory. Do a neat job of poopoo by the side, to be cleaned up, nice and easy.

I have been told that our pets take on any health issues that we face and ease the pain. 

Circa late 2012, Zooey kept throwing up everytime she had her meal. Would eat grass during her walks but it did not help. Vet visits, X-rays, Surgeries...nothing worked. Finally figured that she had an intestinal block and was unable to digest her food. No amount of medical intervention would help and the vet advised that we put her down. Thanks to the second of my brood (Sarah), we decided against it. In October 2013, I was diagnosed with Stage IV Renal Failure - IgA Nephropathy, a silent killer. The ancient wisdom of my tribe declared that Zooey had sensed my condition much earlier and taken on the negative energies! Mumbo-jumbo? Ah well...I am torn between my tribal roots and my scientific temperament. Cut to the present, I live with a transplanted kidney and Zooey is on a gastro-intestinal diet. She turned 11, this year and is fiesty as ever.

And yes, 4-5 days after being tested positive for COVID, my saturation levels plummeted and given that we were in quarantine, I had rush myself  to hospital. Docs warned about the ‘cytokine storm’ that would hit my system and I waited for it like a meteorologist waiting for the Level-4 typhoon. Back home Lincoln was having blood stools, Zooey was throwing up all over the place and Tanny was being unnaturally aggressive - scratching herself and destroying the mound! This stopped when the danger passed for me. One could dismiss this as sheer coincidence…

These three are my power-pack, a constant source of strength and support. When the going goes tough, they are my toughies that, “get on with it”.

Notes: 

1. An abridged version of this piece was first published in the May 2021 edition of  Pawprints, a quarterly newsletter, published online by Pugmarks, the community of pet families in an apartment complex in Bangalore. Pawprints is a tapestry of love, laughter, grief, wonder and appreciation that features heartwarming stories about pets, neighbourhood rescues and lots more.

2. BBMP is the Bangalore Municipal Corporation (Bruhat Bengaluru Mahanagara Palike)

3. "get on with it" - reference, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh

CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK

You, chip of the old block!

Do you remember,

The wonder with which you looked at each other?

Placed in his arms,

A few pounds of Homo sapien...

Those brilliant neural pathways

So full of logic and genius

Having those extra volts pass through

An experience like no other...

Forced to decipher

Formulas for fatherhood

Were there any?

Despite himself,

He placed his beating, nay racing heart

Trusting, hesitating not

Into your little palms

To do as you pleased

Squish, hurt, tear, break

Make proud and soar

Only time would tell

Do you remember, the promise,

Of a lifetime 

Of love, and having your back?

Could you smell, the fear,

Of failing you?

Opaque, entrenched, yet well hidden

Ah! The joy of 

Your grubby little fingers 

Around his,

The balm that brought calm.

Being teacher and taught,

Parent and child in turns...

As the days and years unfolded,

One moment at a time,

Watching you grow,

Growing with you.

Your devil's advocate...

Scared, elated, joyful,

Gearing to see

Your dreams bear fruit

Watching you stumbling and swaying

Taking those first steps,

Heart in mouth

Those gurgles of delight

Music to his ears

Pushing you, challenging you

Constantly sharpening that wit and intellect

That you were blessed with

Pulling you back 

So you may burst forth 

And soar in the brilliant splashes of color

Of his Rainbow

You, chip of the old block!

You still hold the wonder.

For he sowed the seeds,

Of the never ending quest...

A secret revealed to him

By the wisdom of the ancients

Your destinies 

That were intertwined 

Bringing about change

In the world

One doting father,

One adoring daughter,

At a time...

