It's been a while. I hope you've been warm, well and healthy.
It's been a busy few months for me. Some travelling, lots of reading, a fair bit of writing, immersion in Kabir and gardening have kept me from blogging. Lately, blogging has become the hometown I forget to visit when I'm busy with life and yet whenever I do, I feel replenished. I like the old familiarity of this space. It's a place to connect without the pressures of other SM outlets like Insta and X. I'm not against the latter. In fact, I like the visibility they provide for my work but there's an old world charm about blogging and this blog that feels like a home-coming whenever I get back after a long hiatus.
2024 has started off on a good note for my writing. In fact, the first day of February (my favourite month) brought some fabulous news. A CNF piece I'd written was released as part of the "Happy Place" issue of Epistemic Literary
What are the images, sounds, memories, hopes that glitter in your heart and mind when you hear the phrase 'Happy Place'? I'd love to read your thoughts, if you'd like to share them as comments.
In view of the war that's occupied our screens and psyches, it's not easy to feel light and hopeful. And yet, as February rolls in carrying petunias and geraniums in her spring-like bosom, I can't help but bask in the sunlit grass, tickling my bare feet or let the kohoo-kohoo of koel and go-go-gutter-gooo of grey doves and chitter-chatter of house sparrows fill me with joy.
I wish you a peaceful and joyous Friday and a beautiful month ahead.
And if you're in the mood for a feel good and well made film this weekend, then I'd recommend Coco Farm. Here's a trailer. I LOVED this film.
On 6th of May 2023, I had the good fortune of talking to Neeraj Chopra, reigning Olympic Champion in javelin throw, at a lunch hosted by Fauzia (Fab Entertainment) to honour him and Eldhose Paul, the first Indian to win a gold medal in men's triple jump at the 2022 Commonwealth Games.
They were visiting Doha to participate in the Doha Diamond League, an annual one day track and field meet event. Both the athletes are proud products of Inspire Institute of Sport (IIS). The other celebrity guests present were Mustafa Ghouse, Manisha Malhotra from JSW Sports and Parth Jindal, founder and director of IIS.
A hushed silence always precedes an important entry. It was no different when Neeraj and Eldhose walked in.
Neeraj was beaming and he had every right to. The previous night, he had won first place at the Diamond League season-opener with an impressive 88.67 m.
More than the medals and the shine of celebrity, it is the person I'm drawn to. Not that I get to shake hands with celebrities on a regular basis, but whenever I've had a chance to meet with one, it's the way they say what they say that makes more of an impression on me.
Neeraj Chopra, at twenty-five, displayed the wisdom and poise of a much older person. He came across as an old soul to me.
"I come from a humble background. From a village in Haryana. I never thought I'd be here today.." When asked by Fauzia to share his story, Neeraj chose to start by stating the obvious with such humility and ease that I felt I was listening to a person older and wiser in years than a 25 years old athlete who's star is on the rise.
The Q&A session followed the speeches. Valid and pointed questions like how the Institute plans to reach India's grassroot levels, or how does one change the national narrative of schools and educational outfits along with the parent' obsession about academic achievements at the cost of everything else, were answered by the panel with clarity and passion.
We are all products of an education system where sports and the arts are considered a waste of time by parents and schools alike, especially in middle and high school.
The only exception is cricket. I'm not a fan and frankly, I don't understand the obsession.
When an entire nation and that too a populous one focuses on one sport alone, it doesn't bode well for other sports. India, despite its large population, has won a paltry sum of medals in the Olympics.
All that is set to change. At least, that's how I felt listening to Parth Jindal.
Last Saturday, in a banquet hall glowing with amber glass chandeliers, he dared to share his dream of 'Jana Gana Mana' (India's National anthem) being played on a loop at the Olympics of the future. His confidence and his passion shone brighter than the lights. He spoke about the begging bowl he'd held out to all the big corporate houses in India when he first thought of the idea of IIS -- more than five years ago.
