B is for Breath #bloggingfromatoz #NaPoWriMo 2022 #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

It's day 2 of the two April challenges I've jumped into.

Two things to share with you toady:

1) You may want to click on: The prompt to find out the task (optional, of course) set by  #NaPoWriMo. The challenge is to write a poem based on a word featured in a tweet from Haggard Hawks, an account devoted to obscure and interesting English words. 

I've picked “greenout,” which means “the relief a person who has worked or lived in a snowy area for a long time feels on seeing something fresh and green for the first time” to write my poem.

2) Also, as the poems I'll be sharing this month are first drafts, I'll be removing them from my site after a couple of days.

Thank you for being here. 

Arti 

**********

Notice: Day 2 poem has now been removed.

_______________________

I'm participating in the #AtoZ April Challenge as a blogger and in #NaPoWriMo 2022 as a poet.

Wish you a happy and healthy Saturday.

Reality vs. Imagination.

Every year on my birthday, I cry.

This year was no exception.

"Happy Birthday to me." I grumbled sarcastically as the husband entered the kitchen at 7.30 am on the morning of my birthday last week.

He said nothing. Didn't react. He's learnt to walk on egg shells around this time of the year. He's had 28 years of practice.

I was washing the dishes. The kitchen tap was gushing ferociously. I huffed and I puffed at the unfairness of the morning. 

He extended a small bag towards me. I rolled my eyes at him. I was in no mood to dry my hands and accept my birthday present from him. He left for work after wishing me 'Happy Birthday' quietly.

The 'present' sat on the slab near the water filter, unopened. I looked at it only after I had done the dishes and scrubbed all the surfaces and dried my hands. I didn't open it.

I should've been happy. I should've ripped the present open and rejoiced in this act of love, basked in the happy fact that he'd made an effort. But, something inside me was nudging me on to be unhappy. I wanted to be moody and block any joy from entering my heart. What it is, I don't know. But, it happens every year -- around my birthday. Perhaps, it's an unresolved childhood memory. Perhaps it's a disconnect between my reality and  my imagination.

Till a decade or so ago, I'd imagine my birthday to be a replay of the many Mills and Boon romances I'd read as a teenager. Something like this: that a perfectly fitting dress with perfectly matched accessories and the most comfortable and fashionable shoes (all wrapped up beautifully) will be delivered to my door along with a note that'll read--have made reservations at so and so, will be waiting for you. Love you. Signed--husband. 

The messenger will turn out to be a chauffeur as well.  I'll get dressed and go to celebrate my special day at this fabulous imaginary location and we'll live happily ever after.

Ignore the big plot gaps such as work schedules (my birthday is not a national holiday) and HIS choice of dress, location, footwear suiting my taste and temperament -- I don't let him decide my salad dressing, how did I imagine myself being okay with his choice of attire for me?

Let's assign the absurdity of my imaginary celebrations to my daydreaming ways.

Granted, it's a ridiculous ask. 

Now, Let's take a quick peek at what usually happened--year after year on my birthday.

Firstly, it took the husband more than a decade of reminding (by yours truly) to remember the all important date!

By the time the children became old enough to make cards and make a fuss over me, he'd figured it was safer to ask them to help him to keep me from blowing my fuse.

It worked, mostly. Except, there's that big one he missed -- my fortieth. I sulked for half a month.

He's been good as gold since.

It's been 11 years.

Another learning happened on that fateful 40th. I took charge of my own celebrations. 

I became my own romantic hero from then on. I bought my own presents for me--a saree and/or a piece of jewellery, organised picnics or turned up for gatherings organised by other women, met friends for a meal--anything that I fancied that year to celebrate my special day. 

In fact, the year I turned 48, I decided to let go of all and every expectation. I had just turned older than my mother had ever been. I could see what a blessing this life is. A joy to behold.

Despite all the maturing that was going on, images of my imaginary celebration continued to cast intermittent shadows on the day and make me sad in the middle of all the love, joy, happiness. I'd shed a tear or two and let the sadness wash away from me. 

Of course, there is no logic to my behaviour. No, I have not seen a therapist for this unique problem yet.

Back to my birthday this year.

The little bag is still sitting on the slab. I look at it but don't open it. Instead I grab the garden broom and step outside. Dried frangipani leaves are strewn all over. I start collecting them, one swipe then another and another. A pile of leaves -- half golden, half brown makes me smile for the first time on my birthday. The morning sun, filtering through the branches on which these very leaves lived a day ago, touches the crumbly heap with its magic. Each leaf, now dead, shines like an incandescent incarnation of its life's journey-- a purposeful life lived fully and let go of so effortlessly.

