Wall

Peeling paint. Faded patches. Mossy corners
I stand. Braving time.
Layers of paint. Through time.
One after another. Paint on the wall.

Accumulated history of thought. Pain. Grief.
Painted. Splashed. Smeared.
Painted over and over again. Time after time.
Each having an imprint. In every layer of Paint.

Peel. Scrub. Tear. Rip.
Pierce to remove the paint. Scathe through the layers.
Paint on my wall. The colour of your grief, joy, longing, nothing.
The brick on the wall is my heart. Bighearted to sock the splash.

Paint on me. Make the cerebral connect.
Through the ink of the colour you shape on me.
Splash the colour of anger, pain, rage, scream, echo.
Touch the paint of tranquillity. The wet walls speak.

Touch the wall of time. Touch with compassion.
The beauty of time caught still on the wall.
Opens to you your canvas. Seek yourself.
I will hold you in compassion. Paint on me. Pour. Splash. Spill. Splatter.

Wall-in the colour of your joy, trust, fear, panic, wrath and rapture.
Purple, Blue, Cyan and Turquoise.
Cobalt, Earth Yellow, Magenta, Red and Black.
Ocean Blue, Zaffre, Arsenic, Ash Grey and Sand Dune.

~~~*~~~

On Children By Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Transfixed at the Clouds

Clouds. Magnanimous. Drifting. Changing. Splashes of reflection. Still. Moving. Tugging.

I stand transfixed looking at the colour that play in front of my eyes. I am lost in the miracle that unfolds before me. The moving clouds spread in front of my eyes like ballerinas’ tiptoeing into the wide blue expanse of clear sky, dancing to the rhythm of serene music that quivers from the deep hollow bamboo flute.

I dissolve with the clouds. Etherised. Lost. Transfixed. The clouds change patters swiftly, in synchronous order. The patters are a wonder that spontaneously make the audience go on their feet, to give a standing ovation. Then quickly the synchronized patches fall like a glaze of snowflakes on an ember light Christmas tree. The delicate sprinkle of sugar spreads on cotton candy. An invisible artist appears spreading watercolours across the white canvas. Each stroke of watercolour is like a Rorschach ink blot. Santa the man with his long snow-white beard comes caring a bag full of calligraphy nibs and feathers, writing apocalyptic poetry across the translucent slate.

Staring at the play of colours is all for me to savour, in the grand consort of the mystical heavens. Tall haphazard buildings curtail the vision sometime. To catch a glimpse of the games that the clouds are immersed in, I sway from right to left. Buildings and water tanks on top of houses restrict my vision – I realise that people build houses on the earth and don’t really care about the grand landscape of the heavens that they disrupt in vulgar fashion. The semblance of a skyline does not exist for them as the earth is plundered.

That does not stop me in my meditative trance to catch the stroke of calligraphy that spreads across the translucent landscape where birds flying towards the setting sun. I see little boys on rooftops playing kites. It is for me a game of innocence. The kites reach the clouds and you can hear the giggle of pure joy. The long tail of the kites is like satin ripples that create rings of exuberance.

The kite flies higher and higher. I hear screams of excitement of children. May be it is the laughter of wonder - of how small we are to the clouds, of the space between the kite and the big roll of twine that is let loose. The wind has taken the kite with it further and further away into the clouds. The little boy knows that the thread of freedom is secure. The kite is still with him, just as the clouds are with him.

Gazing at the sky is tranquilizing - a drift into the world of wonder. The white clouds now turn to a little tinge of orange, as the kiss of ruche on the cheek of belle dancers.

Suddenly flamingos pass through, spreading their wings of twilight. A thousand at once.

The clouds change colour. The delicate orange becomes deeper. Suddenly it looks like dark curtains are going to come down on what was a magnificent performance of mysticism.

The child has rolled back the long rolls of thread. He brings his kite down. He places it under his arms as if the kite needs to be protected by the wind. He goes home and places it under the bed, waiting for the sun to rise again. Perhaps dreaming of coming home early from school tomorrow, to set the kite free to kiss the clouds.

The clouds float. They float into my life. I into them. Lost am I for a moment. Tranquillity curtains down silently.

I wait for darkness to settle in. I know the clouds have added colour to my life – like flamingos’ in the arid savannas, like ballerinas in the grand centre stage of the blue sky, where music and dance synchronize to leave you breathless.

~~~*~~~

Burn to Light

One must burn
To heal
To light
To shine

Burn
To heal the heart
To light the dark
To shine through the ash

One must burn
To cry
For yourself
Through the burning, you heal yourself

Burning is an awareness
The ashes are your balm
The hot streams of tears
Your rescue

One must burn
Just like the light
That burns to light
To shine despite the ashes

Burn to shine, to heal, to glow
Longing to embrace
The light, the hope, the despair
Claiming the earth through the ash

The ash is our body
The earth is our flesh
The soul, the dust of brown earth
Light the world through your burn

Burn to heal the soul
That is free of pain, sorrow and attachment
That resides in the temple of our flesh and winding veins
To light the earth of despair, rage and intolerance

Burn to cry
For the dust of the earth
Is kicked to create a storm
Sand filled eyes scratch vision

