Come home, my darling.

I still hear the key turning in the door from the outside and you stepping in. Can you believe it? I still see your face, darkened by the sun. Dressed in your cricket whites, you drag your massive cricket-bag-on-wheels behind you by your left arm.

“Did you take the sun-screen with you?” I ask.

“Yes, it’s in the bag.”

“Did you actually put it on?’

 “Mamma, I’m hungry.”

I still wait for you to join us for dinner. I cook the foods you like, especially on your birthday: spinach-paneer for mains, chocolate mousse for dessert. I wonder what you’d be doing in this realm if you were here. Job? Girl-friend? How silly! Isn’t it? I can’t help it. It’s involuntary. It’s got something to do with the heart. With longing. With missing. With love. It’s not supposed to make sense. You would have had a good old chuckle at my expense if you were here. But you are not and I am. How random is that?

I still remember the first time I felt you elbow-ing or knee-ing me from inside my tummy, as if we had an inside joke between us. I remember holding all three kilos of you in my arms for the first time. I couldn’t believe you were for real. You were all mine. Now my arms ache with emptiness. Is this real?

Do you miss me sometimes?

Happy birthday my darling.

Heaven

It will be the past

And we’ll live there together.

Not as it was to live

But as it is remembered.

It will be the past.

We’ll all go back together.

Everyone we ever loved,

And lost, and must remember.

It will be the past.

And it will last forever.

                      – A poem by Patrick Phillips, on the New York subway.

(“Ghar aa” is a Hindi phrase that means “Come home”)

Demonic dunes.

(Kolmanskop, Namibia. Photo by Emma McEvoy)

Chasing me. Haunting. It wants to swallow me. I wonder why. I am a mere witness standing by. It viciously runs to get me. Grains of sand penetrate my eyes, making me squint and blink and tear-up. But I am just a spectator. I wrap my head in a pink cotton scarf. It soaks up the water, protects my head but my ankles are now submerged in the sand. I extricate them and lunge away from it, breathing hard. Then stop. Turn around, stand still and stare at it. It hisses, plumes of sand flying off the top of it like flames. It threatens to burn me alive.

Images, echos and winds of the past. Dancing dunes of time.

It has blocked my doorway, invaded my home, drive, my garden, front and back. There is grit in every crevice and crack. All I have is sunk underneath this deadly dune. Only the slate-grey gable roof and the chimney tops breathe.

I am not running away from it. From anything. This dune does not have my permission. It may not bury me. It cannot. I know it has a weakness. It can only play in the field of the Past. It cannot enter this Present moment of mine. A silk veil of breath undulates between the damned dune and me. It keeps me on this side of the line. Here, I am safe. This side of the boundary line is mine. Here, all I need I have. The field of my presence is spacious, clear and blue, untouched by this devil of a dune. As pure as my smile. In. Pause. Out. Pause. In. Pause. Out …

Oceans apart

My mother.

she was known by

her chum-chum silver key ring

tucked into her slim waist

and her swishing saris.

Those delicate fabrics

draping her like feathers.

Her face so gentle, her red bindi

was home.

Still is.

*

No other.

I saw me in her.

Years carried me away

to far-off places,

where every house

had steep staircases

inside.

Outside, the winds blew hard and

the terrible winter

could bite.

*

Why bother?

Here, jeans and polo-necks,

only they would do.

The stairs would unfurl

my sari in milliseconds,

if I dared to.

My dupattas would sweep the floor.

My bindi out of place,

found no spot to decorate.

The years I blame.

*

Not like her.

Yes. Oceans apart,

she is she, in her handwoven

white, pink and blue cotton sari

and me is me, in my blue Gap jeans.

Yet we are somewhat the same.

