Yet another shot at pinning down Love

Doesn't Love come

In all shapes;

All sizes;

All colours.

Multiple times.

Simultaneously. 

In all ways;

In any way,

Anyways. 

Reflection

Of oneself,

In other eyes. 

Perception of

A piece of divinity. 

The sunshine.

Timelessness.

Limitlessness.

Spontaneous connection-

A oneness. 

Synchronicity in the air. 

If all that be Love,

Don't we then go all ways? 

Woman, Man, Fluid, Trans...

Lame, Sightless, Deaf, One-armed...

Socialist, Communist, Capitalist, Humanist... 

Hindu, Buddhist, Jew, Christian, Muslim, Jain... 

Married.

Single.

Divorced.

Separated.

Complicated... 

What else cannot be transcended? 

Beyond. 

In Love. 

Every One,

A potential soulmate. 

You would see your reflection,

In the nasty worm 

that eve-teased you,

or adam-teased,

In the bus yesterday. 

But if you meet your teaser

In the dark alley

And see your reflection,

as (s)he overpowers you,

And don't whack your reflection

In the balls, 

Genitals, 

If that is what it takes; 

Then I will call you 

Completely cuckoo! 

If I am in limitedness,

Can I perceive limitlessness? 

If I am incomplete,

How can anybody ever complete me? 

If I am not in love with myself,

Do I really, truly, love anyone else? 

Love knows no sacrifice. 

Clarified, rare, moments

Of pure perception,

Oneness of being

That needs no more doing. 

Isn’t it its own doing?

Doesn't Love fulfil itself? 

We do more: 

Plan 
Expect 
Talk 
Demand 
Court 
Marry 
Protect      
Help... 

For ourselves. 

Heart on Fire – Rukmini Paatti’s Obituary

The first feeling that I had yesterday, as I went to the ice-box and saw paatti lying still in it, was of a sinking and heavy heart. One more life from that precious generation gone; paatti is, was, around 93 years - this generation I mean. I hold it precious because elders I know from this age seem to live with a sense of fullness of life… complete, whole, seasoned lives. The following sloka comes to mind as I think of this phenomenon:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

Om Puurnnam-Adah Puurnnam-Idam Puurnnaat-Puurnnam-Udacyate |
Puurnnasya Puurnnam-Aadaaya Puurnnam-Eva-Avashissyate ||
Om Shaantih Shaantih Shaantih ||

Roughly translated, “That is complete. This is complete. From completeness, arises completeness. Removing completeness from completeness, only completeness remains. Peace. Peace. Peace.”

Granted that I didn’t see that much of Rukmini paatti in recent times. It had been in the 90s that I met her a lot, going to school with her granddaughter Sathya, one of my best friends from school.  And then for about a year or so between 1995 and 1997 I saw her for a few hours every day. Particular life circumstances made it such that I spent almost all my time besides school and sleeping hours, at their house for that time period. Then as we grew up, and supposed adulthood, its daily life and responsibilities took over, my visits got lesser and lesser.  

However, I never could forget her altogether. She made it so. I went over to visit them (paatti and thatha) in their lovely Mandaiveli house from time to time, selfishly just to get her sweet blessings. And she, peace be with her soul, never forgot to call and wish me every year for my wedding anniversary, a month earlier on the same date! Every year.  We would laugh about it, she’d say, ok I have it marked right this time, and then like clockwork call me a month earlier for my anniversary the next year.

This I will remember of her the foremost – her sweetness of speech.  In all the years that I have known her, I have never heard her utter one word that was harsh, or with ill-will.  The two instances that I do remember her starting to say something that was approaching negative, she stopped herself to say “but we don’t know what it is for them” and “we don’t know their circumstances”. 

A heart, so pure and innocent, was sending out the sweetest blessings for me and for others. Wholesome blessings with utter absence of any agenda, guile or self.  It was all between Perumaal (Lord Vishnu) and the receiver of the blessings. That she was simply the almost-invisible instrument, was the implicit feeling in the way she gave her blessings. I realise that my fervent prayer as I write this is for me to imbibe this quality of hers, while also laughing wryly at the irony that the prayer itself has so much self. Whenever I gave my obeisance in the traditional way, by doing namaskaaram and touching her feet (which was every visit, to hear her blessings of course!), she would just direct me to the altar as well every time. And say, “it all comes from there”.  

