Scattered Through Time-Some Lines,Some Colours

Most events are inexpressible, taking place in a realm which no word has ever entered--Rainer Maria Rilke

And such are the limitations of experiencing journeys-distant and inner. When voice does not suffice, heart breaks into wordless songs; what photographs cannot capture, hands shape into expressions of heart-for no human experience is devoid of the personal-and all expressions are singular proclamations of the non-replicable inner.

My journey through time, ages, has thus naturally led me to silent spaces which express themselves outside the "realm of words"-where often the seven musical notes form the pallate to express that transitory space. At other times, a need to give me physical form, leads to lines on paper, sometimes monochromatic, at other times coloured by the moment. This scattering of myself is "virtually" captured at

http://picasaweb.google.com/aratichokshi/Art

Lost and Found Me

Today,I woke up,
and found I'd lost me-
so, went searching
for an identity.

Did a google search,
& found fragments
of previous births;
shreds of me
I'd thrown away,
shards of identities
scattered along the way.

I gathered my broom
and swept them till
they piled neatly
in my trash bin,
and pressed with glee
the delete forever? sign
and made this non-identity
permanently mine.

Fleeting Moments-Captured Moods

For every whirling dervish that resides in one's inside-madly swirling to life songs, life sorrows-there is a quiet epicenter, an observer, a recounter of escaping instances, anchoring that movement, holding it tight-tightly escaping. While the ecstasies of abandon, sema swirls, paint the worlds in color and passion, the center remains silent, clear, transparent, recording bit by bit, the lived fleeting moments, capturing moods in brief jewel words-the Haikus. Masterpieces of japanese soul, they record the now, present and alive, for all eternity in melodic rythm of syllables, five, seven, and five- and thus briefly, leave a lived moment of picture, smell and song-for posterity.

Born of the Zen buddhist tradition, these brief moment-poems,the Haikus, capture its meditative spirit, in contemplation of nature, the fleeting season cycles, and a approach that emphasises an acute awareness of the present, of now, of conscious and alive. Completely opposed to the sufi way of losing the self, in the divine beloved, the haikus were a vehicle to record the inner instance, and its response to the outer ,natural world. Thus Matsuo Basho wrote:

Such stillness-
the cries of the cicadas
sink into the rocks.

or again, by Issa:

A lovely thing to see;
through the paper window holes
the Galaxy.

A bush warbler comes-
and starts to wipe his muddy feet
among the blossoming plums.

In its eye
the far-off hills are mirrored-
dragonfly!

A particularly well known one by Ryokan,

The thief left it behind:
the moon
at my window.

captures both the poets mirth at the transitory materialism and the essence of his own spirituality.

Last Night-A Student Suicide

1. A suicide-
a young life
lost
to all generations
her pain
branding shame
on society
that does not care
give a damn
or share-
leaving us with
jagged lives
our maybes, and whys
just to forget
this sorrow
by tomorrow.

2. Shame

A corpse was wandering
an almost corpse
still breathing,
fighting,calling,
beseeching for help
imploring,
in a silent voice.

No luck anywhere,
hospitals cant accept
an almost corpse
a police case,paperwork
a duty, easy to shirk.

Finally,
the almost corpse
finds a resting place,
hands that agree to help-
strip her bare,
of jewelery and cash,
strip her of all
that could be sold
-maybe even her soul!

When it was a corpse,
they robbed her still,
demanding cash
from crying relatives,
to let her go,
whom they would not
accept before,
to a last journey
back home
and bid goodbye,
her spirit free
to roam.

Music of the Masai

Its been about a year since Kenya. Like most memories, what I now carry with me are blurred pictures, erased details, softer impressions. Red earth, vast grey tumbling skies, umbrella acacias dotting the plains, groups of mud homes circled with fences of twigs, branches; an occasional zebra, a lost wildbeest-birds of prey circling the skies, cities of weaver birds on a single scraggly tree, mud ponds-the color of thick milky tea, and walking these plains- the lonely, proud, ebony stick figures in crimson-the Masai.And then, all memories sharpen, zoom into clarity, of chiselled faces, long muscular bodies, leaning on their spears, or walking that easy gait with a stick thrown across their shoulders-fearless, coal eyes, open stares,daunting, intimidating, till a rolling guttural sound captures you- the hypnotic music of the Masai. Their song is more rythemic than melodic,a chorus deep, primeval, resonating to earth's heartbeat, drumming to cycles of birth and death-continual, everlasting. Bodies heave forward, backward, in a serpentine lines, filmed with sweat, metal black, wrapped in blood, connected to earth, while their sound rises high-with their spirit-breaking loose.

