Ambiance - Late fall morning, bright and breezy.
Mood - Pensive - bring on the words :)
Looping - Jose Feliciano (form a time I didn't exist!)
I hate rain, he said.
It reminds me of things I wish to forget.
Of droplets I mean to hide
By quickly hushing them back in the peepers.
I hate rain, he said
It evokes a strangeness
That eludes all words
Like a subtle mention of things
Loved, lost, lived!
Why oh Why? She gasps in surprise?
Let's spin this another way
Give rain a chance.
It might inspire safety perhaps?
It might remind of happy flows
Of serendipity. Of precious echos.
Look, I love rain.
It reminds me of release
Of assertion, Of articulation
Of a whirl - that graces and satiates.
Like a catharsis, like a cleanse
That swoops all debris out
Of the rooftops.
Dripping through the gutters
Dribbling into the courtyard
And feeding the ground.
I rain for you, she said
Looking through the air!
Don't hate it. Give it a chance.
A chance that many
Might not be able to give themselves.
Let it drench you.
Let your peepers add to the surge
Let it help you merge
Into the sheets of streams
Let it clutch, let it quench.
Let go of that hate!
Let it let you celebrate.
George and I had a lot of things in common. We walked the same corridors and sat in the same classroom raking our heads over the same accountancy balance sheets and Pascal programs - my seat and his being to the diagonal poles of the class. Apart from being together in that two year journey of our high school, we shared a common best friend. His buddy was my bestie. Other than that, we barely spoke, or we probably never spoke to each other. It is probably because my bestie used to bring up George in my ear shot, I feel a strange knowing of this boy. Strange enough to elude words, like some sort of an abstract linger - there but not there.
A year and a half ago, when I was made a part of my +2 group in a virtual hang out, the best of my best buddies from that era, who somehow ended up in a mile radius of me and had stayed put as a permanent fixture in my life, called me hurriedly - "Hey George" he addressed me (and that's how he addresses me incidentally, a unique pet name that he has given me to mark some exclusivity perhaps and that's probably another thing George and I have in common. A name, though used by just one person in my life) and went "Was there really a guy named George in our class?"
"Don't tell me you don't remember" I responded in surprise, that was probably conveyed even through the phone conversation.
"How was he? Do you remember how he looked?"
Then it occurred to me that despite never really interacting with George, I had a very clear picture of him imprinted into my memory.
"Remember that Anglo kid from Secunderabad?, He wore striped collared tees and photogrey glasses? He had a thick head of hair, curly, always worn in a military cut and wore sport shoes and a cool colorful backpack on one side of his shoulder?"
The line remained blank. I knew this friend couldn't place George, but it somehow at that moment, occurred to me that George was a strong subconscious memory of mine. He was very introverted. Spoke only when answering a question a teacher would ask. And when he spoke, he had a cute anglo accent and vocals that deeply bounced back, resonating on the high ceilings of our classroom. George was the first to walk out after dispersal - may be he had a basketball practice after school, may be he didn't believe in lingering around making small talk with his classmates - but when he walked out, he used to quickly walk past the class and disappear at the end of the corridor. Whenever George smiled, it was a grin that stretched his lips displaying a perfectly aligned set of teeth.
Last year when I was in the school group online, I got to see an updated picture of George. He transitioned very well into his infant years of the fourth decade from that enigmatic sixteen year old I recollect him as. He sported slight weight gain that hinted at contentment, prosperity, joy? His wife stood by him, her hands on either side of his shoulder, looking like she could be related to Dimple Kapadia from Sagar, holding him securely and protectively. If my failing memory serves me well, it was his birthday and the customary wishes poured in. I realized George was a Virgo like me, born in the same week of the same year. One more thing in common I discover.
Yesterday, I woke up to a text from my local bestie that was travelling. It is out of character for him to text.
"George from our batch passed on due to cardiac arrest" The message was precise and dry.
It took me a good thirty seconds of squinting at my screen to register what I'd just read. I thought he was addressing me 'George' like he always does- and the rest didn't make any sense. He probably was at a loss of words, or too in shock to call me and let me know, he probably just wanted me to be updated as I am not a part of the group any longer and he would have assumed that this news needed to reach me as I, just months ago, recollected a sixteen year old George to great detail. He probably thought George was someone close to my heart.
