Men may come, And Men may go, But I go on forever...

 Recently, PM Modi, while delivering his farewell speech on the occasion of the retirement of four seasoned politicians, and members of Rajya Sabha, was choking with emotions, even as his eyes welled up with tears. So powerful was his performance in this live reality show, that the retiring foursome also  got carried away by  the unprecedented wave of sentimentalism and broke down. Soon, all the members were gasping for breath, swimming in saline water, and a flood warning could have been issued had the dam of grief given way. Thank god it didn't happen...even though, such an act of fate could have facilitated the razing down of the quasi century old Parliament Building, a legacy of the British era to pave way for the proposed new construction, symbolic of a new India, emerging from the shackles of its colonial past. 

This was an unusual show of emotions on the part of the PM who is not wont to public display of his innnermost feelings. With India riding forever on a rollercoaster of tragic events such as lynchings, rapes, caste wars, accidents, human rights violations, this could  translate into an excess release of cortisol, as well as severe dehydration for our overwrought PM, were he to shed  tears for every mishap. For example, how can he afford to mourn the death of 160 farmers who succumbed to hardships faced during the protests? Or of hundreds of migrant labourers who died while trying to reach home in the wake of the sudden lockdown imposed to stop Covid-19 in its tracks? Or of those weary daily wagers, mowed down by an empty freight train?  How can he commiserate with all the victims of  rape, with one taking place every  seventeen minutes? Or empathize with the kins and kith of those malnourished children in Bihar and U.P. dying of encephalitis? Or condemn the death of 53 Delhiites brutally murdered during the communal violence which erupted in the aftermath of the three-and-a-half month long CAA protests? Or lament a thousand or so destitute souls, claimed by the devastating floods of 2020? Etc...etc...

Yes, let us not burden the PM by thrusting too much expectations on him. The task of ruling an unruly country like ours is tough and requires his iron fist. 

Then again, how are we to feel safe, governed, confident in the wide path of the masses, when its leader plainly cares more for his generals than his foot-soldiers? Certainly, the "good of the nation" must come first, but for what percentage of the nation? For which chosen groups and lucky strata? Perhaps on one of his trips to Russia, he picked up an old local proverb and found it suited to his ideology: "the tears of strangers are only water". 

Maybe it is time that his loyal  political buddies give him a subtle reminder that such sentiments aren't exactly the best fit for Leaders of Great Nations.

Lockdown Blues

The following verses were written during the lockdown, and I guess reflect the many moods I went through: from buoyont and carefree, to gloomy and depressed, to a vague feeling of redemption.  Tucked away in the journal, getting swallowed up by the busy-voiced clock, they were already beginning to sound old. So, I thought it might be a good idea to share them on my blog, for "the ball I threw in the park has not yet reached the ground".

1.

woven in the spell of night

a peacock's mating call,

such wild yearnings:

enough to make the darkness

tremble

2.

Milkshake

You may lose me in your dreams

but, i will find you in my bliss,

together we shall walk

on the quiet cobblestone streets

giggle as we go past the old church

from the memory of our first kiss, 

when we exchanged our strawberry

milkshake moustaches,

by the stained glass relief

of The Virgin.

3.

Why does one's being reach out

with a few words, 

wanting an acknowledgement

of its identity;

an effort to touch a sombre chord,

to quietly find a corner

by the  reined solitude 

of the receding evening

and set it ablaze

with silent notes of a love unspoken,

yet never forgotten.

4.

a sunset and

a stillness 

astir 

by  flapping wings 

of returning birds,

hovered over the

crooked narrow path.

Gathering the many shades of

green in its fold,

red earth heaved

under the

weight of 

footfalls, lost

to the silence

of a purging twilight.

5.

Just a little longer,

And I would throw off

The nightly cloak of vague dreams

And dive into the day

In a meaningless mechanical way.

Just a little longer

And the music would begin

Tapping away of feet would follow 

an aching desire 

to be young again, dance on fire.

Just a little longer

and the heart would beat wildly

responding to the distant

beating of drums,

and to the evening's hymnal hums.

Just a little longer

then silently I shall 

stride into the night 

and with my spirit on pyre,

bid farewell to impossible desires

6.

