The Gosammer Link....

I sat quietly remembering my youth when I would lose myself in those periods of intense gloom. It was like walking unending alleys of mindless sadness that led nowhere - walking aimlessly without any direction or destination. 

People around, parents, family, friends would cease to exist or matter. 

Intrusions in those periods by the ones who loved me would cause an eruption of senseless anger. These were periods of acute frustration without cause or reason. 

Pulled out of my reverie, as I sat watching my daughter and her friends having their party,  there occurred a strange understanding, a gossamer linking of their youth and my memories....

19th Dec '95

                

                                      MUSINGS    

Blithe spirits full of vitality , vigour,

And the spontaneity of youth,

Dancing to the music of Whigfield, Rednex and Re-mixes.

Beyond religion, rituals and dogma,

With only their wholeness, complete in themselves;

Confident, vibrant and without any fear in living life.

And yet with their own doubts, questions.

What do I want to be? What should I become?

Abilities and aptitudes at times in conflict.

Their yearnings - deep, poignant penetrating.

An ache rising from within

To pierce the skies.

And longings and desires:

To tear up the green grass in the meadows.

Their dreams and aspirations

Fragile and hazy in the mists of youth;

Yet 

Alive and very real 

In their confidence 

That their dreams and aspirations are.

For each one 

We have objectives, aims and careers

Well defined

Rich in wealth, power and happiness.

As parents, guardians, elders,

If we can,

Let us share in their aspirations

While we live ours.

To share

And become a part of their environment;

To first be a friend.

For only in understanding

Can we be a teacher and a guide.

Not to impose;

Rather help them find

Themselves.

If they stumble,

Let us keep them from falling;

If they cry in frustration

Let us allow them to;

Yet only as long as their tears are healing.

Let us listen and share in their heartaches,

Their joys.

Let us give to them the only treasure

We have without limitation:

Ourselves.

Without impositions, demands,

Freely and with our love.

Let our dreams be:

To cherish them and nurture their aspirations

And in their moments of realization 

When their closeness

To omniscience and eternity

Gives them a glimpse of Truth

To

Without fear or conditions

Set them free.

For though we are the wellspring,

The stream

Has to become a river 

And flow into the ocean beyond.

In setting them free

We will not lose them.

In their shared aspirations 

And love

We will become a part of them

Forever.

The most selfish act of our lives

Yet leaving them with the freedom to be

And present to the miracle of being alive.

               *               *               *               *

A corollary:

If possible look beyond:

Wives, parents, sisters, friends and relatives;

For each stream 

Carrying twinkling moments 

Of shared aspirations and love

Which becomes a river 

And flows into the ocean beyond

Brings each closer to oneself

And fulfilment.

For the destiny of each one

Is pre-destined:

Oneself.

Only the time taken

And the path

Varies.

The Shift.....

As children we were quite often given the puzzle wherein there was this picture of a sardarji. And we were prompted to find the girl in the picture. I remember the exquisite thrill when the pretty young thing appeared suddenly in the picture for us for the first time.

It was the first 'Eureka!' moment truly coming alive in our lives.

It is something to experience rather than learn.

Once it happens you look forward to other such experiences. It becomes an eager wait for us till the next such moment arrives.

And then, sometimes, in the day to day existence for survival we lose our ability to feel...

Alive Again...


Earlier my journeys into myself
Confused, uncaring, accepting,
Directionless.


Fragments of an earlier time
Of living within and yet sharing without;
A period aeons past in memory
Natural,
Flowing into a sea of tranquility:
Alive, joyous, creative;
And then something happened;
Not suddenly, 
But gradually over the years......
Why?


The acceptance of the realization:
Perhaps,
It was just a part of growing up,
Inevitable, natural, not to be undone.


          *               *               *


Now
In these moments of heightened awareness
As I journey into myself,
Walking up the sloping hill
Reaching the peak
To see the mist snuggled cosily 
In the folds of the valley below,
I become the first beam of sunlight
Gently warming it awake.
And it wakes with a flurry
Rising up into the lightening sky.


