Poetry

Demonic dunes.

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(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

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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

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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

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“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: