Arcee quiet literally, barged into my life. He didn't knock, he didn't ask if it was okay to step in. Right off the bat, when I was reluctantly made a part of my school group, Arcee was there to welcome me, with funny memes, absolute comfort zone, like he had known me all his life. He wasted no time in shortening my name to a never before version and that stuck like glue for the rest of my tenure in the group. Truth be told, we weren't in the same classroom though we belonged in the same batch and I could faintly recollect seeing him in the school assembly and corridors. So I stepped back and wondered if he had known me. And my game plan in the group had changed. What started off as 'let me be polite and accept the join request and put the group in mute' took a turn that I didn't ever imagine. His friendliness rubbed on on me. It made me feel like I returned home. It peeled the layers of fear of crowds and my introversion and made me go in a full blown cycle of 'self discovery'.
I say self discovery, because, Arcee's owning me in a very strange way, helped me discover my deep connection with the school and all the memories that dwell in me, which were never really spoken out or processed. After a long long time, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. Like there is a group of people out there, that would relate to all my seemingly trivial experiences of life and welcome me into my own world, with open arms. Suddenly, I was mining musable material that could fill in a biography if I wished to attempt one. I identified so many treasures and deep impact lessons from my first decade of life and gave them words. I didn't know when it happened, but that group became my virtual home. It was homecoming. And it was glorious - the most happy and content arrival of all.
As I discovered myself, I was presented with the purest forms of love as an added bonus. It failed me to understand how Arcee could just see everything I said or did in such absolute unconditional love. He played the 'I'll love you and spoil you rotten' mom's role. If I made a remark on a picture, he'd pop in from somewhere, wondering how I got that idea, or the appropriate words to convey it. If I said I was busy, he used to step back and say "I have to learn how to focus and do first things first from you." If I said I needed a break he said "But of course you need one. You are here to accomplish a lot of things, people like me can wait. It's a privilege to wait for you." If I said Hello, he'd say "That's the sweetest hello I'd ever heard. If I stayed silent - he'd say "Even your silence is soothing"
So you get the idea - it is about his ability to love. I was in awe for the sweetest soul that never ever made anything about himself. He always shed such understanding and positive light on the most silliest things I did or said to a point where I used to feel an overwhelming gratitude and embarrassment at the same time for all the lavish praise.
When we finally met, Arcee walked past a sea of people, directly to me, took my hand, held it with both his hands and said "Let your grace rub onto me" - At this point, I was like - "Yeah right, let it rub on...to me actually, let me learn how to love for the sake of loving"
In the three days we spent together attending the event, he played my personal Chauffeur. It was an utmost privilege to meet his inside and out beautiful wife and darling adorable children. When I met his wife she broke in the sweetest peals of laughter and said "There you are, I finally meet you. Ever since you joined the group, all Arcee was chanting was your name."
Those three days were mine and just mine. I forgot who I was, whose wife and daughter and mother I was, I forgot my name, my address - and transformed into pure being. I stepped out of all my labels and breathed in pure existence, devoid of duties and running around. A piece of my life that lived for myself. His wife and kids happily took the back seat while the guest of honor was indulged with lavish love and attention. Every time I sat next to him in our ride, He dedicated a song and played it for me. I had the honor of discovering what a wonderful soul mate he scored for himself when I saw his wife being the same absolute sweetheart to everyone around her - speak about matches made in heaven!
In those three days, Arcee gifted me the experience of a life time, whether it was hauling me first thing in the day, to meet a friend and spend some time in the special need education school she runs, making sure that he showered the same kind of love on everyone that crossed his path and making the efforts to organize a boat ride with all childhood friends, against all odds, just and just because I asked. Being the little frog in the well I am, that spent the majority of life in a closed circuit doing what mattered to me, I was overwhelmed by the love, the belonging and the concern that was being bestowed upon me. Knowing this kind of love reformatted me for good, in a profound way and I have kind souls like Arcee to thank for it.
After I took a permanent break from my smart device and social hang outs, Arcee still pops up, once in a while, with a sweet email message, never once sulking that his previous message went unanswered or never once taking turns and expecting me to follow through. The latest email he sent kind of made me flip over in joy and love - "I envy your kids" it read. "They are with you and get your love all along - For this Diwali, I hope you'll share some love with me"
I realized that I smile at his mention, at the sweet little things he did and does to make my life brighter, the little wicks of light he sends my way with his "no expectations attached" love. Ironically, the one that keeps giving poses like the receiver - may be that's what true love is, the giving soul that whole heatedly and in all grounding and humility believes that it is getting instead.
