Impressions of a Trip

A few sketches done during a recent trip - impressions of people who impressed me, or whose looks arrested my attention, or those just present as study topics within easy access to my vision...also landscapes done from train journeys.

In Sarees

In my sarees, I am:

Star studded desert dunes - silver elephants roam my black sky;gold nymphs sing and dance within my peacock depths;leaves and lotus intertwine - strand by strand - under blazing evening skies;fields of gold gray chrysanthemums bloom over my shameless pink soil.

Notes on a Train

Fields of waving silver grass
Heron on a shiny black boulder
A feeding buffalo.
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A man pulled out a hindi Femina and Griha Shobha
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A first sunflower bloomed in a field of swollen green buds.
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A hungry man doubled over planting with care tender green saplings in perfect rows - rice for nation's supermarkets.
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An old woman binged on cokes and ice cream diving into her wasted chest for cash.
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Two peahens joined the crows to feed off garbage dumps outside Agra.
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A herd of skinny cattle wait patiently at a railway crossing.
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He shat in their marigold fields to offend his master's Gods.
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A man's torso stood over its own inverted self - still, over still waters - to catch lunch.
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Boulders striped red and white
established the might
of Gods,
of majority's right.
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Coolies in red, recline under shades, watching in disappointment and relief, our train speeding by.
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Indigo stained buildings against blinding white fence blurring past.
----
Wrinkled skin and wasted self
wrists tinkle with glass and gold
memories of youth and beauty.
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A peacock saunters through scrub forests of Andhra.
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At Choka, brazen display of gold on fire - trees aflame amongst wavey gold grasses; smokey blue mountains and orange sky, ravines plunging to black.

A Bonus Blessing

Their arrival was heralded by sounds of rhythmic claps - their walk and presence distinct. Every train journey in India is colored by encounters with their mocking laughter, their devious ways of extracting money, especially from bashful young men.

She was beautiful, with full wine lips, eyes painted as raven jets, ringlets frolicking on either side framing her face - perfectly. She smiled at me as she entered the railway compartment - I smiled back. She was stunning as she teased, sparkled, flirted, cajoled, and coerced cash from the youths besides me. Work done, she turned to me-
She: "Do you work?" I: "No, I am a housewife"
She:" Then why is your hair cut?" I:" Because it is no longer beautiful"
She:"Women cut their hair if they go for job" I: Silent
She:" Are you ill?" I: " I am a little unwell"
At which, this young gorgeous woman shook her head in sympathy, laid her hand over my gray head - and blessed me.

Seeds

She sat with her feet dangling down the wall, the packet of seeds by her side - salt and chilli powder on her palm - she dipped the seeds into this mixture and delicately nibbled them - what a strange taste, not at all unpleasant - why had she expected them to be nasty? the things you constantly discover - she smiled at the thought.

Like discovering this place - it was such a surprise! Who would've guessed such a hidden idyllic spot right in the heart of the city - it was completely empty, today as all other days of her visit, although the roar of the traffic lay just beyond the skin of silence that enfolded this space. A rocky pool lay twenty feet below her, orange dragonflies flitted in the dense evening air. Beautiful, clear, gold washed through gray woolly skies - making the world glow. There was an air of expectancy, as usual, in evening sunlight of these monsoon days - was it the phase of ending that made it so, the quenching of the last light? She had not been this happy for a long time - happy?? Ok, at least silent, and at peace - quiet in the inside, and ready. The pool was an opaque slate separate from the luminescent air - deliberately so; sun cast long shadows into the pool - there she was, long and skinny reaching all the way to the other side of the pool - a stick figure already imprinted on water down below.

She sat nibbling at the seeds, leisurely, savoring the spicy chilli that made her wince - the taste was definitely growing on her - this was easy. She mused again at why this particular location was specially interesting - to answer a question - no 'googling', no searches in libraries, talking with people had given her any clue about the seeds she had harvested and, there was only one way to find out. Today she would definitely know if the brain remained active till the last moment, if she saw herself fall, or if the brain switched off first. In either case, her purpose would be served - soon the lights would be out.

