Growing up, and older is about detachment

Easier said than done though

The patter of your baby’s first steps

The unabashed pleasure at the toddler’s antics

The acoustics of teenage chatter

Being symphony to your ears

Replaced and refreshed now

Balanced with the sounds, sights and smells

Of the broader world, a world not as narrow

Such that your children

Are now an extension of your ecosystem

Rather than the center of it

It is a freedom of sorts

Freedom from many compelling obsessions

That is every mother’s woe and pride

Of wanting to be present in and make note of every milestone

Or what you assumed were global events at that time

the eyeball move

the baby bum lift

the first step

the changing smell of the potty

the pa’s and the ba’s

the smile or what you thought was one

the sticky first kiss

the sloppy attempt at poetry

the colors and form that became the art work

the handclasp and the finger grasp

the voice breaking at puberty

the announcement of the first period

the prom preparation

the first tie knot

the drama and the debates

Waking up one morning

Looking into the mirror

I see

Two clumsy adults

out there owning the world

Conquering, defeating, being beaten, wondering, doubting, loving and discovering

The transition has occurred and is happening now

The pleasure is immense

And as I turn away from the mirror

Gently patting my eyes

Just so the kajal stays in place

I know

I received these human’s as gifts

To hold and deliver into the world

Playing my brushstrokes

and filling in the colors over the years

That was how it was always meant to be

I was told very clearly that birthing, mothering is not about replacing

Yet I do want to ask

Can I hold you, carry you, kiss you, hug you

One more time so I can bottle that smell, that warmth, the tender smile

I promise not to ask again

I promise to be standing right here when and if you need me

As well for those you bring into your lives

Also

Neatly bottled for you and those you love

Will be the alchemy that works when all else fails

In an inexhaustible supply, and from that irreplicable recipe

my confidence, care, and courage

my bones, my flesh, my blood

 

Agony – there was enough

Sorrow – no boundary unchartered

yet the periphery smiled

the lines creased

the heart pumped regimented beats

a few found their way into the soul

the rhythm remained

 

till you gave up on me

my beats…my silence

 

then it shifted

my agony tore itself in wails

my sorrow traced into sobs

 

The fluttering impulses of an irregular arrhythmia set in

deep damned determined

Let us get provocative
Just for the sake of it
Reminiscence can write a good story
Moreover, it is cathartic
A little healthy skirmish, therefore
With a few questions
Maybe we have a winner
But..
Maybe it is just about you and me together
And the habit we have become!
A little healthy skirmish, therefore
With a few questions –
________________________________________
You who lived those lonely nights?
Or me who walked the solitary days?
You who kindled my absence with your songs?
Or me who wrote your presence with my melodies?
You who believed destiny would bring us together?
Or me who convinced myself that we never were really apart?
You who cared so much that nothing else mattered?
Or me who consumed myself into the eco system so I could encapsulate what mattered the most?
You who nurtured my spirit and prevented exhaustion even from miles and mountains away?
Or me who pushed every limit – ensuring the physical fatigue always had an edge over the emotional languor?
You who sustained home, what we had created together, the precious status quo, while I explored, experimented, experienced?
Or me who combated everyday with the schism of whether I was deserting too much for too little?
You who never remembered to wish me good night?
Or me who always reminded you to call the kids, and your sister, and my parents?
You who held my heart in safe keeping as I ventured around?
Or me who bore the gaping hole in my heart where I felt your absence?
You who changed your course so you could be my navigator?
Or me who held the wheel, harnessing the years of companionship as fuel?
You who laughed, when I cried because I could not be angry with you?
Or me, who cried at your attempts to make me laugh?
You who made giving up significant aspects that made for your entire adult live so matter of fact, conclusive?
Or me who so dexterously took to the air every day because you were the wind beneath my wings?