A Concert Last Night

It is night. The world is bereft of all light. Darkness has poured into its void, leaving just a few pinpoints of escaping rays that anchor hope on the coming morrow. All the without has disappeared and the world is now focussed inwards- into the interiors of its dark realm. A time for the first haunting notes of Raag Poorya-a background drone of the tanpura deepens this darkness. An exploration of loss, nuances of pain; a slow drowning into depths of what shall never be again-lost love, disappeared youth. Eyes are shut to the outer world-to the musicians, audience, ones self slouched on a chair-shutting off all outside to break one's heart, to Poorya-over all night.

Transparent Days, Transparent Heart

Bangalore is blessed with a climate, temperate, cool, green, central in the dusty, bouldered, searing, tropical, deccan plateau, in southern India. And then even amongst our normally sylvan days, there are times that really stand out. Autumn days have suddenly descended amongst us, cold, clear, transparent, bathed in pure light-illuminating our world with radiance, our lives with an unexplained joy. Fresh out of the delayed monsoons, our green world is now internally lit, in pockets of jade and emerald,sparkley and clear, to wipe away the cobwebs, unexplained, unnecessary, to soothe tumultuous hearts, to quieten our days, to let our spirits breathe in deep-the cold, clear air, humming to gentle melodies, of calm and quietude. Time to retire, to rejuvinate, and learn to live, again.

Advertising Grief

I belong to a human rights' group in India, that posts me regularly of violations to human life, freedom, voice. Often these mails are accompanied with a "please respond" request on the subject line-a shaming, but necessary request. With all the mails filling up our Inboxes, we are liable to ignore, or read and ignore. The request creates a pause, attention to possible action, or atleast an urgent need to reaction.

On the other hand, the large colorful advertisements of consumer products, on our radios, computers, TVs, billboards, newspapers, magazines, T-shirts walking by, buses, pamphlets handed to us, stuck in our post boxes-often warrant more attention; especially if they carry key words like "Sale", "Prices Slashed","50% off". Then we queue up, to take advantage of these special offers,to save money, to spend money and to make more money.

What is it about accumulating "stuff" that draws us more than lost lives, wrongful deaths, suppressed childhoods, violated women, the right of all to be free, equal. How should we advertise grief thats all around? on colorful bill boards? with a buy one, get one free? Or does our consumerism not extend to accepting responsibilty for the ones that bear burdens of our bought happiness?

Truth of Chance

Illusions of choice or self determination have seduced thinkers, philosophers, romantics through ages-action to tip the scale, in favor of a lover, a society, a political idealogy. That there is a preset and a definitive path of consequences, leading to the desired results-the idea of control, or atleast the possibility of control. Yes, a choice exists at every awake moment, a choice to breathe, think, act-but the consequences of this choice are, many a times, up in the air-spinning out of control, volleying at escape velocity, beyond gravity, and lost to self.

We live in a web of interconnected interactions, where individual action effects all, and all combined actions influence consequences of our single lived moment. Heisenberg's uncertainity principal is true, most so in life-proclaiming against all deterministic certainities. Individual destiny is just another chance, or probability of an event happening-a quantum mechanics of being and non being-influenced by particle or wave, real or imagined, guiding future like unseen hands- the hands of God.

Can the only truth be this chance, decipherable,and maybe even quantifyable, that anything possible or imagined, also has a finite chance of occurence.Is uncertainity the only reality? Or wait-maybe there is a loophole-all ends are real.i.e. all beginnings must finish in an end, all births in deaths- of life, stars, universe. Or is this also uncertain-nature, universe, recycles. What was once a star, is now born into me, or it could still be wandering in space, or have a finite chance to another stellar birth-a possibility of zillion different reincarnations, in infinite cycle of possible universes, of philosophies, cosmolgies, that seek to escape end-in repetative, non-deterministic births.

