Liberation

Liberation does not come easy

The price you have to pay

Is the thought of it itself



The craving, the waiting, the trying, the strife

Bondage to get away from bondage

We run, we cry, we hurt, we pray

Shake our limbs in frenzy

Only to be tangled all over again

In a new web of yearning



How long? How much? How Far?

Where do we go from here?

The baselessness of tangled desires

The sufferings of past and future

Tears and words lost forever

How far do we have to carry this baggage?



Our shoulders stoop, our back arches

Our skin looses its shine

The heart tires and the mind looses

The fountain of love divine

Yet we lust and seek and seek

The fortunes that run farther

And over and over we play

The foolish game of desire



What is it that we really seek

In the hearts of the heart?

The freedom, the joy, the love, sunshine

Just a little happiness in life

A gesture of love, a twinkle in the eyes

A sweet word from the beloved

Fragile, precious, beautiful things that

Make this life worth living



If you only see the night

You will miss the spangled stars

If you only look at the road

The distance would seem so far

Rise my dear, rise and see

What really lies beyond

Breathe in deep and taste the freedom

That throbs within your heart

Secondhand Journey

You set sail to go to the land beyond

And I stand here on the shore

Watching your brave little ship

Struggle to anchor in the wind



Your young mind is full of vigor

And the treacherous dreams of the far far lands

Have entranced your mind

With promises of treasure – limitless



I don’t have the heart to break yours

So I stand here, stoic and composed

Waiting for you to begin your journey

To whatever you think is out there in the sea



The tears are all spent now and appeals to stay are almost over

The reasoning, the analysis, the scoffing, the mocking

Those desperate words to hold your hands

Are wafting in the wind like your thoughts about me



You look beyond the horizon and see a dream

And all I see is the emptiness

That you would be left with

Once your blind journey has come to its end



I am not against adventure, I have never been

Yes you should set sail and seek what is beyond

But the dreams of those lands must be your own

The cravings of the heart must be yours



The discovery, the adventure, the promise, the dream

Must origin from the root of your soul

Only then this quest that you have

Can lead you to what you seek – the bounty, limitless



You have to go through the tumult my dear

You have to go through the pangs

Before the truth dawns in lustrous clarity

And holds before you the promise of dawn



I am afraid as I stand here and wonder

What is the fate you will face

Once the trance goes away

And the storm takes you over



Will your little ship hold?

Or will it capsize in the sea?

Without you ever knowing the secret

Without ever giving you a chance



But despite my wish for you to stay

And think again before you leave forever

I still hope my dear that you find what you are looking for

In this secondhand journey of yours

Ammi

I see her sitting by the window staring out into eternity. She is holding a string of beads in her hands, her mind focused on the mantra she is chanting. The rays of the morning sun fall on her face making her skin glow. The gold ornaments, which, she still wears with a relish, sparkle as the sun rays play hide and seek with them. Her once unruly mane of dark, curly hair is now tied into a little snow white bun. Her skin is wrinkled and soft like muslin and her hands are a little shaky. Her legs have turned to form a big 'O' and she has to walk taking horizontal steps. But her eyes belie her visage of a tired, old woman. They still sparkle with the sharpness of wit and perceptiveness of her mind and, most of all, a sense of humor.



My beautiful grandmother, Malati, has turned 80 this December and looks happy. She is a little tired for the journey has been long and at a times difficult. But all the struggle has been worth it. Her strife is now behind her and she can now lay back and watch the lives of her children flourish.



Yes, she is old now and my younger cousins probably know her only as the wrinkled, snowy haired grandma. But when my older brother Abhijit and I were little, she was still in her prime and at her dynamic best. Her curly hair was jet black and tangled as ever and her skin was still smooth. She looked so young that Abhijit refused to call her Ajji, which is grandma in my language, Marathi, and started calling her Ammi instead.



