Little things.

“Where you from?”

I wonder why so many people in my own country make this query. They ask often enough to annoy me enough to make me stop and think. Why?

Is it because my grey hair seems odd in a country where almost everyone adorns black hair, irrespective of age? Is my accent too strange for my own people? Do I dress funny? My mother believes it’s because I say ‘Thank-you’ much too often. At the end of a meal in a restaurant, accepting the bill, Thank you. Waiter handing me the card machine, Thank you. Making the payment and handing him back the machine. Thank you. Receiving a copy of the receipt. Thank you. Leaving the restaurant through a door held by a doorman. Thank you.

Do other people do it to the same extent or is my thanking over the top?

Do I really mean it each time I say it or is it a mindless habit? An automatic impulse? Spontaneous blurting?

Well, do I need to convert my gratitude into a problem? It has to be a good thing. Right? They say more gratitude makes for less stress, better relationships, good mood, optimism and connection. It helps us celebrate goodness in the world and newness of the present moment. It blocks negative emotions like envy, resentment and regret. It improves my social ties and self-worth as I feel that someone is looking out for me. Research has proven it to be essential to happiness. It is the ‘queen of all virtues.’ They say it’s not merely a sentiment but a practice. It can be cultivated by noticing little things, sights and smells, sounds and sensations, tastes and shapes and movements. Writing them down.

Do I actually feel grateful for the little things others do for me? Do I smile and make eye contact with them? Do I meaningfully connect with the person in front of me? Do I hold the attitude of gratitude in my body? Yes.

So, I am comfortable with not taking small things for granted, even if it translates to saying thank-you too often. The next time someone asks “Where you from?” I will say, “Thank you for asking.” 😉

Resources:

Gratitude Quiz: https://greatergood.berkeley.edu/quizzes/take_quiz/gratitude

Mum’s village

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The southernmost beach on the coast of Goa is also its most pristine. Galgibaga. The other name for it is Turtle beach, home to a vulnerable species of turtle, the olive ridley. I get that the first part of their name comes from the colour of their shell, which is olive. No idea where the ‘ridley’ comes from. Well…

Approaching the date of delivery of eggs, usually in November, the female of the species returns to the spot where she herself hatched. Mum’s home, I guess. Mass-nestings are common. Mum’s village, I guess. Sisters and cousins, all coming home to have their babies. They bury their eggs one and a half feet under the sand. After about two months, the hatchlings have to risk crossing a hazardous beach before they reach the safety of the sea. As they scoot across, predators such as crabs, eagles, dogs and the like nab them. To enhance their dwindling numbers, local conservationists and NGOs now place safety nets around the area where the eggs are buried, discourage dogs from getting close and facilitate the safe transit of baby turtles from land to sea.

No bars, restaurants, casinos, or beach huts are allowed on this white sandy stretch. No loud music. No big car parks, hence humans have to make an effort to get here. So, despite its immense beauty, there is no noise.

Two kilometres along a little road curving inland from this beach is our temporary abode, surrounded by birds and a green canopy of tall trees. Everyone seems to know everyone here. There are no beggars or homeless people. I need never worry about my unlocked bicycle parked outside. It’s safe. Coconuts, big banana trees, pepper vines and baby-mangoes are within an arm’s length of our windows and balconies. A small bus, a car or a scooter may pass by noticeably at long gaps. The distinct calls of the fisher-woman and the bread-man, I can now recognise.

My return to the land where I hatched and gave birth decades ago. Overlapping cycles of life. Circles, like bubbles being blown to the sky at dusk, capturing all the colours. Merging. Dancing. Bursting.

Simple joys.

Walking home.

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Every time we visited him in the Intensive Care Unit, he mouthed the line “Just take me home.”

We wanted the same. It was our prayer in every moment that we would be able to take him home. But how would we transport the things that were attached to him? The things on which his life depended – monitors, strong medications being infused through syringe pumps and the beeping robot that was supporting his lungs? Even if we transported those, who would man these gadgets and modulate them as required? The first step was to get him to breathe by himself. It was happening in bursts. Some days he looked so bright that it was easy to believe that it wouldn’t be too long before we could. Other times he seemed tired, simply from the effort of breathing. Of course, they were trying to help him come off the ventilator but sometimes it was too much for him. Despite their good intentions and gentle demeanour, it was too much for him.

One of the young residents encouragingly said, “Sir, we want to send you home soon. That’s why we’re making you work hard.” He pointed skywards with a wry smile, “That way?”

In the end, it was a long, slow goodbye.

