beautiful

My day

Okay

Rain Raga

Beneath the banyan tree, a woman sat singing some ragas. She was singing in her melodious voice some songs that invited the monsoons.  The land was dried up and the sky devoid of any trace of rain and the people draped in cottons gathered around with the sun scorching their brown skins.

The ragas reverberated in the blazing summers and were offered to the gods of the sky and the wind and the people remembered all the occasions when the land was blessed with rain in the scorching summer season. The children from the village played by the dried up temple pond, thinking of the days where they splashed in the cool water, sat idly in the cool recesses of the rocks, or sat chattering with the juice of ripe mangoes oozing on their hands and faces.

The singer went on singing and the people listened to the songs that praised the advent of the rains: oh you rain; much awaited the boon of heavens that brings joy to the earth, solace to the people, oh you rain, come with thunder and lightning and soak our brown skins with delight. Oh rain, the fulfilment of forecasts and incessant prayers, I invoke you in the names of the barren earth, the dried up rivers and lakes, the animals and birds, the silent trees and the people on earth.

The rains were invoked to end the blazing afternoons of summer heat with the first drops of summer rain and you set the warm smell of earth rising and you bedeck trees with jewels like brides, from furnace hot afternoons to nights of restless pace. It is for the rains, incense is burnt and prayers chanted and it is for you, the comforter on hot summer days. The land and the people waited for the comfort offered by the summer rains. However, the singer went on crooning the rain songs and soon and suddenly a wind blew over the land. The trees began to sway with the gust of wind and grey clouds rose to silhouette the sky with hints of a sudden outburst.

Then it started raining heavily. With the advent of the rain clouds, the entire city rejoiced as the wait was over. The days of drought are finally over and the soft rain pelted over the crowd with bolts of thunder and lightning. The people received in open hands stretched to skies what the heavens granted as comfort from the scorching heat of Indian summer. The rain fell over the land and the people danced in the rain with the beaming children screaming with delight when the droplets of rain drenched their brown bodies. The singer sat drenched still humming the megh malhar raga.

Skywriting

The writing stretches across the bright blue sky,
In the form of snow-white clouds that loom large
A look-out notice for your soulmate you really miss
Against the distant blue mountains and valleys.

From my vantage point that shows me the land,
I watch the skies turn from blue to ochre shades,
When your songs at twilight brought an embrace
Or brought in a love-light too strong to withstand.

Your hands that trace the contours of my body
Your eyes that appreciate the hues that I'd wear,
You bringing me my favourite chempaka flowers
Or telling me stories of your long weary work-day.

The absence of years made worthy by its pain,
Love that stays forever written across the skies.

Song of the Summer

In the rising heat of the season, you dream of the monsoons, the waterbodies that give you comfort and tall glasses of cool and tasty drinks that offer you solace. You read up old lores on how the ancient Indian musician Tansen made rain with his raga Megh Malhar and the power of music to bring about change in nature. And, there you are lost watching a video online of an Indian musician sitting under a banyan tree singing this raga and in ten minutes, it starts raining all of a sudden. 

On the way back from work, you look with longing at the river nearby and long to immerse yourself in its soothing waters till you no longer remember the sizzling heat of summer. In the orchards, you watch how the waterspouts drizzle the plants to prevent them from turning wan. And, you long to play in the water like you did in a long lost childhood near the River Green. 

The fruit heaps on the wayside shop beckon you with their fragrances-guavas, watermelons, lime and mangoes. When you look at these and think of the cool fruit juices that you can make with crushed ice and some mint leaves. Yet, sometimes when no fruits are available, usually resort to your traditional summer drink of buttermilk that you enjoy making at home mixing the right amounts of buttermilk, shallots ginger, curry leaves, jeera powder and salt. And, you wonder how some simple ingredients available at home can create a magical drink that makes you forget the woes of this scorching season. In the lazy evenings, you smear yourself with turmeric and sandalwood in a routine to beat the heat. The sun shows on your face and in the exposed parts of your body way too much and the paste cools you down and helps you sleep better.

In this summer tedium, one longs for the beats of the monsoon,the warm smell of rising earth during the first rain, the lazy mornings when one sleeps in when you don't have to go anywhere and just like that in this between time of twilight, when the lamps are lit for prayer and prayers chanted in the temples, one dreams of home, of being one with you and one longs for the comforts of cool water and refreshing drinks.