The proof of the pudding came when athletes from IIS started collecting gold for the first time in the sporting history of India. That's when India and more importantly those with a will and capacity to help and turn his dream into reality started to take notice.
Jindal spoke about how there is an urgent need to plan and build at least twenty more IISs, if India is to tap into its true sporting potential.
After the Q & A, it was time for photos. I had saved my question for later. I had one for Neeraj Chopra.
"How do you tackle self-doubt-- that is if you ever have any?" I asked him once we'd said hello and I'd congratulated him.
"Of course. This is an individual sport. I have to beat my own best. So, there are times when I have to push through despite the doubts." smiled Neeraj. "I give my best to every shot. I don't save it for the last."
Wow! I thought.
Writing, too, is a solo sport. To give ones best every time one sits down to write would be a great way to be. It's not always possible, though.
"It's not that I don't have down days. I do. That's when I talk to my coach. I have to be happy to be doing what I'm doing to give my best." Neeraj added.
"And you know Ma'am," he continued "life mein balance hona bahut zaroori hai." (It's very important to have balance in life." This sport is part of my life right now. It's not my entire life. Life is so much more."
Some of you reading this post may think I may have been tempted to embellish or tweak Neeraj's words. All I'll say to you is--I don't blame you. I was surprised too. He spoke in a mixture of Hindi and English. But he spoke from the heart. His eyes sparkled with sincerity.
If this is the future of Indian representation on international arenas and forums, then I have no doubt Jindal will see his dream play out in his life time.
My take-away from the afternoon was this -- Love for what we do should guide us through life's challenges and joys. Humility and the understanding that 'life is so much more' is a lesson worth remembering and reminding. Nothing lasts forever but to put ones best foot forward at every step is a great way to do justice to the talent one is born with.
It is 'International Workers Day' today. It is the first of May.
What better way to acknowledge the many migrant workers who live in Doha than to share the story of one of the most appealing photographic exhibitions I have seen in recent years.
It's not often that one is able to capture an entire experience in one word.
But on 18th March, 2023, I came across one such word--an old and known one-- in a new light which did just that. This was at the Doha Fashion Fridays inaugural talk at the M7.
The word is curator.
Although I am familiar with the word but I have always associated 'curator' with the act of sourcing, collecting and assembling of objects or art of interest in a certain way for a certain purpose or audience. I hadn't given the word much thought or bothered to look up its etymology.
Known words are like our landscape. That which we see everyday, we stop noticing. We stop paying attention. Not unlike the migrant workers in Doha.
Although they are visible on construction sites but for most of us who live in this city, they're 'invisible' underneath their blue overalls and yellow hard hats. They merge with the landscape. We, as a collective, are mostly indifferent to their existence.
So, when Aparna Jayakumar prodded Charlotte Cotton to share more about the word 'curator', I was struck by its aptness. The word curator owes its origin to the Latin verb curare which means to take care of.
How apt, I thought. How perfect.
Care: a four letter word that is all too often overlooked or overshadowed by the other overused four-letter words -- love and like.
Care. To take care of. To care enough about. To bother to care in the first place.
I believe 'care' is the basis of humanity. Yes, love is the canvas on which all human drama plays out. But care is the currency of love. How much or how little we care about ourselves, our families, the society, this planet and all the creatures of this planet decides our and their state of health.
Doha Fashion Fridays is the result of an idea that was planted by political cartoonist, Khalid Albaih seven years ago. Serendipitously, Aparna happened to be his neighbour. So when one day Khalid mentioned his idea to her, the seeds started sprouting into a 'unique collaborative project.' Soon, Shaima Altamimi came on board.
During the panel discussion the previous day, when asked about her motivation to join the project, Aparna mentioned that when she first moved to Qatar from India, she was struck by the absence of life on the streets. In India, LIFE along with its messiness and chaos is on full display out in the open. The poor, the rich, the involved and the disinterested share the same space. The populace is part of the same canvas.
In Doha, it's different.
But on Fridays everything changes, especially on the Corniche.