Last month, my mother, aunt and uncles got together and held a party for Ammi's 80th birthday. At that time they published her book that included all the stories and memoirs she had written over the years. I could not go there to witness her day but I hear that the belle of the ball was as enthusiastic as ever and having a whale of a time.



I cannot imagine her as being anything but enthusiastic, energetic and with a temper of a tempest. Ammi has never been and will never be that dour, depressed, lost person fumbling through life. She has always been sure, always been resourceful and never, ever given up. Through every challenge, every ordeal, she has held herself upright and fought back. And during her struggle she has carefully preserved the sensitivity of a writer, a love for beauty of a woman, optimism of a child and a unique ability to laugh at herself. I have never seen another woman with so much passion for life.



Ammi was born in a small village in Konkan on the coastal Maharashtra, India. When she was 3 years old, she lost her mother. Her father remarried a few years later. Her new mother was young enough to be her older sister and although they shared a special relation throughout their lives, Ammi never accepted her as her mother. She always called her new mother Kaku, meaning aunt. However, Ammi remained deprived of the tender touch, support and guidance of a mother all her life.



When she was 16, her father died too. Perhaps, that is when a bond between the two women, Ammi and her Kaku, was formed. Here were two young women bound by a common thread of grief, although it affected them in such different ways. Being orphaned at such early age, tragic as it was, may have actually contributed to the development of Ammi's inner strength and emotional self reliance that sustained her throughout her life.



After the death of her father, Ammi came to live with her Uncle and Aunt. She spent a few years with them but, soon, she got frustrated with her listless life. They neither allowed her to study further nor really thought about her future or her marriage. Ammi did not take this lying down. She actually confronted her uncle and demanded to know his plans for her future. Her uncle was furious with his firebrand niece and put her down. This was the 1930s and it was quite shocking for a girl to be assertive and to actually stand up for herself. Enraged with her uncle's apathy, Ammi left his house and came to live in Pune with her maternal relatives. She took up a job in Pune and savored her independence.



That is when a proposal for marriage with Anna came to her. My Grandfather, Damodar, was the eldest son of an affluent Doctor in Chiplun. I have always wondered how she was chosen as a bride for Anna. Anna was quite good looking and came from a rich, reputed family and was a good ten years older than her. Though Ammi was beautiful herself, she did not really have a family to call her own and those were the times when a girl was actually detested for her intelligence. But whether it was because Anna's enterprising father saw and appreciated the spark in her or whether it was the God's wish for the two of them to come together, the alliance was made. They were destined to spend more than fifty, long, bittersweet years together before God chose to tear them apart.



The early years after their marriage must have been blissful because Ammi looks back at that time fondly. Anna was working as a store keeper in the British military and they were posted to Calcutta for a while. Although those were the tempestuous times of partition of India and Indian independence and Calcutta was a testy place to be in, Ammi actually has fond memories of the place.



After a couple of years in Calcutta, they came back to Chiplun so that Anna could help his father in running his businesses and managing all the estate they owned. Ammi lost her first child that time due to a premature delivery, but was soon pregnant with my mother.



During her early childhood, my mother has had a chance to witness her family's affluence. But the idyll did not last long and soon after disaster struck. That is when Ammi's trial began.



Anna was duped by his partner in business and he had to liquidate all their family assets including their ancestral home to pay back the enormous loan his partner had incurred. In a matter of days, their family went from a state of affluence to a state of privation. Anna could not take this blow. He not only lost his money, but also his self worth.



Anna could never really get over that disaster but Ammi refused to be let down. She accepted what had happened to them and tried to look beyond that. After all, she had a family to feed. First she tried to goad Anna into finding work again, but he was not prepared. She tried to make him train himself for some occupation but he refused. Frustrated, she decided to get out of the house herself.



She soon realized that she had only completed high school education and did not have a proper vocational training for a decent occupation. Ammi took admission in a kindergarten teacher's training course for which she was required to go to another city but by that time she was already a mother of four children. She had to tear her family apart and take her two younger sons with her and leaving her older daughters with their father in Karad. That one year must have been a trial for her patience and perseverance. It was also a difficult time for her children, especially my mother who was given the responsibility of the household as she was the oldest daughter.