I will always remember her as so active, taking care of her household and everyone in such a lively manner. Not a stray moment around her, until the last couple of years when age took over Will I think.  She knew that I loved coffee, and the first thing she would do is to give me a cup whenever I visited. I always saw her taking care that all of us, Satya’s friends, or anyone else in her vicinity had eaten properly, and insist on this. Like many elders from that generation, she would remember the significant to the smallest life details that we tell her, and ask about them. The job offer. Daughter’s school. Shift to new city, are you settled. Cold and cough a month back, how are you now.  Didn’t you say painting was happening, is it over ... Such keen interest in the sense of well-being of people around that she would glean from all this apparently “just information”.   

It is this aspect of being able to serve the well-being of others that she seems to have held above all. Way back in 1992 I think, when I first started going over to their place, there'd been a time of water shortage in Chennai.  The water lorry came when I'd been there chatting with Satya. I helped with the activity of filling up many drums and pots and stocking up water and saw it through until the lorry left, and the work was over.  She never failed to mention this as her first introduction of me to anyone, for more than a decade.  I am pretty sure that it was this one instance that warmed her to me so much. 

It has been a couple of months now since I visited. When I mentioned regret that I hadn’t been able to see her one last time and get her aashirvaadam (blessings), Sathya sent me this message: “She really wasn’t talking the last 10 days. I would hold the memory of her as the active, loving person you know, with the natural simplicity of being that many of us aspire towards.” 

By the time the rituals were completed at home, and she was taken to the crematorium, her body had started shrinking rapidly, and face had started looking bird-like. As part of the ritual, coal was placed on her heart, ghee (clarified butter) was poured on it, and it was then lit. My heart was on fire. Her body was pushed into the incinerator.  The impermanence of this physical body and the permanence of some higher energy that it houses – Paatti and others of her generation seemed to be so much in touch with this, and so effortlessly.  Maybe it is this sensing that gave Rukmini paatti her pure and good heart and her simplicity of being. What more is this body for, if not this religion.

Sathya’s words are paatti’s truest essence - her religion of the heart. It is this picture of her I will carry in my heart forever, and this slokam as her life’s blessing:

ॐ पूर्णमदः पूर्णमिदं पूर्णात्पूर्णमुदच्यते ।
पूर्णस्य पूर्णमादाय पूर्णमेवावशिष्यते ॥
ॐ शान्तिः शान्तिः शान्तिः ॥

Jab Harry Met Sejal

An appraisal of Harry and Sejal's meeting, many years after it actually happened.  

Image from Kathmandutribune.com

This is a leisurely, lazy, alright-why-not piece on this Imtiaz-Ali-meets-Bollywood-Stardom movie, Jab Harry Met Sejal.  I really love the original of all these Meeting movies, When Harry Met Sally. I also love the Imtiaz Ali version, Jab We Met.  So I waited breathlessly for Jab We Met 2 (Jab Harry Met Sejal).  But ended up catching my breath and actually watching it sometime this year only.  I read some of the not-so-favourable reviews and hadnt wanted to get disappointed because Imtiaz Ali is one of my favourite Tellers of modern Indian Love stories. Well, now what I am feeling is ambivalent.  Not so disappointed and yet a little disappointed. It has Ali's touch of love for sure. How he narrates the course of love and dances around and through those fine boundaries that romantic love unwittingly transgresses is definitely there. Watch the movie to get a taste of Imtiaz Ali's world of love and romance.  He usually remains within mainstream Bollywood lines and tries to stretch those lines from the inside by depicting complex nuances and shades of love between black and white. 