Light through the burn
For yourself
For the earth
For the dust of the brown

Burn to light the world
Heal. Shine
Connect the body with your soul
Thus your soul will be one with the universe.
~~~~***~~~

A World of Overcoming

"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it."- Helen Keller

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I have listened to the lives of three women who brave every breath of oxygen they inhale. Exhaling a moment of pain and un-uttered grief. A simple smile shines through. You know it is an effort to search for acknowledgment - they too have a soul that burns silently, just like the one staring into their face.

The eyes of a ‘watch’ scans through and through, wanting to pin down an argument of knowing what lies beneath the skin. There lies nothing beneath the skin, really. It is the same blood. The same red fluid pumped by the heart, runs through the veins of every individual of every colour, race, ethnicity, man, woman, child, un-man, un-woman, un-child. It is the same oxygen that runs through the blood vessels. Yet every puff of oxygen inhaled is different. Unknowable. Unseen. Unfelt.

I lived the lives of three women – only partially. I can merely fathom the surface of the life that has been lived. I wonder what life of a past is lived through the present for Radha, Swetha and Kaumudhi (Names changed here).

Radha and Swetha are placed in a man’s body, but have a soul of a woman. Kaumudhi is a woman living with HIV. She has to care for her husband and child who live with HIV too. Three lives. Three worlds. Three languages. Yet one now. Yet many then.

I know their pain in snatches. I know it because I too search for a world that can be a garden of different hues. That is a world I wish to live in. I am different yet one.

Radha and Swetha are women who live a life of dignity despite rape. A rape that goes beyond the physical. A rape of an identity thrust upon them. A rape of forced name-calling: queer, different, strange, weird, freaks, hijra, eunuch. A rape of isolation. A rape of pushing their body to the periphery of life. They fight the rape. They fight the language of conquest, of captured assault. Their body snatched, conquered, besieged, injured, rived, torn, ripped, scared, penetrated, forced. That is how their body was treated. That is their body. The outer layer. The house where resides the soul. The flesh that will decay, perish and die. The soul sees a flight of freedom and liberation one day.

Their spirit cannot be touched, tampered or raped. The spirit that carries a dignity of defiance, equanimity and courage to hold on to claim a world of love, kindness, acceptance of them and of all the souls that feel trapped in bodies that don’t belong.

I know their pain in snatches. I know it because I am the same. A soul that is housed in a mere body that will one day decay.

Radha and Swetha were born boys, who felt trapped in their body. They try to break free from a patriarchal, masculine language, thus creating a language of their own.

There is Kaumudhi, who listens to Radha and Swetha, as she runs her past through her present one more time. She is them, and yet not. She shares the same language of discrimination. She lives with HIV. Her little child lives with the same. Her husband lives the same. Three lives to lead in one life span.

I know her pain, in snatches. I know the pain of all of them put together. I know it because each one of them, just like me, long to be held, listened to and respected.

I have felt pain in my heart. Sharing two days with Kaumudhi, reliving her journey and her struggle of what millions around the world go through, fighting discrimination against HIV leaves me numb. It was time to say goodbye. I hugged her with the only thing I knew I could come to express- compassion, loving-kindness. That was all I had to offer of myself to her, her child and her family and thus it was in a way an offering of my pained self to the world where free spirits suffer everywhere.

These exemplary women epitomize for me one of my favorite quotes of Helen Keller again, “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”

Living a snatch of the daring is promise. Breaking superstition of the forces of the cosmos is liberating. Understanding a language through stammering is freeing. Listening to the churning stories is living a life through three lives and yet a zillion lives in a single stroke, as one inhales a puff of air that is everyone’s.

I realize there is more to life than seeing sunsets and sunrise fade across the horizon.

~~~~~***~~~~

Death of an Unknown – The Preserver of Life

Am quietened by an email that I received this morning that grieves of a young farmer, Jambana Goudaru, from Sindanur Taluk in Raichur District, who died of a “freak electric mishap”. But what struck me most was that here was a man who was a committed seed saver and cultivated over 51 varieties of rice. His commitment to preserving seed diversity is one that he will leave behind – in an age where genetically modified grains and powerful corporations are taking away this diversity that is a life giver. Beeja in Sanskrit means life. It is a metaphor for the origin or cause of things.

We have one life to preserve. Sri Lanka in 1959, for example, some 2,000 varieties of rice were cultivated, whereas today, there are fewer than 100, and some 75 per cent of agro-biodiversity has been lost as a result of the pressure towards to the adoption of uniform improved seed varieties.

Diversity is the core of life and diversity is the core to nature – through “beeja” or the life giver the principle of traditional agriculture has survived. The word culture meant, “Tending to nature” - that speaks for the word “agriculture” too. This is best seen in India where farmers have worshiped the land as life force – the giver and bearer of life. It is here that every tradition of farming has been common knowledge to every “tillers” of the earth for time-immemorial. This common knowledge is today taken for ransom by large corporations, thanks to the free-trade agreements and patenting laws that snatches this common knowledge from the very custodians of this traditional knowledge.

“India is a centre of genetic diversity of rice. Out of this diversity, Indian peasants and tribal’s have selected and improved many indigenous high yielding varieties. Comparative studies of 22 rice growing systems have shown that indigenous systems are more efficient when inputs of labour and energy are taken into account” (Shiva, Vandana, The Green Revolution in the Punjab, The Ecologist, Vol. 21, No. 2, March-April 1991)

The fundamental “right to life” is being snatched by the design of globalization and there is much to be done to resist the colonization of multi-nationals taking claim of the traditional –hand- me- down-knowledge.

The green revolution and the aftermath of this has seen the effects that are of far reaching consequence – agrarian crisis, farmer suicides due to indebtedness as farming practises have changed to now depend on fertilisers, pesticides and excessive use of natural recourses, thus harming the fertility of the very earth that is the life-giver; usurping of tribal lands in the pretext of “special economic zone development projects”; building of large dams that submerge fertile habitant land, and displace millions of people; global warming; poverty and hunger.

It is not co-incidental that India has over 2.5 million children who die of malnutrition and the latest UN Human Development Report 2010 states that eight Indian states have “poverty as acute as the 26 poorest African countries” and this is “home to 421 million multi dimensionally poor people, more than the 410 million people living in those African countries combined”.

If one were to look at life as being too short – what about that seed of life that has in its power to germinate to pass on life as a healer to the world. Many lives strung together means living a million lives in one breath. This needs to be preserved in our conscious minds.

One is often bogged down by the powerful harangue that we often tell ourselves that a perfect world cannot be realized, but we should be able to soften that statement and tell ourselves that, that should not distract us (ME-YOU-US) from doing what is possible to bring about change.