After she was done with the course, Ammi opened a kindergarten in Karad and the family was reunited. But she did not stop there. She continued to pursue further education and completed her Bachelor of Arts and Bachelor of Education degrees and became a high school teacher.



There are several sides to Ammi's character. She has been a well loved teacher, an efficient mother and also a resourceful entrepreneur. To generate an extra income for her large family and growing needs of her children, Ammi started and ran several tiny businesses. In summer she would go to Konkan and bring back a load of mangoes and ran a small shop selling mangoes and mango products. She ran the mango business for forty years until my oldest uncle took it over from her. She started little workshops manufacturing Ganesha idols for the Ganesha festival and, with the same material, chalks for the blackboards which she sold to the schools in Karad. She invested little money she could put aside in a plot and bit by bit built a little building over there. She rented out rooms in that complex to students.



She started out with nothing, but Ammi could gather enough money to give her children a good life and a decent education. She managed to have decent weddings for both her daughters. Both her sons turned out to be successful financially and professionally. Neither my mother nor her siblings ever felt they were deprived of anything in their childhood.



She could stand by her children's financial difficulties even during their adult life. Ammi has always been there to help when anyone needed money to buy a house or needed a little helping hand in their business.



Her relation with Anna was a curious one. For more than fifty years they were practically inseparable. Though Anna was so much older than her and had fathered her children, he was always more like her fifth child. I sometimes wonder if it must have been at a times difficult for him to fathom this headstrong woman. He took a back seat in life, but was never bitter about it and never came in the way of what she was doing. He may not have said that in so many words, but I know he greatly admired her. From her side, she always made sure he was respected in the house and was well taken care of.



A few years ago when Anna died, Ammi became lonely. Although she held herself up as she always did in any crisis, and filled her time with her books, her prayers and her grandchildren, I know, somewhere deep down she misses him.



Ammi has a fascination for people and simply loves to talk. She has always has a huge friend circle and has been very well loved amongst her friends and family. In dealing with people she has always been straightforward - never hesitated to call a spade, 'a spade'. But she loves being with people and wherever she went, she gathered people around her and bound them together. Even now, she has organized a little group of women in the nearby temple. They meet every week and sing devotional songs, Ammi tells them mythological stories and reads them stories and anecdotes from different books. They all absolutely love her.



She dearly loves gold jewelry. So much so that her ear hole had to be stitched up and re-pierced three times. Every time the piercing sagged down because of the heavy earrings she wore. She refuses to listen to anyone and still wears all kinds of heavy gold tops. Gold has not only been ornamental for her but always helped her in difficult times when she would pawn it or sell it to raise money. She would always make it a point get back her lost jewelry by raising money for it somehow.



Ammi has always been very strong emotionally. When my father died at the age of 43, she was a pillar of strength for my mother, my brother and myself. I have seen her stand by my mother's side during her difficulties and give her help and support. During my growing up years, she was my ally and also my guide. She has always been someone we all could count on.



There is so much I could write about this woman and so much I am yet to understand. Her allure has lasted for 80 years and I am sure it will last for a long time to come. I am so proud to hold a drop of her blood, a little of her genes in my body.



Ammi, I could never quite encase your charm in words, but here is a little attempt from my side for the world to know what you have been all about!

I woke up

Have been away for a while. So all ye readers out there (If there are any! But looking at your mails I hope some of you are still hanging in there.) let me apologize!



Actually, I haven't been idle so that is some consolation. I have been hammering out a perfectly mediocre story for past three weeks. To be fair to myself, the idea is not mediocre. If the story ever sees the light of the day, I am sure you would agree with me too. But it makes me curl my toes in embarrassment to say that the treatment is! (Having read Milan Kundera only recently only intensifies the feeling of how awful it has turned out to be.)



