His bench is where I go to say hello and good-bye and I love you, even though he’s with me always. One late September afternoon, a day before leaving London last year, I drove to where the bench is, in Dulwich College. I parked in front of the Great Hall. As I stepped out of the driver’s seat, something twinkled on the tarmac. I looked down and just by the rear wheel on my side of the car lay a black friendship-band with a silver heart. Just the kind of casual thing he would get for me. I picked it up and looked around. The car park was deserted. No claimants. I slipped it on my right wrist, convinced this gift was left at that particular spot, specifically for me. I wonder if that’s true or plain silly.
She emerged from the fields on my left while I was walking on a country-road this evening. She looked so real. So earthy. So lovely.
Before I knew it, I was asking her permission to take a photo of her. Saying neither yes, nor no, she went her way. I felt utterly foolish for thinking I could catch anything about her in a photo. She must’ve been tired after a long day at work. I wonder what it was I wanted to capture and why. I wonder how she felt in that moment. I wonder if living in a village is enough to extricates the city-dweller in you.
The longer I live, the more I remove all that is unnecessary, the more I see why I might have, knowingly or unknowingly made the choice to be here in the first place.
To be enthralled by the mysteries of life and death and the awesome ways in which our numerous programs, some within multiple others, work or don’t. To be in wonderment.
To see each day as the unveiling of yet another secret – the toothless smile of a four-week-old infant in response to me looking at him and speaking nonsense words with love in my eyes.
To experience each moment on this exceptionally spectacular planet, as a miracle not owed to me.
To appreciate the unfathomable source of the mathematical intelligence of golden ratios held within the ordinariness of a pine-cone, a pineapple and the head of a sunflower.
To listen with fascination using not just my ears but all my being.
To allow spontaneous, effortless, un-self-conscious expressions to flow.
To be surprised and amazed by the everydayness of extra-ordinary pieces of writing and music.
To be touched by simple kindnesses. To celebrate love and joy.
To be enthralled by rivers, skies, clouds and mountains.
To notice each of these gifts and marvel at them.
I wish you and me, a Wondrous New Year!
Please share your moments of wonder in the comments as often as you like. I have started noting them down in my calendar:
1st Jan 2025: My hands finished a new Mandala on the wall of a restaurant in Patnem (Goa) – completely unplanned.
2nd Jan 2025: My train from Goa to Sakleshpur arrived in time! I had to change my seat four times, but I had a fantastic journey. The train was delayed only by half an hour. A young man seated next to me on the train asked me if I was a writer. “Do I look like one?” I asked. He said, yes. “Is that a complement?” I asked. He said, yes. Made my day.
3rd Jan 2025: Wonder where the inspiration for this blog-post came from.
Islam forbids suicide. It calls it a grave sin or ‘haraam’. It is viewed as taking away the gifts of life given by God. The Qu’ran says, trust God, have faith in the mercy of God and do not destroy life.
Joyland is a bold film, the first Pakistani feature to be premiered at Cannes in 2022.
It is about being alone in a crowd of expectations, being punished for having secret desires and accidentally making them seen. It is about someone else having to pay the price for our impulsive indiscretions, about how the bucket of shame topples itself on our heads as soon as we allow our innermost wants to be visible. It talks about how others can forcibly live their dreams through us, how our roles in society hold us firmly in one place and make us invisible as individuals, how we don’t have permission to be confused and are not allowed the time and space to think and talk things through, how life can be cluttered and noisy. It’s about knowing you want to ‘run away’ but not knowing what that means or looks like. It’s about having to figure all this out, all by yourself.
It’s about treasuring moments of joy when they arise.
They could be hidden in the kitchen, on the Ferris wheel or inside the pages of an old book.
She could be my younger sister by two weeks. She’s survived and survived again. She’s been through so much mentally and physically but her spirit remains undefeated. Our children brought us together – Saagar and Stephanie. Both these young people were musically gifted, very compassionate and super-good-looking. This earthly realm proved to be too harsh a place for them both. It turned out their mothers were doctors, feeling betrayed by the very system they had been a part of. They were trying to understand the shortcomings in that system, make them visible and bring about change. They both felt guilty. They felt inadequate as mothers and as doctors. Each of them understood the other, without need for words.
Stephanie’s dad kept putting one step in front of the other, walking and running, cycling and swimming in memory of Stephanie. A strong believer in collaboration, he brought people, their efforts and voices together. He raised thousands of pounds and supported the endevours of individuals and charities to create more hope in the world. A dutiful father and husband, he looked after everything the best he could and continues to do so.
He believes that ‘using our Lived-Experience and working together, we will prevent future deaths.” I salute him and Stephanie’s mum for showing us what is possible when we connect and continue to cherishthe memories of Stephanie. I thank them for their friendship which continuously enriches my life and warms my heart, even from across the oceans. I am grateful that together we can manufacture any excuse for a party. I feel blessed to know these two exceptional people with whom we can celebrate our children and our lives.
kidsaregifts 