Background photo courtesy: Shyam Madhavan Sarada

LIZARD AND LISTEN: LOVE-JIHAD TURNS 50

Her name was "Lizard" and he was "Listen". Atleast that is what I thought from ages 3 - 8. He called her "Lizy" and she addressed him as "Listen"

Both were stationed at a field posting in the upper Himalayas and it was there that they met. The brats are on full-scale giggle mode when she gives them glimpses of the 28-29 year old, besotted young one she once was. The young officer had his charm on full volume but she feigned disinterest. She is quite proud of the fact that he along with his dog would climb up the slopes to meet her, every evening - come snow or shine. And she throws me some shade when she tells her grandaughters that he could pick her up with one hand, she was that slim; unlike their mother who is fat. The last time she said it, the younger one told her,"Ammachi, it is about time you stopped body-shaming Mummy". 'Manangatta', she retorted and I ran for cover. No one else gets away with talking to the tigress like that!

Love was him writing poems and shayaris for her, sketching her portrait in pencil, singing to her...she would blush and how! The jihad was just as epic; volcanoes erupted and had me quaking under my bed like dogs on Diwali night.

Turns out her name is Lizy, short for Aleyamma, the Malayalam version of Elizabeth and his name is Devaya. It had me fretting and fuming for quite a while; "How dare he steal a part of my name?!" 27 letter long, my name befitted the royal that was me (all this raged on, only in my 8 year old brain). Ah, the bubbles that life burst and the rose tints it shattered would make a magnificent soap opera. Fun fact, he is popularly known as "Jesus" among family and friends in his hometown. His mother (my gran) was chuffed and beaming when she narrated the story. A French Bishop was visiting Mercara and happened to meet her. On seeing the baby in her arms, he remarked, "What a bonny little one. Just like baby Jesus!" The name stuck... 

Big C, crept in rather insidiously and took him away in Y2K. Tried it's stunt with her in these COVID times but she swatted it away with help in no small measure from her very patient (with her) doctors and some amazing medical technology. She attributes it to her faith, her prayers and His Grace. And brooks no argument. Today marks 50 years to the day, they put their signatures on paper and registered their union under the Special Marriage Act.

If it were not for the lockdown and our co-morbidity, we would have been on the winding roads of the upper Himalayas, trying to get as close to the place they first met. Then to the Golden Temple to listen to the "Shabd-Kirtans" and feed the fish in the pond. "No other place on earth, makes me feel as much at peace", she says. Our last stop would have been Jalandhar, her favourite city. A special celebration of their life together, some roads travelled with him and some her own...

As I passed by her room at dawn, the lamp was lit, the fragrance of the incense stick wafting through... she was as usual hunched in prayer, rosary in hand. Her love for "Jesus", immortal.

HAPPY 50th ANNIVERSARY, LIZARD AND LISTEN...

20 YEARS, 2020 AND THE 3 Cs

You never understood my fear of needles and blood tests. Scrapes, cuts, bandages, blood were the norm for me but that fine point of metal that would break through my skin and would feel "like an ant bite", struck terror and made my mind conjure up nothing short of an apocalypse.
And unlike Mummy who would have thrown me to the wolves and let them deal with me, you just gave me the, "I am disappointed in you" look and took me away from the hospital, mid-tantrum and in a state of "should I-or-should I not believe my luck"! Not a word during that ride to school. "No harm in asking", has always been a motto, so getting off the jeep, I dared to ask for money for an ice-cream. That look in your eyes had me scurrying away before I wet my pants. You have no idea how ashamed I was and how I wished I would get over the fear of that damned fine point!

Your tryst with cancer showed me the true warrior you were. Despite the visits to the hospital, the meds, the injections and the excruciating pain, you were stoic as ever. K.L Saigal, a chance to meet your Boltapode (your faourite niece, Tulsi) and a shoulder massage from me were the only things on your wish-list. I remember the needle that had injected morphine into your system and eased your pain. And your smile. I also remember the needle that put Sammy (that gorgeous Labrador Retriever, abandoned and hit by a car, left for dead, that you rescued) to sleep a week before you joined him.

