Z is for Zikr #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the last 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, we wrap up with a reminder.

I hope you'll enjoy being here.

Thank you.

Arti

There's a Peanuts cartoon that shows Snoopy and Charlie Brown from behind, sitting on a jetty beside a lake, having the following conversation:

"Someday, we will all die Snoopy!"

"True, but on all the other days, we will not."

The above extract is from  The Book of Ichigo Ichie.

The authors go on to say:

And "all the other days" are made up of encounters and moments that we either allow to slip away or make unforgettable.

According to Wikipedia, Zikr (Urdu) is the same as Arabic Dhikr. Zikr literally means "remembrance, reminder" or "mention, utterance". They are Islamic devotional acts, in which phrases or prayers are repeated.

What better way to complete a series inspired by Ichiego Ichie than to remember this April of bonhomie we managed to nurture despite the world crises; to mention all those whose paths crossed with mine, to utter words of encouragement and gratitude to those who visited and commented, and above all to remind ourselves that we are all one.*

I once heard a wise person say: the air that you think divides us actually holds us all together as one big family. In a dark and twisted way, Covid-19 has proven without a doubt that we are all one race--the human race. We are all in it together. We all suffer the same. And yet, we refuse to accept this simple truth.

That which binds us also divides us. It has many names, many theories. Some doubt its existence and some are ready to die to prove their interpretation is better than the rest. Some call him God while others see her as the vast Universe. 

Whenever I lean into my kind of belief system: poetry, nature, music and books, I find that all of us are, after all, seeking the same. 

We are all sitting with Snoopy and Charlie Brown on that pier. 

So, let us live and let live. Let us indulge in Zikr and recite any name, sing any song, dance any which way because in the end we are pigments of carbon housing a light that can light us up as brightly as the sun, if we have eyes that see and hearts that are willing to be open and welcoming.

"Sufis believe you must empty yourself of all egocentric tendencies before you can experience the divine. Only once the flute is hollow, can it produce music. The story Rumi tells is of a reed separated from the reed-bed so that it can be formed into a flute. The reed flute bemoans his separation, and cries out."  

says the author of this post: Drunk in Zikr (worshipping through the arts)

I urge you to stop and listen to Rumi's Ney Name before you read on.

How do you feel? Hollow? Full? At peace? Not quite?

No worries, let the hills of Khasi in Eastern India bathe you with their story water for a few moments. You will see that despite different centuries and different continents, the flute and the duitara sing the same song. 

If you want to stay on for a bit, you can click on: Mawphlang: of sacred groves

I'll repeat and repeat and like the Sufis get drunk on this zikr--we are one. We are one. We are one.

But, we have to pay attention. We have to pay attention to each other. 

It's not my intention to preach. Please forgive me if in my excitement I become entangled in the yarn of repetition. 

Those of you who heard the poem, Yesterday is not alive I posted yesterday, know how I feel about phone screens. The Hindi word I used in the poem is called virah which means a longing. My longing for my husband's attention may sound petty and needy but if we are all carrying the Divine light in us, then doesn't paying attention to each other amount to paying attention to the Divine? 

This short film is called Virah. The producer of the film is Raman Iyer, an amazing story teller and mandolin player who has been telling a story every night for the past 387 days on Instagram under 'Midnight Musings with the Mandolin'. 

Zikr can be done in any form. 

I choose to remember the kindness, generosity, knowledge, beauty and love I have felt in this place, in this space with you all this month. I choose to be in Snoopy's camp and live, live, live my moments of breath so fully and fabulously that when the time comes to draw my last, I can say--I lived.

I hope to see you all soon. We shall reflect more fully in May.

Till then, take good care of yourselves and each other. Wishing you all a wonderful, peaceful, restful weekend with my favourite Ramdas's words, "We are all walking each other home." 

*I hope to thank everyone properly in my reflection post in May.

***** 

Last year, I wrote about the Light in Zarraa, Zarraa

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 

E is for Escape like an Earthworm #AtoZChallenge

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the second 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.

