Scattered Through Time: Some Poems

I battle within,
fight an irresistable urge
to
shake-
break-
make
a life arise
from ruins of mediocrity
of habits deep
comfort and charm
of medium happiness
to recreate and watch
a universe unfold,
germinate
from my self
deep.
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On Bus

My soul is lecherous
for him in yellow shirt
dark skin and kohl eyes
curve of the biceps that steer the bus
power of youth, and
that reckless smile,
my soul is lecherous
with memory of that age,
when I desired such desires.
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Aman

My son
his head in clouds
wings bearing him
heavenwards
till star sparks
twinkle from his eyes
raining on us mortals
glimpses of his land.

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Avani

My daughter
gentlest sweet flower
earth born,earth cared
carries in her womb
earth plight,earth pain
reponsibilities
larger than her small frame
can contain.

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Speed

Dawn
Another day of persecution,
excecution of
progress,
development,
ghettos on wheels,
transporting to fate
bleak,
despairing,
hopeless,
resigned,
Mumbai's suburban trains.
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Yesterday
a meteor missed me
cyclone changed its course
earth quaked another ground
a Tsunami spared me.

So, I could log on
and sell
me,my people,my land,
in bits and pieces
to the multinationals
and thus
contribute
to global development
and world economy.
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They said
aim high,
for the skies,
hone your skills
in a colonial language
fashion your clothes,
'cos appearances matter-
aim high for those
imperial controllers of our lives
so they may buy you
a car, bunglow,sushi,wine
while,you piss
on faces of those
that hold you,
aloft,high,
laying roads for your cars,
building your homes ,
growing your crops,
constructing
english medium schools,
so your priviledged progeny
may enjoy your priviledges.
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Moods of Ragas

I have often been sold on the idea of man as a natural animal-to live in stark simplicity, in balance with and provided by nature, where music is the rustle of breeze, gurgling of streams, paintings are grandly enormous and real landscapes. And then, all it takes is a single evening of a really good classical concert and I am transported-- to an intense awareness of the richness of human genius in artistic endevours through ages; where the sensual pleasure in sound is capable of levitating one to a higher plane of existence, and joy is this journey with the artist riding high on waves and crashing into troughs of spells created by the sound spectrum-the moods of ragas.

This evening's concert started with a recital on Rudra veena - supposedly the oldest Indian string instrument, the sacred instrument of Saraswati-the goddess of arts and learning. The style of recital was in Dhrupad -again the oldest surviving musical form within the Indian classical system, predating a north-south divide into Hindustani and Carnatic music respectively. The Raga of choice was Marwa, an early evening Raga-serious, sombre, introspective, reflective, meditative, with a touch of sorrow on realisation- all is Maya-illusion. This followed a tragic Sohini- a raga of separation, loss before ending with Miya Malhar - a monsoon raga of Miya Tansen -the court musician during Akbar's reign - who added his signature of sweetness and longing to the majestic Megh Malhar of rolling thunder, crackling lightening and monsoon downpours. The tabla accompanyment was primal, echoing the beats of a dancing Shiva - mad, innocent, destructive - destroying carefully structured worlds,notions, fortress.

The next artist was a vocalist of enormous proficiency, brilliance. Her voice was molten, golden, honey, pouring in, gliding into innermost recesses, leading into a journey of her world, her creativity. She set about changing the course of our evening/night with a very slow, langorous Bhimpalas- a raga for the afternoon-plaintively calling out on 'viraha' or parting - till her longing became our exquisite pain. And, just when one could take no more, she moved to a faster, lighter composition on being 'coloured by melodies of love'. Her next composition was in raga Behag-asking the lover to 'love slowly, slowly' and finally a piece which requested the lover to 'fix her hair-'cos her hands were henna covered'- no coyness in Behag, no coyness in the singer- just a playful assurance, energy, verve -was it the singer, or her music-were both the same?

Modi Maddness Revealed

For those of you who still had doubts about Narendra Modi's orchestration of communal violence in Gujarat, check out the following Tehelka probe:

www.khabrein.info/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=7626&Itemid=88

Small Island Lure-Neil Island

I am partial to small islands-particularly tiny ones. The smallest island I've visited was a miniscule flotsam a few hundred meters across in the Maldives.One could take a leisurely stroll around this island in under 15 minutes. The island's smallness was neither confining nor imprisoning- infact, the experience was deeply liberating afloat on that tiny land on an infinite blue green ocean-akin to experiencing earth's journey through space.

This trip to Maldives was extravagant in all respects -beauty, costs, lifestyle. It was therfore also unreal, artificial, superficial.

