Daily Meanderings and Meditations

 After almost three decades of wanting a copy of my own,  my son finally found it online and ordered me one. So yes, i am now the proud proprietor of a little book called Zen Art for Meditation.  It is a beautiful collection of some rare B&W paintings and haiku put together with a non-intrusive commentary to help the reader move through the union of the three and arrive at the still point within oneself.  I first read it as a student in high school; the way a painting flowed onto the text, the text to a pattern of thoughts, and thoughts to emotions, turned out to be an introspectively creative experience and has stayed lodged inside me for all these years.

Having my own copy inspired me, surprisingly not to re-read it at once, but to capture the essence of what the book represented for me when I was a mere teenager: a deep lyrical connection with myself sought in a few moments of solitude. What follows is a short week-long exercise, in which the part of 'Zen Art' was played by the scene outside the wire-meshed door in our living room, which lead to the porch and beyond...It was always the same setting, yet capable of taking me places, both within and without, if only I allowed myself to be lead. 

The good thing is that once I am up in the morning, I am up. There is no sleep still clinging onto me, no dreams trailing behind. I am ready to catch the early morning light, to see how the sameness of the day unfolds unto me, what form it takes, which chord it stirs, which language it speaks...which words it adopts and which it drops...So, I feel quite prepared to take on this journey.

Day 1

the quiet music

of a new day slowly

wraps itself

around the mellotronic

beat of the diurnal weave

making everything dance:

The table, chairs,

even her exercise mat

sprawled across the 

gray floor; the gentle

swing of passing

time. Outside the window

the sun peeps from

behind the cashew tree 

lazy breeze sets astir

the crouching shadows

Day 2

How freeing it is to be empty: nothing to stir the hidden depths, and nothing by which the invisible heights quiver in the golden sun. Everything just is. Time sits idle like a street dog on the footpath. Eyes travel, and filled with their own light, take in the emptiness. Perception of the Self reclines from the shriveled up cashew leaves hanging supinely from the dark branches. 

2.

empty I sit

filling up the page

with scribbles,

the crow caws

3.

lo, a little patch of

grass discovered briefly

by sunlight, withdrawing

again to its fallow self:

a passing cloud

Day 3

1.

the rains typing

away furiously,

thoughts scurrying

ferrying themselves

beyond the clutches of

cyclonic winds and 

thunderous deluge, to 

an island of peace 

and rest

2.

the surge of rain

filling up my being

the sight of rain

drowning my thoughts

the sound of rain

reiterating the deafening

silence of these walls

3. 

the porch leads 

to the curving path,

the path to the mud trail,

the trail to the tarmac road

the road to the ocean,

thunderous and 

heaving

the tarmac road leads 

to a mud trail

the trail to a curving path,

the path to the porch

the porch to the woman

inside her an ocean

heaving

 

Day 4

1.

sliding off the leaves

the sound of gentle rain

muffling the drumbeats

from the temple yonder

2.

Drip...drip...drip...a sense of impatience rubs off into the air. And the crow pheasants' slow rhythmic harmonies strive in vain to restore a shard of spindling light to this gray rainy day. I, on the other hand can only think of wrapping my hands around a steaming cup of tea.

Day 5

1.

with every breath

columns of light

infiltrate my being

with every breath

creeps in miasma

of mortality

2.

silence entwined

around the gray

sunshine of our

days slowly unravels:

a chirp, a rustle, a 

murmur, a breath of 

wind, a lingering 

note of vagrant life

Day 5

1.

the gray light

filled with 

thoughts of you

makes my heart

ache as electric

pulses course

through my body

wrapped indolently

around the

shadow of 

an early dawn

2.

i am who i am

a being on

the path

gleaning

bits of life

and bits of 

death, but

which is which?

who knows

3.

where is the fountain? he asked. she pointed to her heart. he laid his head there. he felt soothed by the rhythmic sound of rain. now, do you love me? she asked. he lay with his eyes closed, listening.

4.

at the fountain

they met and

in silence

watched the

ripples; the tips

of their fingers

touched, a 

shaft of lightening

split the skies.

Day 6

1.

weaving its way

across a thousand

sounds: the unseizable

silence

2.

Let the mysteries of love and life remain unseizable, keeping us wanting, moving, chasing something beyond our grasp..let them keep us hungry for the unknown...

3.

the same tree

outside the window

greeting the day

with its usual bow

and quiet rustle

of dappled gold

Day 7

1.

It is always the crow pheasants nowadays with their hollow drum like beats, reminding me of the soothing beauty of repeating moments. And yet it is their persistent knocking against the morning which unlocks the day to infinite  possibilities. Where would I be without them? 

2.

On this hot and humid day, through a tiny gap in the foliage of the cashew tree, do I gather in my arms a shard of sky, and a breath of air astir by the flapping wings of a passing  crow.

3.

the chameleon

sits still in the

flower patch

praying the Rosary.

Astride Two Worlds

"Strange feeling of opening up as you reach beyond the conventional touristic borders. Down in the metro well cut suits and thin-lipped faces slowly start to give way...first, an older gentleman, perhaps from Chad, dressed in complets of pearl white, with a baby blue kufi atop his shaved head. Two more similarly dressed men at the next stop, a little younger this time. Smells are changing too; we are dipping above ground- roar and soot of a 2-stroke from before living memory, warm enveloping scent of falafel, gyro and Kati roll stands carry the friendly appeasing yelps of their proprietors, an imam's call for Duhur rides just behind the beat of an Afro-pop song blasted from a speaker on the corner... An Algerian woman and a toddler get on at the next station. She hums dreamily to the child, bouncing him lightly on her lap..."

The above is the description my then 17-year-old son Dhani wrote of his last ride in the metro across Paris...Yes, the morning before he was to take off for New York, the host family decided that it wouldn't be fair if he left without experiencing the life of the 18th arrondissement. Also known as the Goutte d'Or, the 18th arrondissement has developed into the immigrant quarter of Paris. It is here that the monochromatic/achromatic trends of the fashion metropolis of the world relents  to colorful Agbadas with bright floral patterns, and flowing kaftans and kangas. 

It represents the other side of this City of Light, the one that most tourists are warned against. Paris, without its legendary chic-ness; without its outdoor cafes, yet still Paris, and yes, still impressionable, if not even more unforgettable. In this part of the famous city, 24 percent of the people live below poverty line...this side is replete with figures and statistics, making it a mecca for the modern sociologists.

It was as though not enough to stand in the shadow of the Eiffel tower, saunter around  Champs-Elysées, enjoy a picnic by the Seine, spend a day at the Louvre, visit Musée d'Orsay,  take a selfie at Arc de Triomphe, and light a candle at Notre Dame...The experience of Paris wouldn't have been complete without an exposure to the life in the 18th arrondissement.

I was somehow reminded of Rev. Martin Luther King's speech delivered at Stanford, a speech where he spoke of The Other America- black vs. white, free vs. restricted, affluent vs. poor, educated vs. unprivileged...It was the first time, here, that he used the term 'the two Americas' to capture the cultural and economic divide with all its ugly connotations. In a few months this historical speech will mark its 55th anniversary, reminding many of us that we are still jogging on the spot, yet more and more reluctant to acknowledge it. The fact that Vir Das, the stand-up comedian was crucified in his home country for having  closed his set at Washington’s Kennedy Center last Friday with a heartfelt reflection on the “two Indias”, highlighting the country’s many paradoxes and tensions:

"I come from an India where we take pride in being vegetarians and yet run over the farmers who grow our vegetables," he said, referring to a deadly incident last month where a vehicle linked to a government minister mowed down seven people protesting against controversial agricultural reforms. 

