A blue sari

While planning a trip to Delhi I asked Caron what she would like me to bring for her from there. A blue sari, she said. Perfect. I added it to my shopping list. Caron was born into an Indian family in the UK and has visited India once in her childhood. She held an affinity and fascination for her parent’s country but she didn’t identify with it. She had never worn a sari before and I was excited to introduce her to one.

In Delhi, my mum and I treated our eyes to traditional styles like Banarasi, Kota and Duchene silk. We spent half a day scanning one shop after another before we found the perfect one – a printed silk with the prettiest flowers in blue with a touch of white and light yellow, the fabric light and feminine. It was elegantly draped on a mannequin which made the decision instant. I could imagine Caron wearing it, dazzling. Next, we got a blouse, petticoat and fall to match and the ensemble was complete.

With trepidation, I handed the well-wrapped gift to Caron on my return. She loved it. Thank God!

Two years later I asked her if she’d had a chance to wear the sari. “After eighteen months of keeping it in my wardrobe I gave it to the Red Cross charity shop. I knew you wouldn’t mind.” She said.

Did I mind? All that thought and time I had put into it. All that love. A part of me was shocked as I would never do that. I wouldn’t think of doing that. Even if I didn’t use it as a sari, I would convert it to curtains or a stole. But my closest friend credited me more generosity of spirit than I did myself. She was asking me to see my ability to let go of the story, the drama. She was making me see my small mind saying, “How could you?” and urging me to ignore it. In her complete unapologetic honesty, she was asking me to go against myself, be bigger than myself.

For a while, it rankled. But then, once I had handed the gift to her, it was hers. She could do what she wanted with it and she did. That was it. She was not disregarding or disrespecting anything. She was simply uncluttering her wardrobe. Why should that take away from the memory of the beautiful morning I spent in the vibrant and bustling streets of Delhi with my mum or in any way lessen the love I have for my dear friend, Caron?

It was a call to shift a gear from small mind to Big Mind. I am glad I took it.

Catriarchy

His dad was Russian royalty. Since the age of six weeks he could tell the difference between gourmet and ordinary meals, silk and cotton stoles, real and fake woolen throws, synthetic and down duvets, the warmth emanating from humans and radiators. He could tell if he had the full attention of his staff or not. He still can. He knows how to get them to do what he wants without saying a word, be it opening the door for him or being stroked at the back of his neck.

For entertainment, for a short while the laser pen was fun but very soon he let us, his staff, know it was cheap and silly. He wants action, involving blood and gore. He’s out hunting, bringing home trophies of half-dead mice, baby sparrows and often a big gash somewhere on his body.

He knows he’s good-looking. His James Bond swagger gets exaggerated when he knows he’s being watched. He sits like a statue when he’s being talked about but his upright ears change direction like a satellite dish. If he’s in the mood he humours our affections but prefers that we stick with our duties.

I do believe that he needs to check his cat-privilege. For centuries, cats have pretended to be domesticated while all the time exploiting humans. It’s about time we, as humans did something about it. I am in the process of designing an ‘unconscious bais’ training for him while at the same time preparing myself to be royally ignored. He has a clear preference for male company. It has been communicated to me in no uncertain terms that I am ‘extra’.

Named and reared by one of the finest specimens of the human species, he is a Maharaja of the Kingdom of Two. We celebrate his majesty, Mr Milkshake, paws, claws, whiskers and all. And his surrogate mum, Saagar today and every day.

Happy Christmas. xxx

“What?”
Summer 2013

No flu this year?

Lock-down, we thought it would last a few weeks and then life would resume as normal. Then it was a few months and now it’s questionable if it’ll be a few years or for ever?

Confusing messages came at us from big people who made big decisions – the same people who then blatantly broke the very rules they made and yet, expected everyone else to follow them. First, we were doing it to protect the NHS and now we’re doing it to protect our loved ones. We are law-abiding citizens and want to do the right thing. We are considerate and we follow the rules, even when we know that they are not based on good science.