Something dislodges inside me. Tears well up and escape down my cheeks. But they're not sad tears. I can't explain it but holding the handle of the dust pan, I get up and look around with new eyes. I look at my hands and thank them. My dusty feet, naked on the brick floor, look beautiful to me. I look up at the frangipani tree. In a moment, I'm buzzing with joy. Birdsong, sunlight, gentle breeze -- all come rushing in as if the gate I'd kept  bolted up all my life has suddenly swung open. I don't know what happened but I run back to the kitchen--grab the little bag and take out the card first, read it and then rip open the white tissue my beautiful necklace is wrapped up in. I call him. Thank him. Tease him about his 'official' sounding card. I sense his relief. I sense his love. I sense my love.

For the next 2 hours, I clean the rest of the house while listening to Sufi music on full volume.

The list of things I'm grateful for grows longer with everything I touch to dust or move to clean: this safe space, this new day, this new beginning. 

At 10 am, I decide to pick up my phone. It's heavy with messages. I listen to a few, make a couple of calls I'd missed and accept the love. It keeps flowing. Then, I hear a voice note. I'm stunned. I can not imagine I'm hearing it. How could this be? Who's listening in? Who's watching me? 

My friend Aprajita's message rolls out of my phone and tumbles into me like a torrent. Kabir's words gush in through my ears first. I'm stunned to hear the poem. I listen to it again and again. Each pore of my body absorbs the words of Kabir like a famished soul--hungrily. My thirst is unquenchable for the solace his words bring. I put a star on the message so I can reach it easily, quickly as often as I need to hear it.

I don't know where, how or what I'll be next year around the time of my birthday. But for now, I'm happy that the turning, the changing and the unburdening this year happened in a matter of minutes.

Once upon a time, I would've sulked for days for imaginary things. Now, I stand firm in this body, this moment, this reality and keep my heart wide open for love to flow into me, through me.

An ocean in a drop--a drop in the ocean.

Going forward, there will be times when I'll forget the lessons I've learnt. In those times, I know I'll stand firmly in my space and remind myself that this is life. Forgiving the self is the best present I've opened this year. I know without a doubt that the next time I stumble upon my path or lose sight of this love, a voice note or a poem or a gesture or a dried leaf will present itself to guide me back to my present, my joy, my happiness.

Are there any imaginary worlds that you've attached yourself to that distort the beauty of your everyday reality? You know I'd love to hear if you'd like to share.

Thank you for reading this post. I wish you beautiful days and wonderous nights where you stand firm in your reality and in the solidity of your grounding may you soar brighter than any imagination.

Stay safe. Till we meet again.

An easy embrace

(Seattle, August 2021)

My husband and I have adhered to the social-distancing, minimal meeting protocol of Covid times like good students. We have followed the rules. Over the last fortnight or so, however, we have started emerging out of our long hibernation and engaging in the social etiquette of meeting with other human beings, mostly friends--tentatively and cautiously.

At all these recent meetings, what struck me was the palpable discomfort and uncertainty surrounding the erstwhile easy practice of shaking hands and/or hugging each other.

Open palms pause in mid-air, turn to closed fists and proceed to bump fists of friends. For that split second fist contact, I, at least, feel like breaking into hip-hop or rap. Thankfully, my mask hides my silly grin and I continue to act my age.

Then there are those hanging in mid-air moments when both of us bend our bodies towards each other to hug, and realise we're not ready to throw caution to wind just yet. We turn sideways and offer an elbow bump instead: Bhangra style sans music.

Embracing reality has made us let go of the ease of embracing each other. 

When I was growing up, japphis (hugs in Punjabi) were the privilege of family and very close friends. It was a valuable commodity used sparingly but honestly. When you received a pyaar wali japphi (a bear hug), you knew you'd be okay. It was a token of love. For strangers, acquaintances, and friends-in-the-making there was Namaste: the no contact way of expressing a phenomenal range of emotions, from love and respect on one end to  discord and disagreement on the other. How hard the two palms come together to form the 'namaste' can convey the intention of emotion very clearly to the other.

Sometime in the past, the 'hug' became as mandatory as wearing deodorant in polite society. 

