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. 

Beautiful, Ugly, Illusive, Certain, Magical, Mundane....

.... ENTER POETRYDOM! 

My 13-years-old niece wrote possibly one of her first poems and sent it across to my utter delight. I wrote back with one of my own. Not to be left behind in spontaneity, she responded soon enough with another, and yet another! Here they are in chronology: 

When the tangy aroma filled the room,,

I slapped my book down with a loud "BOOM"!

I got up, dropping my pencil stand,

and ran out of the room, whacking my hand!

I stopped at the kitchen and looked around,

and there it was! Making a sizzling sound.

I picked up a spoon and tasted what was so attracting,

Oh, yum, yum, yum, it was most amazing!

Next to it, in a pan was potato fry,

finally, I can eat it with Puliyotharai!!!!!!!!!'

The response: 

Welcome to the world of magic and miracles -  

Chambers of secrets ;-) and flying bicycles, 

Rainbows at night, 

The philosopher's sight; 

Oh, the pink talking pumpkin -  

And most preciously, the Beauty within.  

For, Poetry can take you to this world, 

And leave you bewitched and bedazzled. 

A world of priceless value, 

The one right within You. 

Imagine my Ecstasy at encountering 

Humour, a necessary component to be able to pierce through the depth of life and its nuances; 

A Romance with words and their meanings (the dancing and playing with words that adds the spice); and 

Willingness to give Time & Attention to the Soul's flight, in the following piece: 

Thanks a lot for the awesome reply,

about the yummy puliyotharai

and the delicious potato fry!

I will continue to write poems like this,

remembering it, I will not miss!

I will learn more new words,

and write about animals and birds;

about frogs and lizards,

witches and wizards;

plants and trees,

Rome and Greece;

bows and arrows,

joys and sorrows;

libraries and books,

anchors and hooks...

I will stop here...

if I write much more,

it would become a terrible bore!!!

And one more,

I asked amma and appa about the blog,

They said they have no problem at all!

Though I don't know much about blogs,

I'm thinking about writing a poem on dogs!

Please do send a link to it,

I am waiting... I will not quit!

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

I remember what one of my all-time favourite poets, Mary Oliver says about this Willingness, the meeting of "poetry and soul":

"If Romeo and Juliet had made their appointments to meet, in the moonlight-swept orchard, in all the peril and sweetness of conspiracy, and then more often than not failed to meet — one or the other lagging, or afraid, or busy elsewhere — there would have been no romance, no passion, none of the drama for which we remember and celebrate them. Writing a poem is not so different—it is a kind of possible love affair between something like the heart (that courageous but also shy factory of emotion) and the learned skills of the conscious mind. They make appointments with each other, and keep them, and something begins to happen. Or, they make appointments with each other but are casual and often fail to keep them: count on it, nothing happens. 

The part of the psyche that works in concert with consciousness and supplies a necessary part of the poem — the heart of the star as opposed to the shape of a star, let us say — exists in a mysterious, unmapped zone: not unconscious, not subconscious, but cautious. It learns quickly what sort of courtship it is going to be. Say you promise to be at your desk in the evenings, from seven to nine. It waits, it watches. If you are reliably there, it begins to show itself — soon it begins to arrive when you do. But if you are only there sometimes and are frequently late or inattentive, it will appear fleetingly, or it will not appear at all. 

Why should it? It can wait. It can stay silent a lifetime. Who knows anyway what it is, that wild, silky part of ourselves without which no poem can live? But we do know this: if it is going to enter into a passionate relationship and speak what is in its own portion of your mind, the other responsible and purposeful part of you had better be a Romeo. It doesn’t matter if risk is somewhere close by — risk is always hovering somewhere. But it won’t involve itself with anything less than a perfect seriousness. 

For the would-be writer of poems, this is the first and most essential thing to understand. It comes before everything, even technique."

Its a New Love Story

What do you do

When you fall in Love

All over again? 

You've been with him,

Twenty years. 

Touched heights of ecstasy,

Together,

And sunk to the depths of despair. 

You've been with him,

While separated and apart

Not understanding - 

Why & how he's within. 

You've been with him,

Thru' the times without. 

While he'was changing

To a different he.

And you'ere changing 

To a different you.

Time leaves her marks. 

It's another he, now.

And another you. 

Inexorably drawn together

Yet again,

By some ancient, secret rhythm-

That makes you dance with him. 

For him. 

Names have not changed;

It seems like,

The same old husband-

And wife,

Making comfortable home & hearth.

And yet. 

It's a new Love Story,

That you both are narrating. 

Fresh, like the morning dew. 

Of hearts in tune - 

Learning to sing together,

The many songs of life,

Blending, seasoning... 

So, what do you do? 

You write a poem,

About falling in Love again,

And the promise

Of being held by it

And holding it. 

Rukku - An Obituary

Rukku stood at the Annamaiyar temple in Tiruvannamalai, blessing devotees with a caress of her trunk. She died a few days ago, only about 30 years old. Very young for an elephant.