Das, the Mumbai-based comedian, besides the farm protests, also touched on other sensitive topics such as the battle against COVID-19, cultural duality vis-a-vis women, and the crackdown on comedians. His six-minute clip compellingly encapsulated our polarized society and the dichotomy between its ideology and everyday reality.

The reaction from various quarters, split between admiration and support to outright outrage, once again brought into the limelight the nation's sharp political divide, almost as though to prove Das's point. While Shashi Tharoor,  the opposition parliamentarian lauded the speech, saying Das reflected the thoughts of millions of Indians, Ashutosh Dubey, a legal adviser to the ruling right-wing party not only accused Das of “defaming” and “spoiling the image of India” he also filed a police complaint against him. "Freedom of speech has a limitation that stops when we go against national integrity,” said Dubey to a media outlet. 

Statements such as Dubey's render abstract concepts that have saturated our media -"bringing India into the 21st century" or "onto the world stage", for example - as highly dubious, if not downright laughable. How can anyone contend such things, when ruling party affiliates still cling to ideas more reminiscent of Stalinism or the Third Reich than any so-called 'developed' nations of today? It is when the individual's freedom of expression becomes subservient to the State that we had better watch out. For, we may have inadvertently veered off onto the Red carpet; and I am not talking about the red carpet that PM Modi is accustomed to walking down on his visits abroad, when he is selling India as the biggest and oldest democracy in the world.

Mr Sibal, a senior leader from the opposition also did not mince words when he tweeted, "none can doubt that there are two Indias… It is just that we don’t want an Indian to tell the world about it. We are intolerant and hypocritical." 

Or do we just want to forever stay in denial instead of addressing the issues? It is decidedly easier to build castles in the air than to recognise that we have problems at the grassroots level. And who cares if the air is polluted?

Hello Me!

Nostos  is the Greek word for return and algos for suffering. The two words compounded form nostalgia, meaning the suffering caused by one's yearning to return, return either to a  bracket of bygone time or to a particular place.  

Lately, I have been nostalgic for myself, for the unhindered, undulating quietness which once inhabited the vast vistas of my inner scapes...by and by, because of my own negligence I let the deep creative well which watered this stretch dry up, leaving me to deal with the frightening unfertile expanse of  desolation within me. As is my wont I blamed it all on the assault of the digital world.  I reminisced the time when smartphones and laptops were considered redundant instead of absolute necessities that they have become, without which life simply stops dead on its tracks. How could a thing become a valuable extension of myself, is the question I have asked myself over and again.

So yesterday, I decided to disconnect with the e-world in order to connect with myself. I let my gadgets rest, so I could too. I let my eyes meander across the porch, alight on the cashew tree trying to revive itself, while I did the same. I smelled the rain that had fallen last night and shook a branch over my face and felt it quiver at the supernal touch of the cool drops still clinging to the leaves. Unbeknownst to me, I landed up startling a maina which quickly fluttered off, leaving in its wake the echo of my terrified scream.

I read three short stories, two by Paul Bowles and one by Borges...and when I chanced upon an unfamiliar word, instead of skipping over it, I got up and pulled out the 22-year-old Webster to look up its meaning...Besides the meanings of  words, I found an entire trove of treasure, lost and found, and still capable of issuing  a host of memories. Along with strips of salmon pink birch bark from our land in Alaska, I discovered dried lavendar and dandelion flowers right from our backyard in New York,  yellowed neem leaves in the shape of birds which I must have picked during my constitutionals in the neighborhood here, and a minuscule cashew leaf, imitating a perfect heart. I also chanced upon some colorful shiny wrappers of Parisian chocolates my friend had once brought  and empty pouches of Biglow's herbal tea.

All the things I had once loved and had now forgotten were here tucked away in the dictionary: words, nature, friendship and Tea. Maybe, I can after all find my way back home.

Playing the Card Right

 The royal family and its entourage appointed a prominent event managing company to prepare for the pompous celebrations related to the upcoming festival of lights...The deadly virus had been banished from the kingdom and the occasion called for an extravaganza befitting the victory. So what if the farmers have been on the road protesting for almost a year now? "After all, isn't it easier to protest than to till the land and sweat it out?" the king had reasoned and left them to their lot, shivering in the November cold. And, how about those whose businesses closed down, or the daily wage labourers who lost their jobs, due to the pandemic? They would find ways to trudge on. "They are a resilient race you know. God has been kind to them," is how his highness liked to eulogize the downtrodden of his kingdom. No one disagreed, instead they marveled at his utter humility which could put on a pedestal a hoi polloi. Moreover, the king once annoyed, could simply threaten to step down, as he had done on several instances. And no one desired that of him, for he looked so frail, vulnerable and helpless that the ministers and his subjects shuddered to think of him out there, in the big bad world, all by himself. They relented to his whims to keep him happy and satisfied. 

A makeshift replica of the grand temple was  built to offer oblations to the deity. All the ministers and their families were invited to partake in the grand Pooja. The subjects were advised to remain at home and enjoy the live telecast from the comfort of their living rooms. So while the obedient people of the kingdom feasted on colorful visuals of the ministerial jamboree,  the street-dwellers decided to steal the oil from the clay lamps set in front of the houses of the wealthy, so they too could aspire for a meal on the night of the festival.

The next day, the media went beserk reporting on all the minutest detail of the event, right from the ornated deities in the temple, to the dress code observed by the royal couple as well as by the family of the second and third in command were captured with great flair. The presence of famous musicians and dancers  was described as imparting a cultural edge to the overall ambience.

Some of you might have guessed that the reference here is to the Grand Old Lady of Delhi, the Chief Minister Kejriwal himself and his yet another staged performance revolving around Diwali. To commemorate the festival in style, he  commissioned a 30 ft by 80 ft. temporary replica of Ayodhya temple. Constructed and carved out of plywood and styrofoam, the temple was completed within a week. While the event was vigorously covered by one and all media houses, no one cared to find out what was the total budget for this utter waste of a structure and more importantly, where did all that money come from. Was it collected in the form of contributions from  party members, or was it the tax payers hard-earned dough which was being splurged? Secondly, which event management company was given the contract? And lastly, what would happen to this makeshift temple? Would it be packed, boxed and stored away for next year, or would it go to the already overflowing landfills?

This blogger here, yours truly, did her best to get in touch with the concerned authorities, via several phone calls and emails to the Chief Minister's office, but an answer has not been forthcoming so far.

Funnily, all the reports condescendingly stated that since the Chief Minister Kejriwal has had his eyes on the Uttar Pradesh elections slated for early next year, he had to play the religious card to woo the Hindu majority. In fact, it was considered a politically savvy move and was being applauded as such. It might  remind some of us of Donald Trump, 

on the campaign trail in 2016 telling a crowd  in Nevada, “Nobody reads the Bible more than me.” While the media in the U.S. did not spare Trump his bigotry, Kejriwal escaped unscathed.