When life seems titanic like

And the dilemma is staring at you

in the most glamorous colors of sarcasm

When crossroads is not a special defining moment

but here and now

Then , infusing control is no longer

a choice

refuse being vestigial

redefine your trajectory

replug the hole in your hull

reaffirm the knot in your anchor

and set sail

strong, adrift

it is new voyage, a new wind

resurface the belief

that

not every Titanic is fated to break into two

not every growler is destined to write a tragedy

remember too that

ironically, the Titanic’s toughest lesson

was yet again that

humility is more nimble than pride

it was her size,900 feet of ego

from bow to stern that

prevented the captain

from steering her on path,agile enough

when that tiny point of ice hit her

where it punched a hole

inconceivable to her makers

Your Maker, though

provided for differently

with an embedded buoyancy

and that periodic vulnerability, your fears

All being His devices

He engineered to allow sustenance

even with imperfections

for disasters, abandoned journeys

and turnarounds

You can absorb, embody more scars

and of larger magnitude than you know

therefore Go forward, Embark

Ahoy!

December 2^nd it was

When San Bernardino was riddled with bullets

When a Christmas party was aborted

Unassuming lives came to a gruesome halt

14 victims who will always be remembered

Prayers and candle vigils

Memorials conducted by loved ones

A man and woman were shot dead too

They were Killers

I made my Santa wish last night and wished that

..My grandma would stop weeping

..And my mom and dad would come back

..not wearing the assault clothing

I just want to hold the edge of my mom’s scarf

and sleep

I am always scared these days

Because Grandma says

The child is the mother reborn

She believes I am proof that hope is alive

However, she does not know that I died too

If I live

I am terrified

of the legacy of death mom has left behind

I am the 15^th victim of the attack

and its aftermath

a 6 year old baby girl

orphaned, scarred, shattered

Why does no one count me?

Can you light a candle for me too?

My thanksgiving message is two-fold

For the one farthest from my heart

And for the one closest to my heart

Part I –

For the one farthest from my heart –

the one for whom the first response is hate

I want to offer my thanks to him

for by tearing apart

our worlds the way you did in a fraction

of an insane moment

in the flutter of an eyelid

in that blinkered thought

when you choose to believe

in that warped message

you also reminded us of

things we take for granted

the need to offer our

thanks

for every second that we have with our loved ones

for every memory and moment we share

for every corner we turned and every hand we held

for the laughter and the warm tears that followed

for the abundance and the sharing when there was less

for the journey’s and the halts

the shared turkey dinners and the apron stains that came along

for the funeral wreaths, we were able to lay

in addition, the care we knew existed in the extended hearts

that our family had spread across the world

You – the farthest from my heart ..

in that one moment of wrapping the fire strap

around your chest and blowing away all your thanks

taught us the lesson of thanksgiving yet again

and for that, I want to say thanks to you

wherever you are

and as your family sits at thanksgiving today

may they  be blessed

with the fortitude to share your stories

and may they only remember those

that bring the kinder tears to their eyes

Part II –

For the one closest to my heart –

As true to the soul as truth can be

I want you to know I love you

For the world might end just this second

A force beyond you and me

may use our world to prove a banal point

I want you to know

that I am yours in life and in death

However, who knows….

The world might go on forever

Beautifully enchanting

the planets in the momentum they are meant to be

Well then.. even more so ..

I want you to know how much I love you

and want you to believe with me

just in the simple old-fashioned way

that love stories never end!!

Resetting elements of an existence

without the familiarity of the foundation stones

creating, finding,discovering

new corner stones instead

resetting dependencies

reevaluating weakness

strengths reconfigured

laughing often

the eyes glistening moist

knowing there is help

and asking is just fine

staying connected

repatching favorites

discovering new

immersion is what the venture is all about

touching the core and the chords never explained

nor comprehended

akin to the autumn colors fusing so deep into the leaves

that one wonders if they ever were lush green, and will soon cease to exist at all

if ever asked how an immersion lesson can be explained to someone naive

I would say,

“just like the autumn colors, serve yourself into the experience and let it engage you with it’s flavors and aromas”

Reclining

statesman like

high backed chair

frayed woven seat

the books lined shelf

visitors stopped by

as he sat

at the entrance

fastidious about the angle

the chair faced the street

almost durbar like

turban starched stiff

though crumpled

never to miss his routine

as he had done everyday

before 1947

before he knew

he would be one

among the 12 million

to be on another side of the boundary

the other side

when he walked his estate

swinging his walking cane

when his gait was straight

in his khaki riding breeches

and his voice invoked respect

some fear too

The Sardar

for his sphere of influence

or so he believed he was

and the community let him

it served both well!