I have since found the island of my dreams in the Andamans-a "real" island, where communities live, work, sustain generations, cultures. I discovered Neil Island in search for food options outside of the fish and rice culture practiced over most of Andamans. A guide book described Neil island as the food-bowl for the northern Andamans-a place that was supported by agriculture economy and exported fruits and vegetables to other islands. Being vegetarians, it was with relish that we looked forward to visiting Neil Island.

Our approach by ferry from Port Blair showed white sandy beaches,tall timber trees of emerald, transparent turquoise to jade waters deepening to ink blue and a picture perfect jetty-with a quickening heart I realised that this was the one-the one I had dreamt about!

Neil island is still small by most standards-7km by a couple km across. I never managed to circumnavigate the whole island in my month's stay there. I was too busy swimming, loitering, eating. That summer, the trees were overladen with ripe mangoes, jackfruits-that we climbed, plucked, gorged on, coconuts waiting to be enjoyed, and gardens brimming with vegetables and greens that were cooked for us in bengali and tamil preparations in tiny home restraunts around the island.

The paradise was perfect with a small but well stocked library, an energetic government school, a grassy football field,and friendly families eager to make friends with those from the distant 'mainland'. We spent hours learning to make crafts from coconut shells-polished to a shiny marbled finish in coffee, burnt yellow, cream. Kids rowed on the open sea in tiny dingy, standing, perfectly poised-a sense of peace filled my heart-nothing left to ask for-nothing left to desire.

A Bus Ride To Vardhenahalli

There are ways and ways of experiencing "the world go by". Some of you have probably romanticised about outdoor cafes in pleasant European cities, say Paris, Florence, with affluent,and beautiful people walking by while you sip on your expresso. And then, there is a bus ride one can take to Vardhenhalli-at the other end of the experiential spectrum. This ride is neither for the romantic, nor for the faint hearted.

Vardhenahalli lies on Magadi road that leads only to Magadi- a small, bustling, inconsequential town. The route from Bangalore gets increasingly provincial to rural-as in mud roads, mud homes, increasingly pleasant and untouched landscapes-fewer vehicles, higher hills,curvy roads, dams, bridges,boulders and the great Savandurga dominating the landscape-like a sleeping elephant.

This is the road a bus takes. And in this bus one encounters a different world-more tangible,cacophonous,garrish,entirely human-too much so-too much physical, emotional. A seat that can take two is occupied by three adults, two children, luggage-never mind whose children, whose luggage. If then one makes the mistake of meeting a gaze, there's always that sweet, entreating smile with "Solpa Adjust Madi" (some,adjust,make)-i.e.make space for a little more. A request thats difficult to refuse. And then, when you are sure that the bus can hold no more, it still makes a stop for a large pedalled sewing machine, a diesel generator, a couple carrying bundled, sqwaking hens like some upside down bouquets, and many more passengers.Its also perfectly normal for passengers to reach over people, stick their heads out of the window, to spit, throw up, and dispose of various bodily and other non-wantables.

On such a bus, a smallest disagreement leads to open warfare-to the enthusiastic, and encouraging support from spectators.The winner is always the one who can garner most support-never mind who is right. And all this happens as the bus hurtles at a neck breaking speed, clanging through potholes, speed breakers, near misses of cows, goats, pedestrians, road side market stalls, taking U-turns, slippery downhills, to finally volley you out -dazed, giddy, with your luggage at your destination-Vardhenahalli. And all this, only for twelve rupees??

A Decade of Decadence

Its been a decade since I made a honest living-or, for that matter, any living at all. I have been supported by my partner - in all respects, financially and otherwise-through adventures, mis-adventures, enterprise, endeavor, strife, frustrations and falls. Very soon into this 'retirment' I resolved not to 'earn' a living and thereby earn back a life - and the possibility of the 'unknown'.

Now, a decade later, I understand that the unexpected can only happen if allowed to happen, that the uncharted course is immensely fulfilling, and no goals is a reasonable choice for a life goal. The course is meandering, slowed and savouring-the choices more free, and momentuous, and the results more often surprising. I have learnt that this suits me - I like surprises.

Yet, a part of me still sometimes ponders - am I living off society? Definitely, even if I were earning, because I sit at the upper edge of a social pyramid where the contributions of the countless less financially abled to poor, sustain my lifestyle, my freedoms of choice, my consumption of more than my fair share of natural resources. My making a living has nothing to do with how I whittle away at all dwindling resources. I would probably "consume" much more had I earned a livelihood. So I swing wildly between attempts to practice a no-currency economy with ragi and saru, on my farm, to indulging in urban decadence, with gin-and-tonic and Japanese movies, in the city.