So, all said and done, my personal ire at such puerile and pointless activities coupled with the curiosity to dig deeper into the  cost and waste aspect of the CM's profligate theatrics apparently finds me in the minority. And the fact that most people don't care about such statistics makes it a cultural issue, not a political one. 

Far Away...and Closing in

It was the same venue as presented by several other uncertain evenings wrapped in solitude: a vast stretch of sky leaning over a long terrace. By now, my occasional walks on this fifty-five steps long tiled site had earned me a couple of loyal friends: a drongo and a jungle crow. They seemed to alternate between the two perches the simple layout of the terrace afforded: a firm one on the parapet and a free-spirited one on the clothesline. Sometimes our eyes met and locked, at others our acknowledgement of each other's presence was best expressed by discounting it.

But something unusual happened a few days ago as the dark sky momentarily lit up presenting a filigreed vision of a phantom flock of Caspian terns headed somewhere beyond the storms. Appearing suddenly on the western horizon, it imparted the impression of materializing out of thin air. An orchestral silence followed in its wake. At least a thousand of them, in a constantly wavering formation. Threading their way in and out of invisible obstacles the terns moved, stealthily dividing themselves into waves, and then coming together to form a frothy ocean. My heart sang out at this elysian sight and two poems emerged from this moment of supernal joyousness. They definitely don't do justice to the glorious beauty of our migratory guests which graced the evening, but it's an attempt nevertheless. 

1.

a ribbon of joy

spreads across the

gray and gloomy

sky above: shimmering

in their own thrill

of a long journey

ahead, the terns

quietly make their

way across the

jubilant vastness

of the ocean...

like a phantom vision

they dance with 

the dimming light

now a wavering streak

of  silver, and now a

pall of dense darkness:

hide and seek to

confuse and delight,

adventurers into

the unknown, woven

into the rhythms of

nature, they heed the

call...they dream 

the path...

2.

columns of

love flowing

unto me in the

soft rain beyond

the fields where

cows graze...dark

clouds flee above

colliding with their 

own shadows; a

phantom flock of

stroboscopic terns

makes its way across

the dark ocean:

unhurried, woven

so gently in the

choreographed 

dance of Nature...

below the wild

waves rise and roar

A Release...

A proud mom,  I was sitting amongst a small but enthusiastic audience, my heart aflutter, as I listened rapt to my son Dhani's semi-nervous yet confident voice, cruising across the hall at Kalabhoomi, the Art Centre in Auroville. 

Outside the evening storm carried out its usual theatrics. "An early monsoon", some said and shrugged matter-of-factly, others, the climate change theorists were more cynical. But thankfully, it did not stop the die-hard friends, jazz enthusiasts and fans  to trudge through the red mud and streaming roads to haul themselves to the venue to attend the release of Dhani's debut jazz album, called 'Chimu Fiesta'. 

It was a long-awaited release. One and three quarters of a year, to be precise. Recorded in Bangalore in Dec. '19, it fell prey to the clutches of Covid lockdowns and unending restrictions...  Finally, when WHO generously upgraded the Covid status in India, from being a pandemic to an endemic, did a date to release the album was finalized. Inadvertenly, the date coincided with the day of the Goddess Saraswati, who reigns over the realms of Art. Automatically, everything about the delay felt auspicious. 

Roping in some of the finest jazz musicians in the country, the album was recorded in 16 hours. Even though its concenceptualisation had begun to wriggle its way into Dhani's musical subconscious way back in 2014, it took five years to materialize. It was no wonder therefore that each piece had a story to go with it, and revealed a moment lived, seized and  imbibed with its raw and undying intensity: 

"a moment sees, the aeons toil to express"...

While expounding upon sources of inspiration behind each track, Dhani spontaneously struck a rapport with all those present as he interspersed his narration with several humorous anecdotes related to translating the theory into action. Needless to say the hiccups were many  stemming from the fact that some of the musicians were meeting each other for the first time on the recording set. "But that is what made it both challenging and exciting", confided Dhani to a riveted audience. Each one a musician par excellence, the chemistry amongst them evolved naturally, paving way for a defiantly supreme end result: 'Chimu Fiesta'. In the artist's own words, "here is a small part of the bigger Whole; a cutting of life that I either magnified or minimized a hundred times -- so that perhaps, just may be, you can experience something close to the totality of what I did".

At the end of the event, one thing was clear: one can't just sit back and listen to 'Chimu Fiesta', for it grabs you by the soul and leads you to places you didn't know even existed. 

To download, click on the link below and go to bandcamp:

https://linktr.ee/suitetheexpatriate

An Autumn Tale

 Drenched in the sudden onrush of light, I became aware that the strange, mellowed keenness of the turning earth was upon me.  Something had changed: the blue of the sky was a shade darker, and the air tad bit more moist and fragrant with the sap of the maturing pines. While a dreamy languor set the pace for the new season, it didn't last long. For the cold north wind descended one night, with the fury of a hungry child, gnawing  at the gnarled branches of the old maple tree, which supported me, and a thousand others of my frightened kith and kin...we rustled and murmured protesting in our meek way, afraid of the fall that awaited us. The wind, a clear signal of the oncoming winter, alerted  the old maple tree, who in turn reacted with the wont clockwork precision, setting the alarm bells ringing across its width and breadth. And the next thing we knew every little artery system responsible towards carting  victuals to us from the main pantry was rendered inaccessible. Cut off brutally from the central food supply, we realised we were left to fend for ourselves, even as the little food we always kept stored away for a rainy day was swiped off by the head office just before the sudden lockdown, for its own preservation through the harsh winter months. By and by, the chlorophyll started breaking down, draining off the green pigment which had once streamed through our veins and kept us healthy and shimmering...the sunlight happily licked away the remaining sugar trapped inside us... leaving us, you may think, destitute and impoverished...Nye! Once the welfare system was lifted off our shoulders,  our hidden selves took over: flamboyant and gorgeous, studded with gold, burgundy, yellow and flaming orange...and a thousand shades in between. We danced joyously with the cold, inhospitable, insane north winds, oblivious of being hungry, thirsty, deprived...

What a wake up all it turned out to be, for me and for my entire clan: Never be afraid of change. A wake up call just before the deep slumber rising from the Styx gathered us in its folds.

 

The Japanese Student

 He named their first daughter 'Aryana' after a cheerleader he used to date in highschool. "Oh, she was gorgeous", he told her, his face ecstatic as the memory of those days effortlessly etched themselves on his youthful limbs . Hayami looked at him, confused, "What is gorgeous?" She asked in her hesitant English. "Oh," he laughed almost cruelly, "I forgot you speak very rudimentary English. Oops, I mean basic...simple. Yes, you hardly know any English". He paused. "Gorgeous means very very pretty". He elongated the verys deliberately, savoring each one. Then, looking at her hurt face, he hurried to add, "You shouldn't feel bad. After all, I married you, brought you here to America, availed you of a Green Card...Now, you too can live the American dream".

Now, it was the right moment to fling a sarcastic 'thanks'  at Brian's austerely handsome marine face. But no, that was not part of Hayami's culture. Quietly she took his hand and let it rest against her cheek.

