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 

D is for Delight in Impermanence #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.

I thank you for spending your precious moments with me today.

Arti

******

 "You know how everyone's always saying 'seize the moment'?" She says excitedly. "I don't know, I'm kinda thinkin' it's the other way round. You know, like, the moment seizes us."

This quote is from the end scene of the film Boyhood. 

Although I've seen and love the film, I came across this quote on page 16 of The Book of Ichigo Ichie and decided to use it for today's post because it fits the photo essay that follows.

April 2019, I was roaming the streets of Barcelona when my attention was captured by two young children squealing with such delight that I couldn't help but stop and look.

Dance in abandon. Let the moment seize you.

 Bubbles burst without warning.

Now rainbows--

now a piece of string.

New beginnings are always buried in ends.

Life's effervescence:

joy, sorrow, breath, death.

I'll sign off this post with a short poem I wrote recently. It's called 'a glass teapot' and it wonders about life's impermanence.

A glass teapot

I'd bought 

a few years ago

had a bamboo handle:

a crescent with nodes

polished with care so that it didn't shine 

but looked beautiful

faded like old embroidery

and just as charming.

Kamala, our cleaner,

one day last May,

washed the pot with such force

that the hook that held the handle broke.

Without the hook, the handle lost its use

and without the handle, 

what's a teapot?

I thought: useless,

empty.

I was upset.

Kamala was sorry.

We couldn't undo that which was.

Why do we play with bubbles when we know they'll burst?

And why are glass teapots bought?

Only in impermanence lies the truth of life.

*****

Has a broken piece of ceramic or glass made you sad -- ever? 

Have you found a new avatar for remnants of your prized possession? 

I'd love to hear, if you'll share:)

And in case, you'd like to relish the beauty of nature's impermanence, then hop on to last year's 'D' post which wandered through dewdrops on deodars and daisies.

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

C is for a Cypriot honeymoon and other Coastal Curiosities #AtoZChallenge

"...expectations are like the wrapping that prevents us from seeing the gift. Once we've freed ourselves from them, the present offers itself to us in all its splendor."

-Quote borrowed from The Book of Ichigo Ichie

When I planned my honeymoon (using Fodor's Travel guide book) in 1994, I  jotted down every detail  in my diary. I was 23, he was 25 and we'd saved up for six months to afford our honeymoon in Cyprus.

Our ideas of what a honeymoon should look like matched perfectly, too.

He was thrilled to drive a 'foreign' car in a 'foreign land' on smooth, smooth roads which were free of traffic for the first time in his life. I was ecstatic to visit all the places I had underlined in pencil in my well thumbed Fodor's copy. 

He drove. I enjoyed the sights.

However, after visiting monastery number 2 on the 2nd day, he stood by the parked car, under an olive tree and told me clearly: "If there's anything unusual in there, describe it to me when you come out. I'll wait for you here."

The sky was cerulean blue and I didn't mind leaving him with his Subaru.

As a 23 year old, I couldn't bear to miss out on any 'sights'. Planning was crucial and following the planned itinerary was imperative for a successful holiday, honeymoon included. The holding of hands on beaches, stealing kisses at sunsets and the lazy mornings could be achieved at home, when we could do it all for free. We'd paid for this holiday and I was going to get the most out of it. Plus, his love for his rental Subaru helped a lot.

There are more photos of the car than of us in our honeymoon photo album. 

"The car isn't coming back with us." was his valid and logical justification when I asked him why.

I didn't know it then and I've only recently started realising that any kind of planning always comes with its insidious side-effect: expectation. And as soon as expectation appears on the horizon, joy tends to leave the party. Frustration and anger are never far behind when expectation is around. 

Of course, a lot of life's stuff needs to be planned but should our leisure time be bound to a time-table too? Can we give chance a chance when we're on holiday and let go of control?

Fast forward to 2019. 

Apart from picking the destination and a place to stay (sometimes that has been left to chance, too) I avoid planning my days when we are on holiday.

The internet helps with this laissez-faire attitude. We can be free because we are connected. Ironical, but true. 

And, surprisingly, the experiences we've enjoyed in open expanses of unplanned days have been beautiful and sometimes even surreal.

