Writing

The older I grow, the lesser I know.

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A book with frayed edges sat tucked inside the pocket behind the driver’s seat. After an overnight train journey from Sakleshpur to Goa, we were going home in a taxi. No coffee yet. I was not quite switched on. Bleary eyed, I pulled the book out of the elasticated edge. It was Walden by Henry David Thoreau. Some poor tourist had mistakenly left it behind while traveling to the airport to fly back home.

Thoreau wrote this book while he lived in a cabin he built near Walden Pond, hundred and eighty years ago. He was testing the idea that divinity was present in nature and the human soul. He stripped his life down to the barest of essentials and secluded himself as much as he could, living off the land as much as possible. He wanted to find out just what in life is necessary and what is superfluous.

(Picture, courtesy Maria Popova )

Having chosen to live in a place where, for hundreds of miles very few people speak our language, with no cinema halls, restaurants, therapists or book shops, where the food is of one particular kind, but nature is abundant, that question has arisen for me too.

A few weeks back, a quote by Thoreau had whistled right into my heart:

“Life! who knows what it is, what it does?”

Such a beautiful sentiment. I had wished for more of his writings. After learning some more about him and his love of birds, streams, woodlands and meadows, I got busy with other things.

When I brought this question to CORe, it generated a rich discussion.

“What is our relationship with not knowing? What feelings does it provoke?”

Some excerpts from our conversations:

  • It is a real test of oneself, dropping how things should be and taking each day as it comes. It took me a long time to realise how much my mind was tied to certainty. In Africa, the relationship with death is very different. They have many ways to remember a loved one. They believe they’re still here and it gives them great joy.
  • Anxiety of the need to know at work. I have to change my mind set to curiosity. Some things we’re not meant to know, such as, where is he? It would spoil it. I must accept that I’m not meant to know.
  • When he went, I didn’t want to be here. Now I do. I have a life that I want to have. I have lots of godchildren who have promised to take care of me. I have a vision of him and his dad, which I hope will come through in my own death. Maybe when it’s my time they’ll be there, and their peace will be shattered.

Yes. The older I grow, the lesser I know. There is a freedom in that, to be with whatever is happening. It allows for the mystery of life to unfold as it will and it allows me to witness it without conditions, with an open heart. The smallest things. The book that I had wished for a month ago, appears right in front of me after I had forgotten all about it.

Life. Who knows what it is, what it does?

Timely rain.

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We had a proper tropical shower last week. I hadn’t seen such joy, relief and excitement from this simple act of nature before. The magic was in the timing of it. It came just when the coffee plants were thirsting to come into full blossom and release their fragrance to fill the atmosphere with Jasmine. Only in films had I seen one single rain shower give rise to such elation.

Yes. Coffee is in bloom. But I’m sick of my yo-yoing fever and this unpleasant cough. My body keeps stretching out to do all the things it wants to but it keeps getting pulled back into itself because it doesn’t have the strength. Maybe I need to raise my aspirations, then the Universe will provide more energy. Maybe I need to increase my desire to move and dance and sing and travel and trust that the body will be supported in that. Maybe I need to keep writing more of the nonsense I write so that I’m out there in the world of words and the right ones can find me. Maybe I need to keep showing up for myself and nicely saying NO to unnecessary stuff when I need to. Maybe I need to sit still and rejoice in the breeze that’s dancing with the trees. Maybe I should simply tune into the voice of the birds resonating with excitement. Maybe I need to be fully present in my body, a 100% here, unconditionally.

Before all of that, maybe I need to give my body the permission to fall ill, offer myself the care I would give someone I love, be patient and breathe with myself as though I was my own child. Excuse me, I need to make myself another cup of ginger tea.

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.

Nights – 3654.

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A hundred and twenty months. Ten years. An outrageous survival.

Each night angry, uncharitable.  Sleep. No sleep. Dreams. No dreams.The death of so many. Dreams.

In my dreams, I plead with you. Please stay, Be’ta.

We’ll find a way. Don’t give up yet. Don’t go away.

Come here. Sit with me.

Tell me what I need to know. Tell me what hurts you so. Tell me how I can make it go.

I could guess when you were hungry, thirsty.

To your amused annoyance, even when you wanted to pee. I just knew. I don’t know how.

But this one I did not see coming.   I couldn’t. I don’t know how.

I am sorry. I had no map. I was lost in the fast lane.

In my dreams, our dark sides are friends.

Together they figure it out, Have a laugh, make it all okay.

In my dreams, we breathe together nice and slow,

As if singing a joyful melody. We hold hands and dance in our kitchen

Crying on each other’s shoulders, secretly.

From the fridge, I pull out a white china bowl

Filled with pomegranate seeds,

Rubies, I harvested earlier in the day. Please stay, my Jaan. I would say.

In my dreams,

through my furious longing

I can momentarily understand.

Your pain, your silence.

I can understand why you had to go.

Like a boat sailing into a new morn,

I must release you.

I must stay.

I must let you be on your way.

In my dreams.



(An ancestor of this poem is Walt Whitman, who said, “We were together. I forget the rest.” )

Do we really need another one?

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No one reads books anymore they say.

Publishing is a dying industry they say and I love books. I know hundreds of people who do.

Presently I am in the world of trying to get a book published. I am witnessing an interesting phenomenon of humane, helpless and kind rejections such as this: “We think you are an emotive writer and your story is very moving. It would undoubtedly provide comfort to those who have lost children, whether by suicide or otherwise. But there is so much work that goes into publishing a book and we have to believe that it can work commercially to a certain degree. I worry that it would be very difficult to get media attention/reviews and therefore retailer traction in this case.”

These letters leave me strangely encouraged to persist and keep refining the manuscript, keep working on the craft of writing and keep remembering what this is about. I write in singular first person but denote the third person plural. I am They, Them, We.

It’s about kissing the ground that supports my weight. It is where my son, all my ancestors and circumstances stand in me through all the seasons and storms. In every moment, it is and has been my home whether I like it or not. It tells me who I am and how, from my very foundations I can hold a conversation with life even when it seems terribly treacherous. Strangely, it is also a place of grace that surprises me by its ability to humble and elevate me, even after being dragged through the mud. It enables me to step off onto a softer ground of gentle understanding where grief finds expression as what it truly is, pure love, often known by safer names such as compassion and connection. I kiss this wise ground that has taught me what it means to be free, be love and be human.

One way or another, I am sure my words will find their way to those with whom they will resonate. If you have any helpful ideas around publishing, please do write a comment. Thank you for reading. This blog is the birthplace of the book.