In brief, this used to be the story of my Japanese student Hayami when I first met her. I used to teach her English as a second language. At 26, mothering little Aryana, she was a stay-at-home mom in a strange land, whose language and people she still needed to understand. She and Brian had met in Okinawa, while he was stationed there at the U.S. base. She was the chief attendant at the McDonald's counter in the food court of the local mall, the place he frequented the most...(surprise, surprise!) 

Hayami wore beautiful dresses, delicate and elegant both in fabric and design, which complemented her petite frame. I once commented on how lovely her wardrobe was and on how near impossible it was to find something like it in the malls in America. She flushed and said, "Brian hates them...they are too un-American".

It was from her I learnt about the festival of Ohagani, simply translated into English, it means, 'viewing'. Observed during the spring, when cherry blossoms are in bloom, it revolves around families with their picnic baskets, venturing out to spend time under the flowering trees and breathing in the eternal beauty of those few transient moments. 

Hayami possessed a soft purring corner for cats. Unfortunately, the apartment building she lived in did not allow pets. But, this of course did not deter her from getting a built-to-scale resin cat whom she fondly called Mitsy after her own feline friend back in Okinawa. Mitsy looked so lifelike that every time I came, I felt tempted to bend down and pet it as she lay lazily by the front door next to the potted bamboo plant. My Japanese student also flaunted a healthy collection of Maneki Neko's statues, the luck-inviting figurine of a red and white cat with its right paw raised. "Whenever I visit Tokyo", she once confided, "I  make it a point to pay homage to Maneki Neko at Gotokuji Cat temple".  A cat temple? Really? But then, if India can have a  rat temple,  why can't the land of the rising sun flaunt a cat temple? Thankfully,  the twain shall never meet. However, if they did, imagine the massacre!

During the course of two years that I tutored her in English, I saw Hayami metamorphose before my very eyes, as she got hooked to pro wrestling, baseball and black coffee. From jet-black haired woman who wore elegant dresses, she was to become a jeans and T-shirt gal with purple and green highlights in her hair and dark lipstick, cuddling up to her marine husband and asking, "Am I gorgeous or what?" 

Cling not, and it shalt be...

...bestowed unto thee

A flash of brilliance strikes the brain cells and lo, an idea manifests out of nowhere, lighting up that otherwise dull space. Somewhere in a moment of elation my being wows. And the hippocampus goes on a wild spree finding ways to label and store it in the right compartment in order to revoke it later.  And just when the task has been carried out satisfactorily, poof! the idea vanishes. Like a candle flame extinguishing without even the slightest brush of the passing zephyr. Returning to the obscure dungeon of my diurnal thoughts, fruitlessly I scramble for the least spark of that genius which was mine for one triumphant moment. What happened to it, which cerebral or psychogenic blackhole sucked it in, leaving no trace behind of its existence? Into which realm of non-being did it evanesce? Was it the overwhelming stimulus generated by the ingenuity of the thought and the subsequent effort of the mind to label and organize it within the shallow racks of the brain that impelled it to escape? Eschew mortality? 

Even though it wasn't the first time this unusual phenomenon had taken place, it was the first time I felt intrigued by this illusionist-like disappearing act. It felt akin to some dreams that I had fiercely wanted to remember for their ethereal and illusive  quality, and kept playing, replaying them in my semi-conscious mind. And yet, on waking up, they simply slipped as through a wormhole, into a totally another dimension, leaving me feeling unsettled and incomplete. However, it did make me wonder- into whose memory pad did they land on?- or, better still, did they land at all?

Somehow my mind wants to connect these two oft-experienced occurrences of one's daily life to the obstacle most novice meditators face. As one by one, judiciously they try to strike out the thoughts, their mind latches on to one minuscule vanquishing statement: "I am thought-free now". And it is precisely in this self-absorbed acknowledgement that all the effort and energy channelized towards emptying one's mind is annulled...

In all these three incidents it is in  the overt cognizance of their existence, either of ideas, dreams or emptiness, that our failure lies. If only we could let them be instead of clinging on to them, allowing them to linger within the panoramic scapes of our inner being... Waiting in blissful concentration of no-thought for the right precise moment to apprehend (though never conquer) It. 

Vexed?

 A friend from Norway writes:

"The chasm between the vaxxed and non-vaxxed populace of the country is increasing at an alarming rate. The very concept of carrying a vaccination passport in order to enter certain places is cataclysmically divisive and hostile".

Yes, she is one of those who are   becoming skeptical of the entire pandemic scenario, and daring to question. Yet her and the few like her are not only being marginalized and excommunicated by family and friends, but also being termed as conspiracy theorists, thus making it almost impossible to have a reasonable and respectful dialogue. "Maybe the cradle of material comfort in the west has been sleep-inducing. People are more eager to return to a veiled notion of normalcy than to understand the bigger picture", she concludes.

Another friend from one of the southern states of America confides, "Many people are pushing their opinions vis-a-vis to vax or not to, but I feel it is a personal decision and one cannot simply adopt a 'my way or the high way' kind of attitude."

Agrees  Jacques Vincent from France, a business consultant,  "they cannot force it on people. Everyone should be permitted to call the shots (no pun intended) on whether they want the jab or not". 

But, Ruth Marcus, senior editor, Washington Post is furious over the way the country is coddling the non-vaxxed populace, "How galling is it that some labor unions are resisting the vaccine mandate? The Federal Law Enforcement Officers Association, the American Postal Workers Union and the American Federation of Teachers are insisting that any mandate be the subject of bargaining. No. Show some leadership. Just tell your members to get the damned shot — for the sake of their colleagues if not themselves."

Writer Marissa Lati toes the line, summing up her opinion with, 

"Why are so many people acting like this is some kind of affront to our liberties? It’s routine to get vaccines for all sorts of things... We have a silver bullet that can end this crisis. Why are we afraid to pull the trigger?"

Just throwing a cursory glance at 7,000 some responses as a reaction to Marcus's article is enough to get the feel of the pulse of the nation. Severin Schruger however dares to differ:

"In Massachusetts, 75% of the people being treated for the Delta variant had been vaccinated, what kind of protection is that?  I go to great lengths to maintain a healthy immune system, that's my protection.  For me, I feel that the vaccine would lower my immune system rather than improve it.  And the vaccine was never fully tested, the FDA approved it hurriedly as an emergency act.  What are the long term effects of the vaccine?  An unknown.  I don't object to people getting the vaccine, if you want it, go for it.  But I shouldn't be forced to have an injection that I don't want, and don't feel I need."

Even though Schruger puts forth his point in a rational straightforward manner, the amount of hate mails he is pounded with is astronomical. Right from being called a 'bio terrorist' to a 'walking bomb', someone under the pseudonym  Chumbo sums up the dominant mood of the nation:

"Gawd are you stupid or what? It is unvaccinated people like you that are spreading the delta variant which is infecting even vaccinated people. Get vaccinated, or stay home. You are a superspreader."

Another one is even more vociferous: 

It should be morally mandatory to banish people like Schruger from normal society until they show they are worthy of participation by getting vaccinated".