If only death can lead to inspiration, and life a purpose!

~~~~*~~~~

The Buddha's Words on Kindness (Metta Sutta)

This is what should be done
By one who is skilled in goodness,
And who knows the path of peace:
Let them be able and upright,
Straightforward and gentle in speech.
Humble and not conceited,
Contented and easily satisfied.
Unburdened with duties and frugal in their ways.
Peaceful and calm, and wise and skillful,
Not proud and demanding in nature.
Let them not do the slightest thing
That the wise would later reprove.
Wishing: In gladness and in saftey,
May all beings be at ease.
Whatever living beings there may be;
Whether they are weak or strong, omitting none,
The great or the mighty, medium, short or small,
The seen and the unseen,
Those living near and far away,
Those born and to-be-born,
May all beings be at ease!


Let none deceive another,
Or despise any being in any state.
Let none through anger or ill-will
Wish harm upon another.
Even as a mother protects with her life
Her child, her only child,
So with a boundless heart
Should one cherish all living beings:
Radiating kindness over the entire world
Spreading upwards to the skies,
And downwards to the depths;
Outwards and unbounded,
Freed from hatred and ill-will.
Whether standing or walking, seated or lying down
Free from drowsiness,
One should sustain this recollection.
This is said to be the sublime abiding.
By not holding to fixed views,
The pure-hearted one, having clarity of vision,
Being freed from all sense desires,
Is not born again into this world.
~~~~~*~~~~~

One Life to LOVE

Really to live requires a great deal of love, a great feeling for silence, a great simplicity with an abundance of experience; it requires a mind that is capable of thinking very clearly, that is not bound by prejudice or superstition, by hope or fear. All this is life, and if you are not being educated to live, then education has no meaning. You may learn to be very tidy, have good manners, and you may pass all your examinations; but, to give primary importance to these superficial things when the whole structure of society is crumbling, is like cleaning and polishing your fingernails while the house is burning down.

--J Krishnamurti

Our Mental Health – Fear Psychosis Grips Us in the Wake of the Ayodhya Verdict

30 th September, 2010.

Time: 1.24 PM

It is just hours before the Supreme Court will pronounce its verdict on the "right to land" on Ayodhya. Schools have been shut down. Offices closed. IT companies have asked its staff to work from home today (Thursday) and on Friday. There is a mad rush of people wanting to rush home - just before the verdict is announced at 3.30 PM. I hear the zipping past of vehicles, with aggressive honking. It deafens the quiet office.

Why don't we stop and not rush like all the rest. Why don't we pause and not get into mad hysteria that is going on around us.

Has anyone asked this question – what is happening to our minds? Why are we gripped with fear? What is this fear that cripples us? Why are we afraid? Of whom? why? why now? How rational are these fear?

What explanations are we giving our children? What reasons have they been told? Why are the schools been shut down for days, and teachers introduce them to words like "communal", "violence", "demolish", "curfew". Are they asked not to go out and play in the evening?

Does anyone listen to a child and ask if the child wants to stay home or be in school.

Schools are shut down for the second time - one a few days ago, when the hearing for the deferring of the verdict was being heard. I asked my seven years old nephew why he was at home. He struggled to utter the word "communal" and kept saying "common violence”. May be that is what it is! Do we correct a seven year old that it is “communal violence” that refers to a situation or incident where violence is perpetrated across ethnic lines, and the victims are chosen based upon ethnic group membership. The communal violence occurs when aggression cannot be contained anymore and burns like a furnace.

Do we take the time to listen to the questions they ask us? How do we answer the questions? Are we going to scare them, like how the school did, by telling them that the schools will be shut down due to the fear of violence. Is this the growing trend that our children will be accustomed to?

Do we now introduce this fear to a child, like we do when a child does not eat its food and the distraught mother says “guma will come now, if you do not finish you food fast”.

What are we teaching our children through this?

That we need to go under-cover when there is the possibility of fringe elements taking the country to ransom just before the “highest seat of truth and justice” is going to declare its verdict. That we as a nation feel we can wage a war from our homes, watching sensational news on television. That we are checking-out with friends through SMS if he/she is safe in the house - with windows and doors shut.

That we need the constant presence of police and paramilitary forces to take the city to siege – for that is security.

For all the other modes of communication can cause an upsurge, anarchy, is curbed by the government for security reasons.

What is the state of our health? I am not talking about the symptoms of a common cold, or flu. How healthy are we. Health is well-being of our mind, spirit and body. If that being true, then what is the state of our mental health?

Is anyone taking a moment to think about what we have allowed ourselves to become, forcing ourselves to stay inside closed doors, than to be performing our normal work, to say, I will ensure the country functions in peace - and that it is important for justice to prevail, no matter how hard it is to swallow the truth.
That I will not let fear grip me, and I will come to the rescue of a person in dire straits, who may well not be of my community, my religion.
That I will tell my child that he/she needs to respect each of his/her classmates and not allow fear of the adult to control the innocent mind.
That I will set free the fear of fear.
That I will not allow the political might that is caught in the mire of politics divide to fragment our country further.

That for the sake of my own sanity, I will not give control to the "other" to rule my mind and hold me to ransom.

~~~*~~~

Listen to My Eyes

Listen to my eyes
They speak to you
Through the dark twinkling eyes
To be with you through your eyes to comfort


Speak to my eyes
For they answer to you with genteel touch
The fire of foreboding in your cat eyes
To want to be, and yet unwilling


Listen to my eyes
They yearn for a smile
That radiates through the soft eyelashes
That closes the eyes from revealing much


Listen to my eyes
Hush the conversations in your brain
Through the ears you can touch
The pulse of my being


Whisper to my eyes
They will not let you down
For you can speak the unspeakable
To be your constant

Whisper to my eyes that judge not
The summation of who you are
The mighty ocean of conflict buried in the eyelids
My eyes will hold that one delicate eyelash fallen on your cheek


Listen to my eyes
They are with you
In sight to brighten your world
To look beyond the horizon as the waves nudge it


~~~*~~~

When Xenophobia makes us Inhuman

“Do not believe in anything simply because you have heard it. Do not believe in anything simply because it is spoken and rumoured by many. Do not believe in anything simply because it is found written in your religious books. Do not believe in anything merely on the authority of your teachers and elders. Do not believe in traditions because they have been handed down for many generations. But after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it.” ~ Gauthama Buddha

---------------~~~~~~~~**~~~~~~~~----------------

“Justice just for the sake of justice is not right... Krishna said if a lie saves a life then it is better than hundred truths. I don’t want to go into that Masjid if it comes up or visit the temple.” The fear of being lynched, raped, abused, hurt, torn, humiliated grips my friend just days before the Supreme Court pronouncement on the ill-omen verdict of the Babri Masjid that was brought to dust.