The government is working on the ‘worst case scenario’. Well respected scientists with a nuanced view on the validity of lock-downs, such as Sunetra Gupta(Oxford), Ivor Cummins(Dublin), Mark Woolhouse(Edinburgh) and Carl Henegan(Oxford) are rubbished by the media and subject to ad hominem attacks.

What about us, the common people? What drives our behaviours? Are we well informed or are we plain scared? The news doesn’t tell us that most people who get the virus get better. It doesn’t tell us that the average age of death in the UK is 82 with or without Covid. It doesn’t tell us that there is no ‘gold standard’ test for the virus and that if you test positive does not mean you have the plague.

Also, we need to have a grown-up conversation about death, which is the only definite fact of life.

November is the month we pay homage to all those who gave their lives to win us our freedoms but this November, we are seemingly, willingly giving our freedoms away.

Fear is a tool for manipulation. It overrides love. It can easily be transformed into hate. Despots throughout history, including Nazis and the Stasi used it effectively to make common people like you and me, enemies of each other.

George Orwell said, “In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth becomes a revolutionary act.” I, like many others, have been forced to consider how far I would be driven by my fear – snitch on a neighbour, not see a friend who might be recently bereaved or hurting for any other reason? Am I willing to live the rest of my life being told what I can do and what not? Is this the freedom for which those we remember died?

Now, the World Economic Forum in partnership with the global elite is setting out ‘The Great Reset’ on their website. At the same time BBC and New York Times are calling it a Conspiracy theory. Who am I to believe? This picture was taken from a short promotional video taken from a clip on Twitter, posted by the WEF. When I went back to look for it, it was gone.

Whatever the truth, I refuse to let fear rule.

In my world, love rules.

Isness of Is. Clayness of clay.

T: It came to a point when she couldn’t bear to celebrate Christmas with her family. Her brother and sister and their respective spouses could roll out one child per year effortlessly while she had been through all kinds of tests and procedures, and nothing. Absolutely nothing but heartache and multitudes of unbelievably negative pregnancy tests to show for it. Six years of nothing.

S: Yes. I suppose nobody’s got it all. Some of the missing stuff is obvious and some not. Surely, even those who appear to have it all have their painful stuff hidden away. Who said everyone has to have everything?

T: It’s hard for her to watch other people with their babies. Intolerable. I can understand.

S: Isn’t that like saying no one should walk in front of a man in a wheel-chair? They might be offended. Let’s all pretend we can’t walk. Poor man! It might be intolerable for him.

T: That’s harsh. That’s a completely different situation.

S: It is an extreme example. Yes. It’s all about comparisons though. Isn’t it? You have something that I don’t. By right I should have what you have. Everyone should have it. But everyone is different. Their life path is different. The lessons coming their way are different. Her unhappiness comes from ‘yours’ and ‘mine’, ‘desirable’ and ‘undesirable’. Kids come with their own brand of drool, cackles, dirty nappies and tantrums. Those things are there for everyone.

T: But her sister’s kid is not hers. That is fact.

S: Indeed. However, the kidness of the kid belongs to the whole world. It’s okay to be jealous – nothing wrong with it. It’s also okay to know there are other possible routes to take, other possible responses to make. She could choose to recognise jealousy as the most conditioned and expected response and embrace it. She could also be present to the pastness of the past, the kidness of the kid, the sisterness of the sister, the aliveness of her life, the heartfulness of her heart and work with that. See what happens. She might be surprised. There might be a beautiful garden behind that wall.

T: It’s hard though.

S: It’s worth a try. There are more Christmases on the way and they want to be happy.

Lashings of Time.

What do I say to the lone black eye-lash on my cheek?

I say bring me the colours of the rainbow

The pot of gold and all

Bring me the joys of the seasons,

Most of all, the fall.

The Autumn comes,

Once again

The yellows, auburns and ochres divine.

Hidden daggers behind their cloaks

They drop

When I open these arms of mine.

Its in their eyes

The fear of stabbings of memory

The tears of the sea.

Let it go.

Let it rest.

Let it be.

All that matters is here in me.

In the green apple and the oak tree.