***

Grey day

I didn’t light his candle today. Not because I forgot. But I just couldn’t be bothered. He left without saying bye. I know it’s silly to bring this up now, after so many years. He needed to do whatever it was he needed to do. He needed to go. I understand. But the missing makes my heart crumble again and yet again. How is it possible to keep going after its smashed so many times? It feels like the old yellow rubber duck in his bath, being stamped heavily upon, by a topless angry Arnold Swarzenegger wearing big black military trousers and boots. What is this thing that pretends to drum in my chest, tattered and torn?

He broke the rule. Saying good-night was our ritual for many years. After settling him in his bed, I religiously kissed him on his chin, both his cheeks, first left and then the right, his closed eyes, first the left and then the right and then, once on his forehead. He put his little arms around my neck and we both held each other for a short while before I switched off the light and went to my room. We loved it and slept peacefully.

He didn’t respect our little rule. Maybe he couldn’t. But, I deserved at least, a proper good bye. But then, can anyone truly know who deserves what?

all my love,

endlessly

black and white portrait.

Interbeing

“Suppose we look deeply at a rose. With some concentration and mindfulness we can see that the rose is made of only non-rose elements.

What do we see in the rose?

We see a cloud, because we know, without the cloud, there wouldn’t be rain and without the rain, the rose couldn’t grow. So, a cloud is a non-rose element that we can recognise if we look deep into the rose. Next, we can see sunshine, which is also crucial for the rose to grow. The sunshine is another non-rose element present in the rose. If you took the sunshine and cloud out of the rose, there would be no rose left.

If we continue like this we see many non-rose elements within the rose, including the minerals, the soil, the farmer, the gardener and so on. The whole cosmos has come together to produce the wonder we call rose. A rose cannot be by herself alone. A rose has to inter-be with the whole cosmos. This is the insight we call Interbeing.

When looking at a rose, if we can see all the non-rose elements that make up the rose, then we can truly touch the reality of the rose. No matter what we look at, if we can see that it is made up of everything in the Universe that is not itself, then we touch the true reality of that thing, its non-self nature.”

Thich Nhat Hahn.

His words brought light. His voice, peace. His presence, compassion. He said, “No coming, no going. No after, no before. I hold you close to me. I release you to be free. Because I am in you and you are in me.” I will always hold you close to me, dear Father of Mindfulness.

I inter-am with you, wherever you may be.

Resource:

How to stay calm in a storm:

Blue words

Woke up at 3 am this morning to attend a Poetry workshop on-line, India time. Himalayan Writing Retreat made it happen for us twelve. Hard to believe so much fun and learning could happen with strangers, sitting thousands of miles apart. Here’s what came out of it. Looking forward to much much more. Today’s Haibun:

She is decimated – an earthen clay pot, once holding colourless water in a colourless circle, now dust. She watches this happen to her, as if from outer space. As she zooms in, she can touch the wetness of what is spilt all over the marbled floor. It is possibly still within reach, this source of life. Drop by drop, she picks it up and adds it into her tumbler of tears. It magically swirls into an aquamarine blue – deeper than the deepest ocean and sky. The blue of life. Yes. It is blue and all of it, her very own.  

She colours her words with it. The words that were once, blood red.

Her walls, her flowers, her friendships.

Now she has this blue, she’s complete again. Fully of this earth.

dancing flame . . .

finding myself

in the mirror again

(Resource: Learn to write at https://www.himalayanwritingretreat.com/)

Beings of light

“Hi. I am Dr SM. I will be anaesthetising you for your procedure today. Could I ask you to please remove your mask so I can take a quick look at your teeth and airway? Thank you.”

My guess of how their whole face looks is often completely off the mark. They look more beautiful than I imagine especially if they remember to wear their smiles. I have missed smiles exchanged with random strangers walking around random shops and street corners. I have missed hugs from friends even more.

Countless nuclear fissions on the surface of the sun translate into radiation that hits the Earth’s atmosphere and creates an electro-magnetic field, some of which converts to heat and light. The green plants picks it up along with CO2 and through photosynthesis convert the sun’s energy to carbohydrates, proteins and fats. Our food takes these to the mitochondria in our cells. These little power-houses create fuel, energy and warmth through the process of cell-respiration. This solar event carries on within us at a molecular level.