The countenance radiated pride then

thriving,living,engaging

Now, however

he was bent over

an ache on his face

and his voice did crumble

as he narrated his many stories

anecdotes, we loved to listen

his faraway eyes had

our rapt attention

transformed into a movie like arena

memorizing words, pauses, moments

we shuddered sometimes

yet wanting more

as we grew up, and the stories repeated

we probed further

what was it like

for a young daughter to escape

for a young woman to know her house was being abandoned

maybe forever

for young boys to be refugees

The grand old man always dismissed those questions

abruptly ending the session

shuffling his way to his bed, under the open sky

in the central courtyard of the house

the night is an easy place

to mourn and wonder why

The stories held in them

explanations

And the questions were various

what led to the transition?

from the untiring man with the back of steel?

to the old man in the chair by the dusty lane?

what was even more compelling

and curious though

how did his four sons and five daughter’s

carry forward?

with so much faith and such resilience?

what was their perennial source?

who ingrained the constants in them?

each one had a fierce protection about education

for themselves and each other

they argued loudly

loved unconditionally

protected selfishly

each dramatic

somewhat eccentric

catalogs of the Sardar’s legacy

in their own way

reflecting tall – like him

debating loud as they knew he did

pretending he never lost his thunder

creating communities, as if there was never a “Separation”

heads held high

sometimes inspiring, sometimes odd, always trademark

Never diminutive

Life altering events are also DNA disrupting events

the catastrophic change in the Sardar’s life

atomized his persona into the world

Perpetuated by

children, grandchildren

and the many other’s

undeniably influenced

this today is in tribute –

What a masterpiece you were

they don’t make them like you anymore!

this, Pitaji , is in remembrance

and lots and lots of love

you left behind much more than you know

least of all

the routine of the butter biscuits with tea

and the napkin beside the dining plate

and the obvious

trademark swagger!

---

*Sardar – Leader, often used as a title or form of address

*Pitaji – Father, *ji – denotes respect for elders.

Pitaji is a respectful way of addressing father. 

*Durbar – referred to the kings’ court or a formal meeting where all discussions were held

What if?

we had two hearts

like we have two

everything else

would we then?

be more  wanting

more receiving

would we?

hurt less

long less …or at least less on each side

repair better

love equally

balance the brain

or outweigh it if needed

accumulate more

therefore, give more

and abundantly

stay young at heart

one being the sturdy support to the the other during a bypass

stay tenacious

because there would be more ‘nerve’

be able to keep a ‘heart’

even if one was pounding out of your chest

stay true to your “heart”

because one would always keep the other honest

surely love deeper

and with less exhaustion

since it would be with all my “hearts”

who knows though?

life patterns evolve over ages

this may well be an encounter waiting to occur

But

one pattern will not change,will continue to conform

has not altered,will not alter

the abandonment at the end

when everything halts

if they were to be there, these extra organs

and when they ceased to pound

the salve through the being

and when the fragility of existence did show up

unrelenting

then..it will not matter that there were two

they will still be unarousable, they will still be bewildered

and they will still be susceptible to the end

and what they  leave behind will still experience annihilation

still survive

and walk the journey

after departure

the journey will still be one of surrender

and every step willonly move in millimeters

no different!

it is fascinating yet

If indeed we had two hearts?

would they carry the weight easier along that journey?

The original makeover artist is at work.

the panorama seeming to have succumbed

trees, leaves, bushes, the sky, the air

it’s an event out there!

a major makeover event

impeccable supervision and a master’s expertise

nothing out of form, no color too faint

the merging, the morphing of hues

you in awe

scattered leaves, yet perfect formations

picturesque.. an intriguing assortment

you choose what you want to see

find the form,watch the shade that reflects your heart best in that moment

an elegantly composed carpet of dreams

or an unfurling bundle of wishes

a layer of confused loss

or an unattached bed of memories

without restraint

the artist in freehand

stirs up a shifting amalgamation of senses

every second

Spicing up vividly .. urging you to choose from the palate

irresistibly tugging at those chords

yet in the most unassuming, inconspicuous manner ever!