UnWilled Sin

Is it a sin to commit wrong when one intends to help?

Today, I was in a shower when this large bully-ant kept slipping into the water line and dragged by the flow towards the drainage. After trying to flick it away a few times, I picked it up and threw it away, only to find that it was suspended in air, struggling, and not able to fall. I then saw that the poor ant had landed on a cobweb across and was being steadily pulled up by the fairly small spider.
Instinctively I needed to reach out and save 'my' ant, but seeing the spider working hard to get its meal, I became uncertain, closed my eyes tight and turned away.

In trying to save an ant, I had inadvertently provided a meal for a spider...I have held this event during my day wondering where else I 'interefere-to-help' in life and thereby set in motion such events that work against the intended compassion of my action. What is my understanding of larger forces that guides the equilibrium or the entropy of a system? or of any social, political, ecological, spiritual or universal sytems? Am I just a particle tossed by currents and energy of times, where even willed actions are transformed into unwilled events? In which case what or how do I 'will'??

Parents

They sat
huddled together
side by side,
besides a culvert,
a crumbled mountain
with a wispy sparrow
clutched together
in a rushing tide
of traffic, noise
and people
passing by-
they sat in
their island of
old age and silence,
lost memories
and time
- to abide.

Pining for the Hills...

Each Night Put Kashmir in Your Dreams : Nilima Sheikh

Yesterday, I heard an amazing lecture with slide show by Nilima Sheikh, based on her stunning scroll painting, originating in memories, history, culture, people, landscape, dreams of Kashmir...
I put Kashmir in my dreams last night. Today I sat with a white sheet of paper and remembered the 'Chinar' tree.

One More...

that I utterly identify with...again from the same " The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse"
----
POEMS OF SOLITARY DELIGHTS by Tachibana Akemi

What a delight it is-
when on the bamboo matting
In my grass-thatched hut,
All on my own,
I make myself at ease.

What a delight it is-
When, borrowing
rare writings from a friend,
I open out
the first sheet.

What a delight it is-
When, spreading paper,
I take my brush
And find my hand
Better than I thought.

What a delight it is-
When, After a hundred days
of racking my brains,
that verse that wouldn't come
suddenly turns out well.

What a delight it is-
When of a morning,
I get up and go out
To find in full bloom a flower
that yesterday was not there.

What a delight it is-
When skimming through the pages
of a book, I discover
A man written of there
Who is just like me.

What a delight it is-
When everyone admits
Its a very difficult book,
and I understand it
with no trouble at all.

What a delight it is-
When I blow away the ash,
to watch the crimson
of the glowing fire
and hear the water boil.

What a delight it is-
When a guest you cannot stand
Arrives, then says to you,
"I'm afraid I can't stay long"
And soon goes home.

What a delight it is-
When I find a good brush,
steep it hard in water,
Lick it on my tongue
And give it its first try.

Silent Words

Blue Night Road:by Tanaka Fuyuji

The sky full of stars,
the blue night road
seeming to lead to them,
the distant village
bathed in some blue-green wine....
..........
The Stars, drowsy,
pregnant with moisture, falling
in such numbers that they seem
to haunt the road to the white barns of the village.
-----------
Stone: by Kusano Shimpei

Wax-tree, five needled pine,
Grow from a fissure.

Sodden after rain,
moss flowers reflected in granite skin.

At the deep, silent
base of coming and going

Ants and mushrooms,
temple of hill and river spirits.
Clouds drawn up to the blue skies.

Hemmed round by dripping grasses,
bluntly the stone glimmers.
----------------

Hammock: by Horiguchi Daigaku

Hammock spread by a spider
And in it a butterfly rocks.

Shrouded in its golden halo
It dies....
---------------

On the snow
Alighting gently,
the nightingale.

Bright moonlight:
The wounds in the deep snow
Will not be hidden.

Nothing there but
The Whorl of a fern:
This floating world.