The film also has a taste of Bollywood stardom. Well, more like mouthfuls of it. In the bigger than life form of Shah Rukh Khan of course. If you have never been to Europe, then you must go on this proxy Europe tour with an aging but still handsome and charming SRK as your tour guide. I think he was actually meant to be a grumpy and insulting man who has been dragged to repeat a tour (grudgingly) in a futile search for a bauble, by a nauseatingly innocent woman in search of herself. He starts out well. But he loses the act very quickly and becomes his charming Shah Rukh Khan self soon. I mean, come on, this is SRK we are talking about. He cant surely be anything but "Raj, Naam to Suna hi Hoga"? But the sprightly Anushka Sharma carries her act through quite convincingly for most of the movie, with her Gujarati accent and calling Harry, Hairy. However, maybe falling in love changed her fundamental mannerisms and accent?  She loses it some time in the second half of the movie, and I was wondering if I was looking at a repeat performance of "Taaniji" from Rab Ne Bana Di Jodi.  But, I remember that we are still in the frames of an Imtiaz Ali love story - and I realise the story is trying to as well.  

The characterisation is intact. One or both of the protagonists are usually in search of themselves or some part of themselves in Ali's movies and love helps them discover, and transforms them. Of course for the better. This is true blue Indian romantic love we are talking about, ne? Here, the woman trying to come to terms with her sexuality, coming in to her own, getting comfortable and gaining confidence in her own skin is a journey that we get to see, albeit in slightly immature, teenagerish ways. But hey, who am I to judge? To each her own, right?  A man losing his inner "womanising" self through falling in love and finding a home within himself as well as an actual returning home, is perhaps the other journey.  The man's journey could have been more compelling, more attentive, in its portrayal.  And yet, we do get to see the subtle inner conflicts that arise, the contrariness and the resonances that humans can display in the throes of romance. We are told quite upfront that Harry is a 'womaniser' and Sejal sees this truth, and has no value judgement about it. That is a refreshing difference in Bollywood cinema. She also sees the underlying truth of his loneliness. That is a subtle thread of relationship and understanding that was captured quite touchingly and yet without fanfare and raucousness.  Here is a Harry unmasking his flamboyant colours to discover a sensitive self within, and here is a Sejal who is coming out of her hitherto protected, cocooned existence to find her bold and flamboyant self.  

There is also the usual spiritual, psychological, Rumi undercurrent that is there in Ali's movies that sort of laughs along with life's ironies (or feels poignant, like in Highway). Think about it - in this film there is a gem, something priceless that they are searching for everywhere outside and this leads them on a merry dance, and ultimately she finds it with herself.  And by the time she finds it, we and possibly she as well, realise that the real treaure that she is searching for is something else, which is also with(in) her.  Call me whimsical, but that seems to me like a metaphor for life's search.  "The treasure is within" or some such!  (There is also the phrase from the movie itself and its song, Jeeve Soniya - "What you seek is seeking you")

The music pieces are good as stand-alones but do not really flow with the story.  Like I said, if you have a leisurely, lazy Sunday, and as an absolute fan of Imtiaz Ali you have watched every other movie of his, then Jab Harry Met Sejal is an alright-why-not, to complete the Ali collection. 

Truth

JK* said, "truth is a pathless land"

Besant Nagar Beach, Chennai, not yet 6 AM, April 2019

Looking out at the morning scene
I felt,
Truth is a mystery
It is as simple and as complex
as we make it out to be.
It is of all colours of creation.
It appears and disappears,
Disguised in a zillion forms,
In the many layers
Of our plans and endeavours 
And aspirations,
And search for it. 
It hides.
Behind clouds of misunderstandings,
It blazes with Love. 
It holds ends together -
For this lightening sky and steel-grey sea
Holds yesterday's memory
Of fading daylight
Meeting the light of dusk,
Smudging the horizon;
Transforming the sky
Into His inky colour.
The Divine prankster's play:
A scientific movement.
Words will always fall short
Of original beauty and perfection.
Unbelievably, the clouds rumble.
Everchanging, illusive, mysterious-
Truth laughs at me 
while I try to capture It.
And says,
"You are part of me,
I am the truth of your existence"
-----------------------------------------------

JK* - Jiddu Krishnamurti

Decolonising Our Roads (Alternately titled: One evening in Coimbatore...)

Early evening inching towards late evening, Coimbatore, India. The road is mad, the traffic madder, and those creating the traffic, the maddest. 

