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.

Dewdrop

Been in despair...
stuck and sucked
in life's quicksand
of weary care.

Groped for help
here and there,
on internet, books,
with strangers to share.

Sat wretched at a door
when my gaze spied,
a dewdrop on a leaf
was in sight.

Tiny, ephemeral,
suspended and slight,
contained, complete
and lit from inside.

Wings unfolded,
my heart took to flight,
soared far and high
till I was out of sight.

Sitting in Silence

Today I wandered through my garden and sat in a corner, in silence.

I heard:
A chorus of the morning birds
A distant cry of peacock
A faint rustle of cool breeze again the coconut fronds.

I heard:
The rhythm of my breath, against
the percussion of pulsing blood, and
a deep silence singing in my ears.

I heard:
Flap of butterfly wings
Sunbird alighting on a passion vine
morning dew rolling off lotus pads
gutteral calls of a hundred micro-frogs.

I heard:
wind scatter rose pollen in golden dust
jasmine nectar intertwine with wafts from yang-ylang
guppies frolicking in the ponds
dragonflies alighting on grass tips
crickets rubbing their wings in glee.

I heard:
Sun waves lap warm against my face
a waning moon come tumbling down
invisible crystal stars swirl heavens in an eternal sufi dance
and... the stillness of ether.

Today I sat in my garden in silence and I became alive.

Fresh Canvas

I have a bunch of fresh canvas sitting in my loft/landing - a space upstairs that I like to think of as my art studio. Their presence there fills me with a sense of hardly contained excitement - an endless joy of possibilities - awaiting me. I move about my life, my duties, my daily chores in awareness of the fresh canvas - which are mine.

I also have an empty garden - that I have started filling up. Very much like the fresh canvas upstairs, an empty piece of land beckons, filling me with Gauguin gardens - tropical, wild, exuberant gardens of flowers, fruits, birds, bees. In sheer delight I cave in, digging, planting, playing in mud - drenched in fragrances of jasmine, neroli, damask rose already blossoming in my head.

And so it is with life. I am busy erasing history, past, habits - wiping my slate clean. This act of erasing, of walking away, of starting with a fresh canvas is already reviving, renewing, life-affirming, filled full with the joy of possibilities of 'what next?' How shall I paint my life, my day, this moment? The choice is endless. For the moment, I just hold my breath, waiting, before I choose.

Bus Moments

I am 55, female, grey, skinny, wear jeans and short hair. I also commute on bus - all over Bangalore. Here are a few bus moments I remember.

1. Every Monday I head out from where I live, in Kengeri, to a meeting in Shivaji Nagar.There is only one direct bus every hour or so - and occasionally this also skips a beat. So, the other day, as I was crossing the road near Kengeri police station, my bus whizzes past me, a couple of hundred meters ahead, to roll into the bus stop. I run. Very few takers for this bus at 3 pm in the afternoon - I realize this and race to catch this bus. I can feel the cool breeze on my face, and wear a Tin-Tin tuft on my head, and a silly grin on my face. I feel I have never run so fast before - and its decades since I last ran. The bus rolls out towards the road and moves as I catch up alongside, grab the handlebar as I have seen many reckless youth do, and swing myself on board with a single swing - the grin still pasted on my face, hot and breathless from the most exciting thing I have done in a long while - and absolutely Cool. 
2. The other day, I found a Ladies seat on a bus back home and sat there - slumped, gazing out of the window, when I felt a shove on my arm. A buxom villager with huge bags of shopping had got on at the City Market and was shoving my arm, asking me to get up and give her the seat. I was utterly confused and must have shown just that when I heard giggles and laughter all around. Am not great in Kannada, but followed the conversation to understand this much: the young women were telling her that I was really a woman! Now it was her turn to look completely blank - and the laughter turned into a roar!
3. What I am going to say now represents a collection of moments, it has happened so many times, and not just on buses. At Majestic, I run between buses, asking for my destination. People helpfully point out towards a bus; I run and clamber on - to be told - its a wrong bus; get off and the bus rolls away and I ask for my destination, to be pointed to the same bus - which has now gone. Another time, I asked for a ticket to Malleswaram, but the bus went through Rajajinagar and ended at Yeswantpur; my protests were answered with derisive laughter "learn Kannada if you want to live in Karnataka". Prejudice of an outsider lives on buses, RTO, telecom office, police stations - where I have heard the same thing. It has been suggested that I wear saree, bottu, and my hair long..I rather be who I am and hope for a world without prejudice.