“We’re all walking each other home.”

– Ram Dass.

I fold.

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My latest love is folding. The act of arranging a piece of paper or cloth in a way that it occupies less space and looks neat. Layering one part of it on top of another to make it compact. Apparently, molecules, tents, parachutes, rocks and beds fold too. But I am more inclined towards an un-stitched piece of material. Bed sheets and towels are my favourites but I don’t mind table-covers, handkerchiefs and face-towels.

Firstly, it’s the subtle fragrance of moist lavender fabric conditioner, still fresh from the wash. When I open my arms out wide to hold the margins, the top edge rises right up to my nose and the aroma gets right inside my head. Exhilarated by that, my fingertips follow the margins to find the corners. Sometimes the rim curls up on itself and needs to be straightened, patted back repeatedly on a flat surface. The corner often falls to the floor and it takes a deep forward bend to lift it up. These are the in-built stretching advantages for the upper and lower body.

The corresponding corners are brought together and the first large fold created which gets progressively smaller with every corner alignment, until I have a beautiful stack-able rectangle in my hands, ready to land on its shelf in the airing cup-board along with and on top of its contemporaries in white, blue, orange and green. If dried on a clothes-line, it doesn’t need ironing. That’s the energy saving advantage.

Folding a sari is an art-form. I learnt it from my mother. Here, the mouth and teeth assume an active role. The sari is an un-tailored stretch, at least six yards long and about forty-two inches wide. Before anything I need to ensure that I have a bed nearby so that I can lay the length of the material there while I work on the edges and corners. After figuring out which horizontal edge is up and which surface goes on the outside, I start from the top left corner. The rest of the routine has to be witnessed to be believed but it’s the middle point on the top edge of the sari that has been folded twice over that is held between the incisors for a short time. The silk ones have a habit of going all askew if not held and laid perfectly and lovingly flat. A real treat for the hands and arms.

Oh. The satisfaction. I wish all the ruffles and crinkles of the world could be folded neatly away and patted out with warm hands.

Yesterday I found myself putting away a pashmina that I had used once since it was dry-cleaned. In default mode, I was making the folds along the same lines, in the same direction as the dry-cleaner had done. It was strangely pleasurable and worrying.

Wonder where this new love of mine will take me.

God’s voice.

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The second time around, I was as sure as one can be. It felt like fun. An adventure. A way to deepen our friendship. Si and I worried that things might change after we got married. We didn’t want them to. But they did.

We found that we could be silent together. Our shared space became sacred. We felt closer. More intimate here than in the world of words. It gave another dimension to our togetherness, one that felt like cruising over deep blue still waters with the sun shining on us. It felt whole and complete.

The cages of our ribs expanded and contracted rhythmically without a sound. They breathed love and understanding. They rested and connected through the music of silence. A river of song flowing between them. Circles of time danced in overlapping squiggly whirls, periodically stopping at the end of each expansion and each contraction.

Five today.

Years of hope, love and possibility.

Creating the same for many others.

Walking together. Hand in hand. Silently.

“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature – trees, flowers, grass- grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence… We need silence to be able to touch souls.“

-Mother Teresa

For no reason at all.

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Andretta is a small village in the foothills of the Himalayas. It has been calling to us for the past five years. We’ve been working towards becoming able to take it up on its invitation and finally, we are here.

I return to my country, a stranger. I am not that young lady who left and this land is different from what it was when she left twenty-three years ago. It is noisier, busier and dirtier. People and houses everywhere. The national highways used to run through wide expanses of green and yellow fields but now they are lined with messy shops, workshops and warehouses. Overweight people used to be a rarity but now obesity is commonplace, even in kids and village folk. The forests are thinner and the weather full of surprises. The number of extreme rain events has risen three-fold since the beginning of the last century, possibly due to a warmer Arabian Sea.

It was in the last century that I ventured abroad. The dreams that lived in my eyes then, are a mere story now. Those dreams had to be dashed, so I could wake up. My heart had to be shattered before it could learn to be full. I had to be completely humiliated, before I could be truly humble.

Maybe it was necessary.

Fifty-four days ago, my father walked into a hospital for an operation that he believed would improve his quality of life. He has been unable to leave his hospital bed since. Every time I turn from one side to another in my sleep, I am aware that my father can’t do that. He needs help with nearly every activity of life. He’s aware of his predicament and we all are helpless. This helplessness is an old friend from a few years back. Looking back, it might have been better if he’d not had the operation but we don’t know for sure and it’s too late now. It could be worse. I could be better. It could be different.