A and P are part of the madding crowd (Not Hardy's or Gray's or even Spencer's). They are part of this very Indian madding crowd this early evening inching towards late evening. A starts the car, P sitting beside her on the front seat, and thinking "Here we go!" She thinks of A as a slightly crazy driver. And now, given that A has settled down in a farm in the Nilgiri hills, a couple of hours from Coimbatore, she simply wants OUT, of any traffic, and back IN her quaint, quiet nestle in the hills. According to P this shows up in her driving. A, might roll her eyes, lower her eyebrows into a frown, wave both her arms about (letting go of the wheel, but just for a moment ok?) and work her mouth into a diatribe, all simultaneously, were she to hear P's opinion of the matter. 

The guy in the car from the opposite side chugs right into P's pleasant thoughts. On the wrong side, no less. Right into A's path. She screeches more than her tyres. "What is this? Is this the way to drive? Coming on the wrong side in such a small lane, now where is the place for me to go, just look at that side, there are already vehicles there, I am stuck now." 
Wow, this woman can pack a sizeable amount in her suitcase! 

The two men in the offending car enjoy the show, their jaws slack, sporting tentative, foolish grins. After squeezing their way out, A stepped on it the moment her car found breathing space. Wow, this woman packs some speed in her engine! And then she says, "What are we talking about decolonising these people. Can they even be colonised in the first place? How he was driving! Was that a colonised mind really? Can they actually be taught anything?" 

It got P wondering about decolonising Indian roads. How can our roads be decolonised? 
- Are they not a product of colonisation in the first place? 

- Can they be transformed back into their mud-track versions, with depressed designs of footprints, hooves and paws? 

- Can we have cycles and carts again that rotate their wheels to natural rhythms and elegant heartbeats? 

- Can we again enjoy soothing dusky light turning to mysterious shades of grey unhindered by blinding and blazing headlights?  

- Can eyes look into eyes rather than at a dusty speck of the destination that they are not even sure of arriving at, at this speed? 

- Can we have questions over a sudden leisurely cup of chai or chukku kapi at the popular tea joint, "oh, what happened at your niece's wedding, did you find some suitable boys for your girl?" or "son, what are you planning on doing after your 12th exams?" (Oops! desperate escape attempts called for)

- Can we have gentle souls chewing harmless cud and in no danger of speeding harm? 

"OH! No, no, no, no!" You would say. "How is all this possible today? The cows must be in their sheds, dogs in kennels, the sparrows god knows where and people safely boxed into their cars and cubicles. No mixing of sides and spaces.  There are neat, modular spaces with doors, and the right side and the wrong side. And let me ask you this: Isn't your cup of chai colonised?" 
Nope. Tea originated in China perhaps. There is also the record of the Indian Assam tea. 
So? We are looking at what it is today. Where does all the premium, organic, bio-dynamic and fair-trade tea from India go?  

Then, one more question but not the last one surely, for decolonising our roads would be: 

- Can we have questions without easy answers, but ones for which we may have to take our right hand all around the back of our head to touch the left side of the nose, to even begin to understand them? 

Perhaps A is right - people who come on the wrong side of the road are either already decolonised or were never colonised in the first place. 

-------------------------------------------------

Claimer - At least one of the persons is caricatured for effect. Creative license I think it is called. But not too much!

Solitude

Blissful Solitude. 

Photo: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fPoP7Kk7vgU
(Dakshinamurthy Sthothram)

And yet for the most part,
the world shuns it,
And ridicules those,
Who don’t.

They are afraid,
terrified even.
Of Pain.
They are even more,
Terrified
Of encountering
the heart in Pain.
The broken, bleeding heart
Is no joy.
And there is nowhere to run
in Solitude.
Perhaps the world is wise.

Blissful Solitude.
That rips me apart,
sucks me dry,
holds me Down
with the Pain.
I have no words,
to describe this.
There is no more fighting,
nothing left to fight with.
Not even my heart,
Or so I think.

The peace treaty
brings a discovery.
In his ode to Dakshinamoorthy,
Sri Sankara says,
The great lamp shines through
many holes in the pot,
shedding light in all directions.
I climb over
to the other side of Pain.