Chronic Kidney Disease brought with it two years of dialysis and two needles that broke through and stayed put in the AV for four hours, three times a week. I hope you were watching over me and gave me a kinder look. I managed to get over my fear of the needle; never mind the fuss I made and the topical anaesthetic I applied! Grateful to the disease for helping me overcome this fear. Made me quite the warrior woman putting out my hand for the jabs that draw many ounces of blood, my veins for drips and injections...As a bonus I have a kidney with a PhD (My donor has a Doctorate). So there.
You would have been 80 in the time of Covid and we would have been at war, struggling to make you stay at home during this lockdown. But you would have walked the dogs and a ceasefire would have been brought about by the bratpack. Just so you know, the Rat is quite a natural in the firing range. And is quite proud to know that she gets it from you.
You are always with us, my old man, my animal whisperer... Stay safe and remain in the light always.

Hataash (Despair)

हताश हम तभी हुए 
जब गणित ने हमारे साथ 
लुक्का-चुप्पी खेली 
समाज हमें कभी हताश 
ना कर पाई
बस बर्दाश्त की सीमा 
पार करते गए  
बेशर्मी में भी है दम 
राह चलते ज़िन्दगी ने सिखाया 
दीवानगी और जुनून से 
इश्क़ कर डाला 

आपकी शायरी का क्या कहना
लव्ज़ों की बौछार  
हमें प्रेरित करने की महज़ 
एक नाकाम कोशिश 
इस कान से सुने 
और  उस कान से निकाला हमने
हताश होना हमने सीखा ही नहीं
मेरे मौला ने मेरे समय पर 
पाबंदी जो लगाई 
  
रहने दीजिये अपने सलाह मशवरे
बेड़ियों सी महसूस होती हैं 
यू मेरा हक़ छीनने न दूँगी मैं 
आप माने या ना माने 
जननी तो मैं हूँ ही 
लेकिन जनि हूँ ख़ुदा कि बंधी मैं भी 

छायाचित्र साभार : आरज़ू कावेरी सेन 

A VERY SPECIAL LETTER

My dearest Zoo-zoobi,

Hi! As I sit here waiting for the clock to strike the midnight hour and usher in the teens for you, I am in flashback mode. The moment I first set eyes on you, is still a fresh memory despite the blurry vision (minus my spectacles). Despite being a new born, you made a strong claim to your space in the world and to your independence. I was reminded of Kahlil Gibran's poem on children and of the Constitution of India, even though I was groggy from the anaesthesia. 

It has not been an easy ride for you, in many ways, more so the last couple of years. I cannot promise that it will be smooth sailing here onwards, but it will surely be as wondrous a journey as it has been heretofore. Just make sure you deal with the crests and the troughs that you will ride, without being affected by either. It's all mind over matter in the end baby. 

Happy Birthday my darling...here's to the teens and to our battles! Just know this, I have been there and done that so I possess the unfair advantage! Loving Mommy advice - Learn when to back off honey. Hahahahaahhaaa...I love you. And I have a little gift for you. When Papa was preparing to come to Nigeria for the first time, your Muthachan sent him a letter which was all about you. Papa shared it with me when he got it; he was overwhelmed and had tears in his eyes. The letter has an universal quality about it and Papa had given me permission to put it on my blog. I was waiting for you to turn thirteen to put it up. I have typed it in and have also put up a few pics of Muthachan and you. This was published in one of the Raksha Concert Souvenirs.  

Muthachan was extremely fond of you as you well know and will know more when you read the letter. I hope it will also give you an insight into the person he was and that you will get to know the true essence of him. I am sure had he been around, he would have dragged Ammooma along and landed in Lagos to usher in your teens. Just as I am sure that both your Ajja and he are sending you blessings from wherever they are. You were very precious to Muthachan and there have been instances when I have known for sure that he is watching over you. 

Never mind whatever else I may say, I am truly blessed and thankful that your soul chose me to be your Mom. Thank you for being my rock during the times of crisis. You do have those sparks of wisdom and maturity far beyond your years and the old men up there must surely be beaming with pride! If only they knew...