I have and hold the world

that was, is and will be

in the blackness of my lashes

till eternity.

We are one my love. You and me.

I feared I would forget

I wrote it all down

I panicked I’d lost you

Never again to be found

But you are here

In every word, smile, tear.

I didn’t think I could bear it

But I did and I do.

This thorn has made a home in my heart.

I do not die.

I breathe through.

Its a great surprise

To rise

each day

To the umbrellas and shoes of life

As if nothing ever changed.

But all is new.

Me and you are sweethearts.

Inseparable.

One is the sand. The other, sea.

One is the hand. The other, lines of destiny.

Dear Beloved,

I place my pettiness at your feet.

The sense of separation,

The sad longing born of it,

The seeming disappointments,

Imperfections and regrets too,

I offer them all 

To you.

A scintillating absence

A Scintillating Absence

“Be aware of the spaces you create.” Ma’am said. “Spaces make your arrangement dynamic, allowing each flower and leaf to shine. They bring a lightness and movement to the table. I saw her demonstrate this phenomenon again and again at our Ikebana lessons. Every time it was magic.

‘Ma’ is a Japanese word which can be roughly translated as “gap”, “space” or “pause”. It is best described as a simultaneous awareness of form and non-form, bringing the ‘seen’ into a sharper focus because of the presence of the ‘unseen’. It is a fundamental principle on which other art forms such as tree-sculpting in their spectacular zen-gardens is based.

As summer has most certainly ended, it’s time to put the linens and cottons away. 4 years ago I bought Marie Kondo’s book, “ The life-changing magic of tidying up.” The last chapter in the book is entitled: ‘Your real life begins after putting your house in order.’ My real life has not yet begun. I didn’t get past the index for so many years because if I would, I’d have to act on it and do something.

I finally decided to read it looking for help in sorting my stuff out and creating more space in the house. “Keep only those things that inspire joy.” She says. Hmm. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know intuitively what to keep and what to give away? Decisions. Decisions!

A clean desk inspires writing. An organised kitchen helps creativity in the kitchen. Fewer people in cars makes cycling more fun. Fewer appointments in my diary allow for restful spaces in my day.

On being asked to speak about how close a married couple should be, Kahlil Gibran said:

Let there be spaces in your togetherness,

And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

…. And stand together, yet not too near together: for the pillars of a temple stand apart,

And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow. “

Saagar’s physical absence has slowly transformed itself into an ethereal scintillating space that gives prominence to the love and blessings present in my life. Whatever manifests through it, through them and through me, I witness with grace and gratitude.

Blue Rose

She was the colour of almonds. Her smile so bright, it made the sun shine. Her hair waist-length, wavy and a very dark brown, like a heavy veil down her back. Her petite frame, shy, smelt of sandalwood. She was only 19.

Her friends had rebellious red, pink and green highlights in their hair. Some had happy multi-coloured beads and braids woven in. Others had playful ribbons platted in, like flower-girls at hippie weddings. She sat on her aquamarine blue sofa with her laptop, peering through colour-charts. She wanted her hair dip-dyed. She hadn’t picked a colour yet.

It was going to cost a bit but her mum had agreed to pay for it. She often did.

When alone in her room, unable to sleep at 2 am, Rose had looked up Helium and what it does. She didn’t know why. It was an involuntary act. It was nonsensical. Her body and mind were no longer of her.

Her hair appointment was in a couple of hours. She had to decide now. It was important she got this right. It was an expensive decision. The staid Royal blue or the scintillating Moroccan Turquoise? Silky peacock blue or the majestic sapphire? She wanted a straight horizontal line to run right across the dark sheet of her hair. The bottom one-third of the length a startling shade of blue, like a designer curtain.

She played classical music on the violin. Her ears didn’t particularly savour the Blues. They jarred her. She didn’t have a taste for blueberries. She preferred the ‘rasp’ variety with big dollops of double cream. Her wardrobe was a smattering of whites, pinks and reds. No blues there either, except the denim jeans and shorts. She was a proper girlie-girl. Blue skies made her spirits soar. But they left blue stains on her heart. She hid them like children hide pretty pebbles in corners of drawers. Her smile kept feeding the sun through the blueness.