Far below I can see the silver thread
Of an undulating stream.
A part of me not known before,
Or perhaps lost in memory
And reborn today.


And the cave still there as before:
Dark, foetid, fearful.
Fear not of the graveyards
Or the terrifying beings of a child's imagination
But fear of doing, of being,
Of inadequacies, of doubts and uncertainties,
Imprisoned within those moments of
"What could be and what could have been."


I am yet unable to keep my knees from trembling
When I came face to face with these fears;
Yet
I also know
That soon I will speak the words:


"I say and so I will."


In that moment 
I will touch, feel, smell, see and hear them,
And one by one they will flow within me
And become mine
In completion.


No longer fears -
Rather inadequacies become adequate
And doubts dissolved 
As if never there.


For within one
Nothing dies.
Moments once lived, never change;
They become eternal as they are.


Only perceptions change;
Different facets of the same truth.

The Yellow Sands and the desolation......

BITS Pilani - 1966...

The desert sands stretched as far as one could see. The road meandered through the yellow dunes, rocks and scattered thorny bushes. Stunted keekars stood like lost sentinels guarding that emptiness.

Drip irrigation was something only read about in articles on Israel and still a long way away in the future.

The oasis of the campus consisted of buildings with typically colonial arches and faded yellow and white structures. The gardens though were lush and green. The trees with their red flowers spread their branches over neatly laid out roads.

Unknown to us, each moment there was an experience, forging links that were to last a lifetime. Time and distance had no essence in this closeness that was developing. The strands forming the bonds were flexible and could pick-up and let-go at will. These in the future were to form the basis of our relationships.

And thrown into that cauldron of life was also the intensity of youth. And it carried with it the un-chartered depths of anger, joy, laughter, despair - and a passionate search for answers to the purpose of life.

We would lie on the lush lawns of the Saraswati Temple, listening in melancholy to the throaty rendering of 'Mere hatheel Shyam..'

Or listen in the darkening silence to the resounding calls of the peacocks, lost in their loneliness, looking for a mate.

And the outcome from one such period flows below:

Life.... 1969?

Life

Like holes in the cheese

Cliche riddled.

Truths dusty and lost in the smog of years

To become half-believed

Half truths.

It's like sailing on an emerald sea

Of increasing stillness;

An indifference that nothing shakes.

And those islands:

Isolated pangs of remorse, joy, pity,

Of emotion and feeling

Decreasing

And becoming far between.

And finally

To lie still on the glassy sea

Like some ancient mariner,

Lost

Without his albatross

And to die

Of slow decay

In stagnation.

The Winter of '95

It was cold...

At nights the fog rolled in. In a few moments it would cover the trees in a cloak of white. All pervasive and silent, it would sweep over the roads reducing the street lights to a dim orange glow.

People walked the streets with their heads down, hurrying to the warmth of their homes.

The days were grey and damp. The mist fell in a fine spray gently covering the windshields making it difficult to drive.

And in that clammy cold there existed this warmth. Vital and full of life it was impervious to all and continued to glow. Akin to the room heaters with rods used in those days it enveloped people in its orange warmth. It flowed from one person to another carrying its glowing warmth in the form of words and gestures shared.....

Dec 28, '95

TO A WIFE AND A MOTHER

It started with an interview

Followed by stolen kisses,

And golden moments in the winter sunlight.

And then we were married

Two young ones on a honeymoon!

Today our married life has turned a half cycle.

We are older and much in life has gone by;

Yet much remains.

The yearning to weave the moonbeams

Into a garland for you

Has mellowed.

Over the times

A mingling of thoughts, of moments shared:

An intimacy beyond sex, beyond individuality,

Birthed a togetherness,

Yet leaving each an individual, whole and complete.

Today

What you give to us everyday

Is your love.

And you do it by doing.