It's the migrant workers' day off. On Fridays, if you find yourself on the Corniche, you will be rewarded with a sea of colour and life. Hundreds of workers pour into public spaces dressed to the nines. This is where they spend their day--meeting friends, taking photos, spending their free day their way.
On Fridays, on Doha Corniche, the cloak of invisibility is lifted.
During the rest of the week, it's easy to not notice the construction worker in his blue overalls, the domestic help in her neatly ironed uniform, the drivers, the loaders and so many invaluable contributors to the rise and shine of this beautiful country and city. They become an invisible backdrop to the humdrum of progress and success. And this is true of many countries and places.
In India, for example, when I was at university, my flat (barsaati) was next door to a basti -- a shanty town. I was hit by the sounds, smells and poverty of the basti the first time I saw it. I had grown up in the sheltered shade of Dehradun. So, this was shocking. But three years later, by the time I graduated, the basti had become the backdrop to my barsaati. I had stopped caring because I saw it everyday. I was so focused on myself that I'd stopped noticing the 'others'.
A couple of years ago, I was shocked to see the sea of tents in Seattle and Portland in the USA. The homelessness of a super powerful nation was on full display and yet the daily commuters around me didn't seem to notice or want to pay attention.
Indifference is the rose tinted lens we use to see our world when we are comfortable.
Doha Fashion Fridays reminds us that curiosity about the other is a good thing. Curiosity leads to care. And care is a great connector.
Khalid Albaih's curiosity about the fashionable migrant workers gatherings on Fridays was the foundation on which Aparna and Shaima built. They cared enough to lift that cloak of invisibility.
A cloak we so easily and carelessly drape over those we don't care enough about.
I urge you to go and 'meet' the vibrant migrant workers of Qatar via their portraits and stories at the exhibition.
But if you're not able to, then this photo essay in the Guardian www.theguardian.com will give you some idea about the ethos and aspirations of this ongoing project.
Visibility -- the one human need that comes in after food, shelter and clothing. All it takes is a glance, a smile, a nod to turn the invisible into the visible.
Let's play our part and lift the cloaks around us. Acknowledge the presence of another, the other. It may reveal ourselves to us. It may not be pretty. Reality rarely is. But at least it will be real. To be real is worth everything.
Thank you for reading this post. I welcome your comments and views. Wishing you well.
An escapade of sorts conspired me way from poetry on day Twenty-two. But now that I'm back to my favourite spot in April, i.e. here, I'm eager to press on with the prompt of the day. I hope I can cover up the missed days in May. I'll keep you posted.
Day Twenty-eight of #Na/GloPoWriMo 2023 states: I challenge you to write your own index poem. You could start with found language from an actual index, or you could invent an index, somewhat in the style of this poem by Kell Connor. Happy writing!
The Colosseum, yesterday.
This poem has expired. Leaving you with a shot of the Colosseum in Rome which I happened to visit last week.
I came to the prompt late in the day on account of something happy that I will share soon on the blog.
The prompt on Day Nineteen of #Na/GloPoWriMo states: For this challenge, start by reading Marlanda Dekine’s poem “My Grandma Told Stories or Cautionary Tales.” One common feature of childhood is the monsters. The ones under the bed or in the closet; the odd local monsters that other kids swear roam the creek at night, or that parents say wait to steal away naughty children that don’t go to bed on time. Now, cast your mind back to your own childhood and write a poem about something that scared you – or was used to scare you – and which still haunts you (if only a little bit) today.
When I sit down to write to a prompt, I let go. I start typing and let the prompt guide the flow of my words. Sometimes, the poem changes course and surprises me, like today. It took me to ancient India and brought me back to myself.
This must've happened in my mother's womb.
I don't recall a day, a time. Was it sunset or dawn when
the most potent weapon
used by our fore-fathers, fore-mothers and their
great-great-ancestors
blended with amniotic fluids that kept me afloat
sank deep inside my yet-to-be-born-thoughts,
my identity.
The Curse. C.U.R.S.E.