Love, kisses and hugs. And a big God Bless.

- "The Mother"

Here's Muthachan for you...

My dear Parag,

As the date of your leaving the shores of India draws near, I am troubled with the thought that fate may deprive me of the chance of seeing you again! Nigeria is far, faraway. It is not even Bombay or Kharaghpur, which heaven knows was far enough for someone for whom anything beyond Panampilly Nagar is far! But, who knows in a vaporized condition, I might find the entire world more accessible! But then I shall be a non-participating audience!

It is comforting to plan, meanwhile, for Muthu’s and Aarzoo’s visit; the thought of which is immensely exciting. We will make most of their time in Cochin. With Aarzoo around there won’t be any need to plan and, any case her mother will probably have to be whizzing around at great speed and we could have Aarzoo all to ourselves! When, and if I live to see Aarzoo after Nigeria, she will be a grown up girl, possibly a little shy, in Montessori or, LKG or, UKG and, of course, progressively more enchanting!

I hope you will fill her ears with the best classical music you can lay your hands on, Indian, Carnatic and Western. Let her speech aspire to music and her movements to dance. Speak sofly so that her speech will be modulated and she will know the power of the whisper. Give her children’s edition of Ramayana, Mahabharata, Iliad and Odyssey and the entire Greek classical lore to read in translation. English is a beautiful language and she has a right by inheritance to Bengali. Give her some Sanskrit too, for it is a storehouse of infinite wisdom. Not too much, for you don’t want her to be an antiquarian; just enough so she too can stand filled with wonder before the edifice of a tradition of such unmatched splendour. Malayalam is a harsh language not given to much refinement and invariably spoken in high decibels! But it would be a pity to miss it out altogether for it has much to offer but you may have to sacrifice its study for the sake of a more selective choice. If she is a “language girl” she will learn as she goes along anyway. You don’t have to thrust it on her.

Science will take an increasing role in the lives of those who belong to her generation. And, if she is to steer her course through this life she will need an ample measure of it – Mathematics, Chemistry, Biology and Physics, and all the baby sciences that these mother sciences have produced. Teach her to distinguish between religion and spirituality. Let her know what religion is all about but practice spirituality. It belongs to the realm of science and is the only opening to, of self-knowledge. It will bring grace, depth and quality to her life and it is never too early to begin the great exploration.

Let the temple of her body grow in health and strength. It does not call for more than Milk, fruit, vegetables, plenty of sunshine and exercise – swimming, cycling, tennis and gymnastic exercise, which enhance the control of the body. Let her learn to value her body for it in her care for a lifetime and, we all have an obligation to make the most of what is given to us even without our seeking.

She will need to sleep a lot so she can grow well and bed time must be considered sacred and, set aside only as a special treat, when some great artiste is coming home to sing  or play a musical instrument, or you are taking her out to listen to a concert of some truly great musician. Brook no departure and don’ let her cajole you into yielding! Your own lives will have to be seriously disciplined to ensure that she sees always before her eyes brilliant examples of the lifestyle you impose on her.

I wish I could list the books she must read but that will take all of a lifetime and in any case what can I recommend her at 75! By the time she begins serious reading everything but everything will be recast for the new generation. New stories, new poems, new myths and legends, new music, new science and even newer superstitions! All we can say teach her to distinguish the trivial from what has permanent value. There is no easy way to distinguish this wither, no magic formula to tell one from the other.

If I omitted to mention laughter and humour it was only to give them the prominence they deserve. Let your home be full of ringing laughter and bright shining eyes. Sulk is sin; fear it like the plague. Even if a sorrowing visage is in fashion, don’t keep with the trend. Teach her to value the “now” for that is all she has. The past is mere memory and the future mere imagination. Count any day as lost if you have not laughed. Don’t brook any sorrow in your life or in the lives of others; treat it as a kind of illness. Religions wear the clothes of sorrow and almost worship it as something essentially good. If you follow a faith in order to be miserable there are clear there are cheaper and easier methods to accomplish unhappiness. Take your morning papers seriously that is all that it calls for. Remember in spite of Bush and the Iraq war, in spite of Advani and Naidu, in spite of Lalu all our other calamities, in spite of the disability, illness, deaths by starvation, and thirst, ugliness and despair there are also wonderful people, and skies and flowers still smile, and there are kittens, puppies and babies – what more can you ask for.