 

And yet another respondent takes it to a new intolerant high, writing, "The willfully unvaccinated are slow-motion, four-dimensional suicide bombers". 

An L.A. restauranteur however took it upon himself to counter the growing momentum of the 'get vaxxed' movement. The sign taped to the window at his Basilico’s Pasta e Vino reads, “PROOF OF BEING UNVACCINATED REQUIRED.”

While owner Tony Roman's stand might sound like an extreme, it does illustrate the extent of the backlash against the vaccine in parts of America. But, to Roman, it's merely a way to pledge his restaurant as a Constitutional battleground, "I feel blessed to be on the front lines of this battle in defense of Liberty and Freedom". 

Coming back to Schruger, his rationale is based on the global statistics according to which America leads the world in the number of Covid cases and deaths in terms of the percentage of its population. "Maybe", he opines, "exercise programs should be made mandatory for Federal employees and presented as a model".  

All said and done, there's no gainsaying the fact that the global vaccination drive is set to split people further in more than one way. I remember concluding one of my posts titled 'Poised for Change' written in March 2020, at the wee beginnings of the pandemic, with: We have no criterion whereby to assess the challenges of such a pandemic, but we do know that our best response would depend on global empathy, cooperation, and community building.

Hopes and aspirations were rife that we would emerge from the pandemic, a better people, kinder and more tolerant, more understanding of the challenges that lie ahead in terms of our very survival intricately linked with that of the planet Earth. Naively I had anticipated a new direction for our world, not just in terms of working online from home, but compelling changes in the the very fabric of the human consciousness:

We can no longer sustain a lifestyle which cruises on a conveyor belt regularity, and a  system which doesn’t give time to pause, to question, to re-orient, re-think, re-direct...for, it wants coerced stability, not revolutions. Its goal is economic prosperity, not the freedom of the human spirit.

Unfortunately, a year and a half later, we seem to be back to square one, determined to get right back on the same track on which we were. The only difference being now we are masked, sanitized, huffing and puffing to return to the rat-race. And we stand more asunder than ever, between being vaxxed and not vaxxed. A vexing situation indeed! 

The Afghanistan Diary

 We are going to punish somebody for this attack, but just who or what will be blown to smithereens for it is hard to say. Maybe Afghanistan, maybe Pakistan or Iraq, or possibly all three at once. Who knows? 

                          Hunter. S Thompson

                         (The day after 9/11)

Despite the fact that since the seventh century, the sultanate of Afghanistan kept invading and mindlessly plundering India, an unfortunate pattern which continued well into the nineteenth century, the post-independence India has been able to disregard the past and forge ahead in a cultural and trade relationship with Afghanistan, and one that goes beyond the ostensible. So much so that even the new Parliament House in Kabul is India's contribution toward the country's reconstruction efforts, along with crucial road building projects and clean water initiatives. By being an active participant in Afghanistan's foray into modernity, India has proven itself to be its true friend and ally.

My first introduction to Afghanistan came in the form of a short story called Kabuliwala. It was part of my third grade Hindi text book. A translation from the original Bengali, penned by Rabindranath Tagore, the tale of Kabuliwala revolves around the touching relationship between five-year-old  Mini and a dry fruit vendor from  Kabul, Afghanistan.  

Through Kabuliwala, the kids of our generation imbibed their first few facts about Afghanistan and its people. First and foremost, Afghanistan is a country rich in dry fruits, and its people are family-loving, honest, hard-working, true to their word, but somewhat hot-blooded. The pathan suit, reminiscent of the people of that region became all a rage with the adolescent boys in North India, and continue to remain so to this day. 

One proverb in Hindi goes as follows: जो सुख चुबारे, न बल्ख न बुखारे।, 

meaning the comfort found in the simple surroundings of one's home cannot be equalled even by the extravagant magnificence of  Balkh or Bukhara. Once upon a time, not so long ago, Balkh, an ancient city in northern Afghanistan, (and Bukhara in Uzbekistan) was not only a thriving trade centre but also reputed for its brilliant architecture. Even Marco Polo described it as a "noble and great city". So iconic was its fame, that it effortlessly slipped into the local jargon of the people of North India, thus becoming a part of their subconscious memory. 

Interestingly, the legendary character of Gandhari from the epic  poem Mahabharata, hailed from Gandhar, which is apparently the same as the present day Kandahar, the second largest city in Afghanistan. A few millennia later, this very place would see the fusion of two great civilizations, Indian and Greek, manifesting in the form of Greco-Buddhist art, also known as the Gandhara school. The exquisite paintings of Ajanta and Ellora caves, dating back to 2nd century B.C. bear testimony to this ethereal synthesis of the ancient world's two highly evolved cultures.

In the eighties, Dharmatma, a Bollywood blockbuster, more or less based on the movie Godfather, brought home to the Indian public the hauntingly rugged natural beauty of Afghanistan...just a young girl then, I fell in love with the enchanting starkness of the landscape and felt an immediate connection to it, as though I had meandered amongst its hills in one of my many lives.

In America, I sought out the luxuriousness of Afghan throws: their simple elegance added a touch of informality and sophistication, both at once. I also discovered the subtle flavours of the Afghani cuisine in our neighborhood restaurant called, Afghan Kabab Express on Central Av., which soon became our family's favourite hangout. Its friendly crew and the tantalizing aroma of gourmet dishes, such as borani banjan, baked nans, kofta and aushak lured us into its homely atmosphere time and again.

It is no wonder that the recent developments in Afghanistan, mainly the foreseeable debacle of its puppet government followed by the shameful desertion of its president, and the successive surrender of its well-trained military equipped with state-of-the-art weaponry to the crudely-armed Taliban, has not only taken the global community by surprise, but also affected me at a personal level. I feel disappointed with the west, and with the coalition of 36 NATO nations, overstaying its visit even after the successful completion of the designated mission, under the pretext of nation-building.  As Craig Whitlock in his book The Afghanistan Papers points out:

"Soon after the United States and its allies removed the Taliban from power, the mission veered off course and US officials lost sight of their original objectives".

So, is it  surprising that despite having poured in close to a trillion dollars,  Afghanistan continues to remain crippled, morally, economically, and otherwise?

‘Yankee, go home!’ The slogan has resurfaced. The phantom  of Vietnam, Cambodia, and Iraq has resurrected itself to haunt the Americans once again. Today, US foreign policy and defence strategists must be wracking their brains wondering what to do with themselves for the next 20 years. Where to pitch the tent, which people to free from the shackles of terrible tyrants, and how to make a quick buck in the process? As a couple, living in our neighborhood, and both working for the U.S. military once confided in me, "Just one more stint in Afghanistan or Iraq, and we are all set for life". Really? At the end of the day, is that what it amounts to?

I can only hope and pray that Afghanistan doesn't lose this opportunity towards self-determination. Nobody wants to see the country revert to middle ages or descend into protracted conflict. The incumbent government  would need to  rise to the occasion and help fulfil the aspirations of the Afghani people, and put a halt to another 'stint', garbed in the noble livery of democracy...once and for all.

Note: Today, Aug 20, 2021 marks the 23rd anniversary of the surprise U.S. missile attack on terrorist-related targets in Afghanistan, ordered by the then President Bill Clinton. Pundits, politicians and media couldn't but be mistrustful of its impeccable timing which coincided with the President's embroilment in the notorious Monica Lewinsky affair. Speculation was rife that the strikes on a faraway foreign land was an easy way to deflect  attention of the media from his own travails. 