She would rather live in quite seclusion, hiding away from the glares of people who look at her in her Rida, curiously. A stranger, with strange outfits. When a burka draws enough attention as it is, people do not know how to place the “out of ordinary”. We tend to look at the world in its stark dichotomy – and we miss to see the fact that people are a summation of different faiths, culture, looks, and what have you.

Fear leaves her waking in the night. The nightmares do not set her free. She hears the voices of the mob. She sees the blood in the eyes of unruly mob, who believe in a doctrine that is considered sacrosanct – all in the name of religion. All in the name of cultural subjugation. All in the name of creating one order. All in the use of force that only I will prevail, and all other forms that are “unique”, “few”, “other”, “them”, “they”, “it” will follow the I. Cultural xenophobia sets loose.

Her dreams take grip of her. She is not sure if she would be safe taking her little child to the school bus that stops down the road. She does not know if the children in the bus will look at her son curiously. She knows it, because her son has been asking her difficult questions. She knows because her son has few friends. He may be little. But the questions he brings back home are one that adults have orchestrated. When I assure her that not all are fanatic and even though our country continues to be blown to smithereens, justice must be prevail, her anguish cannot contain her. “ Big Talks lava.” She tells me. I try to tell her, "I know, Ima...I understand".

But do I? Do I know the language of fear? I do know the language of rage, for I have seen people of the “majority” speak in superior tone. I have heard people tell me, “it is a shame you are a Hindu”. How do I know what images haunt a mother who prays that she will see her child in the evening, and above all that the child will be hopeful of living in a land that he feels proud to be in.
“I have seen the riots with my own eyes, I have seen bloodshed and people running... those who never had a say or do in it...it is very easy to talk big and talk of justice... you ask a mother whose child has not come back from school, because the school is burnt...Government cares shit about us.... it will only leave the bullies to deal with us”.

When a Culture is Bulldozed, the Bullies are Set Free to Deal with Us

What will be seen after the pronouncement of the Supreme Court verdict is for time to tell. Knowing the pattern of our mind that is caught in a limited understanding of “culture” I fear the worst. I fear not the mob fury. I fear not the blood bath on the streets. I fear the physiological fracture that will scare the innocent. I fear the hatred that will be buried in the subconscious mind. I fear the rape of innocence that will strike in every child on this earth. I fear the lack of trust that will settle in our psyche. I fear the hate that we will teach our children in our homes. I fear the looking of history as black and white. I fear the look that will invade my space. I fear the failure to see the spirit of religion – that teaches us to move beyond attachments to attain salvation. I fear for each one of us who have a right to an opinion, and yet not bulldoze mine as the word of god. I fear for the loss of faith. I fear for the burning spirit. I fear the cowardice to take stand for the “other”.

Muslims Can Pray Anywhere. You Remain a Hindu Even If You Do Not Visit a Temple


Another friend, Gyan, tells me, “when the verdict comes, it will be a ‘free for all’”. Free for all to strike, kill, attack, abuse. Free for all to make right every wrong. Free for all to kill for every stab. Free for all to join the mob of hysteria. Free for all to lynch at anyone your hands can grab for no apparent explanation or reason.

There is a sense of loss in the voice of my friend who thinks all this is absurd. Why is peace often fought for. “Muslims can pray anywhere, they do not need a particular place to pray”, he tells me. I think that this thought is so beautiful. I tell him that is true with Hindu’s too. You don’t cease to be a Hindu if you do not visit a temple. Why cannot one see the liberal thoughts that prevail with most of us – and yet we fail to understand the essence of life. My friend adds on “people are same, Xians, Muslims, Hindus think they are different... its only the prayer that is different”. I tell him, the prayer too is just the same, the language of offering is different. One prays to let oneself free of the bonding from the worldly, to set free the human failings, desires, pain and suffering, to develop a consciousness that leads to nirvana and enlightenment of the soul.

Standing up for Truth

It is for the majority to protect the fewer, the weaker. Being a majority, we have an obligation to protect the vulnerable around us. If we cannot stand up for truth, then no religion is worth following. It is a disgrace to say I am a Hindu, I am a Muslim, I am a Christian, a Jain, a Buddhist, a Non-religious- spiritual person.

~~~~*~~~~~

Tales Untold at Funerals

Death is a truism. Funerals are a tradition, like marriage or christening ceremony. The gathering of people is part of the paraphernalia that goes in each of these traditions. There are moods that live through the rituals – some surreal, but mostly the stream of consciousness taking the sublime. You often know through death that this is what will happen to you to. You get to see a live show of what will happen when you are dead. The person dead is suddenly called not by the name – but in non-animate words – body, It, corpse, and yes off course in the singular tense. Grammar changes soon after life is transformed to no-life or death.

Taking my parents to a funeral of a close relative is a moment when truism struck. Death always happens to the other. You are still spared of it. Dad's cousin has lost his wife. This is one uncle I am fond of. I am not too fond of too many of my relatives - I maintain a quiet distance from most and abstain from personal attachments. I walk up to him and quietly make little enquires of how it all happened. There are a couple of my aunts whom I like (for there is no apparent reason why I should not otherwise). They too soon got into the conversation of narrating stories of the wonderful person the deceased was.

Narrations of events, stories of growing up and the bonding of the couple, the wife leaving her husband in this world, all inter-weave into one ‘narratology’. My uncle speaks of how wonderful his wife was (the past tense soon taking a syntactic change in death). Everyone around endorses this, often sighting that this nature had come to the deceased through her mother. It is said that when my uncles mother-in-law passed away, the cow that was attached to her had wept and not eaten for many days to come - such was her nature.

The conversation continues of the age of uncle’s wife. The theory that saves emotional outlet is to rationalize death: She died “fairly” young and saved the family a lot of pain, dying peacefully in her sleep. Treating her through the years, because of a bad kidney transplant was painful. The husband was always kind-hearted and despite his inability to cook, he had dutifully followed instructions: the amount of salt needed to be put into the stew, the methods to cut vegetables, and the number of cups of water needed to cook rice. He had learnt to scrub the utensils to its right shine and administer the medicines to her regularly.

What touched me most was that here was a husband who was trying to hold on to the person - that had suddenly turned to a memory through the stories- while she was right there. Laid on the floor, dressed in her wedding sari. Incense sticks letting out the smoke filling the room with a strong smell, conflated with muffled sobs of her children and loved ones.

Everything sounded grand and perfect and free of human failings. I like to hear the perfect stories of liberated individuals. Here was a woman who had not asked anything from her husband – not a house, not jewellery and silk saris, not anything. Therefore, he felt he needed to thank himself for such a marriage to a woman who was one of a kind. The pangs of seeing her go before him is something he needs to learn.

My aunts and my father though thought it was a wonderful way to die. To die in sleep, quietly, without a fuss. Then the theories of what could have been the last few moments of her death is discussed with greater intensity. Each ones impression of the last moments of death is interesting to hear. The dead person is not there to correct them of their fantastic tales of the probable.

The dutiful husband’s yearning for his lost wife, fit in well to my romanticism of marriage, love and death. To hear my uncle say that he was privileged to serve a wife, a kind hearted mother, sister and all the roles she took, one who was always giving and not asking for anything back, fit in well of the romantic and grandeur notion of an ideal marriage and a dutiful wife. My heart was touched hearing this. Uncle had done much for his wife, through the illness and beyond. Each of the mourners that thronged the house discussed this aspect in what were clearly different impressions of a grand tale of the dead.

My aunts who are widows, thought that it was a good death that my uncles wife should have got – she had died “muthaidi” - died such that she was ordained in her wedding saree and her mangalsutra was still on her. Unlike my aunts who had to remove all those symbols of a married woman. To be a widow meant removing the essence of life. It struck me that my aunts who retired as schoolteachers should speak like this. I wondered if they wished they had passed away before their husbands, or they just glorified the patriarchal narrative that is etched in their consciousness.

No matter what the tales are and how the story ends, no matter what cultural consciousness people live and die with, it does not matter how you die. What matters is how you have lived your life.

The stories told in a funeral are often one that is civil and polite. It struck me then (as it does with the rare funerals that I have been to) that it is better to live a life such that when you die, you do not have people saying “Thank god for Death that this person is gone!”


