Slaves can never be FREE

In my 2018 diary, I've copied Yamini's words and dated it June, 19th, 2021.

Wise words or phrases or chunks of text that inspire me, soothe me, intrigue me or the ones that leave me powerless to resist, I copy: giving due credit to the writer, of course. I take out my favourite pen of the moment and write them  out in old, unused notebooks. 

If you were to look at my writing desk, book shelves, cupboards, plant stands, you'd spot a notebook or two lying around with words from various bloggers, authors, poets, written in no particular order of date or genre. 

Yesterday, I was all set to share my latest spoken word piece on my blog but something was amiss. The news of Kabul had stripped me of the need to blow my own trumpet. 

Why do we bother to write? What's the use? Does poetry matter? All those grey doubts would've drowned my day had I not met two seven-year-olds.

A dear friend visited with her twins. I had planned to blog in the morning and keep the rest of the day open for my young guests. The twins love sorties and I adore reading to them. It's a win win. I was excited to show them my book. They chose the one they wanted me to sign. 

When it was time for them to leave, K said, "You know I'm going to write a book, too."

"Wow!" I enthused " What's it called?"

We were at the garden gate when this conversation started. The sun was beating down on us. Her mother had turned the car on. 

K shared the title and every detail of her story. The three of us stood perspiring in the hot and humid Doha afternoon. In all of ten minutes, K had described her characters and the initial plot with such vivid details and clarity that I could see her story like a film. Suddenly, she stopped. She'd spotted a gap in her plot. 

Unperturbed, she put her finger to her forehead and thought for a few seconds.

"I'll think about it." she announced confidently and strode towards her waiting mother.

"I love it K. When do you plan to get started?" I asked.

"Today, when we get home." She offered matter-of-factly.

She saved my day.

Why do we, as adults , put so many obstacles in the way of our creative energies? 

My guests left. I took a nap and attended a poetry zoom meeting. That's when I noticed the 2018 diary lying next to my laptop. I picked it up and there they were: Yamini's wise words:

"Deep within us is a region unaffected by the tumultuous uproar of our daily lives."

My day had been rescued after all.

**************

Sharing my latest spoken word piece here. It's a commentary on personal freedom. 

Thank you for reading and for listening.

I wish you a peaceful day wherever you are.

 

Y is for You and I and Yesterday #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the penultimate post of  the #Blogging from A to Z  April Challenge 2021. My theme this year is based on the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie which means--"What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure."

Today, I'm sharing a poem about an ordinary, everyday, evanescent moment that got captured in the amber of attention and turned into a delight.

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

One of the Eight Zen Lessons for an Ichigo Ichie Life, listed in The Book of Ichigo Ichie is:

Savour this moment as if it were your last breath.

You can live only one day at a time, and no one can be certain that they will wake up the next morning. So, let's not postpone happiness. 

The best moment of your life is always this one.

This happened one morning as I lay in bed; in the in-between time of sleep and wakefulness.

When words pitter patter on half-opened eyelids, magic mingles with moments that hang precariously on the edges of that which has been lived and that which is yet to be.

I try to hold on to them in my hands, my mind, capture them in my pen to feed the hungry, empty pages of my notebook lying by the bed. But, they flutter away as gently as they'd arrived into crevices that exist in between wakefulness and dreams.

Yesterday, while I lay in bed looking at my love, the early morning sun reached him and me, rising through paper blinds that hang from our bedroom window beams.

These words appeared or did I see them for the first time?

Perhaps, they've always been planted inside those translucent concertina folds of the paper blinds.

I don't know, but a love poem rose with diamonds of dust and settled on wrinkles of pillow covers, dove blue-pale and soft with washes. 

The poem is called You and I.

I shared it on Instagram--so, it may be familiar to some who read it then.

You and I

You and I

we fit

your breath, my skin

my kiss, your lips

your heart, our beat

gaps between my fingers

your presence fills.

You and I

we fit

like dew on petal

one on one

complete.

A moment such as this

captured in bliss

you and I

we fit.

Just in case you're wondering about the overly romantic tone of today's post, let me shift the blame from my heart and put it squarely in the weather gods' box. It's raining in Doha!

This happens rarely and last year we didn't get much rain at all. So, it's celebration time. I can hear birdsong over the pitter-patter of rainfall, the neem blooms are dancing like drunken souls, all the leaves--big, small, lush, dusty look like they've seen God. They look so happy. The bulbul and the mynah aren't taking refuge. No sir! They're busy gobbling mulberries and dancing on the branches. Pink Oleander blooms are nodding as if to say--these young'uns -- and the blushing bunches of Madhumalti (Rangoon creeper) from the other end of the garden are sighing happily --'Yes, We know!' they whisper to the music of this long-awaited rain.

We are all dancing with joy.

I had to capture this precious, precious moment for who knows when the clouds will get heavy again and when they will want to let go of their burden and when the stars will align for their shedding to happen over Doha sky? Who knows.

The rain is distracting me:)

I almost forgot to mention that if by chance (after reading the poem above) you're imagining the husband to be flawless and that the two of us often sing duets into sunsets, let me stop you right there. He comes with as many faults as I do.