Springboarding into the Realm of Poetry

(Variations in Faulkner)

Because of the explicit pathos borne by the title, it took me a while to pick up  'As I lay dying', authored by William Faulkner. Termed as a 'dark comedy' in the literary circles, Faulkner claimed to have completed the novel within  a week,  invoking the Muse only during the nocturnal hours.  

Personally, the book spoke to me at various levels...its simple lyricism, wound gently around the tragic theme, imparted unto me the kind of satisfaction derived primarily from visual arts. Interacting with its characters as individuals with their own unique voice helped me better identify with the austere loneliness they found themselves besieged by, and come to terms with my own as an implicit part of life.

The constant sense of collision between natural elements and the characters in the book, juxtaposed with brilliant flashes of fusion between the two worlds, is what gives the story its movement, and that's what impelled me to write the following poems.  Sentences like, "It is dark. I can hear wood, silence. I know them" spoke to me more intimately than any other from a thousand others I must have read in various other books. Phrases like, 'for a smouldering while' ignited in me the desire to be part of that 'smouldering while'...part of that one burning instant, demanding a pause from the compulsive  pace of life.

1.

For a smouldering while

I need a fragment of

unscarred space to 

unload myself: empty 

myself as in the last bit

of the deep interior

of a burrowing

mollusk shell...empty 

like my grandma's eyes

when she breathed her 

last: leaving nothing

behind, taking nothing

with her; empty like the

full-moon night

without its army of

stars, and beheaded

of its twirling 

darkness; empty like the 

narrow silent road that

wheels on across

blistered

summer plains...

For a smouldering while

allow me to unload myself

and lie down

2.

Come and deliver me

from the carcasses

of yesteryears

full of sand and

echoes of shells

'cross rub-al-khalis;

empty me out

like the wave

that comes rushing

hurling itself

against the rock:

sinking its burden

of infinite distances

into the calcite pores.

3.

what is this life

charred by inexplicable

hunger and yearnings 

marred by the whirring

of rusting years piled

one upon another...?

with the albatross hung 

around the neck, it labours 

on to find redemption

in a signboard announcing

'Hope: 3 miles', and in the 

blabber of a child who

believes his mother

is a fish, in the old

man who sets out on a

quest to find himself

a fresh set of dentures;

and in the youth who 

blurring the line

between life and

death, rides away 

to follow the ruins

of the setting sun

4. (Addie and Cash: Mother & son)

In silence he works,

his adze agleam

with afternoon sweat

of the hitting sun

as he hews a coffin

for his sick mother.

she watches him

from the bed: intent

putting the finishing touches

on the box which would

carry her cadaver;

her own son.

the day shuts down

watching the summer

quiet, fettered to

the sound of an adze

going, "chuck 

chuck, chuck..."

5. (Dewey Dell and Lafe: lovers)

their eyes

briefly meeting

drowning

the need for words,

hand touching hand,

trembling with

the thought 

of promises made, 

cotton fluffs 

filling up their

sacks,  the gold  

of the tumbling sun

rolling across

the fields, stoking

desires

6. (Darl: the second son)

He is the 

knower

He doesn't

need nothing to

say. He stands 

there

and looks.

the emptiness

of his eyes

is filled with

knowing

when he speaks,

it is with a look

hazy and intense

floating and sunk,

like a bird

wading

across the skies

7.

Quick and fast 

sky, creaking under 

the weight

of cotton clouds

finally cracked open.

Oppressed wind

escaped, hissing and

wooshing, freeing

itself from the 

preying fingers of 

elms and oaks,

pursued by

slashing rains it

hid in the

warm darkness

between the gorging 

udders of the

lowing cow

and soft earth.

      

8.

The hill goes off

into the sky,

the sun comes up

from behind.

Hushed sound of

slow footsteps

smudge the shining 

patches smeared 

onto the rain-soaked 

road. 

The mourners

trudge on in

silence; the wagon 

hauling the 

coffin groans.

Above the

buzzards circle: 

expectant, intent and

hungry. 

9.

They have returned me

to myself now,

those impossible yearnings

inexplicable and uncontrolled

strangling my being into

obscure wakefulness:

lo, how hurriedly they depart

these enchantresses,

Sirens from Anthemusa

hurling me back to  

my own desolate shores

ringed by fiery nights

and ashen days

Finding Balance in Imbalance

 "Wabi Sabi is a beauty of things imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. It is a beauty of things modest and humble. It is a beauty of things unconventional.”

                                   Leonard Koren

A Japanese statement on aesthetics,  dating back to the 16th century, Wabi Sabi is symbolic of the rebellion against the expectation of being perfect. It is an outright  celebration of the mundane, the humble, and the flawed. Etymologically and conceptually speaking, the term can be broken down as follows:

Wabi is about the humility that emerges from a state of solitude, which in turn gives the ability to see through the superficial and connect with the truth. Free from embellishments, it seizes life in its rich  raw details and is contemplative of things that are simple, and incorporate rustic beauty.

Sabi, on the other hand expresses quaintness and loneliness which accompanies aging. In the post-medieval Japanese vision of art, such old, disfigured and discarded items donned on a new symbolism,  representing things  touched by the auric grace of time.

Wabi Sabi, therefore, far from being slick and modern, is a quirky flea market piece, a hand-me-down heirloom, or an aged wooden floor, epitomizing simplicity, natural beauty, and a perfectly imperfect feel.

The story of Wabi Sabi finds its humble origin in the tale of Sen no Rikyu and his tea master Takeena Joo. Upon his master’s request,  Rikyu cleans and rakes the garden to perfection, and as a final touch, shakes the cherry tree, allowing the flower petals to fall nonchalantly around the yard! This legend, in its quintessential simplicity, exemplifies the inherent poetry of Wabi Sabi, seeking to find a balance with a carefully designed insouciance. Both ikebana, the art of flower arrangement, and the 17-syllabled haiku are rooted in this tradition.

Now, imagine a cup or a teapot that slipped off your hand and broke. What would you do? You’d most probably pick up the pieces and throw them in the bin. But were you a  Wabi Sabi practitioner, you would carefully glue the pieces of broken pottery back together and return the item  to its usual place. Yet, inadvertently, the zigzagging line of the cracks would  set it apart from the rest, reminding you of the told and untold stories hiding within its scars, and of the temporal beauty, made eternal by its resilience.

Since Wabi Sabi revolves around the belief that objects with  former lives have  greater depth and a wider spectrum of experience, it tends to honor the old and wrought, bent and crooked, over the new and shiny. Wabi Sabi also seeks to break the barrier between the outer and the interior space by placing emphasis on the natural. Bits of driftwood, pebbles, shells, frosted glass, bark strips are used not only to add a touch of earthiness to one's surrounding, but also to fuse the man-made objects with those from Nature, thus creating an intrinsic harmony between the two worlds.

The principle of Wabi Sabi when extended to our personal life could very well be interpreted as an acceptance of ourselves: with our strengths and our flaws, our failures and successes. In fact, it is this amazing conglomerate of opposites, which exist only to complement each other, that gives us our vibrant, creative wholeness. 