~~~~***~~~~

Un-Word

I let not words
Travel to my lips
That spring from my heart
To resonate your name in silent shiver

I let not utterances flow
Calling out to you
In the breath of tender affection
With arms stretched

You cannot listen to my silent whisper
Nor can you see my hands
Open to the world
For you to clasp it back

I hold on to the words
That stirs the heart
A thousand beats
To tell you tales of my then in silence

Feeble texture of thoughts in images
Throb my veins to a hushed quiet
Silent utterance means more than words
I whisper silently to my heart that cannot reach you


I have known silence filters
Settles down through the being
Where the pain soothes to numbness
To see the threshold of the aching heart raised

I call out your name in multitudes
For when I try
My voice cracks
And silence prevails


~~~~*~~~~

Polishing Daddy’s Shoes

Searching for the coir shoe brush and Cherry Blossom Black Liquid Shoe polish that has the grotesque imitation of Charlie Chaplin’s face is not something you are used to – if you are not into polishing your shoes.

The art of getting the right shine and texture in every little hem and stitch of the leather, you take special notice of rubbing the wax on the heal as well. You then follow a slow sedate movement of brushing the shoes that is delicately placed in your palm. You take the folded muslin cloth that is kept for the last ritual. The delicate hands rub and caress the wax on the leather, allowing the shine to grow, lucid and smooth. You tuck your tippy toes into the delicately placed shoes that daddy is holding in his palm or may be when you stand straight adjusting the pleats of your pinafore, holding your daddy’s head, while he ties your shoelace not too tight. He then says “walk away you girl!”

You walk free. Unabashed that it does not matter to kick the dust while walking to school, with the big bag on your back and the slinging of the pink water bottle. You look at your feet all the time and may be dust your shoes with your bare hands to clear the dust that has settled on the shine. You smile.

Daddy knew the right way to polish my shoes. He knew to tie the shoelace perfect. Not too long, not too short – a perfect bow that made his baby girl glow.

We soon grow out of our black shoes and white socks. High heels are fashion. No wax needed to rub delicate stings of High Fashion heels. With every inch that grows in heels, Dad’s age has tripled. Daddy is 70, or may be older. We forget to count their age anymore, as ours takes priority. When he steps out, he loves to wear his shoes. His suede slip-ons give him the grip to walk. No more are the formal shoes on his feet that wore the same intense shine and the same perfect signature knot of firm shoelace that was seen in my tippy shoes. His health has dipped with his soaring age. His legs are swollen due to a thrombosis of the veins. He cannot push his feet into formal shoes even if he wishes to. The love for polished shoes has waned off, just as much as wearing a shirt that may be slightly creased.

Daddy has to attend a wedding this morning. His full-sleeves shirt beautifully contrasts his trouser. He cannot iron his shirts the way he would iron my brother’s apron, when my brother has just entered Medical College. Daddy now gets his shirts ironed at the dry cleaner. But the moment it is brought from the dry cleaners’, he promptly puts it in a hanger. When his boys wore creased shirts and faded T-shirts he would grumble and then iron the shirts for them. For long every shirt they wore for a wedding or a function, dad would come to their rescue. He knew the right way to iron the sleeves and the collar!

I watch him looking hard at the shoe-shelf. There is clear clutter of every shoe there but his. I see him trying hard to locate his shoe. He is making an effort to bend and search his shoes that he knows is pushed to the lowest corner of the rack. I come to his rescue, and tell him “let me dig it out for you”. I spend few minutes searching and pull out his slip-ons. The shoe has fungus all over it. It looks old and clearly it does not match his outfit!

He looks at it, as I place it closer to his feet. He tells me “It’s ok. This does not need polish. Just give me a wet cloth, I’ll wipe the white patches off and that should do.” Whoever notices an old man. Whoever notices the shoes of the elderly.

I tell him, " I’ll polish it for you and make it as good as new in a bit."

I follow each of the steps of shining leather shoes. This is a lesson that I learnt from Daddy. I plonk on the floor, place the shoe “delicately” in my palm. I dust the shoes vigorously. I open the wax jar, pat the choir brush and smoothen out the black shoe polish delicately on the leather. Every stitch, even corner is neatly touched. Then begins the one lesson that my daddy taught me: “ you need to brush as hard as you can, to get the final shine.” I know this is just the intermediate step. I brush as hard as I can. The movement of my hand on the shoe follows a pattern. I brush the heels with added force and rhythm. I am done with the left shoe. I pick up the other. The ritual follows. I take a clean cloth and apply the delicate pressure to bring out the shine. It takes a while. I don’t give up. I hear my daddy say, “it’s enough, don’t bother to work so hard at it. It is an old shoe.” I don’t give up. I allow myself to go with the movement of my hands. The shoe has a shine. Not like new. But, close enough. I smile.

 I take the shoes to my dad. I place it by his feet. I hold it so that he can slip his feet into the shoes. He places his hand on my head for balance, like I did, when I was little.