She hand-wrote letters to the people she shared the house with, in blue ink. To her mother she said how wonderful a mum she was and she should take better care of herself. To her sister she expressed her appreciation for her companionship, friendship and laughter. Her little brother never left her side. She never turned down his invitation to play any kind of silly game with him. The dogs were all hers. They didn’t know they weighed as much as her. She had to sit down when they clambered all over her saying ‘we love you’.

The blue stains on her heart were expanding like drops of ink drip-dripping on a white blotting paper. She knew it was happening but didn’t know what it was. It’s creepiness had no name. It made her want to escape. It compelled her thoughts to convince her that her deepest desire was to implode. She had no say in the matter. It made her hands look up Helium on the internet. It kept her eyes wide open at night. It made her tummy churn, her legs restless and her head hurt. She now had 2 hearts and she moved between them. One blue. The other not. One wanting out. The other wanting blue hair.

“I am finding this difficult Mum.”

‘We need to leave in about 20 minutes for the hair-dressers my darling.’

“Yes. I am thinking about it … looking up the options on the internet.”

‘Good idea. We can take your laptop with us. I am sure the hair-dressers will have some ideas for you. Don’t worry.’

“I have some ideas but haven’t decided yet.”

‘Take your time. No rush.’

Midnight blue was the final choice. She was happy.

Over the next year that wretched blue embedded deeper into her heart and from there, leached into every cell of her body. Then it burst out, released itself and merged back into the midnight, the sky, the ocean.

That was 5 years ago. Till this day, her mother’s mind twists into painful knots when she remembers that day. How could her lovely Rose have wanted to live with blue hair and at the same time, to not live at all? At nineteen! How?

No one knows. Sometimes it’s like that.

———————————–

A video for every parent: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3BByqa7bhto

Logotherapy

It was late 1930s. He was a young man in love. She was a young woman who was delighted to be asked by him. They were married. Soon she was to be a mother. But the clan they belonged to were not allowed to procreate. She was made to abandon the baby even before it was born. They both were sent to different concentration/death camps. But their love story did not end there.

Despite shoveling snow with no shoes on, going for months without proper food, constant beatings and humiliation, not knowing which instant he would be walked to his death, he carried on loving her. He did not know if she was dead or alive but he loved her every second. He hoped to see her again. His longing kept him alive.

Four years later, he was freed and he found out that his sweetheart had passed away soon after their separation, at the age of 24. His father, mother and brother had met the same fate in that ugly assault of humanity on itself. His sister had survived and moved to a faraway land.

Viktor E. Frankl was a Psychiatrist. He took 9 days to pen down his learning and thoughts which became a book – ‘Man’s Search for Meaning’ that sold millions of copies all over the world as it helped them transform their suffering .

He pioneered a new way of counselling patients called Logotherapy or ‘meaning-based-therapy’. When asked of the difference between Psychoanalysis and Logotherapy, he said, “In Psychoanalysis the patient must lie on a couch and tell you things which sometimes are very disagreeable to tell. In Logotherapy the patient may remain sitting erect but he must hear things which sometimes are very disagreeable to hear.”

It is a future focussed approach through which the patient is reoriented toward his unique and specific attributes aligned to a purpose which can be fulfilled by him/her alone. It is based on the premise of freedom – the freedom to choose our response to our experiences, the freedom to choose the stance we take when faced with a difficult and unchangeable situation.

Over the last 5 years I have read Frankl’s book at least 5 times, each time deriving new inspiration. Last week I had the good fortune of being able to share some of those insights on-line with a community close to my heart. The Compassionate Friends helped me discover that Frankl’s love story will never end. It is interwoven into yours and mine and with the love-stories of those yet to come across it.

The Order – a short story.