Two of the best things about being human are, smiles and hugs. They bring us into the sunshine of another human being. We are beings of light. Our design makes us heal spontaneously when our energy is high. The two things that deeply damage human energy are – fear and guilt, both of which have been ramped up in myopic and manipulative ways.

This is the time for us to find each other and our state of harmony. To know that we are alive right now and sing it out loud. The present humanity is an unfinished symphony and I feel some of the best bits are yet to be created.

“We have travelled past the longest night.

Now treading into the return of light.

In the stillness of mid-winter, may we dream into existence a magical new world,

most kind and bright.”

Wishing you, me and humanity, many songs, smiles and hugs. xxx

Ref:

Dr Zach Bush: Unlock the creative life-force within

A report and a film.

A report published last month by National Child Mortality Database (NCMD) identifies common characteristics of children and young people who die by suicide between 1st April 2019 and 31st March 2020. It investigates factors associated with these deaths and makes recommendations for policy makers.

Every child or young person who dies by suicide is precious. These deaths are a devastating loss for families and can impact future generations and the wider community. There is a strong need to understand what happened and why, in every case. We must ensure that we learn the lessons we need to, to stop future suicides.

Key Findings:

-Services should be aware that child suicide is not limited to certain groups; rates of suicide were similar across all areas, and regions in England, including urban and rural environments, and across deprived and affluent neighbourhoods.

(No one is immune.)

-62% of children or young people reviewed had suffered a significant personal loss in their life prior to their death, this includes bereavement and “living losses” such as loss of friendships and routine due to moving home or school or other close relationship breakdown.

(Saagar was unable to return to his life at University due to a new diagnosis of a mental illness.)

-Over one third of the children and young people reviewed had never been in contact with mental health services. This suggests that mental health needs or risks were not identified prior to the child or young person’s death.

(Saagar had been in contact with Mental Health Services but they discharged him as soon as he showed signs of improvement. They did not follow him up. His GP was unable to identify his high risk of suicide despite his Depression scores being the worse they could be for at least 4 weeks.)

-16% of children or young people reviewed had a confirmed diagnosis of a neurodevelopmental condition at the time of their death. For example, autism spectrum disorder or attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. This appears higher than found in the general population.

(Saagar did not.)

-Almost a quarter of children and young people reviewed had experienced bullying either face to face or cyber bullying. The majority of reported bullying occurred in school, highlighting the need for clear anti-bullying policies in schools.

(At his Primary school in Belfast, his peers called him ‘Catholic’. He didn’t know what it meant but he knew it was not right. This went on for more than a year before I found out. When I spoke to his class teacher about it, she denied any problem.)

The film ‘1000 days’ tells us about Saagar and what we have learnt from his life and death. I am not sure what or how much the policy makers and service providers have learnt or changed but we have learnt and changed a lot and here we talk about that. The film is presently available on-line at the Waterford Film Festival (Short Programe 6), till the 15th of November at the link below. Please take 20 minutes to watch it if you can. You will learn something too. Each one of us can make a difference.

https://waterfordfilmfestivalonline.com/programs/collection-jlvwfxb8ctq

This night.

He was born when I was 28.

The monsters of pain took him in his 21st.

I was in my 49th.

Today, he would be in his 28th. I am in my 56th.

7 years ago, this night was his last in this house.

I am here tonight. Sleeping in his room.

7 years it takes for all my cells to be replaced.

7 chakras. 7 cycles.

7 colors. 7 musical notes.

7 days clumped into a week.

A bunch of random dates. Time as a thing.

Not straight. A mirage.

Revisiting.

Revolving. Rotating.

An illusion. A thought.

A future forgot.

Grow. Mature. Flower. See.

A constellation upon which I sit as fully me.

Push through the glass wall of Time. Release.

Rise and fall

free.