Pillow hard as a stone!
Am I a cicada
That I scream so loud? -by Kawabata Bosha
-----------------
Stepping on a tendril,
A whole hill of dew
Begins to move

Warm and snug,
Ageing in his sleep
The paddy Snail -by Hara Sekitei
--------------------------

Utter genius of Japanese poetry transport one to deep, secret, silent spaces inside one's being.
These I read in " The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse"

Explanation...

Those of you who who have read the previous post on 'Seeking the Beloved' and are not networked into the Kabir-Songs, Bangalore group, might be a bit mystified by it. That poem-post was a response to a Sufi Fest that happened last Sunday in Bangalore also by the same name 'Seeking the Beloved'. This program of Sufi music from the Sind region of the country was organised by the 'Kabir Project' that has also been responsible for bringing other incredible musical gifts to this city, thereby enriching all our lives.

The first bit of my poem is a response to the joyous uplifting when Moora Lala sang in his inimitable style, his songs from Kutch. Moora Lala with his swirling mustache, 100Watt smile and
happy presence moved us all - literally! We swayed, clapped, beat to his songs and Parbat Jogi's rhythm on Dholak.

The second part of the program was by the Waee singers, Mitha Khan and Sumar Khan - this was my first introduction to Waee music and I confess it haunted my spirit, wrenched my soul,
and left a deep inexpressible, melancholy stain of not-finding the sought, one's ultimate true beloved, on my person...so the second part of what I wrote derives from that.

Lastly, I just express a hunch that surely seeking one's ultimate beloved, in the most spiritual sense would lie in being able to delve deep inside one's own self...

Seeking the Beloved...

When I sought
my beloved,
my heart
took flight-
across earth,
heavens
starry skies;
I glimpsed
him in the
dark and
radiantly light
and yet
my true beloved
remained out of sight...

Wounded,
I plunged
into my heart's
bloody cave,
tore this flesh,
desperate to brave
life's turbid currents
swirling inside
giving my beloved
a place to hide...

My breath sang
in Waee,
my heart
strummed its
beat -
I finally found
the doorway
& my beloved
for me to
meet!

Tango

We Tango
on internet
to pulses..
electrons
choreographed
in lead
and retreat-
a common
beat
defines
this
relationship.

Chopin Magic

Sunlit
shards,
shattered
smiles,
wound,
deep
inside,
when
trilling
notes,
cascade
over
deep
rumbled
tones,
& create
perfect
melody,
of
wounded
song.

On Train Back to Bangalore

Mist suspended
emerald green fields
and
a peacock in full splendor.
---
Three brown, one white,
horses graze wild lands
far from anywhere.
----
Hills striped in faith,
red and white.
----
White gopurams,
white masjid,
divided by fields!
---
Silver feather tops
on clumps of purple grass
and hazy blue hills.
---
chiffon scarf and rhinestones
cobwebs on bushes after rains.
---
Train compartment:

In panic
train races
lightnings flash
thunder roars
dusky skies;
rivulets of grimy slime
run at my feet
squatters stand
bags held high;
yet-elated laughter
at rains!
----
In Chhatisgarh-
I hum a lot
to block out thought
of class guilt and
caste rights
that I have
and they have not-
In Cg I hum a Lot.
---
Burial:

Chhattisgarh
of buried coal,
diamond,
crude ore,
now buries-
crude truths,
filthy lies,
slaughtered men,
mangled rights;
it buries
voice, vision,
dreams, hopes-
Only one flag
flies high
of corrupt might
subordinated,
to corporate
delight;
arms and guns
face the enemy
inside,
poor and mute
without
refuge or rights
wander out
along arteries of
state's power
to work in
labor camps
of factories
and mines
-dead but
buried alive
inside.