Today's post is all about getting lost in time; of timelessness, of when moments morphs into nectar.

I hope you'll enjoy reading it. 

Thank you.

Arti

*****

"Listen to presences inside poems, Let them take you where they will.

Follow those private hints, and never leave the premises."

Quote borrowed from 'The Essential Rumi' Translations by Coleman Barks

The word escape, I feel, has had a bad rep ever since it started associating with 'ism'. Escapism sounds like cowardice, like one is avoiding ones role in human form. 

To me, escape is essential for self-preservation. It's time travel. Let me explain with an example:

When I was six or so years old, time was a cloud that came rolling in without making a sound. I'd be lost in Papaji's garden for hours (according to my mother) which felt like minutes to me.

Everything fascinated me: plants, flowers, bees, leaves, soil, twigs, branches and climbing trees. 

Often, my sister and I and a few other children from the neighbourhood would congregate behind the rose bushes, under Papaji's big mulberry tree, far from adult eyes, to prepare wedding feasts for our dolls. There used to be one communal doll and its groom was usually present in proxy for no one could ever find him. 

The magic of preparing the feast lay in the pots and pans we would sculpt out of garden soil. We'd carry water in palms of hands, bottles or mugs from the grey, cement water tank next to the metal gate. Mixing water with soil and patting  pateele, tawe and karahian (pots and pans) of varying shapes and sizes would absorb all of us all at once. Six inch wide pans, uneven looking pots would start appearing on the patch of sand where the ginger plant fronds erupted. It got the most sun so the pots dried quickly. 

We'd run back and forth (stealthily and swiftly) from our kitchens stealing a potato or two, a tomato perhaps, some salt and haldi and sometimes even spoons and an odd knife. We'd will the fires to burn with scarps of stolen newspapers and twigs gathered from the garden, going phoo, phoo, phoo at the embers to get things going. 

We escaped into play with such abandon and enthusiasm that when an adult voice called out to announce that the sun would be setting soon and it was time to get back indoors, we'd all be taken by surprise.

Hastily, the half-cooked feasts in half-baked pots would be distributed by the oldest in the group who'd take charge. We'd extend our palms and relish the raw potato cubes swimming in lukewarm salty water like they were the tastiest morsels we'd ever eaten before wiping our hands on our frocks and shirts and promising each other to be better prepared for the next 'gudde-gudiya  ki shaadi' (doll's wedding).

Those tunnels of fun we travelled into when we lost ourselves in play brought us back to the surface of reality refreshed, enthused, bubbling with ideas. Like earthworms, we dug deep into our worlds and churned our energies, our imaginations, our friendships, our abilities into fertile ground for growth. 

I do it still--

escape, evaporate. 

I haven't made any pots 

with garden soil 

recently 

but losing myself in a book, 

a poem, a plant, birdsong, a bloom, or

an inefficient teapot 

teasing to be reused,

brings me back up:

refreshed, rejuvenated.

These portals of everyday, ordinary things

suck me in.

I like to indulge in time travel, I do.

And I do it as often as it pleases me.

You could say, I'm a pro

at the art of getting lost

disappearing into lines and words and the spaces left blank on pages.

One day, if I practise getting lost in tunnels of time, often.

I may find I've smudged my edges on a dragonfly's effervescent wings.

 

O! How magical that would be!

*****

The etymology of the word escape suggests that it was used to mean, 'free oneself from confinement'. 

Covid-19 may have confined us to our homes but we all have an escape route or two at our disposal. Of course, any addiction of any sort does not qualify for the kind of escape I'm talking about:) 

What's your escape route? When does time morph for you? If you'd like to share, you know I'd love to hear.

 Horizons melt 

Sun escapes 

ocean waves

Photos taken in June 2019, South African coast.

*****

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

Z is for Zarrā Zarrā #AtoZChallenge

An Urdu phrase today:  Zarrā Zarrā [Devnagari: ज़र्रा, Urdu: ذرّہ, pronunciation: Zarrā] 

I hope this last post of the challenge will make the meaning of this phrase clear to you.

