From Neil

We live in a tiny room - enough for a bed and a little space to walk on two sides, my son and I. The walls and door are of matted reed; roof is a tin slat. On the little veranda outside, hang our two hammocks - in slate blue and ocean green. We have a mat we spread out for visitors, for yoga, painting, braiding friendship bracelets, and crafting coconut shells - into planters, bowls, jewelry. This mat is white with green parrots on green branches. All our belongings are contained in two bags that easily fit under our bed. The family here feeds us, simple fare and very well. Most vegetables and fruits are from their own garden.

For most part we lie on the hammock, that sways on its own, tuned to the sound of the waves, just beyond, and the sound of the breeze, if we listen a little more, and our own breath and heart beat if we get really tuned in.

At other times we go to the beach, scavenging for shells or driftwood, or to ride the jade and turquoise waves, or to simply wander - up and down, up and down, aimlessly but centered.

There is little to do here, and little to buy or own. Slow life, gentle smiles, purpose less, yet complete. I have everything I need.

How will I ever return?

Packing

I am headed out to the Andamans...and I am packing all the things I should not forget. Turquoise blue for the ocean,  jade at the shore, white froths, and cerulean blue for the immense sky dome. On a whim, I add in a scarlet for the flamboyant sunsets, a deep carmine for the pre-dawns. I add in emerald for the snorkelling depths, a leaf green for the giant trees, a hooker's green for the rest. I add in gold and silver for the sands to walk on and the sun and the moon - and finally lapis for the inky star sprayed nights.

I pack in a hammock and I am done. 

Dancing Dhrupad

Its been fifteen years of failed struggle - this attempt to know and understand and produce a note - a correct Sa, in correct swara. Or to produce a sargam, a melody, a composition - in tune...I am not even fathoming an approach to the tala or beats - yet.

And then, recently it hit me - by watching, listening to Dhrupad; it needs to be done with all the senses - Dhrupad has to be danced to be sung. One sings Dhrupad with its taste inside one's mouth; with a heady aroma of a basant or a cool night breeze with frangipani notes; a visual feast of imageries dancing behind closed eyes, and the body swaying in melody - moving already to notes still at threshold of creation. Is one ready to do this? Then, one is ready to Dhrupad.