~~~~***~~~~

I want to Be

I want to be the tree that shades the desolate under a busy road
I want to be the leaf of that tree that catches dust day after day
I want to be the leaf of that branch that falls down by evening
I want to be dust of the leaf that dissolves into the earth


I want to be the flower that blooms in the chill morn of spring
I want to be the due drop that settles down on an obscure forest flower
I want to be the unknown of the unknown and yet be the joy of flowering
I want to be the petals scattered on an un-treaded path that leads to a ruined temple


I want to be the soul of a child that cries to be held to the bosom of love
I want to be that love that holds the child, whispering tenderness
I want to be the tenderness that grasps like the girdle of comfort
I want to be the child that smiles as tears trickle that I was a moment ago


I want to be the agony of your heart when alone, morbid and lost
I want to be the lost, the morbid, the lone, to take in my palm your ruffled heart
I want to be the arguments and counterarguments that loses its intensity in time
I want to be the tear of the dry eye that is delicately filled to the brim


I want to be the breath of your now, to breathe the joys of knowing
I want to be the inhaling of the suffering, to breathe out for you peace and stillness
I want to be the hand that you can hold, when you know your soul churns
I want to be that smile of your face to know that you have found


I want to be the earth from which we are born
I want to be the fire that comes from the earth of love, hate, misery all mingled with contradictions
I want to be the phoenix that burns in hope, every time she burns into ashes
I want to be the hope, the possibility of being when the earth, the river, the cloud breathes its last


I want to be


~~~~*~~~~

Hanumanthi is Dead

Hanumanthi is dead. The child that she carried safe in her womb is dead. Two deaths in one. A million deaths until the fatal blow dug her into the earth. That was not enough. To be sure she would not wakeup, she was dragged and thrown into the river. Hoping she would sail, set float and eventually sink. Her five month little child curled in the protective dark of her womb.


Hanumanthi is dead. Her mother Mallama does not know what her heart thinks. Her three little children are oblivion to the gathering of neighbours outside their hut. They whisper in hushed monologues. The moon has not shone today. It is amavasya. The kerosene lamps merely light the threshold of the hut. The night of amavasya is the darkest. Dark is the fear of death. Dark are the rituals performed to appease the gods on the night of amavasya. They wait for the dark night to pass. It does not. It gets darker, more intense, more forlorn, more certain.


Hanumanthi will not return. Perhaps she will. Her mother needs her. Her children need her. Her three unmarried sisters need her. A lot is depended on her return. And return she will. She has never been away from home for so many days. She left home on the moonless night. It is six days since she left home, to go with Eerappa. They wait for the moonless night to pass. Hanumanthi’s mother Mallamma walks to Eerappa’s house that stands at the end of the village. She stands outside Eerappa house with folded hands. She is worried for her pregnant child. He tells her he does not know where she is. He had taken her to the construction site for manual work and after the day’s work, had dropped her back to the village. She had walked her way home.


Hanumanthi has not returned. Bheemesh, her three-year-old son has been waiting at the mat door for six days now. He stops playing as his older brother Sharna Basawa, who is five, looks keenly at his grandmother as she walks in after a long days work. Hanumanthi’s eldest child Ulugappa is seven. He knows nothing. Since the time of his birth, he has lived a vegetated condition and lies in a corner. Mallamma says nothing. She puts down the lunch box that she has carried on her head and sits down at the threshold. She waits. Evening is the time for her to wait into the dark. Mornings are spent cooking for the family and setting out to cultivate paddy in the landlord’s fields. She needs her daily wages. These past days have been like the day before. The night gets longer and when you think the wait is finally over, with the sun out on the horizon, there is no sign of Hanumanthi’s arrival.


Hanumanthi is dead. She has lived many deaths. This is just a physical exit from this world. Mallamma’s first-born Hanumanthi has been the main breadwinner since a tender age. Now that Mallamma is old, the only way of earning a living is to work in the fields of rich land owners. Work is available for four months during the monsoons. Hanumanthi would work at construction sites carrying gravel and stones. She was of support to her own children, her unmarried sisters and an ageing mother. If she does not return, who will then run the family?

---

Mallamma the mother of Hanumanthi, bore her baby girl soon after she was ordained a Devdasi. She became the Dasi or slave to god. The godly priest at the temple was the first to take Mallamma body. You need to touch and bless the offering. Then followed the god’s upper cast men, who feel, fuck, molest, screw, abuse, discard and fuck again. Mallamma, had just “grown up”. When a girl attains puberty, the time is right to make the offering to the goddess. An age-old tradition continues. Puberty strikes unaware, making way for men to have their want. Thus was born Hanumanthi.


Hanumanthi born to the offered mother grew up to see men come home at nightfall and slip by twilight. She knew her mother had no husband and she no father to call. She knew the sisters who came later, came through the men who visited her mother. She knew she was the first-born and that when puberty strikes, like it did her mother, her mother’s mother, she too will be taken to the temple where the large, fierce eyes of Yellama will smile on her.

---

Yellama the goddess smiles at the slaves under her feet. Yellama the goddess is appeased through human sacrifice. Yellama the goddess bears witness to the thousands of young girls who come to her. They walk to the temple. Naked. Covered in vermillion. Hair let loose on drooping shoulders cover delicate breasts. Clinching Neem leaves that shade the shame of the vagina.


Yellama, the beheaded goddess. From her womb was born Parashurama. Parashurama the incarnate of Vishnu. Parashurama, the valiant, the brave, brahmaskatrtriya. Parashurama the youngest son of Yellama, who follows the orders from his father Jamadagni to behead his mother. The youngest, the dearest son, who without a thought snatches the machete from his fainthearted brothers to strike. The valiant one, who cannot allow his father go back on his words, thus must strike his mother into two. She falls into two.


Earlier, Yellama, had walked to the pond to fetch water for her husband’s morning religious ritual. She sees young boys playing in the pond, watching them in their playful glee. She must return, but she lingers at the pond a little while longer, smiling at the laughter, playful chatter of young boys. She momentarily loses herself at the sheer pleasure of youthful freedom. Knowing her husband is waiting, she rushes back home with the pitcher of water. She is late. She knows the wrath of her husband, whose anger cannot be contained. Her distraction is a crime that befalls a fitting punishment. The offerings to the gods are of no significance now, than venting out the anger for the holy man. Parashurama is the only one who will abide. He acts to his father’s anger.

---

Yellama the protector of Hanumanthi is worshiped with human offerings. Yet, Hanumanthi is dead. Hanumanthi the devdasi is now thirty years old. She bore four children from Nayak who would visit her often. He would come reeking of toddy, fall on her, finish his act, and when leaving would leave some money by the bed. He was the only one frequenting her. She was lucky for at least having to offer herself to just one. Having continued the tradition of her mother, the other sisters were saved. They could be married off.


The drunkenness of Nayak was intolerable. She could have foul mouth breathing on her every time he was on top of her. She detested it, that one day she insisted that he stop visiting her home. He stopped.


Then came Eerappa. She worked at the construction place, where Eerappa was a mason. She has known him for a little over six months now. Suffice to know that is an upper cast man. A native of Bijapur , living with his sister.


He has replaced Nayak. The loose money and a few coins are thrown on the bed before he leaves. She is pregnant with his child. Eerappa would call her to work on the construction sites where he worked. She would go. A woman’s mind searchers for love and the desire to care for her man can sometimes kill. She would carry food for both. He would then visit her a few times in the week. In the night, he asked her to accompany him to the construction site.

---

The day is Amavasya. Hanumanthi has to clean and perform the ablutions to pray to Yellama. Her heart is where Eerappa is. She must not go, for she knows her child in her womb has been kicking her hard, almost telling her she must not step outside the moonless night. She rubs her swollen stomach. She listens to her baby. Not for long. Eerappa calls on her cell phone, prodding her to come. The baby kicks. It is afternoon. Hanumanthi listens to her heart. She packs her lunch box for two, tells her kids that she will be back soon and leaves.

---

Hanumanthi is dead. Her body is recovered from the river that flows next to a shrine of Yellama. She is dragged out of the body that is disintegrating. It is nearing nightfall. Her children do not know that she is found. Her face is disfigured and dark as nightfall. The river has ripped off her skin off. Eerappa watches remorselessly as she is fetched out of the water. Eerappa has only this much to say: “I brought her to the temple to pray. She asked me for money and I could not spare more than 200 rupees. She would not let go of me. I struck her and she fell. I took her to the river to put some water into her mouth. She was dead. I let her be.”

---

Mallama knows her wait has ended. She knows that there is more to the faint explanation of Hanumanthi ‘s death. She knows in the deep of her mind, that Eerappa has sacrificed her daughter and the unborn child to appease the gods. When the blood of cattle is not enough to satiate the thirst of the displeased deity, you need a woman’s blood. The sinister sacrifices made in the dark of the moonless night removes the ills at construction sites. This thought will haunt Mallama for the rest of her waking time. A devdasi’s body and blood is easy and cheap. Eerappa had once before offered sacrifices of cows to wade off evil. May be he wanted something more to give as offering. She had tried to tell her daughter not to step out of the house on amavasya. It was not good for the unborn child. Hanumanthi did not listen. Why then would he take her to the temple far away from her village to pray? Why then was she struck to her head on a moonless night? Why then did he remain peaceful for all these days? Why then did he continue to work at the construction site, fixing brick over brick? Why then did Hanumanthi not listen to the kicking of the child in her womb?