Wreck

reduced to a wreck,

beneath all that debris

do I look for myself

some bits and pieces...

a shard of someone

else's memory pretending

to be mine...

and my own?

it looks for an escape

from this desperate gloom

somewhere to hide

to protect itself

against the onslaught

of time and 

amnesia

7.

Farewell 

when finally I had

broken free from

my own belting

loneliness

i stepped out 

to watch the shadows

shuffling past the 

quiet path...

and there, amongst their

dark gray whispers

a tremor of light:

a Brahaminy kite

spanning with its 

outstretched wings

the brazen skies.

Yercaud Diary

 After having lived almost a year of reclusive existence due to the restrictions imposed by Covid-19, a few days in Yercaud was all that we needed to energize ourselves, not only with new sights and sounds, but also with the pure mountain air. Yercaud, meaning Lake Forest,  a small hill station nestled amongst Shevaroy range, owes its name to the abundance of forest cover around Emerald Lake, the only naturally formed lake across all the hill stations in Tamil Nadu. 

Just leisurely strolling around the town, inhaling the exotic aroma of brewed coffee, entwined with the fragrance of burning wood, is in itself intoxicating. Roadside eateries selling local snacks like fresh figs topped with honey, or steamed peanuts mixed with raw veggies and green mangoes offer refreshing alternatives to all the junk food we city people get used to. Nothing like holding bits of newspaper rolled into cones filled to the brim with these delicious snacks and exploring small shops shelved with native perfumes, coffee beans and homemade chocolates. 

Fruit stalls filled with regional booty abound. Right from guavas, sapotas, custard apples, oranges, clementines to apples, figs and eggfruits are on display in little shacks, waiting to be gorged on. Eggfruit? What's that? A round green fleshy edible stuff which tastes like egg yolks sprinkled with sugar, I am told with a smile. Am I game enough to try it? Nigh sir, not me...eggs and fruits should not appear in the same breath, except when we are talking of caramel custard topped with berries... right?

Done is better than perfect

'Yercaud Fish Aquarium' the banner blowing in the mountain breeze announced. Never having conjured up the possibility of a fish aquarium as a crowd-puller, especially at a hill station, we decided to check this curiosity out. At a ₹10 per ticket, it sounded like a steal, or so we thought.

An unsmiling lady ushered us in. A  dust-laden atrium lined with old wooden planks lead to a large empty hall, unswept and swarthy, along whose walls were a few  aquariums, some empty, and others holding gold fish, piranhas, and carp mainly. Some diseased and others flaunting good health: quite a mix.  Despite the disappointing experience,  we couldn't help but smile as the motto of the place, displayed on a big poster caught our attention: Done is better than perfect. 

Gowri Woodlands Estate Lake

With a tribal man as our guide, we hiked around the bountiful premises of this coffee estate. Situated  at an elevation of 4300 to 4700 feet above sea level, Gowri Woodlands is  known for its steep slopes, rich soil,  and breathtaking viewpoints.  While leisurely hiking its well-maintained trails, we got to experience not only  the serenity of plantation life but also the thrill of being part of a sprawling wilderness complete with bisons, deer and boars!

During the hike, the guide was quick to point out several ancient trees, some almost half a millenium old, preserved over the years in order to nurture and encourage the native “Shola” forest. Fruit bearing trees such as Fig, Jambolina, Singapore Cherry and Loquat had also been planted with the objective to  restore the indigenous flora and fauna. The sound of a stream burbling and babbling along the path offered a perfect rejoinder to the green barbets' wavering whistles enmeshed within the canopy. 

We took some time off by a lake to go paddle boating and fish. It was a catch and release system. And lo, soon we fell under the spell of of the dancing reflections woven into the hypnotic movement of  ever-widening ripples.

Scenic sunsets

Yercaud is dotted with sunset points, complete with gazebos for maximum effect and photo opportunities. The two most famous are Lady's Seat Viewing Point, and Shevroy Temple Sunset Point. Following is a free verse dedicated to the spectacular sunsets of this tiny hillside town:

the ardent heaving 

of the sweeping mountains

waves after waves of them

curve sensuously

towards the sprawl below

while rising with eagerness

to meet the patient gaze

of a reclining twilight sky.

Breathless

with the thrill of this proximity,

yet feigning infinite poise 

they relent under 

its slow, languorous teasing

One Paw 🐾 Print at a Time...