I am selfish and wish I had had more time with her. Standing and swaying in her usual spot, she was a Vīta rāga vishayam for me. The yoga sutras say that the mind can attain a state of balance by contemplating on a pure and disturbance-free mind / object, a Vīta rāga vishayam. Alive, Rukku was this point of concentration for me. One can stand for long, just looking at her. About an hour has been my longest. Wish I had had more hours with those wise, wise eyes that took in everything around, that seemed to know exactly what's what.

She would go missing for a couple of months in a year, when she went to the annual camp for elephants at Bandipur. I used to miss her a lot then and stare at the empty space where she would stand. But I imagine she would have been having a joyful time with all her other elephantine friends. They are such social animals and would completely immerse and bask in the elephantlove at their camp.

I believe that she knew I stood there watching her. Perhaps my whimsy. But one that I would like to keep. I will now have to see how much of her I have in me that I can meditate on without her alive presence. I will miss Rukku.

Just Another Crow Story

The crow is cawing
on the neighbour's terrace,
trying to wake up the Sun-
And light up her dark world,
Of Disgust. 
She has been cleaning.
Cleaning and cleaning and cleaning...
Underneath pure carpets
Behind pure masks.

She can still smell the stench
Of carefully cooked food
Grinded and devoured through,
In the halls of Purity,
Until the arrival of burps. 

She can feel her skin burning,
From the sacred fire,
Carefully stoked and tended to,
By its pure caretakers-
To transform to the grey dust
that she remembers
from the crematorium. 

The beautiful chants,
that are not meant for 
dirty ears and impure minds
still reverberate in hers. 

She sees these portals of Purity 
Her mind's eyes turning Red,
As she contemplates her anger and disgust. 

With a sigh of quiet resolve,
She turns to the day ahead,
And her work of scavenging
Her eyes turning yellow and blue. 

As the sun comes up
I see the crow take wing,
And explode
Into a flurry of colours - 
Mynah,
Drongo,
King Fisher,
Bee-eater,
Roller,
Seven sisters,
Sun-bird,
Treepie...

About Giving, Taking and Transactions

For about a year and half since we moved to Tiruvannamalai, I experimented with offering my service (yoga therapy sessions primarily) on a gift economy model, wherein what we offer and receive are gifts and hence without any sort of a predetermination or limitation of how much is offered and received.  This experiment had been a revelation for me in terms of my relationship with money / earning, and my expectations from whom I seek to serve.  I had also felt that this model hinges on a relationship of trust.

I came to a conclusion that every engagement in the world is a transaction, and I don’t mean that in a cynical or negative way. I believed that even a mother wants something from her child; it may not necessarily be in a cut-and-dried way of “I give you this, in return you give me that” however there is an expectation of something.  I may have glimpses of unconditional giving in myself and others now and then, but I question that it is an uninterrupted flow. The ‘I’ does interrupt.  I felt that I could keep this (unconditional giving) as a signpost of growth, act such that at the very least my transactions are not exploitative, practice in this direction.           

   

A recent conversation with a friend lighted up and brought in deeper meaning into this matter of transaction for me.  She was speaking about how difficult it is for her to ‘take’ from others, and some of the ways in which this plays out in her life. I realised that I was looking into a mirror!  While it has manifested differently in my life, I could have said those very same words and it would have been true for me.  As I listened to her and said some things in response to her questions, I felt I was saying those things to myself as well. 

Swami Vivekananda is a personal Hero, and I have known the following aspect of his personality and what he has said about this, for quite long.  However it took this conversation with my friend to truly personalise what he had said. Paraphrasing what he had said in different contexts to different people: that he doesn’t see himself as a ‘giver’, there is a problem in seeing oneself as a giver or receiver. I have no problems receiving gifts from all you people who come to me. In giving, I may receive and in taking, I may give.”  

As I said to her that somehow this is what I am reminded of, it occurred to me that I have always identified myself with ‘giver’ and ‘giving’, with the primary cultural conditioning and assumption being, ‘giving is good’ and a consequent injunction, ‘I should give’ and somehow the automatic negation of ‘taking’.  All that I have perceived as ‘taking’ from others, I have been carrying on me a like a heavy sack of rocks. And every time I ‘take’ without ‘giving’ something, I have put a stamp of ‘exploiter’ on myself.  And if I ‘give’ without taking anything, then I am some great saint or some such!! What a drama.

As I continued walking around the mountain with her and left my drama behind, I remembered the often-discussed idea that every engagement is an exchange of prAna, and in that current exchange of prAna that was happening between my friend and me (as much in silence as during the conversations), I did not (and I feel neither did she) perceive either of us as giver or taker. We were with each other for that period of time for a purpose, which held our complete attention, as much as each other, and the path and what it brought to us. From a point of examination, it could be said that in a gross way, we gave each other many things, and even looking at it more subtly we each took from the other a whole lot. And yet there were no expectations and agendas. There was no give and take.  There actually was no transaction. There are I believe, no residues. Perhaps.  It was a spontaneous, innocent connection / exchange. 