Blissful Solitude.
Is a paradox.
It takes us deep.
into the forests,
up the mountain,
the deep sea…
Take your pick.
It takes us
to find the hearts in Pain,
for they hold the treasures.
But those treasures --
Solitude’s Blisses,
can only be savoured,
in their reflections
in the Other
When Solitude is lost.
And yet it is not.
Perhaps the world is wise.

Writing

My first love.
My better half.
My greatest romance,
I met you perhaps
When I was 6 or 7.
You took me to a forest
And made me it's Princess.
Sitting on that Madurai terrace
With its interesting
Nooks and crannies.
I could understand
All the animalSpeak
And they understood me.
Under that darkening sky,
I was alone;
And yet not at all.
Lost in the sounds and sights and smells
Of the forest;
In finding you,
I found myself that day,
When I was 6 or 7.
I started writing!
"I am the Princess of the forest...."
I won't go further, don't worry,
Into the strange pathways
Of the 6 or 7-years old forest.

As expected,
The romance of the first years
Is unbelievable, isn't it?
My autocorrect typed in - "unreliable".
Freudian slip, that?
Romancing you,
I poured poetry and my soul
Into a zillion pages.
Well, at least a fifty of them.
Into a thick diary,
Which saw its early death
In one of the many passages,
Through rented houses
That middle class Indian families
Go through like a pack of cards.
Childhood gone too early,
I didn't know to grieve my diary.
I replaced the romance
With expectations,
As expected.

You stayed with me,
As I wandered through Life.
Even as I took you
For granted.
We met under the night sky sometimes
With the stars and the moon
And the solitary plane.
We met,
When I searched everywhere
For my specs,
And then found them in my pocket!
We met,
When I felt like it,
When I got sad,
When I wanted to impress someone,
or make them laugh.
When excitement filled the air,
Or perhaps melancholy.
You taught me humour,
And looking closely.
You taught me to do Life,
While I made you wait.

I decided,
That I wanted marriage.
I planned much
For all its trappings.
Complete with a house,
Garden, children and dogs,
Dimming lights for romantic evenings,
And bean bags for rainy days.
Red oxide flooring and earthern ware,
As local as possible,
For that is sustainable. ..
But dreams were also made up of:
Vacations in Bhutan and Srilanka
For I wanted to understand neighbours.
Foreign to myself slowly,
And you as well.

Somewhere,
Along the way,
I don't know where,
All of a sudden,
I found you gone.
And panicked.
You then came and went
As you pleased.
I threw tantrums
Kicked and screamed
Till I was blue.
Kicked some more,
Screamed some more,
Cried a whole lot more...
You seemed to soften
And said, "look closely"
And much to my chagrin,
Went away again!
Paths dried up,
Garden withered,
Poof!
The castle in the air,
Became one with it.
Dark all around,
Dimming lights be damned!
The rest of that story,
As they say is history.
Or Herstory,
Of losing and finding herself.

Flash forward to present.
I am sitting with you,
You still inspire me
To be my best.
You say,
"All I want is,
Your attention.
Your presence.
Be with me.
Whatever follows,
Follows."
Watching,
An innocuous mug
In an innocuous bathroom,
Get filled with water,
The sound,
Changing as the mug
Gets from empty to full-
When I am with you,
I am no longer innocuous.

I redo,
My vows with you.
I want nothing,
Out of you.
I want nothing,
Because of you.
I would much rather
Have these moments
Of sitting with you
And having you
Do Life, do me,
In my most private moments.
I would much rather
Just have you along,
For the conversation
And company,
As I get squished in a crowded bus,
Or am triggered by a commercial ad,
Feeling loved amongst friends,
Or like a worm after a shouting match,
Satisfied after a successful workshop,
Not getting enough FB likes!
Or getting too much,
Of unwanted counsel....
I just want you to be.
Through it all.

Garbage everywhere,
Overflowing bins too small
To hold,
the world's unresolved emotions.
When I feel too small,
And inadequate...
Or too big, grandiose --
Or anybody in between,
Spewing out garbage-
Nonetheless,
You hold me
Through it all.
Making life art
Making new meaning,
Making over,
Making love,
You make me art. 