I wonder why things happen as and when they do? Is this a question worth asking or is it completely pointless? Some questions are unanswerable no matter how frantically the logical mind looks for answers. There are none.

This is how it is. For no reason at all.

Where I live.

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One or two years after Saagar, continuing to live here, in this house was painful. Everything screamed his name – the road from the station to our house that he did not take, our vet, our cat, our dentist, our GP Surgery and pharmacy, our local shops and cafés, our bins, his school, our neighbours, our radio and TV. Everything yelled out his absence.

The thought of moving away filled me with a terrible sense that I would be leaving him behind. As long as I lived here, this would be his home. What if, one day he was to return? I should be here to receive him. I ironed his full-sleeved light brown t-shirt, a set of dark blue Super-dry sports trousers and kept them ready for use. His Vans shoes too, for that same reason. The boring, practical, Virgo, me. I couldn’t have gone anywhere.

Nearly eight years on, I have come to inhabit my body in a way that my home is where I am. I am comfortable here. Now he’s not separate from me. His home is inside my body once again. He lives in me as love. Divine love. It’s not possible for me to leave him behind ever. He goes everywhere with me, as my beating heart, my smile and my tears. We both share a home. His light shines through my eyes and his laughter rings through my chuckles. I can’t be without him no matter where I am. There is no insecurity. I am free and so is he.

Twenty-two years ago, I traveled from New Delhi to London with my eyes full of dreams and a suitcase full of books. Soon, I shall be crossing the oceans in the other direction, heading back with Si, with absolutely nothing to lose.

Pendulum swinging too far.

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He: “In the present climate, this doesn’t look good. Does it? Two white men, Clifford and I, leading this place.”

Me: ‘I think it’s great as you both know your stuff and work well together. Also, the organization is gaining strength and reputation under your leadership. Give it at least another year before you change anything. Everyone’s happy.’

He: “Yes, but … it doesn’t look good.”

Me: ‘What do you mean? Who’s looking? So long as the job is done well and the purpose of the organization is served, I don’t see the problem.’

He: “Yes, but, could I ask you to be my Deputy?”

Me: ‘Oh. Me? Hmm. What does the role entail?’

He: “I will find out the details and let you know.”

Me: ‘So, you are offering me a role and you don’t know what it is?’

He: ‘Yes. But I’ll let you know very soon.’

Me: “If you don’t know what the job is, how can you offer it to anyone? How can you know that I am capable of doing it?”

This was wrong at so many levels. Don’t use people to make you look good. See beyond their ethnicity and gender and think about the job at hand. Think about their abilities and aptitudes. Remember meritocracy? Would you have a doctor or a lawyer or a car mechanic or an architect look after you only because they had particular demographics or because they had the right credentials and were bloody good at their jobs?

Moreover, my colleagues would know that my promotion had little to do with my capabilities or performance and everything to do with the fact that I am a ‘woman from a minority community’. It would be insulting. No. Thank you.

We are one race – the Human race. Each individual, fully deserving to be seen as their unique self, way beyond their gender or color or creed. Let’s not loose the plot altogether.

This night.

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He was born when I was 28.

The monsters of pain took him in his 21^st.

I was in my 49^th.

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

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.

Come October.

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Such slashing-sloshing wetness that the roads can’t take it. Such a dense grey blanket overhead that the light-switch needs to be flicked on before brushing my teeth, early in the morning. So windy that the umbrellas are bending and twisting into funky shapes, not fit for purpose. This has happened before.

Leaves starting to morph into colourful blades, beginning the descent of their curtains from clean pristine branches high up in the air down to the messy wet Earth, departing the very same points from where, not so long ago, they had sprung. This has happened before.

Some globules of rain clinging to the outside of the window pane, a crescent of heaviness at their lower edges. Quite still. Others making a dash down to the ground with quick wiggly lines disappearing behind them. The glass pane, an alive fashionable frosted sheet of artistic dots and lines, dancing. This has happened before.

This planet, tilted to perfection on its axis, keeping precisely to its orbit in accordance with the laws of creation. Doing what it was made to do. Billions of clumps of matter scattered all over the limitless expanse of space, each on its own path, own trajectory, appearing out of nothingness and then sparkling out of existence, unnoticed. This has happened many times before.

The tenth month is here again, at the cusp of two seasons. A climate of colours and shadows. Its steep, slanting sheets of light illuminating the trees in their sheer nakedness, foreshadowing the arrival of the dark. This too has happened before.