Singing to my Fish

For a few weeks now I have had a gloriously beautiful fighter fish in a bowl against my window. It is colored turquoise to indigo and rose to maroon, yes! all on a 2 inch body of furly fins, a vain face, a full pouty mouth. It used to sit in sullen stillness, as many very beautiful people do, aware and sufficient in their own beauty. I wanted it to love me a bit, acknowledge, and interact - and play with me - a little bit...

no amount of prodding it - yes, physically, swirling its pool, pressing my nose against the bowl and making goofy fishy faces perturbed this little beauty at all - it was supremely unaware of my existence and content in its own place - the ruling fish of the bowl.

I slowly gave up seeking attention - decided to do my own thing - there was life before it came into my life, and there would be life even if I am ignored.

I sing - sometimes do tediously long riyaz for my long suffering family....so I usually try to give the family members a break and practice music when all have left home. Recently I have noticed that my fish perks up when I sing, becomes energised, buoyant, almost vivacious - it flits from here and there, swoops and swirls, dives in extravagant display of prowess and soars upwards in vertical lifts. It does all this as I wander through my room, singing. It also has developed a keen sense of the raga and is particularly partial to Bhairav - exhibiting very fine taste. Coincidentally, this also happens to be a favorite raga of mine! My dull, comatose fish has finally come alive - or has periods when it comes alive - when I sing.

I was overjoyed. Suddenly I wondered - maybe this was its act of desperation, of escaping, of committing harakiri, of flipping out, ending its life !! just because I sing?????

Flamenco in Bangalore

The stage was back lit in turquoise green - the figure in front was wearing black, strong shadows, gleaming guitar...the first notes, gentle, caressing - reined back fire, lightning, passion. Soon the fingers were moving with blurry speed, amazing music transporting me to another world of wild spirits, boundless freedom, throaty full voices, exuberant lives - lives of wanderers, gypsies of Andalusia - swirling skirts, leaping gold fires, sounds of flamenco guitar and gypsy violin, clapping hands, and tapping feet - close, passionate, recklessly open..all this I conjured up even as the program started. And, as intensely anticipated, the guitar was accompanied by gypsy violin, percussion, voice (what a full bodied, throaty, resounding voice she had!) and beat of clapping hands - and finally "Farooqo". Slim, strong, curly long hair flowing down his shoulders, raven eyebrows, flashy eyes ,and that smile - a supremely confident, vain smile of the really young, really beautiful, and really, really able...his feet moved in vanishing fast beats, his body leapt in amazing grace, and his fair flew in wild wings as he mesmerised us - hand to his heart, another snapping in rhythm, feet stomping wildly, flamboyantly, in perfect accord with the music - the music that played in his head, in his body, mostly his feet - he pirouetted in disregard to balance, gravity, in complete abandon to what moved him inside and what set us, the audience completely wild, sharing, rejoicing - tonight in Bangalore.

A Road

She was happy to be on road again - especially out on such an empty, straight road. Rural landscapes had long given way to vast stretches of emptiness, occasional acacia, few shrubs, a rich, copper, bouldered landscape under a wide open blue sky. The air was warm, the breeze refreshing. These hours away from responsibilities, commitments, duties, was what kept her going - she knew that - these bits of respite, snatched hours, for just herself and her thoughts.

The road stretched ahead to horizon in a black line - unwavering. She decided she was just going to enjoy the ride, at least for a while, before focusing on matters that needed to be cleared - in her head. Strange, the country was so vast, and yet one could get no sense of this, living in cities. Sometimes she would be strangled by a strangest sensation of claustrophobia, of being caved in, and under, while participating in most normal functions - speaking to a colleague, instructing the maid, helping her son with his homework. She then had the strongest desire to get away - far from it all - from family, creature comforts, from who she was supposed to be. It was then that she would plan one of these excursions on the road - a road leading to nowhere and to no one. She worked on a hunch, with a map - and headed out.

Today was one such days. Aah! it felt good to be out again - and it was such a beautiful, perfect, autumn day. Hey! wait a minute, when did the road get this narrow? She must've been lost in thoughts. She smiled as she turned down the volume knob on her radio - she had really lost track of time with all that daydreaming. She hummed gently as she pressed down on the accelerator - it was a funny thing with maps - they never showed heights - here she had been climbing slowly and steadly and she would've bet, looking at her map, that there were no hills around. Surely, there was no peak marked anywhere towards where she was headed. She mused that geography had always been a weak subject in school. But surely if there was a hill she was going to cross, she should have heard about it somewhere - some hill station, some tourist spot, away from the hot, dusty life in the plains. So, she was to get an added bonus today - she smiled happily - she loved hills, mountains, green tall trees - and here she was getting into it all - without realising it. Sometimes life threw such happy surprises.