All these years that I have been writing, I have seen that I can either write reasonably good stuff or some really horrible trash. There is no middle way for me. To write the good stuff I have to be really tuned to myself. It comes, but oh so infrequently! It is such a beautiful feeling, I could never really describe. I feel like my whole being has become poetry and my thoughts and my words are both in a perfect symphony(Since it is my blog after all, I can afford to be conceited!)



It starts with a little germ - a tiny flower, a feeling of intense love, a brief smile, a terrible heartbreak - all those knock down the dam of my laziness and makes my passion flow. I write like one possessed and when it is written, it is done. Then it does not belong to me anymore. When I read it again, I see a different me - not the shy, at a times timid and unsure person but a pure, passionate, perceptive woman with strong convictions. Could we really be hiding so many personalities within ourselves? If I listened close enough, would I hear more voices seeking expression?



Then what makes me write dull, drab, mediocre work that I do write at a times? I attribute this to two factors - compulsion and expectations. I cannot write when I am compelled to write and that is why, perhaps, I could never be a deadline writer. I am just incapable of churning up readable prose by this date or by that time.



Another form of compulsion is the one that comes out of expectations - expectation to be published, expectation to prove oneself, expectation to be appreciated by people. The worst thing an artist can do to her art is to encage it in expectations. I read a poem recently by a noted marathi poet Madgulkar. In the poem he laments the need for an artist to sell his art to make a living out of it. But the artist of his caliber can create art that is, both, salable and exotic at the same time, for the rest of us, there is a need for constant reminder to preserve the purity of our endowment.



I saw Little Women yesterday. I greatly identify with Jo's character and woke up with the advice given to her in the film. When Jo proudly shows her first novel to the German professor who is her mentor, lover, friend and guide, he tells her only this, write about what you know, write about what comes from your heart! Although she is greatly disappointed she takes the advice to the heart and writes the story of Little Women, which, later becomes her greatest achievement. Not that I am poised to write something as wonderful, but the advice holds true for any tiny contribution I hope to make to art. To to be able to do that I have to follow what is the path of truth.



The path of truth, the one that goes through one's heart, is a treacherous one. There are twists and turns that make you wander away from what you really are. You don't even realize how far off you have gone until something like the mediocre story I wrote brings you down to reality. It is so difficult to have faith, conviction and clarity of vision which are all necessary to abide by the truth, whatever it may be.



I remember a prayer from the film Seema, titled Tu pyar ka saagar hai (You are the ocean of love) The whole prayer is beautiful but these lines touch my heart.



Ghayal man ka paagal panchi udne ko bekaraar

Pankh hai komal ankh hai dhundali jaana hai saagar paar

Ab tuhi ise samajha raah bhoole the kahanse hum



I am really incapable of translating these, but, still, let me attempt...



Like a wounded bird my crazy mind

Yearns to fly with the wind

My wings are soft and my eyes are weak

But I want to fly beyond the sea

Tell me oh lord, tell me

When it is that I wandered away...



Heres hoping that all you waywards find the correct path!

Wanderlust

Restlessness bit me again today. Again I felt heavy feeling in my chest, a quickening of breath, my limbs itching for action, my eyes roving and seeking, my mind saying, "Anywhere but here..." Where does this come from, this constant need for change - an irrepressible wanderlust that makes you seek, to transform, to stretch yourselves beyond the boundaries? Is it a sign of fundamental insecurity or is it a need for expression of your innermost self?



Actually, this wandering need not always be for seeking, sometimes it is also running away from something. In fact, come to think about it, you don't even need to physically move about to be a wanderer. All you need to have is a restless spirit with a hunger for change.



I remember character of Vienne in film Chocolat. She inherited the wanderlust from her clan, they said. From village to village, town to town she wandered, her cute little daughter in tow, seeking something which even she could not define. She found it finally or gave up, I could not figure out which, and blew the ashes of the past to the wind, much to the delight of her daughter who was tired of their constant moving from place to place.