Arcee - I am too analytical, logical, pseudo intellectual, selfish and detached to engage in your kind of giving. Bless your heart for being you. For how you make me feel like a child being doted on by a parent every time you cross my path. I might be a horrible in reciprocation, but just know, that I can never, ever put into words the gift you have given me, the experiences, the purity of friendship like it is supposed to be in an ideal world. My life is blessed with your presence and I had become a better person just by knowing you. For this Diwali, I want you to know that no matter what I give you, it'll pale in comparison to what I got in return.
And I am sure Rumi met his Arcee somewhere, to have thought of this quote.
And for this Diwali, I wish everyone experiences this kind of love in their lifetimes. Happy Diwali :)
In the past decade, I had seen several cases of cancer in my close circle. Just as I am typing thes thoughts, I’d counted the loss of eight lives. Lives that had crossed mine in big and little ways, all of these people had some emotional connection or another with me. Five of them were ladies. Three of them hadn’t seen past their 30s. Four of them passed on with breast cancer. One of them left a direct and deep impact on the collective lives of me and my immediate family.
Breasts. I often think that these appendages probably qualify as a the most 'obsessed about' body part of the female anatomy ,for obvious reasons. They render such allure and attraction to the female form, they function as nourishment to the human species, they sit over the heart. Recall how that sleazy chart buster in Khalnayak dodges us to the apparent containment of the Choli? But Of course, the breasts are located right above the heart, the power station where the weight of human emotions are processed. So a malignant tumor might be the manifestation of a weight carried under those breasts, in the heart center.
Now, there are numerous reasons why people get breast cancer - I say people cause I learned that men are prone to it as well, though not as commonly as women. It could be one of the many random reasons that can trigger any form of cancer. But as I hear and read a lot of literature about the subject of cancer as the significant other does his research, I gasp as the variety of reasons that could trigger it in a human body. I was particularly intrigued by the fact that unprocessed emotions, traumas and turmoils play a part in the onset of breast cancer. I read a research paper recently, that pointed out in the direction that studies connect bottling up of emotions to the trigger of certain forms of cancer, with special reference to the breast kind.
A very dear friend of mine, that had been fighting bravely against a nasty lymph node cancer told this to me in our many conversations about life and its content "Drop the stories - my therapist told me" she said. "I had carried too much of unprocessed emotions in my throat all my life - to a point where it wanted to burst out and here I am with this ailment" I listen to this woman in hypnotic awe and wonder if my own family member's breast cancer was in some way a weight that she carried, unprocessed and unaddressed. She is long gone to speak or validate my doubts but I sit here and shudder for all those bottled up emotions we carry around, denying them a let out.
As I ponder about the mental and emotional side of the triggers, I cannot help but address the well meaning, probing questions and judgments an ailing person or family is subjected to. When I told one of my friends about my MIL's breast cancer, the first question she asked me was "Oh...Why? Didn't she breast feed?" I didn't know how to answer that. Now, how delightful would it be if breastfeeding worked as a vaccination against breast cancer! Right? "Oh but she isn't a non vegetarian either" another acquaintance offered the elimination diagnosis. I particularly cringe over the viral posts that are shared as awareness spreaders. I once read one such post a dear friend forwarded to me. It was a critical analysis about how Sonalee Bendre, the actress suffering from cancer, brought on to herself this fate, by poor lifestyle choices and extreme dieting practices. It had a condescending tone to it, almost sounding as if the actor somehow deserved to get the disease and we need to use her as a bad example to educate all and sundry about the stupidity of the choices she'd made. I wasn't angered when I read the article. I was saddened. We are such paragons of rightful living that we take it upon ourselves to dissect and shame a person battling life and death. I remember getting into an altercation with the friend for supporting and circulating the insensitive content, but I don't think the objective of the argument was met.
We quickly, conveniently, somehow feel this intense urge to attribute, dissect and judge something even as grave as a life threatening illness. I am not sure if we can pin point the reasons of any illness with accuracy, but the 'bottling up' of emotions made absolute sense to me. We as humans carry unseen loads in our hearts, not all of us are brave or strong or alpha or even lucky enough to speak out our hearts and address our baggage. An oncologist friend of mine that practices in India once told me how some women patients that come to her often have stories of heavy oppression and emotional turmoil and abuse that precede the occurrence of cancer. To all the folks out there, with special reference to the families, I want to share what little I think would really help us in awareness and avoidance of a chronic illnesses. Please look around your surroundings and loved ones and offer support and attention. Listen, care, let hem let out the emotional toxins that come as side effects of living. Better yet, prevent causing stress and distress to your dear ones. Give time to your relationships. converse, offer love. As they say. happiness is the antidote to all illnesses. Also, don't duck breast exams. Early diagnosis is key to winning over the ailment.
Sometimes I cannot help but laugh at the collective obsession of the human kind over breasts. How both men and women participate in it with equal vigor. The ladies obsess over the size, or the shape or the sag or the perk and the opposite sex, over the other side of what these fat tissues present to them. We have a billion dollar augmentation surgery industry and a porn industry cashing over this obsession. So as we find pleasure in them, let us also find reasons to treasure what lies beneath them - the heart - the power center. Let's not let a shallow allure override a deep effect. Let's not limit the fondling to the flesh.