Early June, 2019: Day 1 of our much awaited trip to Cape Town dawned cloudy. Rain was predicted for the rest of the day.

We decided to drive up to the coast anyway. We couldn't walk in the downpour, but we could certainly drive. (Note: His love for driving on holiday continues to flourish. Yay!)

And keep our senses open to the magic that was unfolding all along the way. All we had to do was pay attention to the unplanned, un-orchestrated moments. Instead of disappointment (nothing was planned so nothing got disrupted) caging us indoors, our day (despite being wet, windy and cold) offered us many treasures I cherish even now as I look back at the photos and videos we took whenever the rain stopped or we did to breathe in the fresh coastal air.

Have you ever let the day unfold its mysterious magic onto you when you've travelled a long distance to see a new place? And has such an un-planned adventure made you smile? Leaving you with some remembrances of just such a day in June 2019.

The moody seascape was achingly romantic.
Clouds create fantasy:
shrouds and half-hidden doubts
add intrigue to any landscape.  

                                  Butterfly wings and other Curiosities we came across on the

coastal drive to Chapman's Peak,
South Africa in June 2019

On our way back we drove under this mountain ledge--how amazing is this!

Thank you for being here.

Tomorrow is Sunday, rest day.

See you with delightful 'D' on Monday.

Please keep safe and healthy.

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

B is for a Bride in the Land of Gods #AtoZChallenge

"The life of the land is the life of the people."

 - Tahitian Proverb

(quoted from the documentary 'Moving Art' on Netflix)

Dear Readers,

A little background about today's post: The poem that follows captures an unexpected moment which transpired while we (our party of trekkers) were resting after a long and arduous climb in Uttarakhand which is also know as Devbhoomi, the land of the Gods,  for there are many ancient temples located at great altitudes here which are considered essential to visit once in ones lifetime in popular Hindu belief. However, the massive ongoing roadbuilding projects in the area which promise to usher in an era of progress and make it easier to visit 'god' are creating a very different landscape. We were on our way to Kuari Pass in May 2019.

I'm nostalgic about how my home-state used to be before progress knocked on its door.

Devbhoomi (land of the Gods) 

Dry and dusty was the path.

Rocks lay splayed in thirsty gasps.

No breeze,

no shelter,

limited rations of water.

A tree at last

sprouted in sight

and broke our sultry stride.

Rest. Recuperate. Hydrate.

It was time for a break.

We sat strewn around the tree:

all of us humans

helter-skelter

moaning the progress

in painful view:

a mega road that would bring one and all

to the Gods

conveniently.

Our solitary tree 

watched the scene with us,

stoically.

Will the Gods even want to stay on after all the development is done?

I wondered.

She appeared as a red dot, fringed in gold

twinkling with silver.

Like hope on a forgotten horizon, I saw her

beaming into her future.

May I?

I asked.

She agreed coyly and ordered her groom to pose with her.

Click. Click. Click.

Captured. Still. Delight.

Who would've thought a bride

red, sparkling, joyful in high heels,

would appear out of nowhere

to sprinkle colour

on my state's grey and white?

The bride and her groom and the rest of the wedding party had to reach a bus stop about 2 kilometres away to board the bus that would take them to the groom's village. So, they were in a hurry. 

Her silver anklets sang happily as she walked down the hillside in her pretty heels. I remember looking at my bulky boots and laughing at my inadequacies. 

She'd told us that they'd walked a little more than 10 kilometres from her village to reach the point we'd met by chance. 

I do see the point of roads and convenience. But, these communities have sustained themselves and their mountains for generations and continue to do so. I'm sure they are capable of carrying on. I'm sure their wisdom will keep them and their lands safe. But, are  planning boards and economic gurus ready to listen to them? Is progress another name for greed?

 

Do trees need to be cut and mountains blasted? 

We watched the wedding party make their way down merrily. The ubiquitous drunk uncle sang and danced loudly, slowing their progress, while the younger cousins waited ahead. 

As Covid 19 makes travelling back to India and consequently trekking impossible for now, I've been consoling myself with nature documentaries on Netflix. Almost all the ones filmed in recent years question the impact of humans on this planet's resources. I do wonder when we will wake up to the reality of our actions.