Suddenly, everybody was offering themselves to be embraced at parties, meetings, conferences and get-togethers. Sometimes, the ubiquitous air kissing would provide the sound track to these newly adopted social norms.

I must admit I participated in the practice of communal hugging myself at first. 

Then, with dwindling need to fit in, I became more discerning of who I hugged. But my hugs became deeper and more meaningful. They were my expression of love for the one I hugged. My hugs were never flippant. They lasted. I have friends who'd come over just for a hug. 'I need a hug today.' I'd demand solace from friends when I felt vulnerable. And they'd do the same. My body remembers those beautiful hugs, still. 

Moving forward, I wonder if we'll learn from the pause provided my the non-contact era of Covid'19. Will we practice deeper, more meaningful embracing of friends, family or will we continue to engage in fickle, societal norms to fit in? 

What do you think? Are hugs a part of your 'normal'? Do you miss them? Should we be more discerning of who we embrace? 

I'd love to know your thoughts. 

In the meantime, I'm sharing a poem I wrote for a contest run by Soul Craft Poetry on Instagram last week. The task was to write a poem in exactly 44 words on the theme of:

Harvesting Hope

I know not how to harvest hope

four letters long

eternal

impermeable

indestructible harbinger of spring.

dormant 

it lies 

in snowdrops all winter long

like a lover's hug

breath. raison d'etre

gallantly, gracefully, generously rising 

to embrace

all my cells

to keep me alive.

*********

Wishing you all a wonderful week. Stay safe and healthy. Embrace hope, love and a warm blanket if it's cold where you are.

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.

 

A bowl of frangipani

Last week, for the first time, I attended a poetry workshop.

I've always dreamed of enrolling into an MFA programme, of living on campus once again and of soaking my days and nights in poetry, literature, reading, writing and reciting. Years of waiting for the right time when the children are old enough, when I have enough money, when I'm not working rolled on and on and brought me to Doha, Qatar.  I've lived here for over a decade. My children are adults now. They don't need me any more. I quit my job four years ago to pursue writing full time. And if I really wanted to, I'd be able to gather sufficient funds to pursue my so called dream. But. But. But.

Isn't assigning some life goals to dreams more attractive than putting them into plans? Plans are concrete. Dreams are fluid. Plans push you to do something about them. Dreams don't have any such requirements. Plans are realists. Dreams are romantic. 

There are many who plan and achieve and become successful. Then there are a few like me; the ones who let life's flow guide their plans. 

In my experience, at least, life's flow has a wonderful rhythm. Unknown to me, it syncs with my dreams and together they guide me into spaces where poetry lives, in pastures where words roam free, into orchards where all trees are ripe with fruit of ideas and creativity and suddenly, I am left executing plans that I never had the courage or the discipline to make.

That's what happened last fortnight. Sonia, a dear blogger friend, shared information about a poetry workshop on zoom.  I logged on. And promptly entered a live MFA class -- the kind I had imagined in my dreams:)

It was an hour long session.

One of the exercises involved looking at a picture of an urli (bowl) filled with frangipani blooms.

Below are some of the poems that came to the page that day.

I'd love to know which one holds your attention.

One:

In a bowl 

I know my limits

On a branch

I'm free

Two:

Refugees for a day

plucked from our birth-branches

You arrange us

so beautifully.

Three:

(Inspired by Rumi's words)

Reflected in the water

of this urli,

I see 

the East before my birth

the West after my demise

clearly.

Four:

Captured for a day,

you held us prisoners.

You called us beautiful.

You murdered us

for your pleasure.

The photo above was clicked in 2017. 

The photo below was made yesterday.

Wishing you all a fragrant weekend.

Stay safe.

See you soon.

Sewing Symphonies with Threads of Love and Strength -- a book review for #blogchatterEbookCarnival

A collection of Poetry that attempts to connect the dots of life.

Title: Heartfelt Symphonies

Author: Chinmayee Gayatree Sahu

Format: PDF E-book

When a book cover matches the contents of the book as perfectly as this one, it makes me wonder what came first - the cover or the poetry? The cover art of 'Heartfelt Symphonies' is the perfect artful representation of the author, Chinmayee Sahu's poetry.  

'The poetry collection is a debut attempt by the author to showcase varied emotions that may capture the reader's attention to moments, memories, or musings in their own life." states the Author's Note at the beginning.

