Writing

Candy?

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‘How can I trust you?’ says Neo.

“It is a pickle. No doubt about it. (Pause) Candy?”

‘You already know if I’m going to take it?’

“Wouldn’t be an oracle if I didn’t.”

‘But if you already know, how can I make a choice?’

“Because you didn’t come here to make the choice. You’ve already made it. You’re here to try to understand why you made it.”

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.

What’s wrong with Maybe?

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Maybe it’s two words, not one.

Maybe nothing is at it seems.

Maybe my eyes are utterly open but green.

May be there is no such thing as the absolute truth.

Maybe I hold on to mine for dear life ‘cause I wouldn’t know who I was without it.

Maybe all you need is love. Your own.

Maybe it’s okay to be green-eyed. Everyone is.

Maybe there is no hell or heaven or earth.

Maybe my name is so easily erasable, it’s hardly worth speaking.

Maybe I am exactly where I need to be.

Maybe everything is exactly the way it needs to be.

Maybe angels have appeared to me once or twice.

Maybe the only way forward is to stand still.

Maybe everyone was born to love for a bit and die.

Maybe there is no big meaning to anything.

Maybe each day that breaks into light is a miracle.

Maybe everyone is a little bit thirsty a lot of the time.

Maybe there’s enough water on the planet, maybe not.

Maybe God has his/Her hand on my head right now.

Maybe the light from the sun is on its way.

Maybe everyone has wings they cannot see.

Maybe that thirst is the one to be free.

Maybe no one knows what that really means.

Maybe it’s okay to be in love with the notion of Me.

May be a baby sparrow is opening its eyes right now, for the very first time.

170,000

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– the number of suicides in India every year. India holds the top position in the world in very few things. This is one of them. Of these deaths, more than 40% are under the age of thirty. Both these facts possibly underestimate the problem due to poor data collection, criminalisation of suicidal attempts, inefficient registration systems, lack of medical certification of deaths and biggest of all, stigma. Every eight minutes a young Indian person dies by suicide. Year on year, the rates are rising by 4-7%.

The incidence of student suicides surpasses population growth rates. Over the last decade, the number of student suicides increased from 7,696 to 13,089.

Source: A report released on Sept 10th 2024: Student Suicides: an epidemic sweeping India.

Today, to mark World Mental Health Day, a brave young lady, Jayeta Biswas, published an article remembering her brother, Jayanta. Aside from revealing some shocking statistics, it lamented the seriously negative societal attitudes towards poor mental health and suicide in India:

“A home that was always filled with visitors when my brother was alive saw no one from his school, college, professional life or network after his departure. None of his friends, including those he had contacted in his last hours – attended his funeral, nor did they visit our house. I am certain that this is because they heard that he died by suicide.”

We have a long way to go as a society but small school initiatives such as SEHER give me hope.

Your suffering is a bridge.

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He described himself not as a revolutionary writer but one born into a revolutionary situation. He was born out of wedlock in the USA a hundred years ago – black, poor, despised by his adoptive father, the eldest of nine siblings and to top it all, a homosexual. His name was James Baldwin. He knew the meaning of suffering and could talk and write about it with striking beauty.

“I can only tell you about yourself, as much as I can face about myself.

As it happens to everybody who’s tried to live. You go through your life for a long time and you think that no one has ever suffered the way I’ve suffered. My God! My God!  Then you read something, you hear something and you realise that your suffering does not isolate you.

Your suffering is your bridge. It tells you that many people have suffered before you, that many people are suffering around you and always will.

All you can do is hopefully bring a little light into that suffering. Enough light so the person who is suffering can begin to comprehend his suffering. Begin to live with it and begin to change it.

We don’t change anything. All we can do is invest people with the morale to change it for themselves.”

Indeed. We can and we do. Thank you for your light, James Baldwin. Happy centenary.

[ CORe: Bringing light to those who have been unfortunate enough to lose a child.]

It’s a story. It’s not a story.

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Last weekend I was part of a team of volunteers. The Compassionate Friends hosted a summer retreat for parents who have lost a child to suicide or substance use. We expected seventy parents to arrive, some as couples, some by themselves. Many of us drove for many miles through road works and traffic jams. Some changed trains more than once and persevered through serious delays due to fatalities on the tracks on two successive days. Even though their own hearts ached, they traveled from all over the UK to Leeds.

The venue was a new one, Hinsley Hall. It was true to the pictures on its website – majestic. Having never worked there before, many of us arrived a day prior, to familiarise ourselves with the space and allocate rooms to activities depending on their size and suitability, getting to know the staff and setting out folders, notice boards and programes.

The job at hand was to belong to those who attended and have them belong to us. I went up to my room and drew the curtain. I gasped at the view. My window looked over a deep-green lawn with dark old trees and two parallel hedges with patches of yellow.

As the participants arrived through the gates, we welcomed and escorted them despite their visible anxiety and fatigue, a reluctance to acknowledge their eligibility to be here, attending this retreat. Slowly, cups of tea, coffee and glasses of water loosened the atmosphere.

At the Writing workshop, words like ‘disassembled’ and ‘brown silt’ were shared and felt. A bronze sculpture of a young woman in the courtyard, standing with her arms wide open was a constant encouragement to open our hearts.

Over the next couple of days, each of us felt seen, listened to, acknowledged and our grief felt witnessed. Friendships were born. There was much laughter and many tears flowing through truck-loads of memories. Grace was at work. It was allowing something within us to soften and relax.

At the end, one mum said she met some lovely people and found much comfort and connection. Another said, she met herself, this time with gentleness.

Being there, volunteering, was a good way to honour Saagar’s  life and mine.  What better way to spend our days than to hold our kids, ourselves and each other in a warm embrace?

I am here. He is here.