Questions address you As to Why? Why do you write?? I attempt an answer And fall silent. Is it that hard To speak out what I can write? It perhaps is - Because when I write I operate from a level beyond My senses and sensory trails lead me to. I write, as countless emotions Cross my mind, like overlapped radio stations. Things not meant for me End up with a new destiny Frothing out in my scribbles Finding words to awkward silence. I write because I purge The pains that I push away Denying them an existence. I release little joys that hover around Into words, and viola - they find a new lease of life Preserved to be retraced, relived! What a relief, a therapy this writing! And then I write some more To tell stories that I would never live In places I'd never be Donning many bodies I'd never dwell in. But the magic carpet of this imagination Transforms. Launches, Manifests a new reality. I write to capture the tears that well up Upon witnessing a sunset, And seeing the humming bird vibrate around the vine outside my window. I write to speak about how I miss, the people I miss How I love the people I love. How madly, deeply I feel The feelings that elude expressions. I write to record How little, insignificant moments Add up to a life of meaning, of magic. I write to crystallize tears into carefully carved art I smear word salve On the nips sustained I heal, as I write - I write because I don't need a listener to my unspoken words. It becomes a conversation with myself. In a insane way, it preserves sanity. Talk about poetic justice And how it is served to me While it is denied in a parallel world of speech and sly. I write to rip my heart open And empty its contents into unfiltered spaces Sometimes I gasp Cause I find that I tell this scroll What I hadn't told myself. And I am still asked why I write. I do. Because I breath. And this writing renders a meaning into my breath.
As the new school year commenced, ahem, a couple of months ago (*jaw drop optional* - it's been two months already? :-0 ) I had to look far and wide for a new preschool - the second born is all ready to extend her scope into some learning. While, we as parents, do not put too much pain into making sure the academics are Ivy league worthy, I did realize that by the age four, the first born was reading fluently while the second is still in the process of identifying her alphabet. Now, back in the day, my parenting was pretty hardcore - I didn't have a diversion from my full time parenting gig and all I seemed to have done was spend copious amounts of time with the first born, so by three and a half, I taught her every teachable thing that could be thought to a toddler, and then some.
Fast forward to the second in line, I seemed to have figured out the 'take it easy' route. While I still spend relatively large amounts of time with this one, I let her do her own thang - like leaving all the playdoh jars open to air dry the content to a useless crust, scribbling on furniture and walls with crayons and using washable finger paint to explore the Piccasso in the making. In short, I let her own spontaneity take the course and just watch her while she lives it up. It occurred to me that she'll start kinder the next year and we need to do some readiness and a curriculum based pre-k was the need of the hour so she learns some order and alphabet. The co-op prek the first one attended is shelved in this part of the town and I wasn't sure if I wanted to drive a 30 mt road trip to deposit her there, twice times two, if we count the drop and getting back - the reluctant driver that I am, I found a place closer - not as close I wanted it to be, mind you, but closer than the hour back and forthing I talked about.
When I first followed my GPS and drove to apply at the pre school, I was kind of miffed at the traffic signals and the time it took me to get there. I quickly finished the formalities and got home. Not until the second or third trip around was I able to spot the beauty of the route as I was previously engrossed in following the directions lest I lose way.
What started off as a chore has now become the most awaited routine of the day. I mute my radio, clutch to the steering and breath in the view after view I am greeted with, while I drive my precious cargo to destination learning. When I dip the steering right into the subdivision, I drive through a natural arbor of lush green trees, arching over from both sides of the road, creating a cool and comfort that makes me want to park the car smack dab in the center road and do an alfresco camping. No, I am not that cuckoo yet, not yet! trust me, to act on that whim, but one of these days, if I find the road deserted enough, I'll quickly click the image for sure, to reference here. I drive past the left that leads me to the school just so I can drive back down hill to get a sprawling view of the valley below, with homes and barren land, punctuated with a green carpet of a golf course. Sometimes I parallel park and freeze looking at that serendipity. Who would have thunk, that apart from getting the kid to count and read, I get my daily dose of ponder worth marvelous - just driving a few miles that actually transforms me into a vacation of sorts, twice a day, all week. When the heavens are extra generous, I even get to sneak a peek at the heavenly show off - like this gorgeous guy, playing around with the mackerel clouds, putting up a show that calls for a stand up ovation and a capture in the smart device. One really doesn't need filters when nature does it for ya....
Then I realize, for the zillionth time in this life time, that the world is full of beauty when the heart is full of love. All it takes is a perspective and a will to spot what's right there. Bring on the chores I say - adjust the mirrors and the paradigm, they might end up looking like magic!
