Unnamed

I meander about

In the grey caves

With a begging bowl

Unbeknownst of the folly

Or perhaps, acting knowingly unknown

Like we often do in the course of this frenzy

Called life!

I understand the drill

But go against the grain nevertheless

That's supposed to be the trope

To the billions wandering alongside

So lost in the mirage,

Chasing the illusion.

I ponder like I wander

In useless wordage

Insisting that I blindfold my eyes

And complain of the darkness,

For the solace that I find 

In the pity party of

Parading around like a pauper.

 

But underneath lies

A bottomless bowl 

 

In the depth of the eyes within -

Like unlocking the key 

To an undiscovered affluence.

For a fleck I am

In the stardust above

And I better shun my theatrics

And draw the curtains down on the drama.

I bow humbly before the cosmos

With joined palms

Seeking Grace

So I stay anchored in the nothingness

Of the Omniscient.

 

Re-Verse

 

Block is real somedays.

Blockbusters aren't in the offing

So off I go

Without blogging!

Photo by Melike - Pexels.

Kick in the rear

 

Upon logging into my blog recently, I realized I'd not been this way for a while now - and in the meantime , the earth took almost another rotation around the sun. I couldn't wrap my head around the fact that I'd shunned this thing - this space, this cocoon (insert shock and horror emoji) and I solemnly vowed to.... (I won't divulge what I vowed to do, lest I jinx it!)

While I looked here and there for inspiration to kick start the continuity of the banter, I found this insight delivered right to my inbox.

"Work hard on what comes easily"

I did my usual skimming through the text and had to pause and do a slower reread.

"W o r k    h a r d    o n   w h a t   

c o m e s   e a s i l y"

Bingo! And my block was busted and how. A lot of things come easily to me lately and most of them don't seem to be of the pleasant kind. Ask any soul trapped in a mid-aged woman's body and you' get your earful of what I mean when I say I get a truck load of things that come easily to me. 

But then, my experience renders me this much wisdom - that the wise have a fetish for the subtle. They would never say anything explicitly when they can imply layers and layers of information in this sort of brevity (or elaboration) only the wise can think of. 

So, onto hither I come, to work hard on what comes easily. And yes, I took a detour from the laundry list of the easily attained woes my mind, body and spirit has been through of late, such as 'plantar fasciitis' for instance. When in the frenzy of packing numerous bags upon the completion of the very long summer vacation, I frantically walked across the length and breadth of my expansive stay that I developed an acute heel pain that now upgraded to the status of chronic. And who thought that there's a fancy name for this condition, whose mere sound makes me pause, sub vocalize and mispronounce the same? 

But I come back again to the 'what comes easily' part without getting too pessimistic and spiraling down the self pity hole. 

There are nicer things that come to me easily - like words for instance. I can write away into oblivion, all the things that I don't even properly form a thought framework of, when I begin to write. Expression comes very easily to me, especially when delivered in black n white. Hence I write away and call it a block buster - as in the buster of the writer's block! 

Work hard on what comes easily - we all are born with an innate prowess. Let's unravel it and rock on.

pic courtesy - Pixabay, Pexels 

Ponder

 

I didn't quiet process how much I love coffee. Or how taken for granted this beverage is for me. Kind of like how much I loved my aunt and how taken for granted her presence was in my life.

There was a magical time in my childhood - a honey tinted translucent trinket box - giving a peek at its contents. It was two tier, housing a collection of sparkly things. Mostly earrings and random bead necklaces. The bling lover was born then, looking at the box and what it held. Babattha owned it, like she owned me when she let me sort through her box and pick those sparkly dainty studs to wear. She was my subconscious fashion icon - the way she draped ethnic silks and modest cottons. Her two fabrics for life became mine as well and shaped my love for understated chic. Her love for sarees inspired mine in the process. 

The numerous 'Scholars English Grammar and composition ' books she sourced for me from her school supplier was a story of the legends. I somehow felt that this book was the only Bible every language student needed and wanted one for every kid I taught. She knew what I would ask for even before I did."Guess what? I sourced two more copies for you" she would exclaim in her enthusiastic voice, long after the books went out of publication.

Attha was petite and svelte. She was in my periphery since the day I could perceive the world around me and used to visit us so often, owing to the nature of her job and her husband's. As I grew up, she became my bestie. It helped that she taught high school English and used to animatedly talk about the Shakespeare drama she was teaching that year. We were very different on the surface. She was the poster child of extroversion. She had her phone buzzing like she worked in a call center and her friends list? Unending! She loved the outside and always found reasons to step out and explore the world - especially on shopping trips and periodically on travels.

She and I were very alike inwardly. She hooked me on to coffee and successfully  converted me to a caffeine junkie long after I had my first born. Our meetings were punctuated with copious amounts of filter coffee and endless conversations  about travel plans, handloom sarees and bygones memories of my childhood. I knew a lot about my baby and toddler years through her memories and accounts of me. 

Attha was known far and wide for one thing - her personality quirk to get things done on a war foot basis - she was borderline restless, buzzing around like a bee, always looking to wrap up the next thing on her to do list. She accelerated  almost everything she had to do. She couldn’t and wouldn’t sit still, not until the last few days of her miraculous existence.

Attha took my sister and me on our first real-time  vacation, to her illiidc  little town in a land far from home. She got me my first lipstick and a pair of ballet shoes and a royal blue middy skirt with a white mega sleeved top. My joy knew no bounds as I slipped into my cinderella shoes. She was always there for us and for her siblings. Her love for my dad is worth its own chapter in her biography. There were so many things I picked up from her - and I probably picked up her trait to love in my DNA that I am so proud to jointly share with her.

As I sit here and pour out my tribute, I realize how prominent her presence was in my life and how she had the unconditional motherly love for us. It is near impossible to think of one milestone in my life without her in the background.

She faded on a warfoot basis. Sprinting around getting things done till the day she took ill and visited a realtime hospital. Her exit was sudden, almost abrupt - like she was in a rush to get to the last item on her to do list. All that remains now is the timeline of our virtual conversations and the realization of how the smallest, most taken for granted of things in my daily life are strangely related to her. The cup of coffee I make in the morning, the teacher's copy of The Merchant of Venice she gave me with her scribbles in the margin, the silicone hot pack she got me for my menstrual cramps and a cupboard of eclectic sarees I grew a taste for, (thanks to her influence), the rhinestone stud earrings I collected over the years to recreate the magic trinket box of my childhood - every ****ing thing in my life seems to be a trace of her that she'd left behind.

I know I cannot take her shopping to get her the silk sarees I promised to get her, or have her over to attend my first born's graduation ceremony but she'll live on a lot more vibrantly and intensely in my memory and lifetime.

I don't take my coffee for granted anymore. The waft of its aroma wakes me up to the things that need celebration.

pic - From Pexeles, by David Bares.

Swan is the ride of Goddess Saraswathy, my aunt's namesake.