Is this what happens to all the wanderers of the world? Or is it just for a lucky few, others being consigned to their restlessness for life?



I think people deal with it in different ways, some just resign to life and suppress that itch for change, others choose to run. There is a legend in India about a musk deer who runs till it dies in search of the source of the perfume that has been haunting it. The scent actually comes from the musk gland located in the deer's own body. Those who run behind that elusive desire for change are actually like that musk deer. More they run, the farther their goal seems to be. Desires are like sun rays that come through cracks in the roof. They form a sparkling circle, beckoning you to hold them, but when you try they slip away from your palm leaving behind a shadow.



This need for change is actually good or bad depending on how you choose to live with it. On one hand it is rejuvenating. It urges you to reinvent yourselves again and again. But if you let it decay into expectation and desperation, it can haunt you and gnaw at your heart.



Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to sink like sediment at some point, to plant oneself saying,"This is where I belong, this is where my journey ends!" The idea of being steeped and satisfied, plump and settled seems romantic at times. But the wanderer in me will never die. She may only lay quiet for a while. Then again, invariably, she will wake me up and cajole me into seeking what is there beyond.

You and I

When was it that I saw you first? When did I realize you were there? Did I try, hesitantly at first, to ask you to fulfill my childhood dreams? You probably listened, for I remember that warm feeling of being cared for. You have been there, always. I cried you listened; I asked you provided. Sometimes you gave right away, sometimes when I felt that all roads were blocked and there was nowhere to go but to your feet, and I would just fall at them devastated, entreating, beseeching you to help. You came then, you always did. On your face you wore peculiar smile -half kindness, half mirth.



I sometimes wondered, do you mock at my weakness - my ignorance about you? But I hid nothing from you, not even the worst, and never will. In any case you would know it all but to tell you myself meant building an attachment with you. Sometimes you were an understanding mother, sometimes a long lost father. You have been a doting brother, a gentle guardian from past. You were a creator, I was the muse; you were the torturer, I, a victim. You were the destroyer and I lost it all. I loved you, I trusted you, I hated you, despised you. You have done it all, you seen it all. Yet you smiled, yet you came.



Today I stand on the crossroads again. Again, I am struggling for something which comes easily for some and seems trivial to others. I am alone and, again, I am lost. I have been in such a state many times before and every time you have given me a new lesson in surrender. A little of me has merged into you each time. Little by little, piece by piece, that mighty ice of ego has melted and I have come closer to you.



There is still a long way to go. A long tortuous path has to be led to know that you are me and I am you and this is the way it has been, always. I am still a child, you are still a father. I still struggle and cry and hope and pray. I have not yet acquired the quiet acceptance of an adult - a serene ability to accept your wish - to say it is what it is. I am not ready to look at you in the eye yet. I don't have the courage to jump, unperturbed, into the chasm that would lead me to you. For a while I will hesitate. For a while you will have to come for me. You will have to to raise me when I have fallen, to dust my bruised knees and nudge me to move on.



But dear lord, trust me, wait for me, I will come. I will come to you.

I proposed, you accepted

And it was all over

Just like that

All that was between us

Was mummified in a moment

Crystallized into memories

To be admired later



Those dreams, so vibrant then

Are still colorful

But the color is morbid now

For they are just specimens

That we might watch later

Through a glass of future

Knowing well that they are dead

And now are on a post

Those markers of beautiful time



But will the spur of that moment

Fill this daunting void?

Do such moments have power

To sustain this endless life?

And who will answer those questions

That haunt me through the night?



Would you have stopped

And looked back just once?

What would you have done

If you had seen me there

Crouched in anguish

That passed through me like a sword

Looking away to hide

What my eyes really had to say?



I feel the distance now

As you drift away

Whether you feel it or not

I will never know

But I don’t have the means

To bridge this yawning gap

That hope left behind

When it took my love away