Slated to begin on February 6, 2021, the 38th Yukon Quest International Dog Sled Race was cancelled due to border restrictions between Canada and  U.S.A., owing to the pandemic. Legendary in terms of being the most treacherous, this 1600 kms long race follows the historical gold rush and mail delivery route, throwing an unprecedented challenge to the mushers and their dog teams alike. With temperatures which average to forty below and can plummet to an inhuman negative seventy  in places, mushers face frostbite, sleep deprivation, isolation, and fear, while often being in a quasi illusive state of being. And yet, what is it in the nature of the race which beckons them back, year after year, to get  sucked in the vortex of the swallowing vistas of this feral wilderness? 

Born in a bar, almost four decades ago, The Quest was conjured up as a journey that would  pay homage to that spirit of adventure which helped shape the soul of the permafrosted North straddled by the bewitching aurora borealis. And therefore, this unique race has seldom been about winning the trophy. For the average cash award towards championship consisting of  a mere $30,000, barely even covers the basic expenses of the mushers, who congregate for the event from around the world. As Chris Cancibelli, a Yukon Quest rookie likes to put it, "the kind of freedom and solitude it provides on the trail, are bait enough for me". Agrees Severin Cathry, another rookie, for whom the race is a means to get away from an overly regulated world and experience the real freedom of being one with the elements.

As for Alex Buetow, running the mountains with a dog team is simply other worldly and a great way to experience the Alaskan wilderness. However, veteran Kristin Pace's simple rationale behind all the grueling work, training, discipline and dedication which go into a race like the Quest caps it all, "to be a dog for a while and have fun!" A dog that could burn as much as 12,000 calories a day! Or a human whose whole raison-d'être during the entire race is to serve its dogs. Right from hauling a thousand booties for a standard team of  14 dogs, dog food, a bale of hay for dog beds, a musher's primary role is to ensure the safety, health and good humour of its team.

All said and done, boring through a 16-hour of nightscapes, between treeless mountain summits that can offer clear views for miles one moment and vanish into howling whiteout the next, Yukon Quest is a daunting physical, emotional and mental challenge, relying on one paw print at a time.

Having been at the start line to boost the morale of the mushers almost a decade ago, I still can't identify myself with the 'fun or freedom' part of it. For all I remember is  doubling and stiffening up  to cope with a -38 C cold weather, further stoked by a slight breeze. Each breath left a tiny layer of frost on my eyelashes, and I could feel the inside of my nostrils freeze within seconds.  Waiting to see the first musher off, just to be able to say 'been there, and done that' my numbed self could not bring itself to partake in the thrill of the race, hexed with happy yelping of the dogs and the wave of cheer from an excited crowd. Church bells ringing through the purple morning haze intertwined with an earthy smell of marijuana added to the spell.

With an interval of three minutes seperating the flagging off of the teams, it would have taken an hour and a half for all  25 of them to be en route...ready to embrace every adversity which came their way, while counting their blessings. For they had all chosen to be part of this race "so rugged that only the purists would want to attempt it".  

Soon, each one of them would be alone on the silent trail, in sync with the pristine landscape and the rhythmic panting of the dogs on the move...At the very end of it, there would be a thousand frayed booties, a dog-tired musher...and maybe, just maybe, a team rearing to do it all over again. 

To Each His Own...

 "Master, where is God?" Asked the four eager disciples at the end of their term.

"Here, and There", the Master replied serenely, sweeping with his downcast eyes the two disciples sitting on his left, and with an upward glance the other two on his right.

The first one, the oldest of the lot, interpreted the Master's answer to mean xiūxing (an Ashram in Mandarin), the Master's abode where the four disciples had trained. And from that day onwards, he took the upkeep of xiūxing upon himself. Every morning, he woke up early, swept and mopped the whole place sparkly  clean, dusted the windows, lit the incense, filled the vases with fresh flowers, sprinkled jasmine water on the statues of the deities. "Our Master's house is like a temple, and I should attend to it like a priest for the rest of my life," he told himself. The Master too was happy and nodded in approval. The first disciple through his dedication had brought a sense of balance and beauty to the interior space of the xiūxing, making an easy path for Chi to flow through, "just like a river. I can even bathe in it," the Master thought with admiration for his first disciple.