Has your hometown/state/place of residence resisted progress to keep green? I'd love to know.

*****

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

A is for Alex and the Bees #AtoZChallenge

"Before beginning to study the sacred texts and constantly singing the sutras, the student should learn to read the love letters sent by the snow, the wind and the rain."

-IKKYU, Zen Master 

Quote borrowed from  'The Book of Ichigo Ichie'

Dear Readers,

For the first post of this challenge, I'm sharing a snippet from my travel memoir of Maunda, a remote village in Uttarakhand, northern India. The motorable road that goes to Maunda ends there. It goes no further. 

I hope you'll enjoy reading it.

Arti.

The morning sun sparkled across the slices of blue sky wedged between tall deodars and broad cedars as Alex, Apu and I explored the village and its outskirts with Pradhanji, the village chief, along with a couple of other villagers one day in mid-May in 2019. 

Every leaf, petal, fruit and tree that grew on the path was explored by us (the visitors) and explained by the villagers. If a shrub or tree wasn't used for food, it had medicinal or cosmetic uses. This was Alex's first time in Maunda. Apu and I had been to the village the previous year. After a couple of hours, Pradhanji invited us to his house for tea.

After the downstairs had been looked at and commented upon, Pradhanji climbed the stairs ahead of us and issued a request for tea for everyone in the general direction of the kitchen while beckoning the three of us to follow him upstairs to sit in his sitting room-with-a-view.

It’s a small L shaped room on the first floor with huge Garhwali style windows peering over the valley below. A few plastic chairs and wooden benches are placed perfectly to enjoy the verdant views.

Apu chose to snuggle up on a chair by the window. Alex sat by the door we had entered the room through and I sat opposite Alex, a foot or so away from Apu, facing the door, the back of my chair resting against the wall with a tiny hole. The hole in the wall was approximately an inch and a half in diameter with a broken and blackened circumference.

As soon as I settled into my chair, a bee, a honey bee, buzzed past me, hovered over Apu for a little while before deciding to fly out of the room.

Alex’s eyes watched the bee and widened with surprise.

Before the first bee reached the edge of the window sill, another bee appeared before me, buzzed, took a few curious circles around my hand holding my cup of tea and then followed the first bee’s route out of the window, flying past Apu.

Alex’s eyes were screaming silently by now. His fingers tightened their hold on his teacup.

Apu looked up at me. I smiled.

The trickle of bees had swollen into a steady stream by now. They were busy flying in single file out of the opening in the wall behind me and making a bee-line for the window.

Alex couldn’t hold it in any longer, “Bees! Honey bees!” he stated the obvious with barely hidden disbelief.

“They’re harmless.” Apu mentioned and went back to her day dreaming. She continued to gaze out of the window.

I was enjoying the look on Alex’s face, so I smiled to show him that all was well: he could chill. We had the same look on our faces last year when we'd seen the bees in this room for the first time. I'm not sure our assurances convinced him. Being a gentle soul, he continued to sip his tea but his eyes kept following each bee’s flight keenly. 

“Arre Alex Ji, these bees have lived here for as long as I’ve lived here.” said Pradhanji. “My father discovered this hive when we first started making a few changes to this part of the house--almost fifty years ago. He decided to let the hive be. We’ve all grown used to each other. We don’t bother them and they don’t trouble us.”

Just then, Pradhanji’s little grandson crawled into the room from the door next to Alex. Three bees were buzzing over his head like a noisy halo.

Alex smiled. I could see his eyes were taking in the miracle of symbiosis.

The little one gurgled and crawled eagerly to his grandfather who picked him up, kissed him and set him down again to continue with his crawling.

“What about the honey? Don’t you harvest it?” Alex asked.

“What they make is for them. That’s their food. We get our honey from the hives we farm.” stated Pradhanji.

For the rest of the afternoon, we sat in Pradhanji’s L-shaped sitting room looking out of the sky blue windows that framed mighty deodars and oaks standing tall and proud--all the way into the horizon--as far as the eye could see.

The little one crawled through the chairs’ legs, our legs, while bees buzzed around him like wound up toys.