While returning, a few non-transactional processes and exchanges that I have experienced came to mind.  Examining them I find that a non-transactional exchange takes place as a consequence of some spontaneous, empathetic connection. I want to call it love. A deeper sense of losing / reaching across one’s usual boundaries of ‘I’? Maybe.  A space where and when, notions of giver and receiver lose their meaning?  

Yet, one category of people I see who are involved in this kind of a prAna exchange have their role boundaries very clear – my elders. And it struck me that this is something special about how some of my elders love, and seek to serve the people they love.  They are able to hold the transactional and non-transactional together seamlessly without any apparent conflict between the two.  This is what gives me the sense of wonder and joy when I watch them doing what they do. 

My domestic helper transacts with me every day and yet there is an underlying sense of non-transaction about it all.  She and I are much more than each of those transactions that we engage in, and yet it is not just this. There is something else, something more, that is feeding the human process here?  

My great grandfather at 104 does not expect much from the world around him except the vadas that he relishes, to watch his beloved tennis, and someone to bless with a good and prosperous life through a 10 or 50 rupee note, each day. He gives and takes with childlike abandon and yet there is nothing transactional about it. Oh, he was a banker.  

My mother-in-law’s purpose of living seems to be to support everyone in her immediate and extended family.  She also gently and consistently demands role appropriate values and behaviours from her family.  Her every exchange seems to be a transaction and yet absolutely non-transactional at the same time.  Just how is this happening?

I now feel that it is a secondary matter whether I am working with a gift economy model or not.  This would depend on the context and what is necessary.  I stay with my questions, what makes me (us) give and what makes me (us) take, when do I (we) not feel any difference between the two, and so, to look at those times when transactions are taking place and yet the meta process is non-transactional. 

  

x

Living the Question

It lay dormant for many years, ages. in the dark, comfortable, cosy. No water could reach it, and not the sunlight. the passage of time, the revolution of the planet, ushered in some moonlight, Some movement, in the worlds above.

They say faith moves mountains. Have you seen mountains move? now, a teacher’s faith! She brought in fresh air; The ground started breathing, and having conversations.

The sun reached in, and touched the shadows and questions. “Is the individual for society, or society for the individual?”

Water rushed in, ever-loyal to gravity and conversation flowed – “Does name matter? Work is work; water is the form of its container.”

One uncomfortable morning, the ground broke. And the young one peeped out, eyes covered. To discover the forest. Conversations abound nourishing, strengthening, questioning, the sweat and blood of growing up.

Yet another morning, not so uncomfortable, the not-so-young-one found purpose. More conversation, “Can there be an individual purpose? What is a wall? Robert Frost knew the secret.

‘Something there is that doesn’t love a wall’ roots uproot, here in the forest. creepers grow thick as thieves, and create gaps, walls crumble. Even the Berlin one did. and the great China one, is on its way there. Do the tourist, you will see.”

On this morning, fresh after the rains, the smell of beauty rising from the ground;

Fluttering its leaves, dancing with the breeze standing, with friends and family, and community, Here is the neem, There is the tamarind, and the peepal, the banyan, the young ones, the herbs and the flowering, the thorny and the leafy....

the direction seems clear, and yet not so much.

“My shade is for the asking, the fruits will come in season, twigs for firewood grass underneath for cows and goats. And yet, What is it that I am doing? What is just me? Kabir says to his Lord: You, are the bigness in the elephant, and the smallness in the ant,”

Asks the not-young-one,

“What makes the I-ness in the I? Fruits arrive naturally.”

- Priya

A Loneliness

A loneliness.
It manifests differently,
With different people.
A loneliness.
It has different flavours,
In different contexts.
A loneliness.
It smells and feels uniquely,
Rendering the environment.
A loneliness, nevertheless.

Sometimes when it is there,
I can want it to be.
I am settled in it.
I am watching this –
The settling.
The loneliness allows it.

Sometimes it’s there;
And I don’t want it.
I am feeling heavy, intense.

Sometimes,
It just creeps up on me,
And then, there is so much space.

This loneliness,
It’s like a separate entity –
Standing apart,
Yet within me.

Sometimes,
I love and welcome it,
this aloneness inside.
It frees me somehow
And melts the chains
holding my heart tight.
I breathe,
And fly.

Sometimes,
it makes me want to cry.
there’s a hollowness
in my gut.
But my chest and throat,
they are clogged up,
with Emotion?

But,
I am not inside the emotion.
It is in me.
The aloneness allows this.

There are all these other times
When I just don’t know,
don’t feel, this aloneness.
I would be all alone,
at home or in the park
But I simply cant find it –
this aloneness.
Just a gazillion forms
shifting, writhing and twisting in me;
and I am drifting this way and that.

And then there can be a time,
in the middle of a crowded room,
much like this one –
the loneliness in another,
the aloneness she is inhabiting
is clear, evident;
and all at once,
I am right in there,
in that lonely, alone space
in my heart.

I am in it,
and it is in me.