What follows is a simple poem to encapsulate my own understanding of Wabi Sabi: 

Broken shadows of tall elms
zigzagging down the footpath
and spilling onto the
narrow asphalt road...
Broken views from
cracked glass window,
ready to crawl in;
Broken remnants of
ancient monuments
filtering the evening sun,
summoning the banshees;
Broken frame, glued together,
holding a b-w photograph
of our parents on their wedding day.
Broken pieces of blue sky,
shimmering in a puddle
after the monsoon shower;
Broken floor uncovering
a steady file of Brahmin ants:
exposing the underworld;
Broken reflections of
snow-peaked mountains
rolling  in the waves.

Broken, unfettered, and erratic,
ready to be something new,
something different and
explosively poetic...
ah! I  yearn to be
a shard of that brokenness
to feel whole again.

Schooling vs. Education

 From an ecological standpoint, the more diverse an ecosystem, the better chance of survival it has. To use this analogy, current directions and concepts of educational structures are not geared up to sustain diversity. Against a scenario, where education and economy are more and more interlinked and interdependent, the lofty aim of learning tends to get reduced to preparing students for the job market. With the tag of human capital being attached to an individual right from early years, this process which revolves around acquisition of knowledge, skills and values has failed to create an environment which fosters independent and critical thinking and instills confidence. 

The word education traces its etymology to the Greek word, 'ducere', which means, 'to draw', and with the added prefix 'e', it literally translates into 'draw out'. So, the very premise of  education is that an individual  holds the knowledge within...and, its objective is merely to assist him/her in finding the source of that Knowledge, and learn to manifest it.

Schooling on the other hand,  is based on the assumption that an individual is born ignorant, and needs to be taught. Schooling is that part of every organised society, which wants to  create an individual who would conform, and thereby contribute towards its well-being and prosperity. Furthermore, it conditions the mind and body to think and act in a certain way, to become a useful, well-oiled cog of the great machinery, suppressing in the process, the natural proclivities of a being, trying to grow into its own person.   

In this system, being curious and asking questions is often translated into unnecessary distraction for the class, and being creative is perceived as steering off the subject. Sometimes, my personal observation brought to attention a Catch-22 situation which many  students get trapped in: the ambiguity between what is expected and one's own introspective spontaneity.  This is most apparent in  English composition classes, where writing more than is asked could be termed as redundant, while writing to the point, and therefore sometimes less than expected,  might get interpreted as insufficient. Yet, what is actually expressed by the student is seldom taken into consideration. In most cases, correctness of sentences, and format of the essay overrides   the originality of content and viewpoint. This trend or misplaced emphasis may land up encouraging the importance of form over thought, especially when transcribed to a larger canvas, as that of Life.  

Likewise, in math, only the method as taught by the teacher, who, in turn, must have learnt it from 'The Teacher's Answer Manual', is acceptable. If a student happened to wander off to follow a different path of logic and yet, arrive at the right answer, it would be marked as wrong. For, the method as learnt in the class was not applied. This approach could prove detrimental in the long run, since it disallows tackling a problem from different angles, and gaining new perspectives.

Examples abound.  And, until and unless we learn to differentiate between schooling and education, and have a clear vision vis-a-vis the goal of learning, we would be stuck in a cat and mouse game. 

Globally, from China to Japan to U.S. and the European Union, educational policy makers endeavour to create curricula to meet the need of the international professional market. The implicit assumption that the best way to prepare our children for the world is to hammer unto them  the importance of getting and keeping a job reflects the production-line mindset which has hijacked the intrinsic goal of education. 

It is unfortunate that while our present government has been busy tinkering with the curriculum with a vision focused on the idea of a new India, there hasn't been anything ground-breaking in terms of redefining the meaning of education which is in sync with its own age-old tradition of learning. A system which is primarily geared  towards passing an exam has left  little room for anything but the formula by which the promotion from one grade to another can be facilitated. Books, such as "Exam Warrior", written by none other than our honourable prime minister, do not help the cause either, especially when the young students are advised to treat the exam, as they might a festival, and prepare for it, as they would for a festival. It is translated in several languages. It is a pity that the prime minister, who has such a vast reach, should  choose to shy away from his own example on how one doesn't need to pass an exam, or have much of a schooling to hold the highest office in the country. In fact, he should consider himself  an idyllic candidate to promote the true  objective of education.

Papaji: A Man of Letters

 "The drawing you made of your new drumset, mentioning all its different parts, was just fantastic. I had no idea that a drumset could be so complex. In your next letter, if you could elaborate on the function of each of these parts, that would be really nice..."

The above excerpt from my father's letter dating back to 2008, written to Dhani, his ten-year-old grandson, just serves to illustrate how his curious mind thrilled to everything and wanted to wrap itself around whatever it could.

Papaji, as he was called by his children and all those who knew him, along with being a father, a husband, and a grandfather to eight adorable kids,  was above all a towering figure whose very presence commanded respect. His unflinching idealism and his faith in humanity were  contagious to all those who came in contact with him. A scientist by profession and a poet at heart, Papaji was truly a renaissance man. 

By the virtue of being away, initially to a boarding school, and later abroad, a steady stream of letters remained the main channel of communication between us, interspersed with occasional phone calls. It helped that both of us, Papaji and I were  conscentious in our correspondence. Not only his letters provided me with a sense of continuity and belonging while living in far-flung places, away from home, but  my very lifeline came to depend on our invigorating epistolary exchanges. 

During our sojourn in Alaska, in a cabin without television and internet, Papaji made sure we kept ourselves abreast with things back home, especially those that interested us. So, his letters overflowing with love and much-needed warmth, also kept us informed on the political front. Details of elections and by-elections were quietly slipped into the letters, as were various clippings from different publications to further authenticate his assessment of the situation. Knowing my love for Shayari, (Urdu poetry usually in a couplet form) sometimes he would include a few at the bottom of the letter, asterisking difficult words he thought I might not know and penning down their meanings in English. 

For Amando, my husband, a wildlife lover and a train buff, he collected any article, ad, tender related  to these two topics. It could have been the announcement of a new line or closing down of an old one, or a conversion from meter gauge to broad gauge, or an effort by the ministry to re-introduce the good old steam on some touristic lines, he made sure that Amando stayed updated. He also sent neatly clipped news items related to tiger census and fresh sightings of the animal where it was thought to have disappeared. However, it was for Dhani, our son, and his seventh grandchild that he reserved the most tender words. He also made sure to share with him poems he had learnt in his childhood: an inadvertent effort to pass on his own passion for poetry...a legacy which we all inherited in varied degrees.  If it was not poetry he was culling out from his memory, he was busy tickling a child's imagination with riddles, or uplifting it with inspiring quotes from the great saints of India, such as Vivekananda, Sri Ramkrishna and Sri Aurobindo.  Every now and then, he would also enclose the 'Youth' section either from 'The Indian Express', or from 'The Hindu', sometimes sending both. For our homeschooling son, those naturally calligraphed letters filled with tidbits, along with a tightly-packed bundle of newspaper supplements  came to represent something exotic, traveling across thousands of miles, over land and sea, being sent by his most adorable and loving nanaji (grandpa in Hindi). 

