One less. One pless.

This is a coffee-growing village situated within an area of outstanding natural beauty and huge bio-diversity. At an altitude of 1000 meters, it has a unique eco-ystem. Despite the fact that it rains a lot, it is charming as hell. Everyone drinks coffee all the time. The coffee-cups hold about three mouthfuls, possibly to make up for the frequency with which it is consumed, or else we would be seriously buzzing round the clock.

After a couple of months here, we have learnt to say ‘one less and one pless’ when Si and I order coffee at a roadside café. It means, may we have one cup without sugar and one with. The literacy rate here is officially more than 80% but all in Kannada. English, if spoken is often incorrect and extremely functional.

A few weeks ago, I volunteered to teach ‘Spoken English’ to the primary school kids at the local Government school for one hour every week. I have never done anything like this before. I have no idea if it will make any difference in the long run but if nothing else, we have fun together. Last week we blew bubbles, talked about their shapes, sizes and named the colours they capture. We tried to describe how they move through the air and how they make us feel. We agreed they made us all feel happy. That’s a good start.

On the way home, sitting at the back of the tuk-tuk my heart was overflowing with joy and then I remembered that I never blew bubbles with Saagar. My eyes welled up but I was still smiling.

No mystique

Sitting in mesmerising remoteness, I’ve been falling in love with Maya Angelou. Her words in this interview on The Paris Review have been singing in my ears and I am compelled to share the music as it resonates with the beat of my heart. And, is she funny or is she funny? Astounding combination of humour and profound fundamental human truths.

“We may encounter many defeats.” She says. “Maybe it’s imperative that we encounter the defeats. I don’t know. But we must not be defeated. I see people who haven’t gone through anything and you think, ‘Ah! Honey, go through something. Go through something.’

If I have a theme in my work, it is that we’re much stronger that we appear to be. And maybe much better than we allow ourselves to be. And that human beings are more alike than we are unalike. There’s no real mystique. Every human being, every Christian, every Jew, every backslider, every Muslim, every Shintoist, Zen Buddhist, atheist, agnostic, every human being want a nice place to live. A good place for the kids to go to school, healthy children, somebody to love, the courage, the unmitigated gall to accept love in return, some place to party on a Saturday or Sunday night and some place to perpetuate that God. There’s no mystique. None. And if I’m right in my work, that’s what my work says.”

Truly inspired. Love the sweet little made-up words like ‘unalike’. Thank you Ma’am.

Why do you write?

Before Day 0, I hardly ever wrote, except for work. Then, this blog became a lifeline.

A friend. A vent.

A hook to hang my days on.

A thing that helped me stay on.

A messenger. A mouthpiece.

A repository of memories.

An unencumbered voice.

A determined choice.

“Have you published anything?” a writer friend asked me recently.

‘No. I am a writer. I write.’

“Don’t you want to be published?”

‘Yes. It would be nice. But for me, writing is an end in itself.’

“Why else do you write?”

‘Because I am fascinated by the terror of a blank page.

Because I have something to say.

Because I want to reach others, especially those who feel very alone.

Because I love the scratchy sound of pen moving on paper.

Because it helps me connect with myself in a tender manner.

Because I can trust the words that come out. I can mess with them. Play.

Because I need to write what I’m thinking in order to understand what I’m thinking.

Because writing wants to happen through me. It can be a wooo-hooo surprise!

No reason. Simply.’

After nearly ten years of writing, in March this year I made my first submission and thankfully it was accepted. A short story, “The Order” was published earlier this month on an online literary magazine, Kitaab.org:

This story made its debut in an unrefined form on this blog and my brother commented that I should try to get it published. That was in July 2018. Six years ago! Gosh! I must be slow.

Move over Sainsbury’s

The nearest village to us is Shukravara-sante, which means Friday-fair. Sante is a periodical gathering of buyers and sellers at a particular place. This coffee-growing region has huge plantations where hundreds of people work. They get the day off to rest and do their weekly shopping. Hence, Friday is Sunday. It is the highlight of the week. The nearest town is miles away and why would one take the trouble to go there if the freshest produce is available nearby?

A collection of temporary and permanent sheds with people sitting on the ground, selling glass bangles in fancy colours, coconut-graters for a pittance, honey-mangoes, unfamiliar greens, dried red chillies in heaps, dried fish emanating its peculiar smell, plastic buckets and mugs in bright colours, cardamom and pepper, clay pots made locally to set curds in, snacks being fried on the roadside, fresh cane juice with ginger and lemon. A hundred yards of pure delight.

We’ve been here three weeks and visited the market three times. We can get most of our weeks shopping and see all those smiling faces again that are becoming more and more familiar every week. My flimsy Kannada and their meagre Hindi and English are sufficient when stretched. In the moment inadvertently provide live entertainment to the locals and laugh with them at myself.

The milk collection point is just down the road. It’s where the villagers bring milk from their farms for being sold and sent to a big dairy 40 Kilometers away. At 6.30 every morning when Simon brings a litre and a half of it in the steel milk churn, it is warm.

Opposite the chicken shop is a general store that sells eggs. The lovely family that run the chicken shop can’t sell their eggs in their own shop as people expect them to give them away for free. So, they sell the eggs to the general store and people buy them from there. An egg costs seven rupees which is roughly 7 pence.

Saagar would be surprised that I was trying to learn a new language, that we had moved to an unfamiliar part of India and started afresh.  Simon and I have wanted simplicity for a while and it’s finally coming. Couldn’t agree more with Charles Bukowsky who said, the less I needed, the better I felt.

Looking forward to the market tomorrow. Move over Sainsbury’s.

A shadow and a friend.

One little girl arrived with bare feet on the site. May be six years old. Tiny. The odd one, out of place. Unflinchingly prancing about on the dry prickly ground, then sitting quietly, watching her dad clear the tall brown grass with his strimmer. Not a word from her. No toys. No books. No company. No food. Simply watching men working with their tractors and JCBs and one woman watching the men do their thing. Six egrets curiously dancing about the Hitachi and whatever else.

I wondered what her bright little eyes picked up on. I wondered what went on in her little head. What did she think about? School? Mum and Dad? Brothers? Friends? TV last night? Did her family have a TV? Who decided what to watch? What did she have for dinner last night? Where were her slippers? Her father said she forget to wear them as they left home in a hurry. Was that the real reason?

I wanted to talk to her and listen to her but wasn’t sure if that would be okay. As I walked past her I smiled lightly and waved my right hand at her. She gauged me as she turned her head to look in my direction. I continued waving my hand as she considered her response. After eight waves from me, she finally waved back once and I think I detected a hint of a smile.

For today, that was enough.

An excerpt from the poem ‘Kindness’ by Naomi Shihab Nye:

Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing.
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to gaze at bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
It is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

PS: The building of a home for CORe has begun. http://www.core-community.com

(Ref: https://poets.org/poem/kindness)