Papadash and Artemis are back today. They'll help you get there:)

Marigold Yellow and Dahlia Maroon were opening their buds when Artemis heard Mother tell Father that Papadash had sent word with Breeze of Gentle.

"The Wizard thinks she's ready to go back to the Great Garden." Mother's words sounded as sweet as the song Koel sang in Tree of Jamun.

"Hmm." agreed Father.

When Artemis reached the Big Metal Gate, Papadash, the Perect was waiting. His eyes twinkled in the morning sun. 

Artemis ran straight into his open arms and immediately felt at home.

"You've grown my child." Papadash kissed the top of her head. 

There were many more Twigs in her wild hair today. They had all begged her to take them along as she'd run past first the Grove of Mango and then the Grove of Litchi. They cracked and creaked till Artemis agreed.

"I missed you so much Papadash." Artemis felt a tickle in her throat. So, she cleared her words out.

"Why?" 

Artemis looked up surprised. Her eyes were filling up with Drops of Dew. Did you not miss me then? She thought but didn't say anything.

"But child, how am I to miss you if you never left me?" Papadash asked as they sat under Tree of Mulberry.

"I don't understand." confessed Artemis.

"You must be hungry." the wise Wizard said and pulled out an Orange Orange from deep inside his pockets and started peeling it.

Artemis was too happy to be back to let anything bother her. Leaves of Mulberry danced to the tune of Bulbul  while Perfume of Rose skipped around them. Even the Bags of Cloth who never looked happy for they often complained about Sour Grapes seemed to have mellowed with age. 

Papadash peeled the skin of Orange carefully. He split it into two halves and gave one half to Artemis.

She popped a segment into her mouth as soon as she got it. The juice was sweet and cool. She rocketed the pip out. Sunflower Bright moved his head to see how far the pip would fall.  

"How was it?" 

Artemis turned to see that Papadash hadn't touched his share of Orange yet. She felt a little embarrassed about finishing her half so quickly.

"Look." he said and peeled the web of veins that held the segments of Orange in place and showed it to her. 

Artemis watched spellbound as Papadash picked out a segment, slowly and carefully: just like Mother picks baby brother out of his cot. He asked Artemis to notice the veins, the transparent skin and pay attention to the promise of juice that lay within. He spilt it open. The strands full of juice opened up like a fan. Hidden inside the orange strands, lay a pip. 

"What do you see?" asked Papadash holding the pip between his thumb and finger.

"A pip."

"Child, look closely and you will see you, the world and me." 

For it is common knowledge that all of  Earth's Trees live inside Seeds -- from Orange Sweet to Mighty Oaks and even the Mulberry and that has always been the way of All you See.

"But Papadash I can not see you or me or the world! I only see a pip very small." protested Artemis.

"Give it time and look deeply--not to see that which it is but to see that which it can be."

Artemis nodded her head. Some things were starting to make sense.

Papadash offered her the juicy segment fan to eat.

"But, I've eaten mine already."

"Did you really eat it child? Or did you gobble it up? Did you pay attention to the millions of molecules and aeons of atoms that visited your tongue so you could taste Orange of Orange?"

"Does taste have colour too?" wondered Artemis.

Papadash smiled.

"Every thing, every little thing--Mountains High, Streams Shallow, Rose Pink, Pip Bitter, Particle of Flavour, Drop of Ocean, Wisp of Cloud, Breath of Baby, Dark of Womb--every Sigh, every Cry, every Heart, every Touch, every Bite, every Smell, every Tweet of Mynah bird--every little Zarrā inside every atom of every molecule of every Galaxy of every Cosmos has its own Colour."

"Really?" Artemis' saucer eyes widened and she shook her head to see if all the information Papadash was giving her was fitting in or not.

"Heads can see that which is. Only Hearts can see that which can be. When you said you missed me and I asked you why--this dear Artemis is my reply to those Drops of Dew that filled you eyes."

Papdash pulled her closer to him and started untangling her wild hair, one strand at a time.