The landscape had changed drastically - tall trees darkened the road on either side - the road became increasingly steeper - it was good that she kept her car in such a perfect running condition - this baby could handle it all! She turned off the radio, to focus on the silence around - the beautiful cooling silence of the jungles, of alone-ness, just the purr of the car. She kept her speed steady but bore down on the accelerator to keep going - the road was getting narrower still - almost a single lane now. It was crazy how PWD made roads - no commonsense, no sense of responsibility. How would drivers handle another car coming from the opposite direction?? Really, she ought to complain when she got back. Meanwhile, good idea to fasten that seat belt and hang in there - pay attention, dear girl, no time right now to daydream or doze! She tightened her hold on the steering wheel, kept her foot down on the pedal - now even her babes could not keep up the original speed - who could blame her? Look at the bloody road - where was it leading to? to sky?? Damn it - she should have got off and made some enquiries - she with her harebrained ideas - always getting her into trouble - she would have to wait for a turnabout, to make a U-turn and head home - it was getting late too - and folks would be worried too. A car better not be coming from the opposite direction - the road had completely closed in around her, and continued to climb ever higher! There was no way she could brake - the brakes would not be able to handle the steep slope and God only knows how much she had climbed up - seemed like it was ages since she started climbing. Her hands were slipping on the steering wheel. Cool it dear girl, and you'll come out alright! No! don't think - focus and drive - yes! the only way available - forward and up. The car was creeping along now - but what could she do? Really where could she stop? and how? No point even thinking of jumping out, finding boulders, and ramming it under her wheels...and...what if some other vehicle came from the opposite side??

Oh no! in the distance ahead, she saw that the road was climbing into a dark narrow tunnel - she really ought not to enter there - she didnt want to - by now she could feel her heart pounding in her breast, her breath come out in rasps - her sticky, wet hands slippery on the wheel. She was approaching the tunnel. She turned on the headlights into the narrow walled-in black tube, even as she entered it.

And then...she woke up!
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A narrative of a dream my sister had.

A Walk

For several days now I have been on a search...to search for hope, that invisible tenous thread that holds one's place in universe, a wispy idea that validates this journey. I have looked for it everywhere - in children's laughter, the rays of sun, the flowers that still bloom. And...it has been futile! I have been filled with gloom -that this is all transitory - this innocence, the rain filled clear light, earth on which flowers can bloom.

Usually I thrive on impermanence - lunge at fleeing moments, grab disappearing rainbows - to live on peak of pinnacles - in perfect poised balance of now. This time the monsoons dragged me in deeper- to their lightless, prussian, dense, dark depths. I have hung on teetering, striving balance on swinging see-saws, jumping between ends - between colossal falls, looking towards heavens for a smile.

And yesterday, the Gods smiled...

I was taking a forced, fast walk through our campus. It was late dusk, the dark period before night, before the lamps were turned on. The road was silent, damp, under canopies of trees with clumps of bamboos, and jungles of bushes on either side. It was then that I saw them - two Slender Loris moving with ease on a bent long bamboo. I stood still, in shocked delight. They were so tiny, so fragile and so sure! One of them quickly moved away, to hide and stare - the other was cocky, assured that I meant no harm...how did he know?? I had been granted a gift!

As I made my way home, with now a silly grin on my face, I saw in spotlight under a street lamp - a tiny beautiful owl. Barely 8", with a flat white face, huge glowy eyes...and definitely an attitude. The rains have seen swarms of moths canopying the street lights - they very quickly loose their transparent wings and fall on ground where they become dinners for birds, termites, other creatures. The owl looked at me in reproach and flew to a safe branch on a nearby tree. From here it played a 'blink' game with me, bobbing it head absurdly all the time. I tried imitating its hoot, approaching closer to see if I could pass off for a fellow friendly owl - only to send it to even higher branches...I had been granted a second gift!

Suddenly, Hope was a clear, visible thread, connecting me to all of life - to Slender Loris, Owl, children, rainbows, flowers, light, and yes, even the darkest monsoon clouds!

Living Life Dangerously...