After an initial numbness, I felt a sting in my heart. It feels like yesterday that I saw him rush out of the class, walking past my seat at the entrance of the class room, giving me a clear view of his confident trot out of my eye span. I didn't know whom to share this unusual sense of loss I felt. None of my family knew about George. I didn't see a point in calling my parents to tell them who George was just to tell them he is no more now. My thoughts drifted to his picture, the wife that held him with such tenderness, his kids that I'd never seen and my other friend that grew up with George, probably playing basketball in YMCA. I felt helpless, angry and very low. The day passed by. Another day. Nothing seemed to have changed. One of us walked away in a rush, I don't know why. I'll just sit here an spin stories about his rushed departure - saying a prayer, shedding a tear, sending healing vibes to the dear ones he had left back in shock. I sit here, with a deeper, more somber understanding of the transience of life.
And till I walk behind him, George will be the same old abstract linger in my heart's lane - there, but not there.
Ambience - The calm before the storm (Of kids coming home after school)
Mood - Unexplicable - a little grey, a little white, a little whimper being suppressed!
Looping - Ronan Keating ,saying nothing at all :)
(pardon the poor resolution, revel in the emotion)
I heard once,
That there lived a wise soul
Who said
Nothing!
Now, what's a naive soul to do?
When there's words tumbling inside its gut
Foaming out of fervent need
To be said, to be heard! Words morphing out of earnest emotions
Words that scream of sincere spirit
The ones that knit comforting throws
To kindle the coping mechanisms
Of putting up with life's chills!
What's a callow soul to do? When these strings of symbols
Give form to the depths of sentiments.
When these heaps of banter
Dub as a soothing balm
On the bruised heart!
What's an ingenuous soul to do?
When these very words
Penetrate the hallows of indifference
Resonating an echo that fills
The valleys of apathy
With melodies of empathy?
What's a mortal soul to do?
Except let those words loose
Beyond the dams of right and wrong
Just flowing, quenching the parched plains
Of an impaired inside?
Until, the silence jumps the fences of coldness
Spreading like solace
It is in these words
This existence is doused
Smearing them everywhere it treads!
Spreading perhaps, a comfort
The sterile silence fails at.
Preeto is petite and svelte. She is into the medical profession and lives her life on the edge, powered by the scheduling prowess of her mobile calendar. Every time we speak, she quickly fidgets around the touch pad of her screen, promptly entering the event we are planning into in her calendar. 'Dosa at 4 pm Thursday' she would key in with punctuated whispers. She'd text me very randomly asking me to join her for tea on a weekend. While we sip on her fennel tea and catch up on our 'coping mechanism' routine by talking of temperamental kids, ageing parents and a certain fatigue that only overworked moms can experience, we branch into our gastronomic expeditions as well.
For someone who has three kids in three stages of growing up and in three different schools, a set of very old in laws and a frequently visiting father and immediate family in the bay all in the foreground of a very strenuous and stressful profession, Preeto's ambition to make elaborate South Indian dishes from scratch really charms me. "Teach me how to make ginger Chuttneie" she would plead for the dozenth time, pronouncing chutney like a true blue Punjaban. Now, I wouldn't know how to make her do a DIY on something as complex, especially given the fact that she's never processed or even looked at a slab of ripe tamarind in her life nor does she own a heavy duty mixie to grind tough pieces of fried ginger and coarse spices. "I'll make you a batch as well" I'd add to which she'd roll her eyes and go "How am I going to ever learn then?"
We both have kids in the same grade, a reason that got us together as friends in the first place - or we are as contrasting as north and south in our personalities, temperament and even culture, quiet literally. But this amusing thing that we call compatibility has nothing to do with anything outward. The way her and I became friends over the years really outdid the friendship of our offspring who have a lot more in common than the mothers in question. The way she sits at my nook table, licking her fingers dipped in sambar while biting into a piece of dosa and exclaiming for the twentieth time that noon about 'how lucky she is to have this food' makes me withdraw myself into an observer mode and reflect upon the amazing sense of gratitude she has over life, not just my everyday fare of food. Apart from consistently complaining about how pressed she is for time, she utters audible 'how lucky I ams' every time she happens in my earshot. Our love for our spiritual Gurus is another thing that makes her that much more endearing to me, though I never really express all this to her in this many words.