~~~*~~~

OUR Dying CHILDREN: Where is the RIGHT to LIFE?

“No person shall be deprived of his life or personal liberty except according to procedure established by law”, reads Article 21 of the Indian constitution. Does “life” mean a mere mode of existence - an existence from birth to the natural decay of the body to death? Or does “life” mean living, breathing, existing through the means to subsist with the dignity of being, possessing the right to livelihood, health, to be treated equal of any physical and sexual identity, of caste and creed.

Then, what may you define “deprived”? Simply put, it means snatching, taking away, stripping, impoverished, keeping away from having the fundamental essence of life.

When things being equal, does this include children? Is this merely a presumption that it does, after all?

Children are the silent, the invisible, possessing no formal political voice to claim their identity to the “right to life”. If we are the custodians of their lives, then, why is it that India allows two million of her children under the age of five to die every year, through a deathblow of malnutrition, when it is clearly preventable and manageable?

Undernutrition is a violation of child right and right to life. A child’s right to food is an integral part of the right to life.

India has the dubious distinction of standing first in having the highest number of stunted children in the world, surpassing countries like Bangladesh, Nepal, Ethiopia and several Sub-Saharan African countries. Low height for age is indicative of stunting and of chronic malnutrition. The prevalence of underweight children in India is twice as high as the average prevalence of 26 sub-Saharan African countries put together. In India, the under five-mortality death was reported to be alarmingly high at 69 for every 1,000 live births in 2008. Five north Indian states: Bihar, Madhya Pradesh, Orissa, Rajasthan and Uttar Pradesh account for nearly 55 percent of child mortality and with this, 65 percent of maternal deaths.

More than 19 million infants in the developing world have low birth weight. More than half are in South Asia; 8.3 million are in India

The Game of Survival for the Hungry Children

The health and nutritional status of India’s children has been in the danger zone for far too long. According to the National Family Health Survey (NFHS-3) 2005- 06, 48 percent or half of the India’s children under the age of five are chronically malnourished or stunted, with nearly 43 percent children underweight or have low weight for their age. This puts the survival of a child at grave risk, apart from having the potential to cause severe physical, intellectual and cognitive development that can cripple the child for life.

Research has proved that ensuring better childhood nutrition increases the adult productivity, thus enhancing the economic wellbeing of the individual, thereby ending the vicious cycle that poverty begets hunger.