You and your best creations in life

Fill me with deep joy and gratitude.

For today and now, even when away,

All three are with me and I am home.

For this and all that is to be

Let my love and our moments together

In tenderness

Be within you as life goes on.

For then

They will fill you with a sense of peacefulness

And tranquility.

And in the growing darkness of winter

When the fogs roll onto the streets

And the roads are damp and clammy

They will walk by your side and keep you warm.

The Aftermath .... to the three days

It was a roller-coaster ride.

With a soaring spirit and a strange lightness of mind and body the moments slipped by in unending waves. The slip-stream was everywhere. It was as if one was being carried on a gentle whirlwind that had a joyous direction of its very own.

The fabric of a moment fades and unravels if not shared. And those three days had been shared by more than a hundred and seventy. In the days that followed the memory of each moment became the moment itself. It either throbbed in the remembered pain or bubbled in its laughter.

And the words too flowed on.....

November 26th, '95

The aftermath....

to three days in November

The joy of writing

'Three days in November'.

And the aftermath:

The sudden prick of tears

And a fullness in the heart.

Then

A bubble of laughter

At the remembrances.

The 'Guest Session'

And distribution of copies of the poem.

Felicitations!

Suddenly drained and hollow,

Floating in a vacuum.

And then

The slow birth of a glow within

Becoming brighter every day,

And the urge to hug and love and share

This glow;

The urge to let all within gush out

In a stream pouring into everyone

To become a part of them.

The doubt

"Can - will they understand?"

A creeping up on the blind side

Of logic;

A desire to analyse...

And yet when I shared

The culmination of those three days in November

Each memory, purged of all pain,

Consciously unremembered,

Coalesced into its essence

And came flowing out in a joyous flow of words

Describing only the outcome.

The glow reached out enveloping them

And touched within, a portion

They retained.

And the glow was not diminished.

It pulsed and danced within

And was brighter.

* * * *

The river still flows on, but without tears.

Someday it will become a river

Of innocence,

Of vulnerability without fear,

Of love without reason,

Of not reliving old moments of spontaneity

But creating new ones;

Of slowly probing the unknown

Without fear or need

Only to feel, to touch

And to be more.

A river within which i

Will feel the texture of each color,

Caress it and let it become a part of me.

For then I will slowly

Merge with the sunsets

And be a part of the dappled sunlight

On the wooded hills.

And the river within will flow

Into the mountain streams.

Then

I will be one with the flowing stream

And become a part of timelessness.

Rushing

Without knowledge, without logic,

Spontaneous, gurgling through rising rocks

And plunging playfully over the pebbled riverbed.

And one day

Without learning

Will come to know

The essence of being......

(photograph courtesy : www.bigfoto.com)

Anu - a particle + Usha - the shimmering pink early morning light

The world welcomed her with a storm followed by an earthquake!!

It seems such a long time ago.

Her grandfather loved carrying her on his shoulders. When she, all of one and a half feet tall, posed dressed in a pagdi, salwar and kurti carrying a toy gun, he named her 'Sultana Daku'.

At the airport she stood docilely by her mother next to the carousel waiting for the luggage. When her mother pointed to me waiting outside the passenger area, she came running with the yellow frock flying behind her and then having over-shot, stopped suddenly, looking up at that crowd of grown-ups, trying to find me in that crowd.

Standing there looking up she looked so tiny!

She throbbed with the bubbling vitality of the experience of her journey all the way from Delhi to Lagos. Her sharing came tumbling out in a stream to stop only when we reached home.

In the words of the car driver : 'Massa's daughter talks and talks and talks.....

After the 'Three days... ' this was for her:

Nov 24th, '95

To Our Daughter

You had grown

From a crying baby to a tumbling toddler.

As you ran out of the custom's area

And gazed up trying to find your father

In the crowd.

That was the first time I picked you up.

And you started talkng

To finish only when we reached home.

Waking up to your "Good mornings!"