"I curse you." many a sages uttered those three fateful words
and demolished Kings, Kingdoms and Princes;
stories my grandparents unfolded on the kitchen floor
and warned us, don't make anyone cross. EVER!
The weight of five-thousand years of our heritage
bore down upon me. Then one day, the stories jumped
from the floor to flicker on screens.
That's when matters became worse. Scary.
Nymphs turned to stone, handsome folk into horrendous
creatures with no voice and no form.
I was young, what did I know! It was all make belief. Made up.
Lessons learnt in wombs, Beji said, are carried till the tomb.
The cursed on screen wailed piteously, "O! you who watches our plight,
pay heed. Be obedient of the ways
of authority. Look at us. Be warned.
Surrender to the rules of civilized society."
Don't speak up or you'll be cursed.
Don't stand tall or you'll be crushed.
Don't be different, or you'll be shushed.
Don't question the status quo, especially the rich, the pious and the powerful.
Think within the box, live within the confines.
Stay within the lines we have borrowed from our great ancient civilization
to keep you tethered.
Don't complain or frown. This is for your good, your safety, of course.
Walk the beaten path. Fear the curse.
Decades passed. Every time I failed a test, or when a loved one got cancer,
I blamed the curse.
I must've hurt someone in my past to deserve this. That's the logic
of the curse. It moves from myths to movies to young, impression forming foetuses.
Then one day I grew up. I broke free. Stood up.
Five feet, one and a half inches tall and shut the lid on
Pandora's Box.
Enough is enough.
Raktabeej met his end when Kali* showed up.
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You can read about Kali and Raktabeej here: the juggernaut
Curses and boons may sound mythical to you but when they are woven in the fabric of ones childhood, in the warp and weft of stories told and retold with frequent embellishments of real-life examples, they become the basis of ones beliefs. It's not easy to look at ones ancient roots and snip away the decay. But, it must be done.
Thank you for reading the poem. I'm all ears for any comments or views you'd like to share.
The (optional) prompt on Day Eighteen of #Na/GloPoWriMo challenges the poet to to write an abecedarian poem – a poem in which the word choice follows the words/order of the alphabet.
Yesterday a friend brought her twins over for a quick visit. Something about the visit jogged an old memory. So, I shared it with my friend.
"You know I've never had a clear image of your mother. You've mentioned her in passing." She said.
It made me reflect on how much of my mother I remember still. After thirty-two years.
I'm not sure if the poem I wrote today is an ode to my mother or an ode to my memories of her.
The poem has now expired. But, the moon will shine for sometime on this page:)
Thank you for visiting. If there are thoughts or views that you'd like to share after reading this poem, I'll be here.
The (optional) prompt on Day Fourteen of #Na/GlaWriPoMo challenges the poet to write a parody or satire based on a famous poem.
But before I share what I've written today, I'd like to point you to Lisa Takes Flight 's brilliant and funny poems. She was the featured participant today.
The above is a commentary on how 'visibility' on SM equates success in the world today.
Upon googling 'the most solitary animal', I came across this list. Platypus comes in third after bears and the black rhino. Thought you may want to know:)
Happy Friday poets and readers.
As always, would love to know your thoughts and views about this poem.
The (optional) prompt on Day Thirteen of #Na/GloWriPoMo asks the poet to first read the three short poems on the page by Bill Knott and then try to write
" a short poem (or a few, if you’re inspired) that follows the beats of a classic joke. Emphasize the interplay between the form of the poem – such as the line breaks – and the punchline.
I quit my job almost six years ago to pursue my love of writing and travelling (with the kind support of my husband). But, lately, I've been feeling the itch of not being able to support myself via my writing. The first poem is my current state of mind as I start the process of updating my CV and applying for jobs that pay.
Credit Card
The Bank of Poetry Where dreams dare to dream
Every line of poetry you write
can be exchanged for food and
necessities.
But, if it's a sari or a trek you're after,
you'd have to find a poetry-loving sponsor.
Arti Jain VIZA
the fine print:
This bank takes no guarantee your poetry will find a lover, ever.