Recently, while going through my neatly wrapped collection of his letters, I came across one which had a recipe of laddoos made with whole wheat flour, ghee, nuts, sugar and roasted gum arabic, eaten traditionally in North India by the lactating mother to enhance the quality of milk. The measurement of each ingredient was precisely jotted down, and the method was expounded in detail. It read more like the directions for a scientific experiment than a gourmet booster shot.

 

Below the recipe was a quote from the epic poem called, 'Savitri', reading and grasping the essence of which had become the very raison d'être of his later years:

"Let us give joy to all for joy is ours".

That was Papaji. 

Lead me not into temptation...

 "It is the most patriotic thing you can do," said President Biden, emphasizing the importance of getting vaxed, during his address to the nation on the occasion of America's 245th Independence Day. The fact that Covid-19 vaccination drive found an honorable place in Biden's 4th of July speech just goes on to illustrate the chasm dividing the country over the issue of 'to vax or not to vax'. 

A country that thrives on weekly coupons, seasonal sales, Black Fridays, Boxing Day bonanza, the need to tempt the reluctant, vax-fearing citizen with some irresistible combos, coupling vaccination with goodies was heartfelt across the board. 

Panera, the popular food chain picked up the cue, immediately announcing a free bagel for all those  customers who produced  proof of vaccination. Macdonalds, Krispy Kreme, Taco Bells, Chipotle however have already been part of the great vax mission with their own platter of freebies for  those who shall obey. 

As food chains and stores are vying with each other while piling patriotism and sales pitch together, corporations like Amazon have dangled an enticing Honeycrisp apple for its employees in the form of a free vaccination clinic on site and Benjamins! The grocery chain Albertson too  has promised its vaxed employees 100 dollars.

If businesses are doing their share to help battle the pandemic, desperate states also have been preoccupied with conjuring up ways to tempt the residents to get their shots. Over and done with. To a safer, better and stronger America! Sounds like a war-cry alright.  Even though the states seem to have drained their power of imagination with one-upping each other for vaccine rewards, the offers aren't alluring enough to compel the fervent non-believers into compliance. With New Jersey promising free beer, New York MetroCards, Connecticut any beverage of one's choice, it is truly the trigger-happy West Virginia which seems to have clinched the deal  by including a $1.5 million cash prize, custom-outfitted trucks, and custom hunting rifles and shotguns, glamorously packaged as weekly lotteries for the vaccinated lot. Any West Virginian who has received at least one COVID-19 dose will be eligible to register. 

Yet, trust Washington itself to weed through ideas to come up with its own 'high' bar for incentives. Whether as a mood enhancer for those stuck at home waiting out the natural side effects of their shots, or as a lollipop for those solid citizens willing to take one (or two) for the Team, an advocacy group from the District of Columbia has managed to put forth a truly winning plan: one joint of Grade A, All-American marijuana to the willingly vaccinated candidate. "Joints for Jabs". Even the name is a clincher. And while it does toe the line with the rest of the nation's endeavour, one can't help but be more than slightly dumbfounded. Marijuana, vilified on the Hill until just a few years ago as the Green Dragon that was turning the country's moral fiber to ashes, is now being freely distributed, as both reward and testament of willingness to sacrifice whatever is necessary for the sake of the nation: the ultimate proof of a True American. 

Prayer for a restless soul...

I hold the summer dawn in my eyes. Somewhere in the background is the shuffling of the night shadows, listlessly shifting camps. The flutter of awakening wings and an occasional glimmer of muted light coerce the dreams to withdraw their baiting tentacles and recoil.  

The gold of this new day pierces me, demanding an identity all its own, lest it too gets pressed through a copier and shelved into an almirah where all those yesterdays are neatly stacked. 

How about me? I want to know. I too am afraid of the sameness of my being and the routine which has it cast in a mould. Melt, molt, remould me, a prayer escapes from the inmost adytum of the Self. Graft me wings,  either that of a butterfly or of an eagle that I may flutter around or gyrate the heights, grant me solitude, either that of a chrysalis, or of the Lone Wolf, that I may lose myself in the music of  deafening silence or sprint across a thousand miles of wilderness... Hammer and fashion me, either into a wayside daisy, shy and wilting, or into the mighty Baobab, supporting with its powerful boughs the leaning sky. 

Dawn slips through me, metamorphosing into twilight. I lie on the grassy floor, looking up at the stars, away from home... 

The Sound of Alchemy

 Our lockdowned  long summer days have gradually learnt to find redemption in the ruckus of the government diesel truck, which ventures into our gated community twice a week with the seasonal harvest of mangoes, purple grapes and red and yellow bananas. 

As the truck, manned  by a couple of  masked and gloved attendants veers into our neighborhood, the hustle and bustle of this new activity  brings the winged populace of the area, otherwise busy vying for attention with their ceaseless singing, to a sudden attentive halt...Prompted by their unanimous decision as not to waste their precious talent to pure noise, they either eavesdrop on people haggling, or conjure up new melodies to attract more prospective mates. 

I think the sudden rise in avian activities is owing to the fact that the lemony yellow, ethereally delicate amaltas (golden shower) flowers are in bloom...A blessing endowed upon us mortals once a year, it allows us to bask in their beauty even as we pick up the fallen blossoms, rich in fiber and vitamin C, to be combined with ginger, green chillies and salt and made into a delicious chutney to be consumed either with savoury pancakes or with rice. 

Amaltas is native to the Indian subcontinent and to the Southeast Asian region. In the Ayurvedic school of medicine, it is rightly known as Aragvadha, meaning 'disease killer'. A glance at the innumerable benefits of each and every part of this tree in the National Health Portal's website is enough to justify its ancient Sanskrit name. Right from being a cure for various skin eruptions, eczema and insect bites to an effective remedy for rheumatism, migraines, syphilis, and believe it or not, even malaria and jaundice, amaltas is one of Nature's great elixirs: cooling for the soul, and when everything around is emitting blistering heat, healing for the body.   

Growing up with an amaltas tree right in our school courtyard, I remember attempting to encapsulate in words its graceful artistry in our creative writing class. I sat for the whole period in the balmy shade of the tree,  trying to listen and understand what it was so eager to convey through this abundance of pure allure, but my ears were not  attuned  to its language.  

However, with an amaltas blooming right next to our place now,  I feel the bond between us slowly building. As the boughs bend low with the weighing beauty of its weightless clusters of flowers, I sit in its shade and close my eyes.

1.

As the prowling heat of 

summer assails the earth

lapping up life with its 

lolling tongue,

and we seek shelter 

behind enclosed walls,

in AC rooms and mojitos,

the slender amaltas

braves it all.

Its calm ascetic temper

transforming the leaping

flames of a pitiless sun

into sweet dangling blossoms

soft and delicate

and filled with nectar: ah love,

the alchemist!

2.

The brazen blue 

of the summer sky,

squeezes

through

the dense  dangles 

of amaltas,

to lie huddled

in its gentle shade

3.

Long golden tresses

as that of Rapunzel

so casually undone

to tempt 

the passersby.

4.

The koïl

cooing all day

to celebrate

the flowering 

amaltas: 

sore-throated now.