When you sat on my tummy jumping up and down

Shouting

"Good morning! Good morning! Good morning!"

And your delight in finding a new name

For your brother yet to be born.

We shared your agony when we saw you

Sitting on a chair holding your wrenched elbow

And crying in pain.

And we shared your joy

When you pranced around

As the 'lion king'

Singing with arms waving.

And then one day

You stood before us dressed in a sari.

Pretty, confident and bubbling;

A sense of Deja Vu

And then the memory

Of your mother dressed as you were

Before our marriage.

A deep pang of regret,

And joy too.

Of a childhood gone by,

Of a child transformed into a woman,

Of fullness and pride

For within you, with your love

We shall live on.

Take just a pinch of our love

And store it within

For then we will always be there

As your strength.

To protect, to guide and to nurture you

In moments of hurt and sadness;

And to share

Without reducing

Your moments of joy.

And when you are at a loss

And cannot find the words

Our love would flow out in a harmonious stream

Through my poems

For they and I are you.

26th Jan, 1995 - it all started with the reluctant picnic...

It was a cold January morning and we stood sipping drinks on the lawns of the bird sanctuary. I was with a group of people not really close. And then the bee-swarm - it came sweeping all over us, crawling into the hair, the clothes; and we ran. We landed finally at the place that was the closest and most convenient - the factory where I worked.

It was a strange experience to observe myself - an 'almost stranger' slowly getting absorbed into this group of people who just a few moments ago had not been really close. It was puzzling - even in retrospect. And quite soon the conversation became smooth and free flowing.

On the return journey I listened with half an ear as my wife's friend talked of her 'profound' experience at a seminar, extolling my wife to just 'do it'. Finally when she was about to disembark, the friend turned to me and said "Bau - if she doesn't do it - you must!"

I was taken aback. In the time I had known her, my wife's friend had never spoken directly to me before. But my curiosity was piqued. I was left wondering : What was it that could have caused this lady to overcome her restrained and conservative background?

I did the seminar in November '95.

I had to answer a simple question in the form - what did I expect to achieve by doing the seminar? Being contented with life, I discarded a lot of options that came to mind, looking deeper for something that would be really worthwhile.

And I wrote : "I used to write excellent poetry in college and am unable to do it now. By doing the seminar I expect to correct the imbalances in my life and start writing again."

On the last day of the seminar when I reached home late at night I picked up my pen to write. But what wanted to gush out was flowing too fast. I could not write quickly enough. I just put on my wife's desk-top and keyed in what is below:

Date: 19^th Nov 95

THREE DAYS IN NOVEMBER

We were a motley group of all ages

Collected together

Young, grey-haired, quagmired and bogged down

Waiting

For the time to pass us by.

Then

For three days in November

A strange thing happened.

Time stopped,

And there was a conversation.

We, the young and the grey-haired talked.

Time asked.

We, the young and the grey-haired answered.

From far below

The marsh gases rose to the surface in anger

As ugly memories

Harsh, Unrepentant, warped,

Demanding retribution.

In the silence

What could be heard

Was only the sound of anguish.

An answering voiced cracked in pain

And from an individual sea of frustration, anger and despair

A tear welled out

Then another and another and another

Till it became a river flowing from four hundred sources,

The river flowed within and without

Gentle and cleansing

It flowed onto the marsh

Softening the ragged memories

Purging the ugliness.

With the river

The poison from within

Flowed out

And dissolved in the river that flowed on the marsh.

The healing had begun.

Time talked and the conversation went on

And slowly the pain subsided, perceptions changed.

And we walked out slowly, hesitantly

Onto a flickering path ahead,

Slowly

Instead of anguish

Laughter bubbled up to the surface

And then on the third day there was rejoicing.

Time flowed on.

Today

We, a group

Of the young and the grey haired,

Stand together,

Healed from within.

Old in experience,

But innocent in life,

Ready

To love and be loved, to cherish and be cherished,

To grow and develop,

And to become an identity for each within.