As I sit here banging on this machine, from the ground floor of this nine-storied building, I hear the voice of children screaming with delight. This sound travels up the stairway and I keep the door ajar so that I don’t miss it. It fills me with a great surge of joy and I am reconciled to life and death. If this will carry on after I have left the world what is there to grieve about.

I started with the simple intention of saying bye bye and to say have a wonderful time and send you love. You don’t need all this but I wrote it on an impulse! God bless.

Love and many hugs from Baba.

Tell Muthu I love her and this un-revised, unedited letter is also for her together with an equal measure of hugs and kisses. Baba

Abhasa

Abhasa Jewellery is a very special range for me. Handcrafted Jewellery, created by my friend Ujju (Ujwala Adivrekar-Iyer) in Dubai. https://www.facebook.com/abhasa.jewellery

I was delighted to catch her at one of her exhibitions and see her collection in their splendid glory. To my mind, nothing can ever match the joy and love that she brings to her relationships or the power of her creative self. Standing there, looking at the pieces, holding them, trying them on and feeling them come alive in my hands in a sense, I was inspired by her creations and wrote these lines......

The Artist at the Numaish Exhibition, Dubai

Ujju this is for you.......a tribute to your creations. They did speak to me.....

ABHASA

Beads of myriad hue

Enmeshed with metals bold

The softer whispers

Powered with embellishment

Speaking in hushed tones

Urging you

To step out 

Confident

And Supreme in Shakti

A slice of life in a miniature

That hangs as a pendant

For you to make 

A statement 

Or ponder upon

If you so wish

Fear not,

For in the colours that

You lay

Upon yourself

May bring to you

The true self

                  

The hues, tempered or loud

May yet share a secret

Never heard!!

The Window

Supine,
On my bed
I gaze out the window
Square with venetian blinds,
Vertical
Giving a glimpse
Of the sky and the clouds
Playing catch
The trees swaying
Beckon as did my playmates
It feels like
Playing peek-a-boo
With the world outside

The vehicles
With their occupants
Ply by
In a hurry
Oblivious to lives
Hanging by the thread
And hooked to
Machines and tubes
Pressure and Pulse Monitors
To stay alive!

Life has its way
Of teaching
And testing
Oneself
Dare I look within
I will find
Myself reflected
On the other side
Of the window....
Plying by
Oblivious!!

Dead Sea and its Tantalizing Spell

The Dead Sea. For me, the name first cropped up either during a quiz or in Geography lessons in school. At the time, it was just another point in the map; it's location and features, something to be crammed about and memorized for tests and exams. Yet it was the first place on earth to intrigue me and have me piqued enough to scurry to the well stocked Library in KVCLRI and bury myself into the tomes of the Encyclopedia Britannica to read up about it. There have been other places since, but the Dead Sea was the first.

Growing up alone, it was easy for me to turn adventurer/explorer/discoverer in my head at any point I wanted. So I traveled, all over the word and into space even, when fancy took me. I was dragged to quite a few nooks and corners of our country thanks to my father's transfers. I took it for granted that this is what life would be in the future as well and that I would travel its length and breadth many times over. However, travelling abroad was a remote possibility to the nth degree, to my mind, impossible even given the times.  

Travel to the Land of the Dead Sea? Never in my wildest dreams did I think it would be possible in the physical realm. Yet there I was, looking at it from the balcony of the hotel at first and then standing on its shores, white sand on my feet, powered sunglasses on, protecting my eyes from the reflected glare of the Jordanian sun. There were warnings all around about not ingesting the water or letting it get into your eyes. Many had trudged into the waters and were floating in it. Having your picture taken reading a book or the newspaper, is a favourite with most tourists to this destination. As is the mud bath, of course.