She didn’t want to feed the monster but after ages, she had time. Time to work her way, one by one, through her long list of ‘Books to Read’.  On top was ‘Rebecca’ by Daphne Du Maurier. She logged on to Amazon and found 23 used copies. One of those would do. After finishing it she would donate it to the local Red Cross Charity shop. This was her formula for keeping a clean, spacious, open home. It’ll be here tomorrow. Magic.

Boredom stayed miles away as her mind landed fancy occupations. Lately she’d been listening to Eva Cassidy’s songs and imitating some of her less well-known paintings on her sketch pad. They were simple and sweet and reminded her of her childhood. She had also attended a poetry workshop on Zoom and was trying her hand at prose-poetry.

She longed for her home-town, Bhopal in India, even though she had chosen to leave fifteen years ago. Traveled thousands of miles in search of some ground beneath her feet and some air to breathe, after a major heartbreak. Now she had left that ruin far behind. Her job as a journalist felt like being with friends creatively. She had found that patch of earth and created a little haven for herself. At 39, she was settled even if her parents worried she was not. A little flat in East Dulwich in London was home.

The tiny package arrived in a massive lorry. She opened the door even before the deliveryman had knocked on it. She pulled at the stiff brown case. It was a fight to set the contents free but finally the book was held in her elegant hands. All eight corners were soft and rounded. Turquoise blue and white decorative pencil-work on a sinister black background. An ornate profile of a young woman with her hair put up anointed the front and back cover. This book was worn. Like her, it had travelled. It was smothered in a familiar dusty odour.

She opened it to the first page. In a sparkly green feminine font, it read:

“For my darling husband Atul.

Happy 4th Anniversary!

Sometimes I feel like Caroline de Winter.

Love you,

Sonali.

4th March 1999”

In that second, it was not her book. It was his. Once again, he had appeared out of nowhere and snatched her calm. The last time he did this was when she was a college student, happy with her books and music. He was two years her senior. He had subtly got her to look up at him and at life, invited her to parties, long bike rides and picnics. Before she knew she was his girl-friend and surprisingly she enjoyed the role. He made her laugh. He was a preening peacock and she, a simple sparrow. But it worked. They would sing and laugh but after 3 years of that, he made her cry. A lot.

Lost and lonely, she had roamed various cities and continents for years and finally made peace with her solitude. Now, the reins of the past had loosened their hold on her. She could breathe.

She had avoided acknowledging the existence of those two names all these years. Now they were lighting a fire in her eyes. One name of her one and only boy-friend and the other of her one and only best friend. May be this book had absolutely nothing to do with them. There must be thousands of people with those ordinary names.

The book sat innocently on her coffee table. She looked at it as she would an unwanted guest. She looked away, wondering what to do next. She turned on  the kettle as if in automatic mode. As two cups of near-boiling water were being infused with Darjeeling tea leaves, she prepared herself for the turbulence ahead. She poured the tea into her Frieda Kahlo mug and sat down again.

Her delicate hands reached out for the book again and casually unfurled the pages like a pack of cards. It sounded like a bird taking flight. A book mark fell to the ground with a soft flick. She fished it out from under the sofa. A pale blue and white visiting card:

Mr Atul Tyagi.

Tyagi and Lal Associates

First Floor. Office number: 133

NKS Plaza. Char Street.

Bangalore. 200 006

Phone: Office:  +44 221 63939

             Mobile: +44 976146022

e-mail: amtyagi@tala.net

Oh no! After years of laboriously moulting out of his skin, here was an invitation back into the darkness of it. An invisible chord lay between them. She knew of it. He did not. Did she have to do anything with it? No. Did she want to do anything with it? Not yet. There was no point blasting an exhaust fan over the dust that had taken eons to settle. The smooth glossy card reminded her of his forehead that she had kissed a thousand times. She held its corner between the thumb and index finger of her left hand and rested her head on the right palm.

Sadness – yes. Regrets – no. Excitement – a little bit. Flummoxed – a lot. Cat-like-curious – oh yes! Was this a psychological mind-game? Were there hidden cameras in her apartment, like the Big Brother House to record her reactions to this? Was this a sheer co-incidence? There were 22 other used books to choose from. How did this one land up in her lap? Destiny? Randomness? Serendipity?