Please be advised to find a job that pays your bills.
Remember, you can dream to reach us anytime. We value your custom.
The second short poem wrote itself. I played with words on the cover (bottom) of the book. It's lying next to my laptop.
The book in the background is "River of Colour The India of Raghubir Singh"
another gem from Oxfam bookshop
"Men w i t h out
w o m e n
Pain
f u l l y
g O O d
n O
O n e
can deny
t h e i r
BRILLIANCE."
The Nation
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I'd love to know what you think of my play-with-poetry-presentations. Were you able to find the beat of 'classic' jokes these two attempts are referencing? Tell me. I'm eager to know.
The (optional) prompt of Day Twelve of #Na/GloWriPoMo challenges the poet...
to write a poem that addresses itself or some aspect of its self (i.e., “Dear Poem,” or “what are my quatrains up to?”; “Couplet, come with me . . .”) This might seem a little “meta” at first, or even kind of cheesy. But it can be a great way of interrogating (or at least, asking polite questions) of your own writing process and the motivations you have for writing, and the motivations you ascribe to your readers.
to play around with the idea of overheard language. First, take a look at Naomi Shihab Nye’s poem “One Boy Told Me.” It’s delightfully quirky, and reads as a list, more or less, of things that she’s heard the boy of the title – her son, perhaps? – say. Now, write a poem that takes as its starting point something overheard that made you laugh, or something someone told you once that struck you as funny.
a mandapam
At a Big Fat Indian Wedding
Aunties in saris and uncles turban clad,
a toothless granny, cousins, Mom and Dad
gathered together on the flowery mandapam
to bless the newlyweds: a radiant bride and her shy groom.
"Was it Love?" asked the aunt with a golden bust.
"Na. Honestly Maami-- it was purely lust."
said the groom without blinking an eye.
I swear I heard a collective-connective sigh!
Of course, there was silence for a split
second. OMG! Dammit...
What guts. What clarity!
Hurrah! I say, for such confident morality.
I wish we had more of this on display
at cocktails and dinners and soirees of midday.
What fun to know what you really think
about life, her dress, this venue, your drink.
And if ever such a day shall dawn,
sign me up for every party on the lawn.
But, if you will continue to hide behind niceties and blah,
I'm telling you now, I won't come. Mwah!
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My day started with a doctor's appointment (nothing serious) and a momentary loss of memory. I forgot where I'd parked my car in the parking garage next to the hospital. All's well that ends well. I found my car.
What a contrast the evening has been when the prompt unlocked a very old and funny memory. I enjoyed writing to the prompt.
Day Ten of #Na/GloWriPoMo has been the hardest prompt thus far for it challenges the poet to write a sea shanty.
I'm of the mountains. I do love the sea but to write a sea shanty! Well, that's another story or poetry.
In order to connect to my inner-being, I closed my eyes to conjure up seascapes or sea songs that would gently tide me over to 'lets-give-it-a-go' port.
I live in Qatar--a nation proud of its pearl-diving heritage. Suddenly, an idea flashed. Why not look at some of the pearl-diving-sea-songs for inspiration.
Going down rabbit holes of discovery is a favourite and fabulous thing. I found out that the lead singer of sea-songs is called the nahhām.
According to this article on QDL, "The nahhām was a paid professional singer, regarded foremost important on every boat and ship."
The following is an attempt ...
Doha, Qatar
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
The song you sing of love
is the kohl, her eyes
becomes the night
They ask me when
the tide will turn
The hearth and the fire
have just one desire
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
The song you sing of longing
is the jasmine, her hair
O! the mighty waves
She un-braids just for me
The debts are not yet paid
She says, but come home anyway
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām
The song you sing of pearls
is the promise, her embrace
The salt I taste makes me thirsty
May Allah have mercy
Pray and sing His praises
She's seeing the same moon as me.
nahhāmnahhāmnahhām....
*******
"Generally, lyrics are derived from literary and colloquial Arabic poetry." states the article.