That night the skies rented and deluged the land. I lay awake to the rains pounding, drumming to heartbeats, quickened, elated, pumped up with adrenaline, to the percussion of thunder claps, flashes of lightening. In the blind black of my room sounded the running, pacy changing beats of teen-taal in this megh-night.

Next day, I started late for the farm. The underpass on my route was unpassable, thigh deep in water. Backtracking to catch a bus, I found that the morning rush hour had already started. The buses rushed by periliously tilted towards road with people hanging out in swarms. One such bus was stopped at the traffic signal, going in my direction. Running between wavy lines of halted cars, vehicles, I reached the bus and yelled at the people to 'make space' - a woman standing on the last step turned smiling and said "there is no more room inside" - I hesitated, undecided, weighed by a big clumsy bag that I carried in one hand, when the traffic signal turned green. The bus inched forward, and suddenly, without thought, I was squeezed between people, hanging out the last step, on this tilted bus, hanging on to my bag with one hand, and my hold on life with another....the bus sped on shiny, wet tar within reaching inches of other cars, scooters.

The wind blew against my face pushing my hair back - I was the last person on the bus - excited, elated, happy to be living life dangerously.

Impartial Immorality

An absurd conversation with my fourteen year old took a turn when she declared, “ I want to be Immortal” –

I said “that’s not possible”

She said “then I rather be reborn again and again and again – I hate the thought of my body rotting with the soil”

I said “that it will anyway”

She said “then I prefer my brain not to rot”

I said “that too will”

She said with an irritated look “ you know what I mean – I don’t want my mind to disappear!”

I said “Since I do not believe in any particular religious model, it is probably true that we all just disappear into nothing – this could serve a purpose; if people were conscious of their mortality then they would lead better lives”

And then she said “ If there is no afterlife, or promise of a better after life, why should people prefer to be good. There needs to be a reward – that is why religion is good. People are bad for the expected reward like wealth, power – whereas there is no reward to being good except the satisfaction of being good – the only thing is if they are not caught then they can enjoy being bad!”

That stumped me!

I asked “ Do you think if a person is dying they would not want to be good”

A cheeky smile and “why should they??”

I am Lucky...

When life gets too much...and yes, it gets too much for the most sane of us, then I retreat to my farm. I am lucky I have a farm outside Bangalore, a farm that yields little - not much grain, little fruit, sometimes vegetables.

Bangalore has been lashed by heavy rains - late this year, too late to save my crop of lentils and millets - the well has been dry all summer long, the earth crumbly and brown.

However, when I approached my farm this time, I saw that the earth was green and blue! The land wore a surreal sheen and clouds floated across the once barren land. Giving a whoopee I ran down the path and plunged into moving, shaky, splashy earth - my slippers got caught in the grime under - had to plunge elbow deep to tear them out - ouch, ouch, ouch, the vile touch me nots were jabbing my feet under water - but no matter! what did I care! Muniamma, my farm help, laughed at my enthusiasm for water and followed me at a more modest step.

The earth at the upper levels was also soggy wet and the water tank that collected rainwater was full to its lip...the barren well was two thirds filled with reddish-brown water - not fit to drink yet - but a happy enough sight..roses bloomed in a hundred shades of pink and the vines were dotted with periwinkle blue flowers. It was time for some serious work - soft earth would make the clearing easy, digging a delight.

While the sun blazed down scorching our backs, we worked, Muniamma and I, clearing, chopping and replanting - adding to sections of the green fencing, mulching with tall grasses, burying seeds, bulbs. I harvested one single tiny brinjal for sambhar, and a few star fruits. We worked till it seemed that layers of skin would peel off in chocolate wafers and sweat trickled down our backs.

And then - sudden dark - clouds rolling in fast - at a touchable height, greay, dark and inviting threatening...we stretched up to gaze even as huge polka dots splashed our faces - no point seeking shelter - we grinned and stuck our tongues out to catch pristine drops straight in our mouths.

I am lucky to have my farm...

Story of a Lilly

A few years back I acquired a Lilly bulb and buried it in soil in my front yard. It took a couple of years for it to grow, mature, and flower..clumps of white flowers, fragrant, burst forth at ends of light green proud stalks.