Last Thursday, they had an Akhanda Phaat of their 'Holy Gurugrandhsahibji' at their place. She was planning it in my earshot while we both carpooled to our middle schooler's back to school night. Now their ideal of having and open door and believing in offering food to everyone that knocks on their door is something that makes my heart dance in joy, in a "I know exactly what you mean" sentiment. Sikhs have a 24x7 Langar (Or kitchen) in their places of worship. They follow the same rule when they bring home their Holy scripture. Their homes become Gurudwaras. (Sigh....how beautiful.) So while we were on the conversation of planning a three day Langar at her place, she asks me quiet innocently "How would Idlis store in the fridge? If I make them on Wednesday evening and server them Saturday for a family gathering post the completion of the recitation of the scripture?" Now don't get me wrong or as a culinary snob, but it would be blasphemy against my south Indian upbringing if I let my friend eat a three day old idly, reheated in an oven, commemorating a very profound event. At that point in time, I didn't know how I could help but later that week, I texted her in the middle of the day saying "I'll make those idlis for you on Saturday and get them with the condiments - fresh off the stove"
She called me moments later "How lucky I am, really how lucky" went the voice on the other side as we started off planning the quantity that needed to be prepared.
I'll cut the chase for you all - A chutney, sambar and a hot piping pot of upma made to the spread alongside when the significant other and the mother board of yours truly had to enhance the experience of my 'helping a friend in need'. What ensued is the spread pictured above. The spouse and I put everything in our wheeled cart and made an appearance at the loud and glitzy Punjabi party. The food was set on the buffet table while Preeto and I exchange a smile and a warm nod.
Post script - Gurugrandhsahibji is rendered in Gurmukhi, a language that sounded like a mix of sanskrit and hindi. It reminded me of those exotic and beautiful interracial children that are bestowed with the best of both gene pools. I sat myself to a wall, a cushion propped against my back and meditated like a saint in training while I let the sound of the scripture flood my senses. I do not know what vibes that place contained, if it was the power of a Guru's grace or the sincerity of Preeto's gratitude, That a few houses down the lane, even upon walking out of that spiritual experience, yours truly had the most restful sleep of the year that night.
In Food we trust. And in God, and in Gurus and in Gratitude. 💗🙏💗
Mood - "I have to fill this screen. Let the catharsis begin"
Looping - Estas Tonne - The song of the golden dragon.
I didn't read a whole lot of fiction. I really didn't. contrary to the opinion of all my near and dear who kind of think that I spend most of my waking hours reading 'novels' - Now - that's a generic term for books where I lived, I guess. But truth be told, I read very little of anything, not just fiction. But since my conscious efforts to use my time productively kicked in earlier this year, I read quiet a few books. But the genre was very off beat. I read a lot of spiritual texts, philosophy and a little bit of human psychology when ever I could. But Spiritual content takes the cake. So when I contemplated the next read, I found I had not one but two copies of this Khalid Hosseini's book 'A thousand splendid suns'
I read 'The kite runner' a few years ago and was totally charmed by Hosseini's deep understanding of love and life. I probably, with good intentions, bought the second book twice so I thought - "why not?" and chose it for my weekend read.
I have a very short attention span. Like a butterfly :-D Congratulate yourself is you are a childhood friend and don't write me off as a egotistic snob if you don't know me. I have a dry sense of humor. That's all. There are numerous occasions when I picked a fiction book and placed it down after a few pages. I am hasty that way. I cannot give a book, specially fiction, too much of a chance. But there was a powerful force that sucked me right into the broken, hopeful world of Mariam and her kolba. I was very thrilled to see Hosseini choose a female protagonist. I loved both Amir and Hassan and their story so beautifully entangled together in 'The kite runner'. So I was so excited to see the author speak from a female perspective. I tried not to read any synopsis so was beside myself with delight when I saw a second female lead getting introduced later into the narration. I didn't in the least predict how Mariam and Laila would be Amir and Hassan in their own right and was at a point frustrated when the narration completely shifts to Laila's story as I started missing Mariam and wanted to know what was happening to her. Not until these two narrations intersect did I understand the magic Hosseini was unfolding for me. I spent a few hours glued to the book making sure I saw the end of it and knew everything there was to know about the ladies that I somehow had fallen deeply in love with.