So while no-goal is still the goal, a desire to tread in balance remains-is that itself a goal? To tread, not just in balance, but to also tread lightly, carefully,
and consciously of my great priviledge - freedom to chart my own course.

Dancing to a Female God

This happens every year. Not just to me, but to all Gujaratis in the country and around the world. Monsoons end and we all get itchy feet. We carry around beats of garba-raas in our heads and try not to clap, leap, swirl in middle of a mundane conversation-we then know, Goddess is sure to arrive.With subdued excitement we get out our mirrored costumes and "dandiyas".Families play garba music and mothers train children in the ways to welcome the goddess-with lots of music, lots of dance.

Then follow, Navratri, "Nine nights" of dancing in circles, circles of many hundreds, thousand, one inside another all the way to the goddess herself, sitting on her tiger, and watching us with an indulgent smile. Clap, swirl, forward, backward, non-tiringly to an ever quickening beat till only the most proficient and hardy remain to a heady crescendo while most watch on in admiration and awe. And then, the dancing begins again, all over again, the Raas this time- a partner dance again in circles-the celestial dance of Krishna with Gopis-the same dance to welcome the daughter goddess home to her earthly abode. Hands hurt, legs ache, bare feet blister with the constant pounding on the earthern floors-yet the heart laughs and people shout "let the dancing continue".

Impressions: Ladakh Landscapes

Unlike most journeys that begin in one's head, Ladakh just stumbled into my path.A chance remark on a friend's upcoming trip and I impulsively decided to tag along.

This was my second trip to Ladakh.The earlier journey was by air with rapidly changing landscapes of dry, arid, snow clad ranges before a rapid descent into Leh. The entire trip had been breathtaking but short. I knew I would return again to this land of vast emptiness.

This journey to Ladakh took me on trains, buses,Jeeps, motorcycle and on foot-all at varying speeds and at ground level. Transitions unfolded slowly from the barren and bouldered countryside in the Deccan plateau, to the congested, bustling northern plains, into the green Kashmir valleys with alpine meadows, to an ever starker landscape of bleak craggy mountains with steep young valleys of gravel and stone. Palletes changed from the softer forested greens with gentle blue skies to slate green, deep maroons and mauves setoff against a lapis sky.

A land route into Ladakh imbued me with the spaciousness of the place. Vastness of earth-sky became one and the highest peaks were mere ripples in the grandeur of space time. Then, a quietness instilled into self with a slower breath, a softer beating of the heart and a more gentle coursing of life through veins.

Springtime had added dashes of color in the most unexpected places-bleak landscapes suddenly showed patches of gold or lavender which became a million flowers. Rose bushes littered gravelly slopes with a profusion of fragrant blossoms in pink,white and yellow. Streams gurgled, water dripped in crystal drops, life surged in this new awakening, a miraculous encounter with renewal, of nature, of self.Then Raag Basant swirled in my head and on my lips in Taranas that drummed to my heartbeat.

And to these layers of silence and songs were added the deep resonant chants from the buddhist gompas that dotted the landscape- miniscule jewels, perched on peaks, colorful, contained, mysterious, enchanting, treasure houses for the spirit, and repositories of faith. Colorful flags blew prayers to the wind, prayer wheels rolled to ones' devotion, and endless mani walls bore monuments to a people's faith "Om Mani Padme Hum".

Garbage,Glitter and Media

Its become a fashion these days for our dailies, weeklies and all manner of printed press to feature regular articles focussing on the glitter, the glitterarty and how the rich-and-famous live or should live. The printed material ranges from glossy centrefolds carrying full length articles on the latest upper class hang-out spots, to various looks you must sport with the 'must-have' wardrobes, shoes, makeup, jewellery, motorbikes, cars, cell phones and various accessories to be acceptable in these rarified zones. While most serious and mainstream newspapers attempt to sneak such material in to increase readership, others are directly catering to wannabe-rich phenomena or atleast a wannabe-rich look alike phenomena-forget news reporting, responsible journalism. Thus recently Outlook magazine offered a complimentary copy of a magazine called 'Envy' which focussed on those immensely out-of-reach objects of desire that could make an owner worthy of 'Envy' by a common man. Since when has it become cool to be 'envied'? or is promoting 'Envy' in line with keeping the corporate sponsorship happy and a frenzied consumersim booming? Yesterday 'Deccan Herald' an old Karnataka daily in English has come out with 'Hi-Life'- a free glossy supplement to show us what we are missing out on if we cannot afford 9 lakhs for a pen!!

As the world approaches Environment Day, it occurs to me that the very sector to which our media caters is also the sector that consumes most, pollutes most, produces most non-recyclable garbage. There is an overall correlation between the ecofootprint and the wealth of a nation. A look around seems to confirm that the same trend probably applies within nations, neighbourhoods, communities.