#summer

Evenings at the Indian Coffee House

In this middle age, I wonder how life has turned out to be, so different from the images that I had when someone asked me to imagine how life will be after ten years. I have always dreamt of you at my side as my life-partner, with two lovely children of ours to greet the days, a comfortable set of old friends to grow old together and a cosy little home that I took time to decorate with curios from the places we visited together as a couple and a huge library of all the books that we used to read. 

But when I reached this milestone all I have is a history of losses- the disappointment of a broken love that almost came to fruition, the years spent trying to pull yourself back together, the indifference of your loved ones, the absence of real friends and the lacks that are spelt so clearly and in bold letters everyday. It has been years since you called anyone a friend as you have only acquiantances and you never offer a shoulder to cry as you used to do before nor ask solace from anyone despite of being miserable and broken. You wear a brave face in the crowds and break down miserably in your solitude as you plod on with your busy everyday life. 

Then in the evenings and weekends you form a bond with your workmate and share the same sense of joy at the aroma of freshly ground coffee and piping hot Masala dosa at your favourite haunt, the old Coffee House in the city. On some busy days, you have to scream to make your companion understand what you are trying to say, all amidst the hustle and bustle of the staff in the old Coffeehouse, full of life. 

Over a period of months, we form a unique bond, minus our histories and sad luggage, looking forward to what is served on the menu only with a common love shared for solitary hangouts be it an evening by the seashore or a quiet swim in the nearby river. Gradually, your sad face attains a brightness of being loved in return without knowing any of your past  wounds and your time is spent in tasting the old brew of hot coffee and eating the same Masala dosas. We write a life of being in the moment -looking forward to our days of favourite comfort food at our favourite hangout.

plans

Tiny Seed

World Poetry Day

My River Pamba

 The River Green always looks like a sheet of green glass, flowing majestically and serenely. It was in a small town beside this river Pamba that we-my brother and me- grew up fighting each other and playing in the water.

My memories associated with the river are innumerable.Every evening we, along with my aunt or grandmother and cousins would walk to the river and play in the water for an hour. Every day was fun, with us staying in the water for at least an hour, though both of us never learned how to swim, splashing and shouting, while the sun set and it grew dark.

In the still waters, near the banks, people washed clothes and for bathing or swimming they walked to where the flowing water was. It was an adventure to stand in the flowing currents without falling. It requires considerable practice. Once we rescued a plaintain trunk from the currents and gave it to a neighbour, who had cows. It was a big adventure, something that brought a "we" feeling between my brother and me, who were like Tom and jerry throughout childhood.

The river was part of the life there, its dips and floods, festivals like Onam, Maramon Convention or Aranmula boat-race. Everybody went to the shops set as part of Maramon Convention, irrespective of religion. That was one time, when all sorts of things came in the shops- bangles, toys, shoes, clothes and items of food.

Then there are boat-rides across the river, holidays during floods (once we had 10 days of holidays) Onam and Aranmula boatrace, when the decorated boats travel across the river to the beat of the boatsongs. It can be heard from a distance and all children will run to the riverbank on hearing the boatsong from the distance.

On the night of Thiruvonam,belief has that Lord Mahabali comes to see his subjects on his boat called Thiruvonathoni. After midnight, people wait on the banks of the river with lighted torches and lamps for the well-lighted Thiruvonathoni. This was one adventure for we, children to boast about. The ones who had slept that night had nothing to talk about and felt ashamed the next day.

Now the river has changed. It is no longer clean. Clean water exists in the middle of the river and it's a long walk. You need to wade through muddy waters to take bath in clean water and then after bath, through muddy waters again. Yet, with all its differences, this is one of the sacred spaces, I can reach in an instant, travelling in thoughts, to where I like to stand, on that mound of rocks (called pulumuttu), with the entire river, looking like a large sheet of green glass, clean and clear.

No wonder, everytime, I stand there in real, I step into the waters and become a child, splashing and loving the water. My young cousins are like ducks, "no getting them out of water". Last time,on my visit to the river, I went till the middle of the river, to where the currents are and splashed there along with my five cousins, while my frantic mother was waving to us from the shore. Short-sightedness is at times a wonderful excuse and I pretended that i didnt see her and went back after an hour or so, drenched completely and dipping water. 