Arranged in four parts, namely, The Supreme Power, Nature, Fire and Life, the poetry flows from the divine to human love as effortlessly as the seeping pigments of the watercolours on the book's cover. Despite the distinctions, the flavours mingle together to create a melodious symphony.

The strength of Devi (Goddess representing the female form) and the fierceness of Shiva, the Adiyogi, set the stage as you step into Chinmayee's world. Her acknowledgments at the beginning of the book hint at the strength the author draws from her family. This first part confirms the source of her resolve and creativity: her belief in the Divine and her family.

As I moved from poem to poem, section to section, I had a sense that I was watching the poet threading her gentle needle of words through many pieces of fabric and patches of her life lived thus far and sewing them together into a tapestry that was HER--the divine and the human mixing in the knots and threads of hope and disappointment, hurt and betrayal, strength and doubt, sadness and joy. The thread, however, stays the same. It's love with a capital ell. And despite the heartache that is palpable in the longing in her lines of poetry, it's her resolve to carry on and to do so with grace and humility, in 'silence' more than in show, that shines through.

A romantic's heart that has felt the pain of human love and yet looks to the skies and the oceans to be one with the source is on show throughout this weaving. Its strength shimmers in its vulnerability. And that connects the reader to the poet for she has managed to write about ordinary, everyday emotions we have all felt at some point in our lives.

In her poem, 'Dried Petals', she says,

"the dried rose flower,

stands as a testimony,

of the promises that were,

made believing the dream,"

And then moves on to these lines a few pages later in 'Flying Puzzle':

"fragile, yet so soulful,

just like me,

isn’t the Dandelion, an intriguing puzzle?"

As I continued to read, one thing became clear. To the reader, the poet is not a puzzle. To me, as I base my idea of the author on this book, she's seeking the balance that seeker's seek--the one between living a life according to societal norms and expectations and looking towards a life of a lover, a sage, a hermit who wants nothing more than to become as light as a feather.

'Grow in Silence' brings the poet's vision into sharp focus for the reader when she says,

"To look deep within ourselves

Till we grow into our best selves

Away from the noise of comparison

To constantly strive & shine on life’s horizon!"

'My Red Lipstick' caught my attention. It's perhaps one of my favourites of this collection.

I'll refrain from sharing any more lines from the book for it's a much better experience to immerse in the book from start to finish. It's a total of 64 pages-- a good one to read over the weekend. And what's more? You can download it for FREE here : Heartfelt Symphonies

PS. This book is part of #BlogChatterEbook carnival in which my book, And all the Seasons in between  is also a part.

He carried dirt under his fingernails

Many of you vising this blog may already know that I published my first e-book recently. Yay! The book's been getting a lot of love and some fabulous reviews. I'm chuffed to bits. I've been dancing and singing like the bulbuls all week. It's a happy time in a writer's life when her words find welcoming hearts.

Today, I'm here to share a poetry recital of a spoken word piece which is also the last chapter of the book. 

You can download the book for free here : And all the Seasons in between

I'd love to hear what you think of the poem and of the book. You can leave your comments here or on theblogchatter.com 

If you'd like to read a review before you make up your mind to download and read, here's one that'll convince you:-) Book Review

Have a wonderful Friday. Till we meet again. 

Hope, Nostalgia and a Big Blue Sky -- a book review for #BlogchatterEbookCarnival

This is a brilliant read.

Title: She and other Poems

Author: Huma Masood

Format: PDF E-book

The eye-catching artwork of the cover attracted me to pick this book. It held promise and I'm glad to say it didn't disappoint. Like any good book or film, I was left with the lingering feeling of wanting a bit more, not ready for it to end. 

The dedication page is a poster worth sharing widely. 

This collection of poems is divided into 4 sections: She, Dilemma, Inspired and Random Thoughts. There are a total of 33 poems. Each section has been designed with its unique and aesthetically pleasing colour scheme.

"Colours have the power to

change our mind and mood"

The art on the pages preceding each section has been picked with such care that if I was holding a physical copy of this book, I would've stared at these pages for long periods of time before diving into the next section. 

Born out of the poet's self-isolation, the poems delve into challenges faced by one and all in these times of the pandemic and yet, a sense of rejuvenation, hope and belief in the transformative powers of human endurance keeps the reader company throughout.

"We are like little birds in different types of cages."

Despite the isolation which is palpable in some of the poems, the book looks to new beginnings like night looks to day; quite sure of the inevitability of light after dark.