The world looses 9 million children under the age of 5 each year, with two million children dying in India alone. Two thirds of these deaths are preventable: diarrhoea, pneumonia, malaria, measles, and HIV and AIDS account for nearly half the deaths. Undernutrition contributes to more than one third of these deaths.

Adequate food, care and attention health go a long way in protecting the child from diseases.

The colossal waste of fragile life is compounded by poverty, poor maternal nutrition, non-literacy, prevalent social norms, sanitation, and safe water supply. Truncated government policies, rising food prices, challenges in food production, high import of pulses, inadequate budgetary allocation on health further accentuate the problem, deteriorating the health and wellbeing of the vulnerable sections of the society. The mother and child are the vulnerable most. As you read this, children continue to die silently. The nutrition security of the country is seldom addressed with the seriousness it deserves.

Take the fallout of malnourishment – Anaemia. Anaemia is a deficiency of haemoglobin or red blood cells causing far-reaching damage on an individual. In young children, it results in increased susceptibility to infectious diseases, impairment in coordination, cognitive performance, behavioural development, language development, and scholastic achievement.

Anaemia in children under three years of age has increased to a far greater level from 74 percent to 79 percent in 2005-06 of NFHS-3. A mild decrease in severe anaemia is seen from 5 percent to 4 percent. Children (under three years) with low weight for height or wasted, has increased from 20 percent to 23 percent from NFHS-2 to NFHS-3, through there has been improvement in children with Stunting or low height for age.

Today, the prevalence of anaemia among married women between 15 to 49 years has risen from 52 percent (1998-99) to 56 per cent in 2005-06. 58 per cent of pregnant women suffer from anaemia.

A Healthy Mother, A Healthy Child

It is beyond any doubt that a healthy mother is unlikely to have a stunted, wasted or an underweight child. Anaemic and under-nourishment has a severe impact in pregnancy, the development of the fatuous and the newborn child, making it impossible for the mother to support the nutrition deficit of the child. It is found that mothers who have a body mass index less than 18.5 kg/m2 or underweight are likely to have undernourished children. This threatening the survival of the mother and child.

Hunger, Food and Nutrition Security

It must be noted that despite the tall claims of the green revolution and the surplus of food grain production having increased from 50.82 in 1950-51 to 200.88 million tonnes in 1998-99, the production of coarse grain and pulse has not increased. The government today imports large scale of pulses, making it unaffordable for the poor.

Thus, there is a dramatic decline in the per capita consumption of the essential pulses (the vital protein element) to merely 34 grams per day. The government is unable to fill the crevice of cost, availability, distribution and fiscal expenditure.

The nutritionally vulnerable child, adolescent girl, expecting and lactating mothers face the brunt of the nutrition crisis and ill health the most. The public distribution system (PDS) do not distribute pulses, oil, locally available coarse grain to the poor margins of society who access the PDS. If measures are taken to encourage the consumption, cultivation of course grain and pulses, then this can fill the nutritional gap of a household.

Who Are the Children that Suffer the Most?

As gruesome as this may be, it is important to delve into the plight of tribal and dalith children. They are caught in the quagmire of social inequality, political alienation, discrimination and exclusion. Consider this: the neonatal mortality of the Scheduled Tribe (ST) and Scheduled Caste (SC) is far greater at 46.3 to 34.5 among non ST/SC/OBC. Infant mortality rate is 66.4 in ST/SC to 48.9 among others. This only proves that the nutritional deficiencies are at a heightened state among disadvantaged groups. Young children from the disadvantaged castes are more susceptible to a chronic stunted, wasted, and underweight nutritional status than children from other “upward” castes. This shows that the accessibility to health care, clean drinking water, access to education, landlessness, migration and insurmountable poverty are factors that cripple the normal development of a child that belongs to the “other” side of the caste barrier.

Little Done is Half Done

Over the past few years, several attempts have been made to plug the dismal health record of mother and child in the country with the introduction of the Integrated Child Development Services (ICDS) and Mid Day Meal Scheme. The ICDS address the nutritional status of children under six years, lactating mothers and adolescent girls (only two adolescent girls per angawadi). The Mid Day Meal tackles the nutritional flux and classroom hunger of children from 6 to 14 years.

Though much is done, much remains to be achieved. The out-reach of the ICDS centres or Aganwadis fall short in its coverage. Only 30 percent of children from 6 months to 6 years have access to an anganwadi. This means that over 80 percent the children of this age group have no access to any day-care centres. The universalization of the ICDS is far from being a dream. The Supreme Court had earlier ordered the opening of 14 lack aganwadi centres with specific coverage given to SC/ST, urban slums, and other disadvantaged habitations.

Promise to Create a World Fit for Children

There lies promise in the impact of the health and nutrition interventions made in the past eight to nine years. Clearly, there is a decline in infant mortality and severe malnutrition.

However, even with more than 10 lack operational aganwadis, the functioning of the aganwadis needs systemic support to ensure its true efficacy. The need to upgrade the day care to anganwadi- cum-crèches would be the lifeline to working mothers (mostly from the unorganized sectors) who can leave their children behind in the day-care centre, while they earn their bread.

Taking heed to the Supreme Court intervention at the colossal rotting of food grain, the United Progressive Alliance (UPA) government has finally made a decision to reach PDSs in 150 districts in the neglected -rural -poverty-belt of Bihar, Chhattisgarh, Jharkhand, Orissa, Assam, eastern Uttar Pradesh, Madhya Pradesh and Rajasthan.

National Rural Health Mission (NRHM) has helped in strengthening the public health systems through the induction of the grass root workers like the Auxiliary Nurse Midwife (ANM) and Accredited Social Health Activist (ASHA). Today they play a pivotal role in ensuring that maternal and infant mortality is checked by encouraging institutional delivery, counselling and support on breastfeeding practises, guidance on maternal and child health, information dissemination on maternity entailments among other things.

Our Tomorrow

We have a promise to keep: to save our children from the perils of hunger, starvation, malnourishment and death. We owe it to every child that we will create an environment that is equal, fair and just, where a child is nurtured to grow to his/her full potential. This world belongs to them, despite their silence. They have a right to the earth beneath, the sky above, the wind and water around them. If we cannot do everything in our power to lessen the burden on their delicate lives, we would have done a disfavour to ourselves.

~~~*~~~