I was on a roller coaster of emotions, living every bit of the hope, agony, rejection and heartbreak these both ladies live through the lucid flow of prose, highlighting bits and bobs, making my heartfelt notes in the margin and blowing through a box of kleenex in the process. The worried significant other kept checking on me wondering why my eyes were swollen and my nose stuffy. I know, I'd been on a midlife 'cry at the drop of a hat' phase for enough time now. The better half isn't still warming up to the idea of the transformation of his happy, smiley young wife into a hormonal middle aged woman. I know, time is savage. We all kind of morph into touchy, sentimental older people (That's also dry humor by the way, and ageing is a wonderful thing. I recommend it to all young people out there! I swear, just make sure you grow up and not old!) But that 'crying at the drop of a hat' part holds true. Age and hormonal fluctuations of balancing a toddler's tantrums with a teen's attitude does that to you I believe. On that note I have to acknowledge that the teen in question walked into my room several times, rolling her eyes and exclaiming "Why do you have to read it and cry buckets? you belong in the looney bin mother!" And then she came to pleas - "Mom, why would anyone write such depressing stuff? Stop it already, I am not able to see u cry" That revelation was very reassuring. It was a good feeling to not feel like the nemesis of your first born's life for a change. She, afterall, cannot see me cry! :-D
But I got all high and preachy at that remark of "why would anyone write such depressing stuff?". I went on and on about how the generation is fed on a steady dose of Twilight and Breaking Dawn or what have you where the leading ladies go on a joy ride with Vampires and Werewolves. I know, "Fiction exists to feed our imaginations but it muffles our commonsense sometimes". I probably said the last part out and the teen double dared me that she'd read 'The thousand splendid suns' and appreciate it as much as I did minus the sob fest. I didn't let her take it up without reminding how 'The book thief' went over her head, and wished her luck with this one. No, a mother cannot let go of an opportunity where she can establish her stance.
"This is so subtle mother" came the first feedback. "If you had not highlighted and made notes this would have indeed gone over my head" - I was happy that she was willing to admit to the shortcoming and nudged her to complete it and enhance her comprehension skills.To my surprise she did complete it, and did it minus the sob fest.
"I put my energy into getting all the subtleties" she later on passed her verdict. "I did't have the luxury of letting the undiluted emotion hit me"
Well, well - we made a start and transitioned from the popular fiction to the parallel. That's a huge victory. I'd blow through another kleenex without batting an eyelid if that challenges my first born to read some hard hitting stories.
I know - what started off as a tribute to the poignant writing prowess of Hosseini ended up in a hodgepodge of lousy dry sense of humor. But all that trying too hard to be funny put aside, I was immensely moved by the piece of work. It made me go a little deeper into my own scope as a human, it probably made me more sensitive, more empathetic and led me through made up truths, over and over! This should definitely nudge me into reading more fiction for one thing.
Apart from that - Now, I want to write like Hosseini. Before it was Rowling :D
Do check out Estas Tonne's string at this magical piece. It'll is a potential loop. Fair warning :)
Ambience - Breezy, hazy fall evening - Yay - it’s autumn 🍂
Mood - Weekend leisure.
Looping - The saving grace of ‘Jab Harry met Sejal.
Cranked, looking back
The visual doesn’t dissolve
Wall papered against
The horizons of passing time.
Some moments refuse
To thaw into forgetfulness.
Some emotions renew themselves
Like pesky subscriptions.
Where the fine font
Goes unnoticed.
Every exit
Weaves itself deeper
Into the Entry!
Tricky mazes, slippery slopes
Of minds musings
Heart’s reassurances.
When the present presents the prevailing
Why does the soul feel so certain
That this isn’t a Ending?
Why does crazy hope
Believe in a More than that?
Why?