"You see, dear child, we are all Children of the same Light. Pip Brown and Artemis Curious come from the same place. Every atom and every molecule holds the Light of Eternity as its Guide. So, when I want to talk to you, I think of you and see your light --from here." Papadash put his hand of many wrinkles on his heart and patted it.

"Next time you eat a piece of Orange or watch the Cloud roar, pay attention to that which can be -- for one day, you may be the drop that floats in Sky and who knows I may become a newborn's cry!"

Sky of Doon, the Valley of Green, was getting ready for the Night. His Star children had started coming out one by one. Koel and Bulbul were singing their last evening songs when Papadash looked at Artemis and said, "That's enough for your first day back. Now go home and tell Mother you were late for I told you another. Go and let April sleep in this Soil of Blog Deep; for tomorrow it will be May and all will wake up to a brand New Day. Go my dear child but remember this: His Light is all we need to see for it lights up every Zarrā  in every stone, every leaf, and every single bumblebee."

Dear Precious Readers,

Thank you for being my companions during this month of unusual April. I'll miss the daily posts and your visits but as Papadash would say--All I have to do is look with my heart and I will see all of you in your Galaxies.

I bid you adieu for now.

May will be here tomorrow. I've asked her to show me the light just like April did so that even if this is my last post of A to Zee, our paths may cross, more often than intermittently.

What do you think Zarrā Zarrā means? 
Do tell me what you think of this tiny little Zee which reminds me of Rumi:

"You are not a drop in the ocean. You are the entire ocean in a drop."

Thank you.

Yours truly and always gratefully,

Arti

For those of you who understand Hindi, here's a short recital of beautiful poetry: Enjoy.

Punjabis have trouble saying crisp goodbyes. They linger on at doorsteps and garden gates for ages.

And as I am of Punjabi stock, I feel like saying more--yes, greedily so!

 Hence, sharing a poem I wrote a while back, in case you have time to read. 

And if you'd like to visit this sacred grove I talk about, just click on : Of Sacred Groves

But before you enter the sacred grove,

Take off the cloak, the mask, the camouflage.
Bring in the real you--
bare and brilliant
single and sufficient
older than time
younger than the last breath
timeless
formless
no body
no mind
no iffs
no buts
no good
no bad
no likes
no dislikes
no memories
no plans
no past
no future
no family
no friends
no ties
no loose ends
no laughter
no sadness
no highs
no lows
still
calm
eternal

a drop in the ocean
an ocean within a drop

Like a ripple seeking its shore

Come ...

meet your shore

He's been waiting for you all his life too.

**********

Stay safe and healthy.

I'll see you on Reflection Day.

Q is for Quotes on my fridge door in Qatar #AtoZChallenge

The quest for Q has brought me to the fridge today. No, don't worry, I'm being careful with what I eat so the fridge is stocked well with cucumbers, oranges, apples and coconut water. I have said this often and I will stress upon it again, the A to Z Challenge adds to my girth as much as it adds to my mirth. So I have to be careful.

Back to the fridge door then: It's shut. It's grey. It has a total of 6 fridge magnets on it, two of which have been brought by friends from Sri Lanka and  Falkland Islands. My friends know my aversion to made-in-China-and-available- in-every-tourist-spot-in-the-world stuff, fridge magnets included, so after the first two, there were no more! Phew!

Three of the fridge magnets were bought by yours truly, two from a lady who called herself 'the Jersey girl'. We visited her stall at a farmer's market near Chicago, almost five years ago.  She was selling wind chimes she'd made with shells and drift wood collected from the Jersey shore where she lives. Her son (who wasn't at the stall at the time) created these beautiful magnets with bottle caps and famous art/photographs. One of these holds a quote I put up a long time ago.

I can't even remember when I scribbled those words or where I got them from. But, it's a wonderful quote to read every time I'm facing a door. 

I noticed the 'post your safety data' today as I took this photo.

How apt. I thought. This is the kind of quote that fits perfectly under 'safety'  data.

Rumi lives with me in my kitchen: my karmabhoomi (the land where one works). But as he's bound within the pages of a book I cherish, I decided to scribble a quote of his and put it up on the fridge to avoid the temptation of reaching out to the book with fingers that have chopped onions or garlic recently or licked the last bit of marmalade from a jar. 