Ecstasy of Abandon-The Sufi Way

Look! This is Love-to fly toward the heavens,
to tear a hundred veils in every wink....

so sang Rumi, whirling in ecstasy, to his love Shamsuddin of Tabriz. And he sang thus many thousand times and over many million moments, inspired, drunken, whirling, dancing, surrendering and abandoning, lost to himself and to the world, lost in his beloved

I am filled with you.
Skin,blood,bone,brain,and soul...

or, again,

Don't hand me another glass of wine.
Pour it in my mouth.
I've lost the way to my mouth.

What insanity, what madness drives a poet to pour such words, jewels that he leaves behind, that continue to inspire many centuries later? Such is the way of the Sufis, and their songs and dance of abandon- seeking the true love, the divine presence residing in ones heart, a seeking which requires abandoning the self.

On Festivals and the Faithless

It has always felt that faith is for the fortunate-any sort of faith. It keeps things simple, questions fewer, answers easier. India survives on an abudance of faith, Gods, and karma-destiny, where the big and small destinations in a life's journey are pre-programmed based on the fine balance between deeds and mis-deeds, actions accumulated over eons of previous births. A majority of people subscribe to some sort of faith- details vary-but prescriptions are clear about right versus wrong, moral versus evil. Gods are favoured over demons and faith dictates that Gods always win. It is this faith that keeps the people going, through natural, national or personal disasters, sees them through worst crises, uncomprehending and yet accepting their lot-with their faith even more entrenched.

I belong to a deprived minority -the faithless. So all events are usually followed by uncomfortable questioning. The festival season is just over, and a variety of battles have been fought successfully by Gods against demons. Were these battles and festivals designed to demarcate and perpetuate the established order of the strong few against the weak many? a non-equitable and grossly unfair society based on caste system? As my partner once remarked, it is surprising that India functions at all, that there is not more anarchy, that overall, man is still good and attempting right-i.e.accepting his poorer lot in life. Is this a consequence of the continuous festivals -a constant reminders of divine battles where good and the just always win? What is good-and for whom? and who decides this? A victory of a few gods cannot be good for the many demons-and which side gets to be divine?

Were our ancestors thinking of keeping such demons, outside, at bay? Or, just reminding us to be wary of the demons within? Even through the celebrations of these current set of festivals, I have been aware of the lurking presences inside, clamoring to overthrow good intentions, responsibility, stability for the escape into excitement of freedom, discovery of the unknown, the realm of the possibile impossibilities. The battle is over, the Gods have won- but who were the Gods?

Diwali - Confusion and More Stories

A friend once said that the day he got bored of India, he would leave. He is still here almost 20 years later. India never ceases to astonish, surprise, and spin yarns for you. After all these years, over Diwali sweets with friends, I discovered that there are reasons and reasons for celebrating Diwali-the day remains the same, but the reasons differ. Till yesterday I only knew the story of Ram - the prince of Ayodhya.

Today, I was told that in Tamilnadu (South India), Ravana, the evil demon adversary of Ram, is the true hero-the guy that Ram kills before his return to Ayodhya - so, here, Diwali is a celebration of Krishna's killing Nakasura-yet another demon, who with his dying breath, asks for a boon, to be remembered on Earth-hence, the Diwali celebration. Keeping in mind that both Ram and Krishna are different Vishnu avatars makes the picture more confusing. There are others who maintain that Diwali is "Nombu" a vrata day for women-certain austeries are performed to request boons from the Gods-blessings for family, husband, but never for one self. In some quarters, this day is used to remember the dead.

In Western India, Diwali is the day to worship Lakshmi, the goddess of wealth, and spouse of Vishnu. In East India, however, this is Kali Puja. Kali, Parvati, Durga are all different forms of Shiva's wife, and the daughter of Earth. When humanity was being harassed by the demons of the underworld, they ran to Durga and asked for help. Durga then took the destructive, ferocious form of Kali-naked, dark blue, with hair flowing to her waist, and armed to kill. She started killing the demons and wore their heads in a garland around her neck-she was blood thirsty, destructive, unstoppable till finally people approached her husband Lord Shiva for help. So as Kali was doing her war dance, Shiva came and lay on her path. When Kali stepped on her Lord, she realised her great error and stuck her tongue out in horror. This is how she is worshipped today, stepping on Shiva, dripping blood and sticking her tongue out!

