‘S’ is for…

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S is for Saagar.
For Simon and Sangeeta.
Sudden shocking jolt
For shameful silent suffering,
Suffocating grief
Secret sobbings,
And survival.
Like one strike of lightening
Sucking up a few lives at once.

S is for surreal memorial services
Soul-searching and seeking
Sometimes screaming out-loud
Shattered dreams, salty tears,
Super-flowing goodness
Softened humanity,
And sweet memories
Strewn across the wooden floor
Like techni-coloured glass beads.

S is for simplicity
And sweet
Sensitivity
Sparkling smiling eyes
Spicy savouries
Salvation and solace
Soulful stillness
Shiny haloes and surrender
Like the curve of a weeping willow
Stooping down to kiss the ground.

S is for sharing
Speaking out loud
Small things
Saffron rice and saag-paneer
Saturdays and Sundays
Seeing Samsara
Self as everything
Like the stars, songs and strings
Of guitars, and drum skins.

S is for solitude
Silence and serendipity
Sublime sun and sea
Sunflowers and sushi
Shirts and silk ties
Socks mismatched
Subtle messages from beyond
Like smoke signals in the distance
Sent out by friends from before.

S is for stigma of suicide in society.
Stashes of hidden sadness
Shrouded in small dark spaces
So little support and understanding
Such little compassion
Screened behind sports-cars
Suntans and scotch.
Like a corpse in the room
tip-toed around.

Breakable

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A long time ago, on a Sunday morning at a village fete I saw a beautiful black-clay handmade earthenware pot. I wanted it. He said that we shouldn’t as it might break. We brought it home. A long time ago, it decorated our home for a long time.

He said if something is breakable, there is a real chance it will break, no matter how much we feel it ‘should’ not. Each time we looked at it our hearts warmed like the insides of fur mittens. He said nature had its own laws of demolition. That was a long time ago.

Another day, we brought another sweet fragile thing home. It was delicate as a little bird. It claimed all our love, our time and our sleep. It cooed and cackled and played silly games. It decorated our home for a long time. Each time we looked at it our eyes sparkled like north stars and our hearts overflowed like rivers breaking  banks. He said the cement of our love would keep us all intact and together. Forever.

We forgot that this thing was breakable. And we were breakable too. He said even if we moved across continents and oceans everything would be alright. He said even if we had nothing we would be okay. He said nothing would break. That was a long time ago.

Now the black-clay handmade earthenware pot from a long time ago sits in the centre of our living room, on a glass top coffee table, looking pretty. It’s breakable.

(Anaphora: https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/anaphora)

Day 1000

Living on the blurred line between reality and illusion.
Tasting the bitter-sweetness of all things.
Moving from the world of words to no words.
Letting the silence listen and speak.
Pure experience. It’s like this. This is how it is.
All existence in one realm. One love.
Death, the great leveller, swallowing all pride.
‘Forever’ sitting within the fold of Now.

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Mystic Love

When I seek peace, he is
The kindly intercessor,
And when I go to war,
The dagger, that is he;
And when I come to meetings,
He is the wine and sweetmeat.
And when I come to gardens,
The fragrance, that is he.
When I go to the mines, deep,
He is the ruby there,
When I delve in the ocean,
The precious pearl is he.
When I come to the desert,
He is the garden there.
When I go to the heaven,
The brilliant star is he…
And when I write a letter
To my beloved friends,
The paper and the inkwell,
The ink, the pen is he.
And when I write a poem
and seek a rhyming word-
the one who spreads the rhymes out
within my thought is he!
– Rumi.

Day 998

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Good fortunes.

Today is your lucky day.
She says, ”Why not?”
The traffic cop is sleeping.
Everyone assumes you were just kidding.
You’re upgraded to first class.
Your client is even later for the meeting. Bingo!
You got the good genes.
You win the lottery(and haven’t lost the ticket).
Surprise. It’s on sale!
It’s sunny at Wimbledon.
You bet on the wrong horse, which wins.
Blackjack. It goes in.
The test is negative.
You find 100 pounds in your old jeans. You’re OK.
Your mother-in-law is really cool.
You guess right.
There is no traffic.
You are the millionth customer.
You are proven innocent. Near miss.
Refund. No one got hurt.
You find your cell-phone.
Your kids are healthy.
They accept your ridiculous offer.
The one you love, loves you back.
Your dead, really rich uncle really really liked you.
You have a sense of humour.
It’s just a mole.
No one ever finds out.
Tomorrow will be even better.

