Of Life and Death

So here I am, back again, admittedly, after a long, long time since I did any sensible writing.
Life has changed a lot during this time. First, there was the news of Ammi's death and coinciding that, a new revelation - the awareness of a new life growing inside me.

So this is what living is about, bracing death and embracing life! As Ammi's memories fade, the anticipation of this new life inside me grows. Each day I metamorphose from a young woman to a mature woman and I find out what motherhood is all about. It is not for nothing that women crave for motherhood to the point of becoming obsessed and insane. To an extent, I was all that myself.

As I prepare for motherhood, I discover things within me which I never thought were present - patience, forbearance and an ability to give unbounded and unconditional love. I seem to be in love with everything and everyone in sight. There are times when I feel I am a mother to the entire world. I can forgive anything. I cherish everything. Each day dawns with an edge of lustrous hope and ends with a nurturing coolness.

There is something new every day - the awareness of the tummy growing just a bit, tiny swishing movements in the womb, appreciating the lustre of the skin and if nothing else, admiring the beauty of my shapeless body and dreaming about a shapely future.

It's not entirely glorious for dark clouds of fear hang somewhere on the horizon. Will everything be all right? Will the baby be safe and healthy? Will I be able to face the challenges life will pose? Will he inherit the problems in my life or will he carve his own future in the soft darkness of time?

But then this is what it is all about, right? After death came life, after darkness came light, after winter came the spring. The living will have to go on, rising on the cadence to the crests and falling to the depths of the troughs, only to rise back again and again. The game will go on until the players are there and once its time for one of the players to go, a new tiny player will be born to take on the mantle.

The saga of life and death will continue to the end of the time.

Goodbye Ammi

After living a long and colorful life of 81 years, you passed away on December 21st - my birthday.

Is this just a coincidence that the day of my birth should be the day of your death?

Maybe it is, or maybe it was a tribute to the strong attachment we share - a bond which has lasted across decades, miles, generations, and now, lifetimes.

Ammi you will be missed forever...

Freedom

Its been so long since I have written that, once again, I find myself stranger to words. Last time I wrote, I was angry with God. In a four line poem, I denounced Him, challenged Him, questioned Him and at the same time, begged Him to be kind.

He listened, kindly. Even though he had better things to do than to pay attention to the mindless ranting of a nameless, faceless woman, who probably has no better role in the scheme of things than a mote of dust has in a sandstorm. The mote plays its part in the destruction of the old landscape and re-creation of the dunes, but by itself, it has no identity. Perhaps, it shouldn't have any. For if every spec of dust had a mind of its own, the sandstorm as a whole would have no meaning.

But a mind of my own I have. Although, I don't understand he scheme of things. Yet, I find myself being dragged in the whirlwind of this life, thrown this way and that, all the while demanding to understand, demanding to change the direction in which I would be hurled next time.

Funny thing is, occasionally, God listens and I find myself thrown in the direction I asked to go. But once I get there, I never know what to do. Then I am as lost as I was before. The worst thing, perhaps, is that either I have to grapple with the fear of losing the place where I have arrived or that place is not what I had imagined it to be. I try to control my destiny, but only to find that destiny controls me. And she is a veteran at the game.

Does every blade of grass, every leaf on the tree, every spec of dust have a destiny of its own? And how do they deal with something as "bad" as annihilation of their being? If one leaf falls earlier than the others, if one blade is trampled upon, if one spec is smothered, do they just accept it as it is or do they complain in their own language to the God who created them? Isn't it the nature of the universe to accept what is, as is? Then why should we human beings be any different? Why do we challenge, question and judge everything, all the time?

I wonder if, with all our talks of freedom, human beings are the most fettered creatures of all. We are, and since time memorial have been, in the clutches of our own desires and fears.

So what is it that would set us free? Acceptance or judgment? Surrender or fight? An ability to die when asked to die or an ability to struggle to live?

Many questions these are. But then, am I really free to question?

God

I just need a single success
You need to thwart a million attempts

Won't there be just one time
When you'd fail to be watching?

Cycle

The leaves fall off
With the call of the fall
The blood runs out
With last dregs of hope

The womb lay still
Empty, yearning
The cold settles proud
On the raw, naked branches

Another winter, another episode
Of long, frigid waiting

And then it just ended
Just like it began
Even the waiting
Had to just stop

Life was to be lived
Once, once more
Little fists had to curl
In the once empty womb
Little leaves had to sprout
With a statement of hope

A cycle it was, and always has been
The winter comes, so does the spring

101

"So you quit blogging, right?" He said
"No! Why would you think so?" Me, bewildered
"Well, you don't write anymore"
"Of course I do!"
"Yeah Right!"

Interesting, I have this conversation when this is the 101st post on this blog. A cause for celebration? Maybe! But I have never counted how many posts I wrote. I just found out that this was the 101st post by looking at the dashboard. And now, if one were to measure how many of my posts made any sense, 101 would seem quite a tall number. Right?

Writing for me has always been an unconscious activity. Many times I have written and reread my own work only to ask myself, what the hell did I just write? It has never come by force and, like all other aspects of my life, I utterly lack the discipline in writing.

Many times I have written in the middle of fixing a tough bug, or even during meetings. Just like that, out of nowhere, words float into my mind and form patterns, these patterns then whirl around and acquire meanings and all I do is just jot them down. How many times has this been an act of volition? I can never tell.

I have tried in vain to be a disciplined writer and ended up being a self conscious one. During such writing "sessions" I sit in front of the computer and stare at it for the prescribed duration and then doze off. Not a single word comes at my beckoning but when I least suspect, words come in torrents and continue to come until I pour them out.

Some people in this world actually like my writing and many times I have been told by them that I should take my writing further. They tell me I should try to be a published writer. But honestly, I don't know what this "further" means and I have no clue how and why would anyone publish any of this.

This is who I am. This is the best I can be. Now if someone decides to publish it, be my guest! You call this lack of ambition? I call this freedom, for words will sprout and take root to form a beautiful landscape only when they are allowed to waft free.

So, who should I dedicate this 101st post to?

I dedicate it to you, the patient reader and to her - that silly Arundhati, who lives inside me, and who still chooses to dream...

How can I ever show you my dear
Where is it that my eyes wander
What is it that makes my feet dance
What is it that makes my lips quiver

The silhouettes of dreams that shimmer afar
The rapture of the songs that sing in my heart
The vistas, the visions of places surreal
The road, the journey I am about to embark

Can I take you there? Maybe I can
Can you hold my hand? Maybe you can
But as I get lighter and as you get older
In your embrace you will see I will wither

But maybe when I go, I will just transfer
From the depth of my bosom to the depth of your heart
The silhouettes of dreams, the visions of lands
The map of the road for a journey afar