Diwali Dazzle-A Festival of Lights

Its said that when Ram, the crown prince of Ayodhya, returned after fourteen long years in exile, the people welcomed him joyously, decorating their homes, streets, with lamps-Deep- hence Deepavali or Diwali. People exchanged sweets to share their happiness, and dressed in new clothes. After all, Ram-vanquisher of evil, a Vishnu incarnate, saviour of the world, was finally returning home.

In India, memories run long and deep- of even mythological events. Diwali is again upon us-and a sense of excitement fills the air. Weeks before, fabrics are bought, tailors are visited, bothered, spring cleaning begins at home. As the week approaches, special Diwali sweets are planned, and cooking begins-days of cooking snacks and sweets to be put away for the festival days. Children's hands reaching into jars are tapped off, husbands scolded lightly for dipping into goodies. Coloured paper streamers hung across doorways, thresholds decorated with coloured rangoli.

The actual festivities begin two days before Diwali. First day is Dhanteras-a day to invite Lakshmi-the goddess of wealth home. Lamps are lit outside doorways before dawn, swastiks are marked for auspiciousness, and footsteps in red marked leading into the home-just to make sure she finds and enters the threshold. People throng to the silver shops and buy silver as a token of peace and prosperity.

The next day is Kalichaudas; a day when women are granted their share of beauty for the year. Early morning ritual bath with sandalwood, cream, turmeric,is followed by dressing up in fineries. Traditional Indian dressing is an evolved art form, where the eyes are kohled, forheads painted in a kum-kum red dot, hair braided, coiled, sarees draped. Flowers for the hair, and jewellery for the rest of the body. Silver payals around the ankles, and silver toe rings. Silver belts to adorn narrow waists; gold bangles for the wrists, rings for the fingers, and arm bands;necklaces of gold and gems, and also earrings, noserings. For a daring few, gold tika on the forehead. Finally the women and girls are ready to welcome their prince.

Diwali day sees a stream of visitors in and out of homes, and children dressed in fineries taking trays laden with holiday delicacies to neighbours. At night, lamps line thresholds, windows, balconies, oil lamps that cast their golden glow on sparkly homes, smiley people, excited children. Finally there are the fireworks-coloured sparklers in hands of children,"flowerpots" that throw out light,sparkley volcanoes of fire, fire wheels spinning furiously on land, or in hand, and rockets carefully poised in empty bottles taking off for the stars in brilliance of red and green.The prince has finally arrived!

A Farm of Weeds

I live on a farm called "Bhoomi"-or land. I called it Bhoomi because thats all it was-dry, barren, gravelly, rocky, piece of earth-hard,uncompromising, and hostile to supporting life forms-all life forms-or almost all life forms, brown without a touch of green.


I now live on a farm that grows weeds-well, mostly weeds. These are the most important, useful, profuse, and beautiful occupants of this land.They are also entirely non-demanding, non-fussy, friendly, and social. It is only this season that I have come to really appreciate their invaluable role on the ecology and the habitat at Bhoomi-which now supports a thriving residential population of butterflies, dragonflies, beetles, ants, spiders, daddylonglegs, grasshoppers, bees,termites,ladybugs and many other kinds of bugs that I dont know names of, and ofcourse scorpions,snakes,frogs,all kinds of pedes-milipedes, centipedes, and a zillion singing cicadas, orchestra of birds galore-little dazzling sunbirds in inky blue black, flashy kingfishers, busy woodpeckers, long tailed drongos, hooting owls, bright green bee-catchers, and several birds of prey that shriek out at night to startle the wits out of a person. And then there are more rewards in a farm of weeds-under the weeds the soil is darker, softer. There are earth worms- lots of them everywhere you dig-a subtarranean population, working away, and thriving.


The field of weeds is now also a meadow of flowers-all weed flowers-or wild flowers-I guess the same thing! Its also a field of food-I just have to recognise the edible weeds-flavorful, nutritious and entirely organic! So far I have learnt to recognise six.