Despite making Bessie and Matt dwell in my mind 24x7, like some kind of a wall paper behind my daily grind, I do not give them the scope to be here as much as I really think of them. Drawing makes up for more effort than my lazy, old bones are willing to take up I guess, or perhaps, the procrastination thingie is a bigger wallpaper than these two. Any which way, They take the back seat and I thought that shouldn't happen. "Too fair", If my second born is to be quoted. She uses that in lieu of not fair, BTW. She has her own set of grammar and wordage established at that tender age, and momma is mighty proud - like a momma ought to be.
Now, momma is also mighty proud of Bessie and Matt, who are incarnates of the same soul so to speak- a soul that has elaborate string of symbols, old lazy bones and a friend of life that gently nudges her to take it easy...after all, homemaking and parenting are full time jobs by themselves - aren't she supposed to get a breather and make some things wait? - but not for long, not for long - so The duo makes a sloppy, cheesy appearance. Something better than nothing, sometimes late better than never - I know you'd agree :)
Sometimes, the dictation is muted. I mean, the source from where I conjure up the stuff I type here, it actually is dictated to me from an unknown source and that kind of becomes like an 'out of network area' scenario, and then I get this writer's block thingie - but the procrastinator that I'd become lately, I take it as an opportune moment to put off my writing catharsis. Now I am not here to write epic fiction (or non fiction) anyway, so I thought I'd listen to what ever static doused and distorted signals I'd get from my inside and write anyway!
So It's October of 2019 - Around a decade ago, I remember wondering how fast we'd zoomed past that decade and yet, here we are, much faster than the previous one, zooming past into 2020. Time had really got on some sort of fast forward since my third decade and I sit here realizing it wouldn't be too long before I claim my senior citizen perks if this is how time decides to travel, and the worst part is, I don't even know if I'd stick around to avail those irresistible discounts. The other day, I was going through a cooking spray and was mighty miffed at the opaque can which quit spraying on me right in the middle of 'time sensitive' dosa making. Know what I mean ??
Who knows man? who knows?
So October - of any which year - Fall is here. The diagonal neighbors have their immaculate lawn punctuated with foamy cobwebs and DIY ghosts. The next door has a blow up figurine of a scarecrow dressed in a candy cane motif. The leaves look like they are being shaded by a perpetual light, turning a 'lit from within' green yellow in clusters. I spot birds in all shapes colors and sizes, hanging out in hoards, on the pear tree in the back yard, In the neighbors' Japanese maple that's dresses for fall without anyone bringing out stowed away seasonal decor of yellows ,oranges, reds and browns, and on the cables hanging high over the Boulevard, where I bear right on my daily commuting route- I wake up to a hazy, dark morning when large birds with larger vocal cords tweet themselves hoarse flying in a perfect parabola. The migration began perhaps, They probably take a break in my neighborhood, in my backyard. Did they pass this way before? Would they pass this way again? My mind ponders in assorted, useless questions.
The creek will start to over flow once the rains hit. The steps that dip into the creek and transport me to the sprawling park from my street would soon be barricaded. I'll take the round about pedestrian trail and get there here after. The farmer's market is closed until next spring, and the most wonderful time of the year is around nine weeks away - I see an foreshadowing of sledges and tinsels in the aisles everywhere I stop to shop, subtly rushing in the time, like it needs to be rushed. I crank up the thermostat, sitting under the vents that spew out warm dry air, smelling toasty, like embers in a camp fire. I slather salve on my dry soles and tuck them cozy into fluffy slippers. The snooze button gets abused, the mornings get rushed. I take a mental note to beat the cold and rise and shine my own warmth, my own light! Sometimes, it's best to look inward.
Or it's probably best to look inward at all times. There's a source in there - that works as a better coping mechanism than getting tipsy, draining down mugs of tea or the good ole retail therapy - only if you look in and let it take over that is. So I remind myself to shut it down, this workshop that spins thought after thought in incessant chatter - most of which needs to be husked to reveal an insight, a lesson or an instruction. I heard a wise man say recently, that when you shut the thought down and create space, you let in the source to operate it for you - probably like those birds let it in and fly in impossible precision creating visual geometry in the sky or those oaks and cherry trees that turn a light green and a yellow and then a brown to a crispy matte dark brown, curled up to create a crunch under the walk way - what thought and intellect aids them really? The same one that dictates to me once in a while. I sit here and complain that I don't hear it often. Like the mistake lies elsewhere and I am the victim.
Irony!
But then, there's a profound wisdom that dawns upon you and you stay mute. It just becomes a poor imitation of the actual thing - a mediocre attempt to xerox those miracles into word strings.
I know, I need a pause. A long, empty one. The emptier, the better!
And pray why they say "empty" as if it is a sorry word! Tch tch...
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.