 

The second disciple had seen the Master's eyes rest briefly outside the window at the overgrown garden. "Ah, the garden is where God abides" and with that realisation, the second disciple dove into the unkempt garden with all his might and fervour. Pruning the hedges, uprooting the unwanted plants, he even made a little stream to wash over the stony path. Water, he had learnt, symbolised the nurturing yin, the living pulse of the earth, while the stones represented yang, strength and stability to balance the flowing yin of water. He let the pink and white lotuses crowd the stream with their divine fragrance for they were the very incarnation of purity. A little red bridge spanned the stream and from it hung two beautifully-carved musical chimes to welcome the supine breeze which stole in quietly to rest in the bamboo grove. The Master inspected the garden, vibrant with a remarkable interplay between yin and yang and inhaled its beauty. He loved the way everything here leaned on each other for harmony and wisdom.

"The Master wants me to know that the God lives in the village, and now I should make the village befitting of his Almighty-ness," the third disciple thought to himself for he had seen the Master's gaze lift beyond the house and the garden. And so, he got down to work zealously. A team of dedicated villagers was quickly formed to help him in his endeavor, as he set out to ensure that all the streets, lanes and bylanes were well-connected, and maintained. Luscious fruit trees were planted along the curb-sides to provide food and shade for passerby. A recreational park was built for the children, with meadows to roll in and swings to dream on. He not only undertook the task of cleaning the waterways and communal wells, but also saw to it that  an efficient drainage system and a self-propelled sewage treatment plant were put in place. Flower beds of morning light, dwarf mountain grass, and grey lamb's ears fronted the houses, fusing them with the light and shades of Nature...The Master looked on,   a sense of great awe scribbled clearly on his face, as he watched the little squalid village transform under his very eyes into a haven of functional aesthetics, which inadvertently brought about an inner equilibrium in the life of its inhabitants.  He couldn't help but marvel at his disciple's dauntless leadership and diligence.

The fourth disciple who had caught the Master eyeing the blue firmament above, left on a pursuit of Tianma (winged celestial horse in Chinese mythology). In the bowels of volcanoes, in the steel bosom of the wildest oceans, in the drowsily tormented eye of every swarming typhoon, he searched for the fabled steed; for he felt that this must surely be the greatest 'There' that existed, hovering continually and unseen, somewhere above all the many 'Heres' that his friends had claimed and converted in God's image.

On the brink of death,  having put himself through every trial available to man's outstretched hand, he finally found  his 'There' Tianma. Like a hallucination it landed gracefully from the skies, encompassing him yet allowing him to mount, as does any good steed...he exhaled a chill... A feeling of weightlessness, such as the day laborer knows each night when curtains are drawn...He was free. As one they galloped off into constellations uncharted, and across the sprawl of infinity which beckoned them.

From the depths of dreamless sleep, the Master awoke with a start. He felt his heavy head turn towards his bedside window and up toward the spheres...He stayed there in a strange position, a sleepwalker solving an astronomical enigma... Something new is in the stars tonight, he breathed, and, smiling, returned to the pores of slumber.

Reflections of an Insomniac

 The difference between night and day is the difference between being by ourselves as opposed to ourselves with others. I am always fascinated by the natural disparity between the two acts.

While the day offers us a forum  and instinctive guidelines to move through it in a quasi mechanical way, the night banishes all rules, presenting us with a stage where everything is almost sacred and intimate...our sunlit hours claimed by others during the day, are avenged by the personal sense of eternity bestowed upon us in the darkness...the rigidness of shapes melts giving way to a malleable space...thoughts have nowhere to centre themselves around, since every fistful of that darkness presents a new centre.

The day shrouds us in a blanket of self-importance, smothering us with countless chores deliberately labelled as 'crucial'. But the nights expose us to ourselves as we are: in our rawest form, naked, alone, empty and vulnerable.  Yet, it is a transformative realisation...it gives us courage to be ourselves, unencumbered by the possibility of over-exposure. 

Dividing the space into shapes and colours, and light and shadows, the day purposefully busies itself in etching the horizon line between the earth and sky. Night on the other hand, dissolves every divisive space into one stretchable conglomerate, packs every possibility into one enormous box and rattles it violently, letting it hurtle across infinite vistas of rolling darkness. While the activities of the day ensure  seperation from ourselves, night endeavours to unite us to the forgotten depths of our being.  