The dragonfly magnet holding Rumi up for me was bought from a shop in Doha called, The One. 

I like the fridge door to be bare so I can clean it often without much ceremony with stuff stuck on it. But every now and then, a recipe or a list of books recommended by an author catches my eye. So, before the magazine is sent to the re-cycling bin (a recent and welcome change here), I rip the page out and it hangs there till one of the following two things happen:

1) I give up on ever trying out the dish or another list of books that looks more exciting surfaces. 

Or

2) The dish is declared a success and the page is filed away in my cooking file/the book has been read.

FYI: "Colour your Diet" came through the door as promotional material.

*****

Do you like to put quotes where you can see them?

What's your favourite quote at the moment? 

Or do you have an all-time favourite one?

I do:)

It is by Maya Angelou:

"There's no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you."

This quote sits on my desk 

and hangs out inside books I'm reading:

scribbled on a piece of card that works as a book mark.

D is for Darshan #AtoZChallenge

Dakshina Chitra, Chennai. August 2017

Darshan is derived from darsana in Sanskrit meaning auspicious sight. Literally and philosophically translated, it means to look or to behold.

If you ask a Hindu who's fond of her rituals, she'll tell you that darshan is the highest point of her routine. Her prayers, her chanting and all of her offerings-- all of it leads to this climax--the darshan: a point in time when the divine embraces her and blesses her with his/her presence.

For her, facing his image in a temple is enough.

I grew up with a very religious set of grandparents. Daily temple visits were just that, daily. The Krishna temple near our house was like most Krishna temples in North India--a palace of a place to house beautifully decorated Krishna and his beloved Radha. Their costumes and jewellery would be changed often and the opulence of their image would keep me occupied for hours as a child.

And that's all I saw when I went for darshan. The costumes, the flowers, the shining mukut (crown) and the sparkling beads hanging from his murli (flute). Krishna and Radha always matched. Darshan was a feast for the eyes. It always made me happy. Also, my conditioning and something else (something I still can't define, perhaps learnt reverence) made me fold my hands in prayer and just stare at their beautiful images.

Time turned my innocence into questions. At eleven or twelve,  everything I had found beautiful and shiny as a child, became gaudy and ritualistic. Rigid, non-progressive and primitive.

I still went to temples but not as an awestruck devotee to partake in darshan. My motives to visit the local temple as a teenager were free food and a chance to catch up with friends.

Dakshina Chitra, Chennai, 2017

A few decades of cynicism and questions and growing up later, I ended up (unplanned and unprepared) in a Sikh temple in the Himalayas, perched at more than 15, 000 feet above sea level. I didn't know it at the time, but what I felt there, in front of Guru Granth Sahib ji, without any opulent idols to feast my eyes on, without any sensory stimulants except for Gurubani (devotional songs) was darshan. I didn't know it at the time because all I did was cried, cried and cried some more while I sat there, but I was experiencing a home-coming, a stillness of sorts, a cleansing of accumulated rubbish, a point of equilibrium. I felt light. I was light--lit up and light.

If you have time, you can read about that day here: Hemkund Sahib ji 

Ever since that day, many such moments of darshan have made me smile, cry, laugh, and just be. Sometimes, it's happened in temples, and sometimes while looking into some one's eyes, or while watering a newly flowered gardenia bud, or while walking on dew drenched grass or while kissing my love--a home-coming, a feeling of being one with what I'm looking at--as if what I'm looking at is also beholding me with love so immense that we become tiny particles in the sea of love while holding this deep, delicious sea within us. (like Rumi said)

My eighteen year old son's cynicism about deities reminds me of my journey. I smile. I wish I could hold his hand and guide him to the light I see, but every soul has to travel its path on its own and in his time he too will get to do the darshan.

For now, I simply point out to a mynah that's hanging upside down from a branch of the mulberry tree in our back yard. So lost in her feast of the jewelled berries is she that she forgets her sky is the earth and the earth her new sky. Meera Bai, I think, banwali -intoxicated and free.