With the late rains of this season, I have been busy- very busy, digging pits, expanding my fledgling orchard, and clearing weeds! I work long hours of a labourer,digging, cutting, clearing-clearing the "touch-me-nots" is rough- these guys mean business-they cut you up real mean, deep-a reasonable price to pay for interfering with nature's way.

It is with amusement that I realise the enormous effort required to plan food sustainablity for a single family of humans-and the ease with which nature provides and sustains all the rest.

Ladakh- Changing Humanscape

Ladakh-beautiful, bejewelled-of crytsal lakes, agate hills,and silence pure and deep.Its peopled sparsely by a robust race-people of abiding faith,peace,ready laughter-mongoloid features, creasy smiles, bad teeth-and chang breaths. People of endurance, patience, fortitude - in dark robes of deep maroon-to-mauve, turquoise beads, stringy braids-bobbing their heads to "Jule,Jule",a friendly greeting as they herd their yaks across barren, stunning hills and valleys.


They have plenty of time, a long pause to check out a stranger, sit in quiet rolling their prayer wheels, or counting their beads, and gossip in groups in front of a village gompa. They work in calm leisure, changing water patterns in their interconnected and complex irrigation systems, work their soil of gravel and rock, or churning yak butter for the salty tea that they enjoy. They seem to take the natural wonders around them, for granted - one sees incomprehension when one talks of the beauty of their land, unmeaningful ways of the big cities, savagery of the advanced and the urban. Are'nt the roads bigger, more cars, water on tap everywhere-they ask. Are'nt there big movie halls? electricity all times? big TVs in homes? True, true- but our skies are grey with dirt, our water non-potable, our soil killed by chemicals. They accept that the grace of Buddha is with them-but times are also changing.

And these changing times are starkly, ominously visible all over Leh. Leh has finally made it - its on the tourist map-firmly entrenched, exotic, mysterious, beautiful. Leh is now developed, prosperous, available-not an unreachable outpost for the most obstinate, but ready for bus loads,car loads, truck loads, flights full of tourists,and commodities-a supply of plastic mineral water bottles, biscuits, potato chips, Maggi noodles, tea, coffee, provision, catering facility, shopping diversity from Kashmir handicrafts to Rajasthan cottons to southern bronzes and brass. Restraunts, cafes, tea stalls, -chinese, punjabi, south indian, tibetan, kashmiri cuisines, pizza, pasta, western foods, bakeries-these are all ready to feed the ever hungry and large tourist population. There are hostels, homestays, hotels, resorts to cater to every budget. And then an exhaustive number of souvinier shops to carry the memories home. A drive out of Leh now shows garbage dumps on pristine pastures, near sparkling streams. Yes, Leh is now certainly prosperous - its youth cater to the foriegn tourists, available to provide anything-drugs, themselves. There is unemployment-old ways are no longer desirable, acceptable-there are euroes to be had, dollars to be earned-to buy a new wardrobe,flash a new vehicle. There is also conflict-between those of the plains and the people of the hills-most new businesses and licenses are given to those we come to Leh just for the tourist season and leave dumping their garbage behind. There is often a sentiment that the locals are losing out-on the lucrative trading, of their land, their culture and their ways.


And this development,progress is spreading. Will the silence remain? and the smiles? will Buddha always grace this land?

A message in my Inbox

Its another case of rape.
Skip over, ignore!
yoga stretches, swim session
pancake for breakfast
an hour of riyaz.

Its another case of rape.
Silent screams
mute voices
no human outrage
no social shame.....
shopping, mall hopping
cocktail party
dress with care
god knows who'll be there!

Its another case of rape.
brutality, horrible savagery,
violence, aggression,
mutiliation and destruction
of dignity,liberty....
gin n' tonic, chicken kebabs,
bright laughter, clever talk.

Its another case of rape-by police.
state sanctioned autrocities
a licensed violation of human rights...
so when you cant sleep,
darling, take a Restil-tonight.
--------------------------

According to the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB)-India,

1 woman is murdered about every hour for dowry
1 woman is raped every half hour
1 woman is sexually harrassed every 12 minutes
1 woman faces domestic violence every 9 minutes
---------------------------

Check out the latest autrocity thats come to light at

//merinews.com/catFull.jsp?articleID=127237