A few years later the plant had multiplied and transformed into a gigantic clump of many joint Lillies, holding each other tight - like a family. They took over my tiny space, blocked sunlight for plants growing under, and squeezed out root space for other plants - they proliferated, profusely, mindlessly, uncaring of the others that I was also trying to raise. So, one fine day, this monsoon, I decided it was time for change, and deliberately pulled the giant Lilly clump out...then I chucked it hard and far to the end of the yard. It lay there on its side, a sad, sorry family of a once proud Lilly family. I would encounter it every day as I walked out with my bucket of washed clothes to dry them on the clothesline. Initially, I was very sorry, and decided that I would gather up the bulbs and replant them, so they could again live and make their own, new families. But somehow, the leisure for this act, that I sincerely wished, never came. I was callous, careless, and forgot in every moment of free time. Soon, I even stopped noticing this clump, lying pitifully on its side.

Then one day, I noticed that the clump was no longer lying on the side. It had, with great energy, pushed itself, upright, and towards light. I thought " Good - but maybe I should move it to a better spot.." - that also never happened. Yesterday, I discovered, it had shot forth a light green fleshy stalk and there was a bud at the end of it. I rejoiced and blogged about it.

Subordinated Subconscious

A few days back, we had very interesting friends for dinner. After the kids got to bed, the conversation turned to the subconscious...mind that is. I claimed no experience/knowledge of possessing a subconscious - my husband, on the other hand, claimed he was unsure of the mind itself! Our friends, all four of them, on the other hand, strongly believed in the existence of a subconscious both via cumulations of personal experiences and supported by readings, works of neuro-scientists, psychoanalysts. I turned to wikipedia and found this, greatly supporting my skepticism towards the necessity of a subconscious mind. Despite that, I felt I should ponder a bit, reflect somewhat, whether I perceive within me layers of the consciousness - super, and sub- to un-conscious. Have I subordinated a subconscious to favor either the conscious or the utterly unconscious? Have I gone perceptively binary, into a B&W mode, without giving myself a chance to experience the richness of colors, shades, rainbows of perceptiveness and intermingles in between? Or, have I just never looked into the nature of my own perception?

What further intrigued me about the conversation was an unanimous agreement that an 'enlightened' mind, or a mind capable of living completely and constantly in the present, this moment, would be the only, exempt from possessing the subconscious - immediately stopping my claim of a 'no subconscious'. So, if unconscious mind, or actions led by it represent habits with clear separation between mind and actions - i.e. automatic responses, and conscious actions imply a complete awareness with which the action is carried out, then subconscious probably implies a whole gamut of experiences guided by an in-between mind - a partly there mind - a part of mind that is guided by a fuzzy-logic of personal history, uncatalogued influences, memories of peripheral experiences, which, without clear conscious directives, guide action.

Defined in this manner, I can immediately list an enormous sensory bank of transitory, non useful experiences associated with clearly delineated conscious memory. My mom wore a red and black saree in checks that day, when I was little, and we went on a family picnic - she looked like a filmstar! I remember the feel of hot rocks as I ran up the hill of Pakshiteertham, I can recall the smell of the cheap fragrance that I bought when young - my first one, without a name, or what the bottle looked like; and I can still see the setting of that sweet shop where I saw, in a tiny, dark, black room, finest silky threads of mouth watering Sonpapadi being wrought...are all these parts of my conscious, or subconscious memory?

And...now that I am getting more 'aware' of my subconscious, will I subsume it??get enlightened?!! Help! Is there a way to avoid this??

Blue Megh

The clouds oppressed, lightening split the skies, thunder rolled, the damp earthy fragrance arose even as rain dropped in big globs on my upturned face.. blue surrounded everywhere, all blue, indescribable blue of ink, prussian, royal, navy merging into raven blacks...the regal Megh blue of Indian miniatures, of peacock dance, of crashing waves - as the alaap unfolding with excruciating expectancy of long drawn awaitings, no rhythms yet, no beat of a steady pour....and then, all longing removed, rain drum down to a pakhawaj beat, soon to a dizzying, torrential unbearable speed, the voice and the drum merge with colors, each challenging and challenged....I sat in an auditorium, exposed and drenched in rain cascading over me, streaming all around, elated, drunk on this evening's Dhrupad in Raag Megh.

On Songs and Serenadings...Twice Over

Lately, I am serenaded at night. By my two most loved ones...my son and my daughter. I go to hug and cuddle them in bed at bedtime and they are each awaiting in their darkened rooms, with their favorite songs for me, ready on their iPods.

