Lost Voyages, Lost Dreams

Dip, dip, dip,
my blue ship
sailing in the water
like a cup on saucer
dip, dip, dip.

Thats the ditty I sang to clapping hands, with friends, when I was a little girl.

This is my fourth day at sea on Eldemer-a sailing catamaran that is set on a long voyage up the Indian coast to Goa and then to cross the Arabian sea for exotic lands- Oman, Djibouti, Eritrea. The ocean is the deepest blue with depths of clear dark sapphires-swells take us up and down, bobbing, throwing up white frothy chiffon waves from the sides-the two sails stand tall and proud-beauties in white and blue. I seem to be living my childhood song "Dip, dip, dip..."

This is what I have dreamt of- for as long back as when memories merged with dreams. I remember long childhood hours lost in day dreams. What did I dream of then? Atleast some part was dreams of oceans wide and blue, imaginary lands, and adventures featuring both.

Over the last few days I have struggled with an incomprehension- a lack of joy, fulfillment, at dreams finally come true. The open infinite sea does not fill me with an unboundedness of freedom. I am confined to the 50 feet length of my vessel, set on a course, limited, confused, why the littleness of the vessel is becoming more important than the vast, empty, surrounding space.

I do not miss the ones I have left behind - I just miss the me that I have become in the long journey from childhood songs and lost daydreams. I miss the ability to change the course of my day- the freedom to walk away- to live life on a whim, the fancy of today, now. Is that control, or lack of control. Am I becoming a control freak or am I a mere dilatante? To allow continuous, connected moments to chart the chart the course of my day, life, not always unusual, exotic, but deliberate, conscious.

Tomorrow I get off at the first port- Mangalore- to head back home.

Migrations

As we leave the Cochin harbor,the water in the channel is jade..the harbor is filed with naval ships, long and skinny traditional fishing boats, small dingies, gulls - hovering over fishing crafts, and...dolphins. The sun is harsh in a white glare, tossing silver mirrors on waves to reflect the pale blue sky.

I stand on the back deck, and my thoughts turn to the migration of hummingbirds-those tiny irridescent fliers that migrate from central to north America on journeys of thousands of miles. If those little suckers can do it, fly and so be free, so can I, across unknown oceans to where my sails will take me. But the question that haunts me is what drives these migrators so? What drives me constantly to seek new shores?

The water has turned a glittery teal on the west with a lowering sun and and bounces in opaque cones of blue on my east.

Migration in the wild is driven by instinct for survival and procreation-neither of which drive my migration from the nesting ground. My goings in and out, for short or long durations are often rudderless, searching, arbitrary exploration of external spaces to guide internal journeys, in small miniscule progress towards a search for myself.

At a different level, isnt movement itself a direct manifestation of life? All living things move- and in my migratory movements I experience life - most alive. Is then stopping to move- death? Movement versus stillness, animate versus inanimate? And yet, all great sages, seers, have practised this stillness- in body, and then mind, distilling slowly into spirit till existence itself is purely and consciously experienced-a fully conscious awareness of living - of life force surging through one's being, pulsating, vibrating, fully alive in this stillness, deadness, pure awareness. And thus Bunan wrote:

Die while you are alive
and be absolutely dead.
Then do whatever you want:
it is all good.

I watch fires turn gold and red in the western skies- I stand still in a rocking boat-void thoughts-past, future-I stand still and attempt to die.

Open Seas, Open Skies

I must go down to the sea again,
to the lonely sea and sky,
and all I ask is a tall ship,
and a star to steer her by......-John Mansfield(?)

I have clear memory of the longing this poem filled my young 12 year old heart with. It was part of our school text on english language. The poem spoke of unfamiliar freedoms, seduction of vast skies and open seas, joy of aloneness, all quite foreign to my world filled with women in purda, macho men, countless cousins, aunts, uncles, bright colors in Indian hues of red, brown, turmeric, glitter, clamor, close bonds, sharing, love. I was thus very attracted to images of vast, silent, monochromes in shades of blues, grays, inky night skies which rain stardust, a bobbing boat with a gentle billowy white sail. I have carried these images and longings hidden for many decades. Now suddenly I find myself on threshold of a journey that promises fulfillment of these dreams and I am excited and also afraid. There is a forloraness in giving up old, familiar wants and fear that real sailing across real oceans will leave little space for experiencing poetic reminiscence. I travel with three other companions from India to the Mediterranean via the Red sea for about three months in a sail boat. My days are filled with reading a sailing bible, down loading SOB(software-on-board)navigation system, checking shipping weather forecasts, learning, worrying, packing, with little room for lingering farewells to old dreams or ecstatic anticipation of new adventures. There is also a delicious fear of the unknown-the only certainty in this trip-unknown oceans, seas, brilliant coral reefs, fish....also unknown storms, pirates, sharks.... unknown lands, people, cultures-regions of the middle east-areas of mystic, magic, gold sand dunes, and jewelled oases - turbaned men, and burkha-ed women with glitter eyes and henna hands-camel chains crossing fiery sunsets, strange wailing music-scenes from Arabian Nights, and Omar Khayaaam. I stand at this threshold, between imagery and real, dream and concrete, ready to awake and yet with cobwebs of worlds built inside confusing my sight...