"Look." 

Alwar Bagh, Rajasthan January 2018

"The only lasting beauty is the beauty of the heart." says Rumi.

May your hearts be full of love and may your days be filled with light.

Paddy Homestay is my kind of paradise.

"People think of heaven as a paradise garden, a place where they can float on clouds and laze in rivers and mountains. But scenery without solace is meaningless."

says Mitch Albom in his book:

the five people you meet in Heaven

Swinging in a hammock which is tied to two tall and curvy coconut trees, under the canopy of dappled sunshine and lush green palm leaves, I re-read the last line. Something about solace strikes a chord. I underline it and read it again. Dipping in and out of slumber and wakefulness to the rhythm of the hammock and the balmy breeze, I ponder on the line with my eyes closed. The book rests on my belly; its covers closing slowly, almost in slow motion over the pink pencil I had used to underline solace, like heavy eyelids, simultaneously open and shut, awake and asleep, rising and falling, keeping pace with my breathing.

I am in paradise. Paddy paradise. Imagine a  place where:

A lush green field of paddy stretches as far as the eye can see. Fresh coffee is made with milk that is milked on site, by hand, in a bucket, by the farm hand while the happy cow munches on fodder in an open spot outside the kitchen. Warm fluffy rice is served with hot sambhar and vegetables. Yes, the rice is from the paddy field I'm currently in and the raw banana subzi I've asked a second helping of has come from the banana tree I was taking pictures of just this morning.

The banana that became subzi.

This is Heaven. But is it because I've found my solace or has the scenery around me put me in this state?

I guess it's like night and day, like light and shadow, this business of solace and scenery. One is needed to notice the other. A beautiful scene has no meaning if one's drowning in one's inner turmoil. A hungry belly needs food, not scenery. I get it.

But, is solace possible without scenery?

Can a peaceful mind find its paradise in a noisy, busy, dirty place? I'm sure some people who've found their zen can. But I'm not there yet. I need peace and quiet before I can sit and meditate or do yoga or read a book or cook or even do the dishes. I often listen to music while doing the chores. Even the walls of the house seem to relax when the notes start to float. Am I escaping the reality of dirty dishes in Sufi-land or am I orchestrating the notes of my scenery to arrange my solace?

Is this a form of escapism? Or is it a simple act of marrying the mundane with music so that if in the middle of the washing, one spots a rainbow, one dips into it first and then carries on with what needs to be done. To me, it's being in the moment, every moment: noticing it, accepting it, living it. If a few notes sung by Ustad Shujaat Husain Khan make the soap suds in my kitchen sink sparkle with colour, then why not?

Moments are the atoms memories are made up of.

And memories are the cells that make up life. Some parts of us remember love, our mother's cooking, the feel of that first kiss. Other parts remember the road back home, the bills that need to be paid. And then there's the part (the heart or the soul or whatever you want to call it) that remembers that this is a journey, that we are all finding our way--inching towards the destination that is our origin.

A simple act of making the bed in the morning or stepping out into the garden, or even looking out of the kitchen window and watching a bird flit from one branch to another, can make a big difference.

"Beauty surrounds us; but usually we need to be walking in a garden to know it."

~Rumi~

Maybe, one day, while tending my plants I will dig into Rumi's words and loose all that I think I am. Maybe then I won't need to walk on green grass. But until then, I will continue to listen to music, stare at flowers for too long, hug my friends and kiss my family and cuddle in bed with a delicious book and create my own pool of paradise. And every now and then, I shall travel and seek out scenery that soothes for the world is beautiful and bountiful and I have finite number of days on this planet.

I open my eyes, hold the edge of the hammock to hoist myself up, swing my legs down to get up. The pink pencil escapes the book and drops softly on the red earth below. I pick it up and make my way to our room at Paddy Homestay--a slice of paradise in fields of paddy, cocooned in a grove of coconut palm trees.