So why is the media promoting acquisitiveness and selling consumersim as a recipe for happiness? What if we all desired, could afford, and accumulate all this stuff for envy. Is there room on Earth to keep it all-for a possess and perish syndrome?

Monsoon Magic in Goa

There is always magic in Goa. Its the lure of its unending white sand beaches,necklaced by swaying palms, clear blue skies swooping to meet chiffon green waves, its hushed dense forests hiding the majestic Dudh Sagar falls, inviting even the most self-possessed purist to strip, and dive in. Atleast these are its irresistable attractions for me. The food, vibrant markets, baroque churches, colorful architecture, its music, its people, are added charms that beckon even the most jaded traveller. Look a little harder, and one runs into a strong undercurrent of the bohemian, a sense of the hedonistic just below its surface that seduces and destabilises many enough that they never ever return to their old entrenched values and common place life styles; they return home transformed-and sometimes they never go home.

All this I knew. I always approached Goa with excited caution, desiring to falter-but wary of fall.



This monsoon, I stumbled into a Goa, so hidden, so secret that I might have suspected its existence had I not myself experienced it-an old lover revealing a new self- a prussian blue, Payne grey Goa of multitude layers, monsoon clouds overhanging excited, thrashing waves, endless beaches devoid of most except the most solitary-a dog, an abandoned jellyfish, me. The sands below me were polka dotted with raindrops and the water's edge a series of frothy, wavy lines. Sand pipers ran back and forth always keeping a few feet ahead of me, brahmi kites circled overhead. I sang Raag Ahir Bahirav and Todi during the morning hours, and invariably Raag Megh during the evenings that were rain drenched-in its air, liquid light, misty horizons, dripping trees-water all over, everywhere.

Now I know, Goa is here to stay, in me.

On the Wilder Side-in Bangalore

Last weekend, Aranyam, Bangalore, hosted a three day film festival with documentaries covering a host of topics ranging from global climate change,species extinction,wild life preservation efforts. It was an amazing effort pulled off by a group of young, energetic,motivated wild life enthusiasts from the city. The films unanimously sounded dire warnings about the rampant human domination over the natural world, current fraility of our entire eco system, threatening its very survival and consequently our own future at the top of the species pyramid.

I have come away from this three day 'necessary' shock treatment with a sense of foreboding, heavy heart and a need to attempt a more pro-active role-to don an environmental cap. Accompanied with these more obvious responses, there has been an under current of unease and discomfort that I am only now coming to acknowledge. It seemed that the burden of these 'unsavoury' human activities were by and large firmly deposited at the doors of the lesser priviledged, marginalised populations of habitants more directly dependent on natural resources for survival and also more threatened by their depletion. Is it really their burden- that they dont poach, fell trees, clear habitats to eke out a meagre subsistence? or are the larger forces that have marginalised them by laying roads, blasting mines, submerging entire valleys by dam-ing waterways, and depleting resources done more damage?

Who are the benifitters of these human developments?? If the poachers along the Indian waterways smuggle thousands of tons of river turtles to Asian markets, then its the economically priviledged that consume the turtles at the other end -who drive this trade. The man at the bottom of the ladder might only make enough to barely feed his family.So, how come the 'poor' get appointed to safekeep our natural heritage? And what is the burden of the priviledged, educated, urbanised, resource consuming?

Another Blogger is Born

My birth into this bloggers' world has been hesitant, wary and full of doubts. I was assailed with doubts which had rough parallels to my entry into parenthood-is one more existence really necessary? and if so why? Parenting doubts were easily and brilliantly swept aside when my partner said "Leaving behind a good human being might be the most meaningful contribution we can make" causing us to hold hands and jump off the precipice of careless, carefree freedoms into a world of tenacious biological bonds, juggling priorities and responsibilities. Parenthood became the primary committment in fashioning all aspects of our lives including the country we chose to live in, the food we ate, friends we kept, places we wandered to.

My birthing into this bloggers' world is an individual endevour- a decision to single parent. I am both the birther and the born- and so I have to attempt to answer for myself- why another me? I am reminded of my previous reservations and fear when I have got sucked into the mindless, mindful, creative, banal, conscious, comatic,crazy, connected morass of articulations,intersecting streams, flows, bogs, oceans of typed words,kicking frantically, coming up for air and later wondering- what does this world mean? Now my own typed words make me a bonafide member of this parallel realism. I accept now that the 'other me' was always there-talking to myself--I am just leading her to a playground, as I once led my son, to meet,play and share with other kindred spirits, share common concerns and by sharing chart a course somewhat different, more coherent, conscious than that charted before.