Small Harvests

Its been a while since I last visited my farm in Vardhenhalli. So, it was with a sense of excitement that I woke up at dawn last friday to catch a Magadi bus. Vardhenhalli handpost is now a prosperous T-junction with three shacks that all offer chilli pakoras and tea-an irresistible combination before ambling along the village road, through its jumble of mud homes, cows tied outside, goat kids skipping, dogs loitering or catching flies, cats napping and villagers sitting out on the jathi calling out to each passing visitor, asking about family, outside world and inviting for a cup of coffee. There is now a sense of familiarity about this village walk- chirping birds have replaced the usual city sounds, Savandurga is now a familiar rock dominating the landscape, there is an ease about the little children that run after me shouting 'aunty, bye,bye' or ignoring Johnny-that hateful dog who still does not accept my presence and bounds towards me for a sharp nip. Soon, even the homes and the children disappear around the bend and a solitary walk bellowing "man anand, anand chayo" in Raag Ahir Bhairav till I cross Prakash's farm with Anna, Akka, and then the tiled roof top of my home. Muniamma, my girl friday, has heard my singing and comes out to greet me with a smile and takes my bags.

This time around, Muniamma has plastered my home's threshold with a slurry of cowdung and mud, drawn intricate kolams in white and scattered marigolds around in honor of the recently past harvest festival. Marigold bushes circle the house, in full bloom, roses are creeping up the entrance, tall, sturdy, thorny and full of pink, red and white blossoms, lemon grasses are now over 10 feet tall, full of red and maroon small grass flowers that attract bugs, butterflies, papayas are in fruit, heavy and laden, and the single broad bean creeper has covered most of the tiled roof, entwined, circling, and dropping bean laden tendrils into the open central courtyard of the home. Time for harvest- a first small harvest.

Muniamma hitches her saree, I tie back my clothes and we both clamber up the roof on an unwieldy, tall bamboo ladder. The world from top encompasses my small farm, dry now for most part, colored in shades of silken straw and brown with a backdrop of the evergreen forested area. Peace and beauty fills my silent world as Muniamma and I start harvesting the beans, slow, careful, she surefooted and I wary of a slippery fall down. We keep dropping the gathered beans in folds of our clothes, now becoming a fat bundle on our back, as we move along. Several tiles have been broken by the creeper, the roof is a mess of shed leaves and decay-we pick it up, sniff and laugh-thats good 'gobara'(compost) thats happening on the roof top. We manage to harvest 4-5 kgs of beans and return to the top to cut down the creeper, roll it over
-it requires the two of us to shove this massive entangled mess down the slippery rooftop. I am thankful that I have not fallen off yet. Then sweeping the top, replacing broken tiles and we are done-ready for the summer and the next monsoons.
A couple of hours on the rooftop in all and I have harvested beans for many kitchens, quietness for my heart, silence for my soul and love for this life of mine, on my little farm

Uncommon Life

Today I blurted " I want an uncommon life!" This statement has hung with me till now- bedtime, blogtime-time to sort things out, mull things over, ponder, resolve,attend- pay attention to questions of self- changing answers to which will guide my changing tomorrows.

Do I really want an uncommon life?
First, I define common as most usual, normal, ordinary-as favored by most.
So..do I want what most do not want-and if so-because they do not want? The harder I stare at this question, clearer it becomes that while I enjoy being liked, accepted (??), my real desires and wants are fairly independent of the approval rating. So when I rant for an uncommon life, it is in recognition of uncommon desires, urges, dreams that I feel bound to pursue- and my unwavering belief in my right to do so.

This resolved-time for bed-and no other thoughts.

A Wealthy Man

There is a story that my husband likes to relate. It goes something like this.A CEO of giant MNC is scheduled to visit the chief of a small tropical island, known to contain some rare mineral deposits. Accordingly, the CEO flies to the nearest airport is his private jet, races to the island in his speedboat, to find no delegation to welcome him at the appointed hour. Irritated, he asks for the chief to the villagers loitering around and is pointed to a path. The path meanders through thickets, bushes, jungles with colorful flowers, clamoring birds, monkeys to finally end up at a beautiful lagoon- picture of a perfect tropical paradise. Here he spots the chief dozing on a hammock. Completely flustered at this nonchalant reception, he approaches the chief, introduces himself and presents his proposal to mine the mineral reserves with lucrative rewards for the chief and his villagers. The chief hears him through and then asks lazily why he was interested in the mineral. The CEO patiently explains how this would help promote the interests of his company and benefit the shareholders. "Then what?" asks the chief. The CEO lays out his grand plans to expand such operations to other areas, islands."Then what?"again asks the chief. The CEO replies that with such expansion, his company would be the biggest in the world. "Then what?" asks the chief again. Well, then the CEO replies that he would retire a happy man, and settle down in a tropical island to enjoy the rest of his life. At this the chief smiles and says "You can do that now".