  • By John Nieman

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Day 990

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The Hook

Couldn’t believe that Saagar was gone on Day 1 or Day 10 or Day 100 … and soon it will be Day 1000. Still, life goes on. Still struggle with it. A lot!

Everything has changed – the world, me, my relationship with the world. I have been walking, sometimes crawling, up a steep learning mountain. Still am. Sometimes flattened by it. Many of you have been walking with me, keeping me fun, encouraging and comforting company. We have spent a lot of time together and there is so much more to do, share and learn.

This blog has been the hook on which I have hung my days. It has kept me from irretrievably crashing on the floor and getting decimated. It had held me together. It has been an ever-present friend, always willing to listen and receive, the stage on which I have shown Saagar off and poured my love for him, a rubbish bin into which I have chucked my pain, anger and regrets.

Coming up to Day 1000, I am filled with anticipation as I know it is time to loosen my grip, to place a little more faith in life and ride my bike with ‘no-hands’ for a bit. I feel the time is right. It is with trepidation that I make this proposal to myself that after Day 1000 I shall post a blog every Thursday. Or will it be Day 1001?

“You who walk, your footprints
 are the road and nothing else
 There is no road, Walker.
You made the road by walking.
By walking you made the road
And when you look backward
you see
 the path that you will never step on again.
Walker, there is no road,
Only wind-trails in the sea.”

– By Antonio Machado (PROVERBIOS Y CANTARES – XXIX)

 

Day 987

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Dancing with Rumi

The Papyrus AGM this morning brought together many people with the same vision – to keep every young person safe and happy. The numerous hurdles on ground made my heart sink. This is too big a task. It’s too much for me or anyone else. But, I am not alone and they are not alone. We are together. Most of us in the room had been touched by suicide and were carrying our pain boldly around, hoping to use this massive emotional energy to reduce further pain in this world. Bit by bit we will keep planting seeds of hope. One person at a time, we will keep smashing the stigma. We will keep taking small steps and keep walking without looking fearfully into the distance. 

The Journey

Wake up lovers, it is time to start the journey!
We have seen enough of this world, it is time to see another. Though these two gardens may be beautiful,
let us pass beyond them and go to the Gardener,
let us go prostrating like a torrent to the ocean.
Let us journey from the vale of tears to the wedding feast, and bring the colour of blossom to our pale cheeks.
Let us journey home, our hearts trembling
like autumn leaves about to fall; in this world of dust
there is no avoiding pain or feeling exiled.
This path is full of trials, we need companions
let us join their caravan and let love be our guide.
We have stayed home, scared like mice
but we are lion cubs, let us roar like lions.
Let our soul turn into a mirror,
that passionately wants to reflect Beauty.
Let us begin the journey home.

  • By Rumi.

Day 986

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Ever since I was little, I loved to twirl round and round with my arms stretched out. When I was overjoyed, when it rained after a long spell of sweltering heat, when Punjabi and Rajasthani folk music played fast and loud, when I felt absolutely free I twirled at one spot for as long as I could without hurling myself to the ground. It happened automatically and made me feel like I was on top of the world.

Whirling dervishes from the Sufi tradition have intrigued me for years. Sufism is a way of reaching God, which involves rigorous meditation and prayer, emphasis on inner self rather than external rituals, continuous service of humanity and renunciation of worldly pleasures. When they turn, their right palm artistically faces upwards to receive from the Universe and their left palm faces downwards in a spout, to symbolise giving of what is received. The head is tilted gracefully to the right as though they are looking at their hearts. They revolve as if powered by cosmic energy. It is mesmerising to be in the same space.

This evening after work, Si and I attended a ‘Mukabele’ at The Study Society in West London. It was a soulful and joyous ceremony. It was about experiencing inner stillness and opening of the heart. It represented mankind’s inner journey back to the realisation of his essential oneness with God and the unity of all creation. ‘Mukabele’ means ‘coming face to face’. The practice is based on these fundamental beliefs: God is the First and the Last, the Outward and the Inward. Wherever you tum, there is the Face of God.

This practice was originally developed by followers of the 13th century Persian mystic Jalalu’ddin Rumi, whose writings are some of the most enlightening.

“There is a life force
within your soul
Seek that life
There is a gem
In the mountain
Of your body
Seek that mine.

O traveller
If you are in
Search of that

Don’t look outside

Look inside yourself
And seek that.”