But his biggest obsession that I have the strongest objection to is his phone. Yes, I understand his work demands it--no, seriously, it does. But Covid-19 induced sequestering had taken his obsession to a new galactic level.

There I was--paying attention to dust diamonds and there he was -- paying no attention to what I was saying. All his attention was dedicated to the phone screen. I would've called it murdering Ichigo Ichie if I had known the term then. But I didn't. So what did I do? I wrote a poem, recorded it and shared it on Mirchi Scribbled.

He got the message loud and clear. He was the one who recorded it! He had to listen. I'm glad to report that he makes time to put his phone down and listen, really listen these days. We are both learning to find our way to be more like dewdrops and petals.

If you're wondering what I'm on about, you'll understand after you watch it:

It's called, Yesterday is not alive.

When I saw the video again, just before posting it, I noticed all the faults/mistakes/pauses/ fumbles but after the X post of yesterday, I'm cutting myself some slack and offering you poetry with a grateful heart.

Are you a lover of rain?

Do you live with someone who's too attached to their phone screen or any screen?

Do you write letters or poetry to make your voice heard?

You know I'd love to hear, if you'd like to share.

This year, I'm participating in #BlogchatterA2Z  powered by theblogchatter.com 

Good news comes in twos

Dear Friends and Readers,

I hope you've been well and healthy. 

The year 2020 seems to have played a trick on us. Every time I write a blog post, it feels like I'm near April somewhere. How could I be looking at the beginning of November already? I'm not complaining. As a matter of fact, I'm here to share two tasty pieces of treat i.e. good news with you. But before I do, a little preamble to how the news came about.

As you may recall, this year's A to Z Blogging Challenge took me down memory lane where I met my grandparents: Beji and Papaji. Some of the posts I wrote introduced you to them and their love of land and food and their devotion to us, their grandchildren. I chose to call myself a princess in one post and Artemis in another. What they call pride/hubris in the real world is known as imagination in the land of stories, right? Those posts were received with so much love and appreciation that when a call for stories for an anthology of feel good stories rang out in these parts, I rewrote a post into a short story and sent it.

Guess what? It got picked! And the book was launched on the 28th of October 2020! Miracles do happen. I'm sharing all the links. I'm not getting paid or anything but half the money raised from the sale of the book will be used to support an animal charity called 'Prani, The Pet Sanctuary' in Bangalore. I think it's a win win. My dream of seeing my work in print is helping to support a charity. What more could I ask for? I'm happy:) 

You can read 'Kingdom of Kitchen' and 27 other stories in the collection.

Presenting: Tea With a Drop of Honey by the Hive

India: https://www.amazon.in/dp/B08LCQK8WW

US: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08LCQK8WW

UK: https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B08LCQK8WW

Australia: https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B08LCQK8WW

Please leave helpful reviews if you can.

Covidkaal (the Covid Times) brought out another passion of mine to the fore. It happened by chance. And once again, it's thanks to the A to Z Challenge of 2020 where I met a kind soul and my namesake, Arti of my space who introduced me to online open mic sessions. One thing led to another and I found myself reading out my stories on zoom calls and Insta live sessions in June and July. By the time August rolled in, I had even started 'performing' poetry! It felt like I was back in school, on stage, debating and reciting. The thrills and chills felt exactly like they'd done more than 3 decades ago.

Then, last week, someone I'd met online on one such session asked me to send him some of my work and informed me that he hosts Mirchi Scribbled, a poetry/spoken word/storytelling platform affiliated to a well known radio channel in India called Radio Mirchi. He liked the pieces I'd sent him.

Artemis was back -- she even did a little victory dance to celebrate:)

When a piece was picked and okayed, I took it with me on my morning walks, sat with it under our neem tree and let the words that were written on a laptop screen become one with me.

Then last Friday, the husband and I teamed up to shoot a video of my poetry recital. I wore a grey Coimbatore cotton saree with a gorgeous black and mustard border, my favourite Kali locket, a pair of jhumkas and a big red bindi. I was ready.

We should be done in an hour, tops. I figured. We'll eat lunch after.

Two and a half hours of forgetting a line, knocking the phone off its stand, forgetting to push the record button, loo breaks, umpteen emptying of full glasses of water in single gulps followed by more loo breaks later, we agreed to stop and send the best recording we'd managed thus far. Lunch couldn't wait any longer.

Thanks to Parth Vasani of Mirchi Scribbled who did a stellar editing job, our amateur attempts at recording look pretty neat.

Presenting, my debut performance:

So, that's all folks.

I know Covid Times have been tough but all this sequestering has been like a hatching for me. I'm the egg that's had enough time and warmth over the last six months to crack open tiny parts of my creative spirit from the safety of my nest and peek out a little.

Wishing you a wonderful Halloween if you celebrate and a magical weekend if you don't.

It's a very special full moon tonight. Do go out (if it's possible and if the skies are clear) and let the Moon bathe you in her moonlight.

I owe all the above to the world of blogging and to the A to Z Challenge this year. And to you my dear friends and readers.

Thank you.

Love and prayers,

Arti