I guess as a child, I related everything to the river. Once during family dinner, when I was six or seven, I told my grandfather that the sky ended at the other side of the river. He roared with laughter and asked me:"Really?"

dreams

Kindness

Minimalism

Today was a special day as I got an exposure to the mall culture. I loved wandering at the lovely things on sale and thought of buying many though prevented myself after looking at the price and the lack of usefulness. The reason for this change can be attributed to the fact that I stay in a rural area and the needs have become limited to the essentials. 

The place I stay for the last few years has a beach that I visit occasionally. Whenever I feel like it, I rush to the seashore to get a breath of fresh air. So, I thought I can get happiness out of shopping but nothing can beat the happiness of the sea breeze and the fading light of the setting sun. 

I was reading of minimalism and the need to reduce unnecessary shopping but didn't think that I will start putting it to practice some day. It is good to buy cute objects and household items on a shopping trip but do I need it, that is what I ask. Anyway, I bought two coasters with a cute motif on them as a reminder of my shopping trip. 

Purple Riot

The purple riot began
and took root slowly.

Who would have thought,
who would have known?

In the rearview mirror
it looks like spring again.

The beauty of this world 
In the songs that never cease.

One day, sitting nearby,
feeling the full purple riot—

the deep desire in your eyes
that sang to me all night,

the hand that almost reached,
the purple riot in your heart.

Soul Food

What comforts your soul, when it is weary with life and cannot go on, what brings you back to the centre when you feel drained of your vital energy, are words written by some strange wise person living in some place and time.

Like a young person perusing loveletters, one reads words of comfort from an unknown hand from an unknown land as if they were written just for your eyes. You feel sustained by their wisdom and they make sense like pieces in a jigsaw coming together. It feels like an unreal experience where the hand of Providence set them right before your eyes to nourish your strength and you feel grateful that you didn't give up this time either. 

Recompense

For every word of harshness that you hear,
There is equally a word of love somewhere.
For the darkest hours of the wakeful night,
At the end of which is a beautiful dawn.

For the loss of innocence of childhood,
There is the growing maturity of years.
For the loss of a life near river green,
There is lot more sunshine to equal.

For the trenches that this life fell into
There are the new scales that it climbs.
For the years lost in search of dreams,
There are these words on a virtual page.

Which brings in daily, strange comfort,
For every friend lost, that of strangers.

Daily

It has always been my dream to wander the world with you- go places, find beauty in nature and in simple things and live life to the fullest. What I have always wanted is to wake up early and watch the streaks of dawn across the sky and then snuggle you to wakefulness. 

The other dream has been to visit my native place near the River Green and watch the snakeboats glide in the river during Onam. Once in a while, to get soaked in its waters like in a lost childhood near the River. Also, to go a graveyard with my people in it to see the graves that have lost their names in renovation and forgetfulness. 

May be to find love once again in life, the beauty lost with time and the lost art of smiling many times daily like an innocent child does. May be to wear a spot of sindhoor on my forehead like a newly wed woman with pride in her acquired happiness.  

Food

Grand Rising

I have always carried you in my heart, safe from the prying eyes of the world and even after all these years, I find it surprising that you still remember me in the words you write. When I read your words, a springtime of happy memories flash before my eyes and feel transported to a different time when the heart was lighter and the steps sprightly. 

 

In your words, I read your need to store each and every fond word, every strange fantasy and strangest turn of phrase that I may have said. In them, I see myself attain a beauty that I never knew was mine, a strength that I have recognized only in the latter years. 

 

Sometimes, I wonder whether you will be truly happy cherishing a fond memory which is gone from this world. When I leave this world, I may close my eyes and be gone from this world in an instant. You might wait for me to respond to your voice then find out that the breath had left this mortal body. You might try to call out loud and retrieve my soul from the other world. 

 

In the days that follow, I will have a grand rising in another world. I will appear as the tiny sprout of grass on the ground you tread, or as waves that rise to meet your feet, or the air that blows around you or the raindrops that caress you with tender love. Everyday, I will be sending you letters in sky writing, as clouds that bring you rain and nourishment. And, I will be waiting for you to greet me, good morning!