One poem that stood out for its power to connect is Black &White Pictures: 'A poem inspired by the Turkish resistance movement by the women against the prevailing extreme domestic abuse.'

It shows just how effortlessly poetry can connect causes, responses and  humans despite isolation and distances. The skill of the poet lies in the fact that she manages to do all this in just a few lines.

 "Stereotyping often leads people to make unfair

decisions based on poor

reasoning and gossip"

Leads you to another gem: They Chatter. In five short lines, Huma instils confidence in every heart that was ever hurt either by their own family/friends/ lovers or by the unknown trolls of social media. Brilliant.

I'm sharing one of Huma's poems here to illustrate the power of her words. It's called The Scarpbook and it appears in the 'Dilemma' section of the book.

"The forgotten nook

And that old xanthic scrapbook

Smelling oh so good"

As you continue reading, Haikus paint colours of Autumn and blue skies open you up to the peace that dwells in Huma's poetry. The reader feels tranquil while she reads and re-reads the lines on her laptop screen.

Nostalgia and hope will keep you hooked till the very last page. I read this book in one go and then went back to read each section separately.

As a lover of the written word, I'm drawn to poetry and often try my hand at crafting poems myself.  I'm verbose by choice because I love words. They say opposites attract. So, when I come across poets and writers who's carefully chosen few words not only speak volumes, but do it so gently and effectively that their thoughts and passions linger beyond the full stop, beyond the page, I bow my head in awe, in reverence. Huma's poetry (every section and every page) had that effect on me.

"Words are like bees. Some make honey, others leave a sting.

-Unknown"

The poet draws our attention to the power of words. She leads by example. Use them wisely, her poetry suggests.

"The words we use are powerful. They

can motivate us or tear us down.

And once spoken they can't be

undone easily"

Nodding to fresh beginnings, buzzing with bees, hopeful and open like beautiful blue skies, this poetry collection doesn't ignore to pay attention to the brand new pair of high heels that are yearning to feel the gravel underneath. Their hankering for travel is captured in the poet's lines.

And yet, the reader feels as hopeful as clay on a potter's wheel, about to be moulded into any number of possibilities, and as full of promise as the seed that is about to sprout in spring because the poet believes that 'the pressure you face expands your horizons.' And she manages to convince the reader too, gently.

Don't think too much. Just download the book and enjoy your weekend. It's beautiful through and through.

It's only when I read 'about the author' section at the end of the book that I realised that 'Huma is registered with Canva as a contributor'. That's when the penny dropped. No wonder the book looks so beautiful, I thought and smiled. Lucky us. If and when this book reincarnates in a physical form, I'd like to hold it and place it lovingly on my shelf of poetry books, next to Tagore and Carol Ann Duffy.

In the meantime, I will read Huma's poetry and copy her modus operandi.

'I read, I indulge

I see the beautiful world

Curled up on my couch'

This book is a visual and literal treat. Not to be missed if you're keen to see clear blue skies of hope in these uncertain times.

The book is free to download now. You can get it here: She and other poems by Huma Masood

PS. This book is part of #BlogChatteEbook carnival in which my book, And all the Seasons in between is also a part.

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 

W is for The Wedding Album #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the last week 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 looking at my wedding album with Ichigo Ichie eyes. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

Story Water

A story is like water

that you heat for your bath.

It takes messages between the fire

and your skin. It lets them meet,

and it cleans you!

...

Water, stories, the body,

all the things we do, are mediums

that hide and show what's hidden.

Study them,

and enjoy this being washed

with a secret we sometimes know,

and then not.

Above is part of a poem borrowed from The Essential Rumi, translated by Coleman Barks.

The Wedding Album

Bound in blue, it lives 

inside a bag of cloth lying

at the back of my wardrobe.

I open it rarely but whenever I do,

It pulls me in.

The wardrobe's sliding doors 

don't come in the way

of my entry into Narnia of that one sunny yesterday--

my wedding day.

Snapshots of happy, sad moments are glued on thick snowy pages:

on the verge of showing signs of wear 

and going yellow at the edges.

Smiles, tears, flowers, sindoor

lie frozen behind plastic doors.

I sit on the bedroom floor holding 

Einstein's theory of relativity.

The windows of a train he'd mentioned 

are stuck in an album bound in blue.

Bitter-sweet moments zoom past fast 

escaping the wardrobe through and through.