For old time sake, she had to say hello. They were grown-ups now. They had to let the past sit in the past. Should she call him or send an e-mail? She could always hang-up like a truant teenager if the voice at the other end sounded dodgy. An e-mail might never be answered. She could send him a formal text and arrange a time for a phone call. Less intrusive. Also, it gave him a choice to chicken out. She did not want him to have that choice. Not this time.

Hello. Tyagi and Lal Associates.

Hello

How can I help you?

Hi. I am Kavita. Is that Atul?

Sorry. I am Manish Lal, his associate.

It’s ok. I’ll call back later.

Can I convey a message?

It’s okay. Nothing important.

Are you Kavita … Saini? From his college?

Yes.  

Oh. I’ve heard so much about you. Don’t worry. All good. He’d be delighted to hear from you. He’s traveling right now but I can put you in touch with him.

Where is he traveling to?  

London. He’s on a business trip. All the work is on me now. That’s how I’m in the office so late. Finishing up. Where are you calling from?

It doesn’t matter. I don’t have any message for him. Sorry to bother you. Bye.

Wait. Please. There is something you must know. I am his husband. Yes. It took him years to admit it to himself. Please forgive him. It wasn’t easy. Sorry.

Click.

Freedom on a page

Writing is a friend. It sustains. It slowly pushes open the rusted, jammed doors of many hearts and allows for the gaping wounds in there to heal. Over the last few weeks it’s clear that it is not just possible but fun, to attend and host meetings remotely. Despite challenges, it can be enriching. A wise man/woman has identified 3 things one needs, to get through a day :

  1. Someone to love.
  2. Something to do.
  3. Something to look forward to.

No wonder people are gardening, baking, embroidering and doing various things, spending time or connecting in creative ways with people they love. We have been setting one episode of ‘The Crown’ as our carrot, to look forward to at the end of a long ‘working from home’ day. I have been writing some poetry and dreaming of putting a book together and getting it published some day. There goes my Ego …. again!

This seems like a good time to do something new. I would like to invite you to write with me. To connect with your hearts and bring a blank page to life. To find your own expression and share other people’s worlds through their words and prose. We would call ourselves “Freedom on a page”. In this time of partial captivity, this title seemed appropriate. If you have other suggestions, please bring them to the group. We would meet every Tuesday morning for an hour and a half – between 9 and 10.30 am on Zoom. We would write as much as we like during the week but have 200-300 words to read out to the group. If you would much rather only listen, that’s fine too. Join in. Don’t think so hard that you talk yourself out of it. You have done that before. Haven’t you? 😉

If you would like to join, please

(1) e-mail me at kidsaregifts20@gmail.com by Saturday, the 23rd of May. If you’d like more time to decide, take that time and send me the e-mail when you are ready.

(2) familiarise yourself with Zoom (https://zoom.us/) and download it on your computer/phone. It is free and easy. You can switch the video off if you don’t want to be seen. You can participate by writing on the ‘chat’ if you don’t want to speak.

I will send you an invite by e-mail on Monday, the 25th. I will start the meeting 15 minutes before 9 am, UK time (GMT+1) on Tuesday, the 26th of May and wait for you. Then we’ll see what happens. I have never done this before so I am a little bit nervous too. Shall we write about what ‘Freedom’ means to you? Feel free to pick any other subject. I look forward to this adventure. Depending on how you feel, we can continue to ‘meet-up’ every Tuesday.

Try it. Magic happens when the naked tip of a pen meets a nude blank page. The fingers holding that pen are deeply connected to the real you. So are the fingers typing on your keyboard.

Freedom on a page

Feathers fall from heavens like rain

A splash of sun-rays on the pavement lifts dust

Fills my senses with petrichor

The romance of which dances

In every gap, crack and crevice

I float up with the fragrance

And glide along the tops of trees

Breathe in bliss, touching green

Everything IS, as it IS

Watching its own ISNESS

Wrapped in a melodious silence.

This must be it

One moment of being fully alive.

— — — —