We lie sharing one earphone each, cuddled under one blankie, listening to their favorite songs for me. If I cant understand the words, they recite it in soft voices to me, even as the song clangs, bangs, ferociously overpowers my senses, rubs out all, except this feeling of warmth, closeness with my once very-little-ones that are bigger-than-me now.

I lie in this incomprehensible world of the new generation, their different vocabulary, different songs, different way of expressing feelings, but the same way of showing it - under a blankie, cuddled in bed, warmly loved and sharing that love - my two young loved ones and I.

Michami Dukhadam - I Seek Forgiveness

Today is a day I value most - amongst all days - as a day when we, as Jains, seek forgiveness, of all. It is a day of Savantsari Pratikaman with which our Pajosan - the yearly days of Jain festival end.

I seek forgiveness of all - man, bird, beast, insect, life forms seen, or unseen, whom I harmed, by my actions, while sitting, standing,in speech or in thought, knowing, or unknowingly, in any way at all - I seek heart felt forgiveness.

May I be forgiven.

Language Evolution and Politics

I recently read with keen interest the contents and discussions following a question 'lack of an audience for poetry?' examined in kufr. As an outsider to language studies, I was intrigued, intellectually challenged,and enlightened by the variety of points made especially in the long discussions that followed the two posts. But mostly, as a mainly English speaking Indian, I was oppressed by a sense of guilt at how distanced I had become from the language of my roots, my forefathers. It is this sense guilt that led me to examine the history of how my language evolved over this generation, originating from a family of mainly Gujarati speaking to my children who speak comfortably only in English. I hope this introspection will help shed light, at least from my perspective, on the question of whether or not political manipulation or ruling class subjugation had any role to play in the course of my mostly unconscious language evolution. Granted, I am no dalit, and cannot know the angst of the class experience. Yet I have wondered, whether the largess of the ruling class trickles down on the basis of pre-selecting their own kind, or just towards those who can supply their demands. These are usually met by a qualified lot already within a financially favored strata. It appears that wealth and benefits trickle down systematically from the wealthiest, to lesser wealthy, middle class, and finally the needy and poor. Similarly each successive tier from the bottom upwards attempts to climb up to the next rung towards higher wealth, comfort, and a better standard of living - and, just maybe, these processes happen without a strong caste/class biases, but more supply/demand basis. Accessibility to wealth creation mechanisms, traditionally have been ill favored towards those with least wealth.

Coming to the question of languages, Kuffir in his blog's discussion summarises:
"my aim in this series of posts, is to examine why and how language is used by the ruling classes i)as a tool of segregation and ii) and as a means of patronage.

in my view, it's irrelevant whether india adopted english or german or sanskrit or mandarin after 1947- all the ruling classes wanted to ensure was to make the best education and jobs available only to a select few, and foster a feeling of inadequacy among the rest. they seemed to have succeeded consistently until now."

My position, as a well off, English speaking Indian on the upper rungs of the financial and comfort ladder, is this: I am part of the privileged class Kuffir is talking about, and so I need to search my soul and face some home truths. My introspection has led me to believe that while what Kuffir states, undoubtedly happens, the generality of his statements might be misplaced.

Taking matters post 1947, for instance, except for those with inherited wealth, the surest way to improve one's lot was via education and getting a government job. Most aspiring sections in our society still feel education is the key out of hard life - it is mostly the wealthy or the poorest that do not directly pursue wealth via education. But the rest of the highly mobile, upwardly moving class is focusing on education, especially English education, to improve their lot in life. In my life at the farm, when I offered to help local village children with their studies, the only subject they were interested in was English - even though they did not need this for their academic performance.

I remember growing up in fairly strained financial circumstances and my parents saying they could not give us wealth, but had instead given us education - by this they meant English education. It is interesting that our wealthier cousins went through limited years in vernacular schools.

Even while we were, within a single generation, shifting to English as a mother tongue, so were countless others, following the same path in making the same choices for their children. It had very little to do with the lot of the poorer sections. We were just being prepared to get a somewhat bigger section of the pie - trained to move upwards. It just so happened that we were in the correct financial bracket to afford the luxury of a language, which undoubtedly, has been a single most obvious reason behind the financial mobility of my family. Now, we speak English at home, not to 'foster inadequacy' amongst others, but as a common language between my husband and I. Our losses have been many, a divorcing from our 'native' language, songs of its bards, the stories and festivals, the belonging has disappeared. Would I have consciously made the same choice? I am not sure...