In a whirlpool of time, like Alice I slide

down 

into my present, future and past.

Marriage seeds sown for new lovers

who'll meet,

And some happily ever-afters that will split.

Children yet to be born.

Parents, grandparents that will soon be gone

leaving behind stories

rippling

in waters of memories to be reflected upon.

Bubbles of things that were left unsaid

and the love that should've been shown

will burst and form again and again

as every page is turned.

Vacant looks in Beji's eyes

will bloom into Alzheimer's plight.

She'll forget me soon after the wedding.

It won't matter if I visit her: I'll justify my busy life for me.

 

Twenty-six years of life

sit caught and bound

in an orange and gold bag of cloth

at the back of my wardrobe.

The pale pink heirloom, his family gave me,

brings me back in time.

I look at it--gota-patti running in fine Punjabi design.

Jasmine, henna, his eyes, his 'you look beautiful,' 

will continue to shine

my everyday, ordinary and that Mr. Einstein

is how I understand

relativity of Time.

The pale pink scarf with gota-patti

Our wedding album has seen more light in the past one year than at any other time in the past two decades. I reckon, the sequestering (at least for me) is making me more nostalgic, not just for the recent past but for the past, past as well.

What about you? Have you picked up an old album recently?

Are you the keeper of a family heirloom?

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

Leaving you with this very short video. I think you'll love it as much as I do. It's 'a snapshot of an ancient past captured in time.'

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

T is for Trees Hussain draws #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the fourth week 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."

I've put together a collage of such moments which can be seen as chance occurrences, coincidences, pre-destined or random (depending on who you ask) for this month's challenge. 

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

*****

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

Just sit and see what happens: Our spiritual short-sightedness often causes us to look far away: in space and time -- for what's really right in front of us. 

Zen teaches us to simply sit and embrace the moment, 

with no further ambitions than this. 

If we are with people, we celebrate their company as a gift. 

He is Hussain.

In the summer of 2018, I was roaming the streets of Barcelona alone. 

The husband had work to attend to and I had no agenda tying me down. I did what I love. I walked without a map, without a plan, turning corners that enticed me and exploring lanes that caught my eye. My camera and I, we were grateful for such unencumbered pastures of time to frolic in to our heart's content.

In a lane, I met Hussain.

He was working with tin cans.

We got talking. He told me he hails from Pakistan.

I mentioned my grandfather to him. I told him I used to call him Papaji.

That Papaji had to leave his home in Shinkiari, in the North West Frontier

of what used to be one country

but now lies in his Pakistan.

He looked up from the tree he'd drawn

in an open tin can

and said,

"I can't take money from you then.

tum to humaree beti hui."

(you are like a daughter to me.)

I've written about Hussain before, on my Instagram post. And like that time, even today, when I type and his face emerges before my eyes, all these years later, I can feel the warmth of the love ocean coursing through his generous heart.

We chatted 

for a long time. 

I had no plans, nowhere to go. 

I slipped 

into a squat next to him. 

I remember a ledge that I rested on. It felt good 

after walking all day long. 

He kept creating 

his art treasures from recycled cans: painting 

trees of life, or knowledge or love perhaps.

I asked him if I could click his photos while he worked. He nodded and smiled and pointed to capital letters on white card that read 

'PHOTO FREE'.

He let me capture 

this meeting of our souls with lenses, senses.

With almost all his possessions lying 

next to him in a bag, looking 

into an uncertain future as his paperwork was still being processed, Hussain sat 

by the roadside like a King: kind, radiant, generous and smiling.

I picked a few of his art pieces and thought I'd give them to friends in Doha as remembrances

of the city

I found him in.

The art pieces sit on top of my chest of drawers--stacked 

like dishes--because every time I've taken one out to give, 

I've felt reluctant to part with it.

What is it that makes me so attached 

to art made by a stranger sitting in a busy Barcelona lane who seemed so detached from it all; so content; so at peace with himself? I wonder.

The next day, I went back to the same lane looking for Hussain but he was nowhere to be seen. I walked around for a few hours in the hope that I might see him. 

But I didn't.

He must be lighting up whichever corner of the world he's in.

Yes, he is truly Hussain. 

Hussain, I hope you're well and healthy.

Hussain in Urdu means good, beautiful, handsome.

Do you strike up conversations with strangers? Have you met any Hussains on your travels?

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

Last year, I shared this song sung by our daughter, Arshia: Toxic Weather

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