As the sun began to set, I took a little walk in the palladium overlooking the beach. Just across the still waters, one could see the lights of Jerusalem, glittering in the distance. The sea looked opaque, almost still.......tranquil, yet alluring. Almost as if it was speaking to me and urging me to submerge myself in its vast expanse. Looking around, I felt a sense of peace and oneness with my surroundings. I was overwhelmed with emotion. Had never felt anything like it before.

What was the point of being a tourist if I did not take pictures!! Took a few with my cellphone and each picture inspired a few lines. Have been meaning to blog it for quite some time now. Here they are.......

Nothing can quite capture the beauty of the Dead Sea.....my Geography textbooks did not do it any justice.

As the sun sets, there is a hush despite the people milling about.....an absolute stillness in the air, as though afraid to wake some special being

It drew me close as if about to share a secret.....

The canvas was spell-binding and tugged at me without any qualms

And suddenly it was like a huge cataract had settled over its gleaming eye!! It was quite clear it would not divulge any secrets.....and yet it held me, close....

And those gleaming lights....they laugh at my naivete!!

For some reason thought of Rumi and Gibran here and asked, "Shall I run into that alley and hide? Or shall I laugh right back?"

And decided that, I shall walk through the bright lights to what my destiny holds.....laughing all the way!!

The lights in the distance, they beckoned. And seduced by the starlight, I went back but it did not even whisper!! Not a whiff, just eerie stillness of the night...

Khuda Kahan Hai (Where is God?) - The Quest

Having had more than my fair share of failed relationships, I used every excuse in the book to say no, when the question of me getting married came up. But Baba was unrelenting, more so after Papa succumbed to cancer. The fact that Parag was an atheist was another excuse in my armour but Baba would have none of it. Having come from a multi-cultural, multi-religious background, I remained a nomad in my quest for answers and understanding of spirituality. My little sister Tulsi, all of 20 or 21 at the time, pronounced me agnostic! And here I fancied myself as the eternal Sadhak......

I argued long and hard till I was blue in the face. I did not want our children to go through ambiguity in that sphere of life. Be that as it may, my Baba counter argued saying that,”He is a good man and for now his way of life is his spirituality. He is also very intelligent and so he will eventually find his way to the quest.” I did not buy into it but nevertheless got married; because I wanted to and not because of the pressure I was under. I must confess though that I do blame Baba for my woes on days that Parag and I fight!!

But on a serious note, at some level this no religion, no faith, no prayers, only rationale bit, worried me, as the family grew. I always second guessed this aspect of our parenting style. I kept trying to understand Baba’s words and look for answers myself. And there it was, a simple forward from my dear friend Mini Naidoo, an artist and sadhak herself. She sent me a lovely story about three greats of Urdu literature – Ghalib, Iqbal and Faraz – and in a clean sweep, very vintage Mini-like, she set aside my misgivings and drove home the message that Baba had tried hard to make me understand.

Here is the story, in her words:

These three poets are legendary in Urdu literature as also their following couplets. The poets Ghalib (1797-1869), Iqbal (1877-1938) and Faraz (1931-2008) present their views on the universality of God in the couplets. It was not a feud. At best you can call it a poetic difference of opinion by intellectual and witty minds, spread across centuries.

Ghalib started it: In the 19th century, it was a bold statement. But then Ghalib was never known for meekness or following the crowd.

“Zahid, sharaab peene de masjid mein baith kar
Ya wo jagah bataa, jahaan Khuda nahin”

[Let me drink in a mosque; or tell me the place where there is no God.']