I am at this point reminded of the very interesting blog that I read almost a year back. Here, Ram argued that "choices of individual agents make a system. There is no overall design as such" i.e. no conspiration, no intentional victimization, no intellectual ruling class consciously subjugating the rest.
Like I say " we are most like insatiable termites, we consume, consume, and the biggest termite consumes the most".

Tonight's Walk

I walked in dark
on a forest path,
lit by fireflies;
light misty rain
dampened my hair,
I sang, intoxicated
on the heady, earthy air.

Last Night

Night pelted rain
on wakeful earth,
trees bent in pain,
grasses lay down,
flowers wept;
torrents coursed
her wounded self
to dawn in a melody
- Bilaskhani Todi.

Hope

Desires alight
burnished bright
on wings of a moth
on a distant flight
to the million
electric lights
studding
inky nights.

Borobudur

There are some places in the world that defy words. Borobudur - the largest buddhist temple in the world, is one such place. Suffice it to say that its scale is stupendous, the artistry extravagant, the imagination that guided the climbing of each successive tier leading from a life of kama and moha to the ultimate realisation or enlightenment, absolutely inspired. We walked the steep steps to the last highest level, conscious, wondering, and silent.

Prambanan

We reached the temple complex of Prambanan when the evening was turning a golden shade, the searing temperatures had mellowed, and the air shone with mirror clarity. Our drive was accompanied by a view of the majestic Mt. Merapi - a very active volcano on outskirts of Yogya, breathing out its smoky breath into the intense blue evening sky.

The temples of Prambanan were built in the 10th century by the powerful Mataram kings, and are the greatest hindu monument in Java. The temples are dedicated to the hindu trinity Brahma, Vishnu, Mahesh and are each accompanied by a smaller temple dedicated the vehicles Hamsa, Garuda, Nandi. Most of the temples were destroyed by a series of natural disaters and are still in process of being painstakingly reconstructed towards their original grandeur.

My Sisters and I...

We sped on four motorcycles, my sisters and I, climbing steadily in early hours, braced by chilly wind, a suggestion of soft drizzle, inadequately clothed in windcheaters and sweats, big, stupid grins pasted on our faces. We were having a time of our lives. No husbands, kids, families, cares, worries, responsibilities, duties... in fact, no nothing! We were in Java to celebrate my 50th birthday and had immediately transformed into our childlike states. We were busy playing, having fun.

On that particular day, we were racing to visit the ancient hindu temple sites of Candi Ceto and Candi Sukh situated on the slopes of Mt. Lawu, outside Solo. The setting of the temples was spectacular within mist-hung mountains, with temples being organised in various levels culminating at the top in a flat pyramid structure. A lot of the imagery, as often is the case in Hindu sculpting of bygone eras, was charged, erotic, leading to many an exchanged glance, wiggled eyebrows, uproarious laughter. Here are some photos!

Climbing Mt. Bromo

In many ways I identify with a volcano. I am aware of the smoldering fires that rage inside, the occasional eruptions, the destruction, the long periods of dormant relief. I believe that we all hide these unquenchable fires within us - afraid to acknowledge our hidden volcanoes, the latent energy, fire, power.

Volcanoes dot the length of Java's spinal cord, some extinct, some dormant but with boiling cauldrons, some very recently, very active. I got a sense of Java's fires flying down its length recently.

Of all the volcanoes in Java, Mt.Bromo is the most famous, at least amongst the tourist circles. I still remember the first photo I saw of Mt. Bromo - a volcano emerging out of a sea of ashes, golden in the early morning light. It seemed a world lofty and high, fuming with internal fires hidden deep inside. And, one could climb Mt. Bromo, lean over its burning heart to glimpse this molten heat, the power, a core that kept this world alive, and us kicking.

We arrived to find that Mt. Bromo was one of three eruptions within an original volcano crater that covered a ten square km area and was now part of the Bromo-Tengger-Semeru National park. Our hotel was perched right on the rim of this volcanic crater giving us a view of the Bromo-Bartok-Kursi peaks across a sea of ashes beginning right under us. Temperatures were freezing when we arrived and the trek next morning started at 3:30am under a full moon.

What we saw and experienced was a walk with spectacles beyond compare. These photos below hold barest hints of what it was like to be there!