It is a myth of our times that if we accumulate enough wealth we'll be able to be happy-both, capable of happiness and also deserving of it. I have met many very wealthy people none who consider that they might have enough to give themselves a chance to happiness. In fact it appears that ones perception of wealth is anti-correlated to the amount of one's wealth. The only three self proclaimed wealthy people I know are on the university campus where I live- with earnings that are considered modest by the current Indian urban standards.

At a completely different level are the farmers in the rural belt outside Bangalore. It appears that the comings and goings of wealth through their life has little or no bearing on how their days are lived. Thus, Anna (or 'older brother'), my neighboring farmer, smiles and raises his eyes heavenwards, both when his crops have fetched him a healthy market price or when the market has crashed, rending all the months of his hard work a waste. He, unknowingly, has become my mentor, my guide. He lives his karma uninfluenced by its outcome- the ultimate lesson in Bhagavad Gita. May I be blessed with his grace; may the world be similarly blessed.

Ayurvedic Kerela Massage

She was an earth goddess-coloured dark clay with a mineral sheen, cascading night hair, lotus eyes-heavy, silent, dark full lips, high flat cheeks; large muscular body wrapped in turmeric and green-engrossed, focussed, pouring hot oil, kneading, rolling, shaping, slapping, balanced and strong, working with her feet, large, rough, my slithery body,in strokes hard, long, thighs, legs, back, arms, up and down, relentless, intent, creating anew, a clay doll, from that-broken of will and flesh, to blow into it, spirit and strength-a breath of life -afresh.

Hyderabad

Labyrinths and mazes
through polluted hazes
a city sunken to despair
destroyed-beyond repair
with just dreams and memories
of recalled past glories
pearl lined streets, bazaars of gemstones
for Qutub Sahis, nizams and begums
raunchy dance girls, intrigue and valor
unconquered forts, minarets of moonlit pallor
fragrances floral and spice
gatherings of poets, warriors and wise
in glittering durbars of crystal and gold
the lost days in Hyderabad of old.

I am not a Patriot-scribbles from Jan. 26

Today India celebrates its 59th year as a republic, with the usual show of pompous chauvinism, misplaced fervour, idiotic enthusiasm, and hypocritic patriotism-people sport the tri-colour of the national flag in their clothes, on their bodies; flags waving everywhere, radios blaring patriotic songs, TVs carrying movies on valour, bravery- in a fictitious world, where the "hero" always wins and dies-for the sake of his country. The biggest attraction on the idiot box is ofcourse the RD parade with a show by our jawans in glorious costumes, cantering horses of our cavalry, a grandiose display of our military might with rolling tanks and giant rockets-and our politicians-the villans of this nation, lined up in white with holy expressions, to pay homage to where we have arrived, as a nation.

A nation focussed in giving countless awards to prove its greatness- colouring its poverty with a display of plastic glitter and shine, covering the sorrow of its dying farmers with its nuclear might- a nation bent on proving its worthiness by the number of its malls, cars on its choked streets, filth in its gutters. A proclamation of its worthiness, when our richest compete with the others of their creed, globally.
Are we rich when the basic human right to 'life,liberty and pursuit of happiness' is not even an allowed dream for most? When our police run rampant like wild savages to curb democratic right to speech, protest? when development is a word reserved for the privileged upper crust and valued higher than the basic human needs of most?Do we not struggle with our impotent shame when women are still killed for dowry, female foeticide is still rampant, where one's sex, wealth or caste is the basis for even entering the national conscience stream?

Who are we? and what are we proud of? what is really a patriot? The more we need to prove ourselves at a global level, the less we focus on who and what we have become- at home. On this day we again realise that we have willingly sold ourselves to white masters who dictate our lives, dreams, ideals, so our freedom-so difficultily won, is once again sold away to imitate those who define our right and wrong, good and bad, and our definition of happiness itself.We now do this selling daily, continuously, trampling on our brothers, sisters, children, maiming our people, culture, so our termitic colonies can look like theirs.

No! I cannot
salute a flag
show my glee
that we are free
free to wantonly
dessimate and destroy
trampling along the way
rights of all!
that we may
one day
look like Them
with bleached bodies
coloured hair
fake bosoms
designer wear.