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