"While the lengthy rhythm cycles remind the listener of the temple music in Kerala (south India), the communal bourdon singing recreates an atmosphere similar to the music of Tibetan monks or Sattya Hindu monks in Assam (north-east India)."
Like a true sea-voyage, I ended up finding pearls of wisdom from the songs of the sea. I hadn't set out to find any of this.
Wishing you a fabulous Sunday and Happy Easter to all those who are celebrating.
The(optional) prompt on Day Nine of #Na/GloPoWriMo encourages the poet to write a sonnet.
But first, I'd like to share a poem I read a few minutes ago. It's the featured poem for Day Eight on NA/GloWriPoMo site and it's unmissable. You can read it here : To Create...
There's something about structure that makes me want to rebel. But this year (perhaps it's a sign of ageing or acceptance--I don't know) I'm giving structure in poetry a go.
The sonnet I wrote follows the general rule of 14 lines and it's about love. Plus, I tried to follow the following rhyming scheme: ABBA, ABBA, CDECDE.
I've removed it from the post as it's a first draft of sorts.
picture taken in July 2021 in Oregon.
**********
I'd recommend reading Adam O'Riordan's article, 'The Sonnet as a Silver Marrow Spoon' published by Poetry Foundation if you'd like to write a sonnet yourself.
In order to give my April attempts (first drafts, really) a fighting chance to mature into good enough poems to submit to literary journals in the future, I've decided to remove some of my poems (those that I feel have potential to grow) from my blog after a day. I have to thank Romana for planting this idea in my head. Submission processes are rather exacting and at this point in my life, I'd like to find nurturing homes for my poems.
The(optional) prompt for Day Eight of #Na/GloPoWriMo challenges the poet to use all of the 'Twenty Little Poetry Projects" (originally developed by Jim Simmerman) in one poem.
You may want to click on the link Day Eightto find out what these twenty projects are.
In order to get myself in the mood to write to such an extensive prompt, I visited some of the poets who'd written and posted their entries already. I must say I was impressed and motivated in equal measure.
I've taken my poem down but have left these beautiful roses from a garden in Srinagar, Kashmir (clicked in August 2022) to wish you Happy Easter Sunday.
In order to give my April attempts (first drafts, really) a fighting chance to mature into good enough poems to submit to literary journals in the future, I've decided to remove some of my poems (those that I feel have potential to grow) from my blog after a day. I have to thank Romana for planting this idea in my head. Submission processes are rather exacting and at this point in my life, I'd like to find nurturing homes for my poems.
And on to Day Seven of Na/GloPoWriMo. The (optional) prompt prods the poet to
"Start by reading James Tate’s poem “The List of Famous Hats.” Now, write a poem that plays with the idea of a list. Tate’s poem is a list that isn’t – he never gets beyond the first entry. You could try to write a such a non-list, but a couple of other ideas would be to create a list of ingredients, or a list of entries in an index. A self-portrait (or a portrait of someone close to you) in the form of a such a list could be very funny. Another way into this prompt might be a list of instructions."
I'm sharing two poems today. One that I wrote just now and one from last year.
The new poem has been removed. But the one from last year awaits...
Topikapi Palace, Istanbul, April 2022
This nonet from Na/GloWriPoMo 2022 is a list of instructions:
How
to make love ( a nonet)
Un-buttonthe what
ifs, the why nots
mindfully. Takethe layers off. Now
wriggleout
of allmistakes
you evermade.
Let go.
Bathe in forgiveness.
Hand on heartbeat.
Close your eyes:
dhak… dhak…
dhak.
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Thank you for visiting this page. I look forward to reading your comments. Have a lovely day.
Her hazel eyes, large and curious, peered at us with such intent that they made me feel important--like I had something useful to share, like my life in the city was a curiosity worthy of a story.
Deep in Basmai Valley, in the middle of paradise, a group of us -- trekkers of ripe years and enough worldly possessions sat in a shepherd's hut.