Shangri-La is alive and well in a village in Uttarakhand where men let bees live in hives built inside houses because their ancient instincts show them how intricately bees and humans are bound together. That day, I was left wondering if they really need roads to open up their minds or  modern technology to teach them how to live and let live. 

But, who am I? I'm a traveller who appears once a year at their doorstep. It's the youth and the elders of this village who'll have to decide how to balance the modern with the ancient; how to learn to keep up with the times without unlearning the songs of the wind, the snow, the bees and the mountains.

(Pradhanji's house in Maunda)

The village of Maunda, Uttarakhand

*****

Have you ever come by a moment of symbiosis such as this?  

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

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

Theme reveal --by the skin of my teeth!

Drum roll please....

So, after wondering about going theme-less, as I've done in the past, I'm binding myself to a theme this year.

This will be my 5th A to Z Challenge.

I owe the A to Z a lot. This challenge helps me to focus. You see, the five months preceding April are my gardening months and when I'm with my plants and pots, nothing else matters. Blogging goes into hibernation but as soon as March arrives announcing the A to Z, it propels me to dust off my blogging cobwebs and wills me to sit and write.

Last year's posts got a lot of love from the readers. One such reader is an illustrator. He liked my posts about my childhood so much that he and I ended up planning a picture book together.

We met weekly on zoom calls as he's based in India, and I'm in Doha. Seeing his illustrations of my memoirs is thrilling and humbling. When one's words reach another in this way, it feels really special. The book is almost ready to show to publishers. 

A couple of  months ago, while I was browsing our local book store to figure out where to position our picture book, I noticed 'The book of Ichigo Ichie' sitting in the poetry section. Something made me pick the book up and read the first two pages. I bought it and brought it home.

Quoting from the book (authored by Hector Garcia and Francese Miralles):

The meaning of ichigo ichie is something like this. What we are experiencing right now will never happen again. And therefore, we must value each moment like a beautiful treasure.

Covid19 and its aftermath has shown all of us just how important valuing each and every moment is. 

While seeking inspiration for the forthcoming posts, I decided to rummage through the images I'd captured in 2019 when we'd travelled quite extensively. What struck me was that the chance, the coincidence, the magic, the moment that some of the photos had captured couldn't have been planned or prepared for. These were chance meetings, the coming together of so many elements that had even one been out of sync, the picture wouldn't have happened.

The concept of 'Ichigo Ichie (pronounced itchy-Go itchy-A) is the theme of this year's A to Z for me.

So, come along to this space on the 1st of April and join me for a month long celebration of chance that is intrinsically bound in moments as unique as you and me.

This year, I hope to share more photos than I did last year. Hanging a carrot for those who find me too verbose;)

Looking forward to April with hope.

Be safe and healthy.

So, I turned fifty this year

My dear friends and readers,

It's been a while since I've been here. My excuse? My garden and the fact that it's spring time in Doha.

Spring is very, very special here. The fact that summer arrives suddenly and brutally to these parts and stays for a very, very long time has something to do with my addiction for the outdoors in the months of January, February and March.

As always, I'm so absorbed in the tilling and toiling and potting and repotting that the arrival of the A to Z blogging challenge catches me unaware, unprepared and unable to figure out how in the world will I manage to write 26 decent posts worth your time!

But, somehow, I do. And this year is no exception.

I'm gonna do it. 

And while I go and ponder about a theme/no theme and dig into my camera that hasn't left Qatar for 12 months to figure out what I'll be sharing with you this year, I leave you with this spoken word piece that I wrote at the end of last year and performed a month ago.

It has been a year of sequestering, solitude and finding paths that lead me back to the simpler joys of life like sitting with a book under our neem tree listening to birdsong. Things I thought I'd miss a lot like travelling, trekking and seeing new places have not been missed as much. Perhaps, it's the realisation that there is so much to be thankful for as I turn fifty: good health, loved ones and friends, decent food,  fresh air, walks in parks, sunsets and sunrises, waves lapping to the shores, buds blooming and earthworms wriggling in my patch of green and a safe place I call home -- the most precious things that make this life blissful and that's plenty. 

I hope to see you soon. 

Take good care. 

Arti