The Bulbul From Coonoor

Chirping, singing,
To their hearts,
To mine.
Flashes of red
Darting now here
Now there.
Now me.
Unafraid,
Moving around
Making all space one.
Not theirs, not mine. 
The sudden drumbeat
Of a fluttering swoop
Echoes
In my solar plexus,
As one stops
A foot in front of me.
"Are you me?"
She, or he,
Cocks its head
Looks enquiringly,
Trustingly,
As I do the same.

Imperfect Love

A human I think,
Wants to be just loved.
I want to be loved,
For me being me.

I want you to love me,
For being me.
All that I am,
Warts and all,
As they say.
I promise,
I will do the same.

You did that, didn't you?
I did that, didn't I?
Love. Warts and all?
All those years back.
But then, here's the truth.
Who was the real me,
Who loved you?
Who was the real you,
Who loved me?
Did I know me,
All those years back?
Did I love me then?
To expect you to do so?!

It takes lifetimes of a life,
To dig deep;
Doesn't it?
Who am I really,
Who loves you?

And yet, all I want
Is for you to love me,
Despite me!
If I ask you,
Why do you love me?
I don't want answers.
I want you to tell me,
"Hell! I have no clue why.
But I love you,
All of you."

Here,
I throw away my masks -
Of aspirations,
Of ideals,
Of identicalities,
Of dependencies.

And stand naked,
In glorious Imperfection.
Can you love me?
"A challenge to Compassion",
Says Joseph Campbell.

 The perfect human -
S(he) is a myth.
Cast aside the bedtime story then,
And come to my bed.
Let's celebrate our differences,
In togetherness;
Come to my bed then,
To make true love.
Sweaty, messy, clumsy, Real.

You Wait for Me

The feeling of Utter Joy. 
What am I searching for? 
Everything is right here. 
Just here. 
Being Home. 
You of course are a manifestation. 
Of this. Of being Home. of Being home. 
Is it just you Arunachala? 
Or just me? 
What is this resting? 
I am in it.
It is in me. 
It wont be for long.
Wo(man)'s destiny is to Search! 
But just for now,
I rest. 
-------------------

I heard this story of a Guru. 
He knocked his disciple unconscious,
Who wakes up awhile;
Aware. 
Of his Highest Consciousness. 
A ton of bricks hit me.
And I have fallen;
In Love, it must be. 
For this Intelligence, Love, 
Whatever you want to call it. 
The Big It. Supreme Spirit. 
Highest Self, The Buddha. 
Krishna, Govinda, Shiva, Brahman.
Durga, Lakshmi, Saraswathi, Sarada Devi. 
Whatever you name It. 
Whatever form you give It. 
It is in Love with us. 
-------------------

You've been sending me 
Messages and invitations. 
All this while. 
You've been asking me,
To turn and look at you. 
You want to dance with me;
No more no less. 
What do you do?! 
When I don't see your messages. 
You knock at my door,
You ring the bell, time and again. 
I say, what a nuisance,
This bell is. 
-------------------

Someone got lucky.
His It, It crashed his door open! 
-------------------

You have hurled grenades at me.
You've also rained on me;
A bone-drenching downpour,
Complete with light and sound effects - 
You've called to me - 
Thru' unconditional love.
     My daughter's touch. 
     The lick of my beloved canine.

And what do I feel? 
My daughter's touch. 
My dog's lick. 
And my love for her
& her touch. 
My love for my dog
& his lick. 
My love for my partner,
& his kiss. 
I have gotten lost in them. 
Blind and deaf to the invitation behind. 

The Invitation behind,
Every name,\
Every form,
Every label,
Every category,
Every idea,
Every condition,
Every every.
That now I know
Is waiting for me. 
You wait for me. 
-------------------

It is patient and active
All the time. 
Of this I am sure: 
My It is in love with me.
Just as yours is in love with you! 
Of this also I am sure: 
That I will again and again,
Lose myself - 
I will forget to unwrap the covering,
to find the invitation inside. 
All that I can pray for is then,
Even if I forget,
Let me again and again, 
Wake up to your summons.