Warm, worn blankets, still vibrant in colour, were offered to us by the owner. The hut belonged to an old couple. The husband was out with the sheep. The wife offered to make us kahwa. She wore her wrinkles well. Women and men of the mountains wear their weather beaten badges like mountains wear snow-- effortlessly and naturally beautiful. The way it is meant to be. She would've made an excellent subject for a portrait.
We sat. We talked. A neighbour, another shepherd, was present as our interpreter. How the people of these valleys--vast in expanse, sparse in human population, communicate without phone signals I do not know. But he was there. As was the hazel-eyed teenager. She too had wandered in from her hut nearby to meet with us.
I have no photos of the hut or of the Kashmiri shepherds we met that day. Either my phone was out of charge or I was sucked into the cocoon of their life so completely that clicking seemed unnecessary.
Three months later, when I finally sat down to write about that day, plonked on an extra cushion at the end of our dining table which is forever a mess of books, notebooks and scribbled notes, I figured I'll have to rely on my memory to recreate the scene for you.
Venky, Apu, Manju, Anju, Sachit and I sat on the mud-hardened, surprisingly warm floor in a jagged circle. We had taken our hiking boots off and left them in a dripping, muddy pile by the door along with our walking sticks and poles. It had rained incessantly for the past two days. We'd managed to continue with our hiking plans thanks only to short and timely dry windows.
"What did she say?" one of us asked the shepherd-interpreter. The hazel-eyed beauty had whispered something urgent and animated to him.
"She wants to know what you do in the city. What is your city like." his face broke out into a fatherly smile--deep, mountainous wrinkles parting to let the warmth out--his eyes shone like the clear waters of the lakes we'd seen earlier.
We introduced ourselves. He translated for her. She'd watch whoever was talking with such intensity that I had a feeling she was imagining herself in those roles, in those cities. What we perceived as chaos and drudgery and hectic and mundane seemed magical and exciting and unreachable to her--that's what I thought as I watched her drinking in all the information that was being translated to her like a parched traveller stumbling upon an oasis unexpectedly.
Periods of quiet interspersed with her questions, followed by our replies followed by his translation followed by her animated face, eyes and broad smiles.
"She didn't like school. She quit when she was young. So she travels with her father and uncle with the sheep in these valleys and mountains from spring to autumn. Her mother stays with the older and younger family members in their hometown. All her siblings go to school." the shepherd-interpreter informed us.
No school. No friends of her age. No phone signal. Only sheep, sheep dogs, horses and household chores for company. How does she manage to stay so alive in her curiosity? Her inquisitiveness lit up the hut. Her questioning eyes turned us into wise travellers.
It was getting darker. The clouds rumbled. It started raining again.
The kahwa was taking time. Let it be, someone suggested. We had to reach our camp at the bottom of the valley before dark.
"No. No. Please sit." The hostess, who had been busily scurrying around the hut for ingredients insisted.
"She doesn't have all the ingredients-- she's shy to serve you kahwa without those." explained the interpreter.
"Even hot water will do." we were all grateful for their company, their hospitality, their curiosity.
The kahwa came in an assortment of cups and bowls--sweet and delicious. The hostess, the interpreter and the hazel-eyed teenager watched us while we sipped and oohed and aahed about how delicious it was. How it was exactly the thing we needed then.
There were a couple of Japanese bowls too. How come? I wondered. Who would've picked those? Did a Japanese traveller bring them with her?
The mountains have this effect on me. They say stars shine the brightest in skies where fewer eyes gaze at them. How true that is too. We saw the mighty Milky Way twice in those ten days! I'm left in wonder of travellers, shepherds and explorers who would've walked the same rough terrain, the same stunning pastures, gazed at the same crystal lakes, watched the same wildflowers dance, sat in this same spot as me--before me, will do after I'm gone.
Curiosity connects us. If we were more curious and less cynical about each other, we'd be living in a peaceful paradise. But we choose to weed out curiosity and feed our cynicism in cities and civilizations and call it progress. Our systems thrive on this division of us and them. Imagine a world anthem with no mention of political borders. Can you? Ever wondered if the grass on this side of the border tastes different to the sheep and cattle that graze on it than the one growing across it!