Diwali Nostalgia

Diwali used to be a big deal in the family. A once a year occasion for new clothes, endless making of sweets and salties, people in and out in brilliant shiny clothes - it was the season of plenty - plenty enough for all us kids and plenty more for neighbors, friends, relatives, poor and destitute. There was 'baksheesh' for everyone and also sweets.

I grew up and went away from home. I cried every Diwali spent wandering through a mall, catching a movie and fancy candle-lit dinner. I didn't want any of this. What I wanted was the sense of excitement, the color and the dazzle, and sharing - sharing with lots and lots of people. I grew up with a notion that festivals and celebrations were about sharing and the joy this brings.

Today, sharing is done on basis of reciprocity - account keeping of give and take, and balancing of books. It is counted who gave what to whom and what we owe, and how much, to whom. It is an elaborate social charade replacing the community spirit with contracted exchange.

However, I keep a firm distance away from these silly notions. Now, every Diwali, I deck up in saree ( a big deal for me), bottu, jewellery - tuck my pallu around and get down to the business of recreating my own Diwali - the nostalgic Diwali of my childhood. I turn into a veritable halawaii and turn out the same treats for my children! Gulab Jamun, Almond burfee, mohanthal and then fafada, choraphadi, chewdo...special meals for diwali days as written down in my recipe book by my mother, and an extra special meal for the New Year...deepams lit in rows, children in their indian clothes, husband in a silk Kurta - and lots of people all around. I do this happily, to be a child again, and to relive a Diwali from my childhood.

Her

I have become intimate with this face. I have chiseled it bit by bit, slowly and with patience of a mother creating her child. I watched her acquire form, features, and finally her fate - doomed to a birth. Her awareness of life etched her in sorrow. I mothered her without realizing this sorrow of life, her life, or any life. I did not watch the world outside enough, but was swayed by the creative joy of chiseling away, little by little, bit by bit. I created her and now watch her - and the world through her.

Fruit on a Vine

Today I worked on my garden. I cleared, cleaned, potted, seeded. I was once again celebrating, now the departure of Meghs and the brilliance of sun on a cool and crystal day. As my daughter said, "It is so nice to be outside". I agreed. It has been a long time since I toiled in my garden.
It is then it occurred to me - that the fruit is anchored on a vine, that is wrapped around a tree, that is rooted on this earth, which dances around a sun, which races with many billion stars around our galaxy, which swirls in space, as the space itself zips fast - very fast towards eternity. I thought this when I paused in my garden and looked at a fruit on a vine.

Fields and Foliage

Patterns on Sand

Mostly Shells

Travel Musings..

It all teems
with life
schools of shells
tickle my soles
inside.
----------




I walk the
lip
of oceans
deep,
wavering
along
shore's
shifting line,
uncertain,
uncommitted
but poised-
in this suspended
moment
of space and time.
---------




With ease,
earth wears
her watery veil,
to captures heavens
infinitely deep.
------

It is
astonishing
they pilgrim
here to die-
bugs, bees,
slugs, wasps
and
dragonflies....Harakiri on Goan Shores.












Flooded paddies
Teal Skies
Glistening boulders-
Buffaloes.
---

Rushing Train,
Plastics Fly-
no, Just Herons!
----
On local train in Mumbai:

Late night
monsoon rains,
humans packed
in rattling train,
grim and grimy
sweaty and tight,
hopeless, burdened
-tragic sight.

-and -

Empty compartment,
a solitary I
3 youths walk in
noisy and high
stop to stare-
red glazed eyes
-Why?
----
On road in Goa:

Rain lashes,
blood flows in streams
from cuts and gashes
under natures peeled green.
---

So
Hum,
Hum
So,
So...
I fly!

--

I run
far,wide
to seek
silence
inside.
---

Its all the same
them and I
ocean's chorus,
waving grass
fields of flowers
crystal stars;
beggars and leper
tycoons in cars
giver and exploiter
all the same-
still, or journeying far.
---------

Evening light
copper sands
hiding stars





--

Air, Water, Earth,Fire in Goa