Allama Iqbal was not convinced and decided to reply about half a century later. So in the late 19th-early 20th century, his poetic reply to Ghalib

“Masjid Khuda ka ghar hai, peene ki jagah nahin
Kaafir ke dil mein jaa, wahaan khuda nahin”

[Mosque is the abode of God, not a place to drink. Go to the heart of a non-believer because there God is not.]

Faraz had the last word. (Later half of 20th century).

“Kaafir ke dil se aaya hoon, main ye dekh kar Faraz,
Khuda maujood hai wahaan, par usey pata nahin”

[I have returned from the heart of the disbeliever and I have observed:
God is present in his heart too, but he just doesn’t know it. (he is ignorant/sleeping].

Irshad

Thank you Mini. Loads of love coming your way.....

Overcoming fear

I still remember the paranoia in the girl’s eyes when I took her swimming that year. She just refused to get into the water no matter the cajoling in combination with the threats of dire consequences made by Hitler Mom. She was six and the story was the same every summer since we had moved to Bangalore.

The club in the complex, we lived in, had a lovely pool and had facilities for coaching in the summer. I would register her for lessons and she would parrot every excuse in the book, to not attend classes. When she did attend class, she would have the coaches tearing their hair out; she would dig her heels in and refuse to get into the water. Given the large number of children they had to coach, they invariably ignored her and gave me "the look". I was at my wit’s end. Swimming was a skill I wanted her to master for the joy of weaving through water is quite unparalleled. Life is going to take her through the rough and tumble and swimming would be one of the greatest stress busters with zero need for the chemical anti-depressants.

The situation took a 180 degree turn when we landed in Nigeria and were introduced to Coach Tough!! She agreed to take her under her wing and coach her. The initial days were tough and the story seemed to repeat itself. But Coach Tough did justice to her name. And then there came a time when she swam the entire length of an Olympic sized pool, determination writ large on her face, never once flinching when she crossed into the deep end. Watching a nine year old overcoming her fear and being confident of her strength was overwhelming to say the least. My Mommy heart cannot thank Coach Tough enough.

Post her triumph over her fear, Aarzoo Elizabeth Kaveri Sen, aged 9,that year, wrote this piece......and made me proud and confident that she has it in her to turn the lemons into lemonade!! Here it is unedited; and I better duck for cover before Ms. Intensely Private bares her teeth and claws at me for sharing this.

Photo: Coach Tough and her wards

Our Friend Water

To all the people who are scared of swimming, deep waters, going to the beach or for who are afraid of water. Here is a story about me being afraid of swimming. I always would feel scared of going to the pool. I had these bad thoughts that would scare me like drowning, getting hurt, etc. No matter how much my coaches, my parents and relatives tried, nothing worked. I started having even more of these scary thoughts after my coaches said they were going to push me in the pool. I didn’t like the coaches. When my dad started working in Lagos, Nigeria, my Mom made me sign up for swimming lessons in Lagos with Coach Tough. When I went to sign up, I saw her and we spoke. I told her my problem and she told me not to worry etc. The club has two pools. One was 10 ft and the other was 9 ft. But they started from 3 ft and the other started from 3.5 ft. Day by day, when I learnt swimming, I realized I had overcome my fear. But still I was a little scared of the deep end, but I overcame that. My Mom always said, “You will never drown. Water is our friend.” Then she explained buoyancy etc. This was because of my Coach Tuff I overcame my fear. I love her v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v.v. much!!! She won a lot of awards in International Swimming competitions. She had swum for Nigeria. Everybody should know that water is our friend. You will never drown. ( I don’t know, depends!)

Graveyard silences within

And there it was
The silence
Deafening
As in the yard
Where the graves lie
Quiet and still
Not a sound
Where once there was
A beating heart
Now
Nothingness
If there is such a thing....

The sound of the ocean waves
Pierces
Your consciousness
For it is the blood
That carouses through
And that which you created
With love and passion
Drowns
In the bloody grave
Of your creation

If only to be
Flushed out
To make you feel
Whole again
And safe
From pain
Or so you think

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