"We are the Bhakkarwals." the shepherd-interpreter informed us. "Ours is a tough way of life. And we don't want our children to do this. We didn't get a chance to improve our lot. But they do. They all go to schools and colleges. After I'm done, my children will not do shepherding any more."
"Improve our lot." I thought. And here we are--city-dwellers by choice, educated, worldly folk who trek to these mountains, stay in tents, re-connect with that part of ourselves which lies buried under the demands of our own chosen lives. Granted, there is absolutely no comparison between choice and necessity. We choose to explore these mountains (with all creature comforts) while the shepherds have to keep a watch day and night, in snow, rain and wind. A shepherd's life in these parts is tough. No doubt.
Even off-the-counter common medicines are not easily available.
Our interpreter's bad back, our hostesses toothache are their realities. Like most human encounters in remote mountainous parts, our meeting ended with them asking for commonly available pain killers.
Their challenges are real. I get it.
But I still can't shake off the feeling that I wish I could live that hazel-eyed teenager's life for a year, a decade. How would I see me then? This world?
I remember when I was in grade 6, I was convinced that I didn't belong to this planet. I'd imagine a spaceship landing in the middle of our school's hockey-field and a booming voice from the spinning disc demanding me back from my school. For I was a VIP (Very Important Princess) of another planet, the booming voice would explain to the entire school, especially to Bro. Carroll (our school principal) and that I had been sent to planet Earth by mistake.
What sounds like pure conceit now was simply the effect of watching the film 'Back to the Witch Mountain' on my over active imagination.
I guess I have been trying to escape my reality ever since then!
What is about escape that is so appealing? We, the city-dwellers, escape to the mountains to find ourselves, to connect with that which we loose touch with when we live our day to day lives and yet the one thing that shone most brightly in the hazel-eyed teenager was the idea of escape. For the hour or so we sat in the wood, stone and mud hut of the Kashmiri shepherd, it was her eyes that kept me captivated. Glued.
Would she be happy to swap lives with me? Or would she wilt like an alpine flower trodden on by a careless trekker?
Would I survive such a harsh life? Could I?
Escape from our own realities is so delicious. Even the idea of such an escape makes ones eyes sparkle.
Yet, it is this reality that we have to embrace to find that elusive peace of mind. Guru Nanak Dev ji called it 'hukum rajai chalna, nanak likhiya naal'-- Accept the reality of this moment. This is it. There is no past and no future. This is it. To live in harmony with the laws of nature and not in conflict with that which is--is the way to eternal peace.
The Japanese call this concept of acceptance Uketamo (oo-ke-ta-mo) which means--I accept with an open heart.
Lalla Dyad -the mystic Kashmiri poetess says:
(quote from the book by the same name authored by Shafi Shauq)
"Why like a blind man you grope randomly?
Stride into your inside, if clever you are;
Shiva resides there, never seek Him elsewhere,
And trust in the word of truth that I say."
Perhaps it is easier to seek outside.
According to Stephen King (Stephen King on writing) "the easy answer isn't always the truth." Perhaps I'm not not ready to put in the hard work just yet.
Is it possible, I ask myself, to be as utterly curious about 'who am I' as I am about the mountains and valleys and all those yet to be explored nooks of this beautiful planet?
Perhaps one day all I'll have to do is go inward like Lalla Dayd and then I'll have no need to travel. But I have a sneaky suspicion that it is my travelling and wandering that will take me to who I am -- the ultimate state of 'I accept this moment as it is -- truly and fully'.
For the next time you're planning to escape to a land blessed with such surreal beauty that it takes your breath away every few kilometres (and not just because of the rising altitude! ) here are a few pictures to help you dream with your eyes wide open.
My younger self would have deleted the following photo. But in my autumn years, I see how this was meant to be.
I wish you beauty and peace in being you just as you are in this moment. Till we meet again. Ciao.
.jpg "Kangadi")
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