If days equate to an 'Open Sesame'  of Ali Baba fame, leading  us to to the cave of earthly temptations, nights set us free with the eternal magic of Abracadabra.

Unwrapping Memories

 The sun streaming in through the eastern window touched the golden wing of the dark angel atop the Christmas tree, and set it ablaze. The wall opposite trembled with this sudden rush of glitter flung upon it by the virtue of one rising day coming in contact with the gold-plated curve of the wings. Standing on the stairs, momentarily blinded by this  vision of light and reflections, I smiled as the angel's uplifted eyes met mine. It was beautiful, and the earnestness in its eyes as it held the dove in its outstretched hands bespoke of the desire to be recognised for what it was: a dark angel. Yes, not a blond, fair one, cut out in a Barbie shape, but a dark one, with black curly hair tied in a bun in the back. The light olive green ribbon running down its flowing cream dress read, "An angel to watch over you". I had named it Corrine, after my Afro-American art student, who, over the years, had also became a good friend...In fact, I bought it as a way to reaffirm my belief that racism was a dying institution in America... little did I know that two and a half years later, the great monster of Racism will rear its ugly head in the form of George Floyd, killed by a chokehold in a police encounter. 

And that beautiful glass ornament with hand-painted fire-weeds emblazoned on its surface, was bought at Women's Christmas Bazaar in UAF (University of Alaska, Fairbanks). My son got it for me from the money he used to earn as a guitar accompanist to the violin students, during their annual performances. He was only nine years old then, and very much in demand. For every practice and performance, he was paid $20! That was, at that time, more than twice the average minimum hourly  wage in the country. He got so loaded for his tiny self, he felt compelled to open a bank account with the good old Wells Fargo. 

Ah, and this one! This is older than my son...my sister gave it to us on the Christmas I was pregnant. It is a beautiful bell, made out of papier mâché, in Kari Kalamdani style, specific to Kashmiri region. She had bought it from the famous Cottage emporium in Delhi, when it was still tucked away on a tiny side lane off Janpath Road. Filled with several cozy comforts and beautiful handcrafted items, it had its quaint rationale vis-a-vis the layout, but for the regulars, not only did it make perfect sense, but also rendered it that much more exciting. The thrill of finding something, in a place where it is least expected, was like finding a rainbow  stretched out against a shimmering blue sky.

And, do you remember this one? "Yes, I do...my friend Gabe whittled it with his Swiss Army knife out of a spruce twig..." Dan's voice is already trailing off as he dips into nostalgia...I remember it too, so vividly. During the bash Gabe's parents had organised on the occasion of his tenth birthday, sadly he was the one who seemed the most out of place, and had quietly sneaked out, in a twenty below temperature, into the woods buried in snow. No one noticed his absence until it was time to cut the cake and the kids were getting impatient. They found him in the woods of course, his pockets bulging with kindlings whittled into miniature totems, wolves' tails, raven's eyes and what not. All the attendees received one of his masterpieces as a return gift. Ours, in the shape of a totem pole, flaunted bits of dried grass tied into a bow to fit snugly into one of its grooves. It makes a perfect ornament for our tree and has adorned it religiously for over a decade: a loyal reminder of a boy who could see shapes trapped inside shapeless kindlings and set them free  with the help of a Swiss Army knife.

This one, a Santa Claus hat streaming out some random Scrabble  tiles is from my friend Desirée. An expression not only  of our everlasting friendship, but also of our mutual love for board games, specially Scrabble...Desirée, a lawyer by profession had given up her career to homeschool her two sons. So, truly speaking, it was through her I learnt the ropes of homeschooling, which also included ways to manoeuvre the system in order to make the most of this available option. 

I hear Dan snickering, while readjusting the small naked angel with a cute bum...he would like the bum to be on the outside, in full view, for it is indeed very ample and innocent looking, and I get his point. Krysta, the first good friend I ever made in Albany gifted it to me during an exchange-ornament event at her place. Shy and humble, yet brilliantly competitive and confident, friends like Krysta are a rare find. She was always there for me whenever I needed her, always ready for a cuppa, for a stroll, for a good laugh, for a drive... always prepared to go that extra mile to help out, and even to indulge. We never had much in common, except our goodwill. And that took us a long way...

Should I go on, or should I leave some stories for another rainy day? For the ornaments in the trees are many, and the stories they summon from their recondite subliminal depths, many more...