Paddy Homestay came up on my screen when I was googling for a 'place to stay in Tanjavore'.  I clicked the link to its website. One look and a few review readings later,  I knew I'd found something special. 

What Ambika and I experienced while we stayed there was beyond any holiday experience. It was like visiting family (a loving and caring family). Thiru, Arul and their beautiful family made our three days in Tanjavore a precious memory to hold and to cherish. Their hospitality is that rare mix of efficiency, homeliness and love for their land that when you return home, you want to make plans to visit them again--soon.

One of the highlights of the stay was a bullock cart ride from the homestay to a village of potters and a popular temple nearby. 

Are you ready for some scenery? For a bumpy ride down a beautiful road in Tamil Nadu?

The sun is on its way to set.

Come on then. Climb up, hold on to the side rails--careful there!

All set? Let's go.

Children coming back from school and some going for evening classes.

The pots get a knocking with a wooden spoon to beat them into shape.

Patterns and prints are added with carved wooden bits.

The potter's children had come from school and were about to settle down to do their homework.

The two pots the smiley potter is holding came all the way with me to Doha:)

"You ride." says the bullock cart rider to me.
I obey.
I'm absolutely thrilled that he's offering me to take over and absolutely petrified when I do take over and feel the power of the animals travel from them to me via the reins I'm holding gingerly.
The bulls don't look too impressed, right?
Photo courtesy: Ambika

We park at the temple.
My legs are shaking a tiny bit but I'm grinning like a teenager who's just had his first taste of driving a car!

Setting sun. Stretching shadows.

Thank you Thiru and Arul for everything:)

*********

Looking at all the pictures above, you may think that such a place exists only in the lens of a camera held by a photographer who chooses to see what pleases the eye and ignores the 'reality' of life. Yes, I'd agree with you. 

There are serious problems that the farmers and potters of this region face. Almost all of their problems (economic and ecological) are the direct result of indiscriminate exploitation of land for farming, deforestation and ignorance of the people who make policies or even the ones who don't but who despite getting an education, prefer to ignore how big an impact big and small decisions made by individuals and governments have on the day to day lives of rural Indians.

"Oh! how sad that they've started using plastic here." I comment perched on my green urban high horse.

"Chinese stuff!" adds Ambika.

"Why?" she asks the potters.

"The wells nearby have dried up. We have to travel six to ten kilometers to fetch water. Plastic is lighter. It's easier." comes the matter-of-fact reply.

Our city- dwelling -preaching -green- to- the -farmers selves nod our understanding.

Plastic vessels have replaced traditional brass and terracotta ones because the villagers have to travel longer distances to fetch water. Pipes are being drilled deeper and deeper every year to try and reach the depleting water levels.

Men continue to beat their wives and scavenge off them to feed their alcoholism. And women continue to work as labourers on fields and construction sites to feed and educate their children. Ambika and I came across such stories in the three days we were there. 

Yes, I choose to capture the light, for the dark was, is and will continue to exist along side the light.

Solace is personal. Scenery is public. Scenery is our responsibility, a debt we owe our planet, a promise we must keep for our children and their children.

Can there be solace without scenery?

Commenting on the idea of heaven, Sadhguru, in one of his videos, asked, "How do you know you're not in Heaven already and you're spoiling it?"

This trip to rural Tamil Nadu couldn't have come at a better time. #RallyforRivers is the wake up call we all need to remind ourselves that if we want our children and their children to listen to birdsong, swing in hammocks in coconut groves or drink coffee made with fresh milk or simply eat fresh food and drink clean water, then we must do what needs to be done--NOW!

Back in Doha, I unpack the tangible memories I've brought home with me. The terracotta pot I'd so lovingly carried as cabin baggage has succumbed to the stresses of air travel. A hole gapes back at me from the bottom when I unwrap it.

"Where there's a will, there's a way." my mother used to say:)

It's been given a new role. We may not store water in it (as was planned when I bought it) but its earthy fragrance (saundhi khushboo) will remind me of the beautiful people of Tanjavore and their warmth whenever I water the plant that sits in it.

Have a lovely weekend.

And please support the farmers who feed us.