Hello,
hello! I am so glad to be back at the Write…Edit…Publish… Halloween Special Flash Fiction Challenge 2024. Life has thrown up its own, rather unpleasant, challenges at me in
the past several months. There have been two shocking, untimely deaths in my extended family and among my school alumna back to back. We've lost long time members of WEP too - both Sally and Nancy will be missed. And here in my hometown, we're still dealing with the fallout of the terrible rape/murder of a young doctor. It's been a stressful time. This hereunder is a diversion and an escape route.
October
is an insanely busy time as the main festival season starts from the 2nd
in India and ends with Diwali on the 31st/1st Nov. Whatever
it is you are celebrating – Durgapuja, Navaratri or Halloween – happy festivals!
Btw, the worship of Durga, the underpinning mythology of this entire festival is the battle of righteousness versus evil - Durga, the warrior goddess descending to earth to vanquish a demon symbolising sinfulness.
It's beyond ironic the exponential levels of casual misogyny and crimes against women forming the backdrop of a festival worshipping feminine cosmic energy.
Anyway, here is my entry for this Challenge -
The
Other Side
There
are always two sides. The story tellers tell and retell a single version a
million times till all others seem impossible.Endless repetition makes even a lie sound like truth. And the real truth
slowly dies out, unspoken, unwritten, unperformed, its fire reduced to ashes
and dispersed to the winds till not a trace remains.
***
We
met through the theatre. A brooding, handsome man, widowed with motherless twins.
An accomplished performer, he played the role of Othello with a passionate and
spellbinding artistry. Night after night, he killed me on stage. And then he
killed me offstage too. He made love to me with a starved tenderness that was
simultaneously terrifying and irresistible.
At the
wedding, I smiled at the children. They did not smile back. I was too euphoric
to mind. I noticed their eyes though. Positively ancient eyes in young faces,
too still, too opaque, way too knowing. Dark coloured like deep waters, beneath
which unfathomable secrets lay. They
could stop any friendly overture dead in its track at hundred paces. It made me
vaguely uneasy, but it got swamped by the music and the mood as I stepped onto
the dance floor.
feathered clouds, perched birds
from some childhood zone.
Some were granted, some had to be
foregone.
A blooming trellis – or just one
climbing vine
on a porch or pillar that felt
somewhat mine
under skies of black pearls, rinsed
in starlight.
Some were given easy, some never by
right.
A painting of a deck with an easy
chair.
The final sum of what is, and
isn’t, there.
This above
is the first part of a triad of 14X3 poems, something I thought would take me away from the doldrums and dismals currently prevailing. Counting blessings, by any name including poetry, has a remarkable mood altering ability.
However, it did bring into focus one of the
things that will never be - a trip to catch up with a childhood friend. We've been talking of a reunion of the school expat alumni for years, it's practically impossible for all the stars to align, so widely dispersed we all are now from the origins of our friendship, from Australia through the subcontinent to UK and North America.
This particular friend had settled in Australia. We caught up on Facebook in the 2010s, we texted and chatted plenty, planned and plotted for a face-to-face meeting.
Then it happened that I had to go and live in Fiji for a couple years, I was excited because it was only a short flight to go see her. But my own family situation stopped that from materialising. I came back without the much longed for trip.
Yesterday I got the news that she has passed away. Way too soon. What can one say? The final sum is arbitrary, not open for re-evaluation and not in our individual control. There's no option to give it a pass either.
Rest in eternal bliss, dear Nalini. We'll catch up on the other side.
you clutch at the bricks and stones, the road signs,
but you’re
still separate, not part of the whole
and they
say that you haven’t come back at all.
Half the
people are gone, there’s a new tenant.
The kerb’s
a strange colour, the lamp post’s three pronged,
there’s a swank
new park and a waterfront.
Gone too is
the ice cream shop – your childhood haunt.
All the
places where you seamlessly belonged.
Everything’s
changed. And everyone feels wronged.
Well, it's
not rocket science - every time someone leaves his hometown for any
substantial span of time, both the home and the town, the people who stay, the person leaving - all change irrevocably, there's no coming back. Not to the people, not to the spaces. And the one who leaves is not the same person who returns. The whole thing is an exercise in expectation management.
But the transition shouldn't be this hard. Kolkata is still reeling from the murder/rape of the young doctor last month. There are on going protests, the involvement of the Central Bureau of Investigation (CBI) to investigate the case ordered by the Calcutta High Court as there were trust issues with the Kolkata Police, there are allegations of evidence tampering against the police and the suspicion that they were shielding the master mind. There are calls for the resignation of the Police Commissioner and the Chief Minister. The Supreme Court of India has taken suo moto cognisance and hearings of that are also on going. The opposition parties are making hay the most of it while the clouds are thick, ordinary citizens are outraged, upset and quite beside themselves. There have been protests for justice across the country and also across the world in solidarity. India has its own equivalent of the George Floyd situation.
Bengal used to be a liberal, progressive state, Kolkata has been voted the safest city for women for three years running, it is beyond shocking how we have come to a situation where a woman is raped and murdered in her own workplace and then there are attempts at a cover up.
It is a living nightmare. It is also an inspiration - the way the junior doctors' front has handled their demands for justice in peaceful and dignified protests. A moment of hope too - an opportunity. To reassess our justice systems, to reassess our own selves and attitudes towards women. I for one am awash with questions. Why do Indians condone everyday misogyny in words and deeds and erupt into worldwide protests only at rape and extreme violence? Why do we turn a blind eye to the rapes/murder of women from the marginalised sections of society and take to the streets demanding justice only for middle class/upper class/educated/urban women? Why is there only episodic outrage and condemnation?
but the remnants of rain still drip
on the stairs.
I’m on the balcony. I’m on the
phone.
Where are you my girl, in this
night alone?
I’ve taught you a few things early,
much before
I’d wanted to. Hands, touch,
violence, abuse.
Bliss was not an option. Every
day’s a war –
girls have to grow up fast. We
cannot choose.
I’m at the doorway. And still on
the phone.
Where are you sweetie, in this wide
danger zone?
I’ve taught you to dream. But I’ve
been circumspect.
Only hoped that you’d be safe on
the streets,
that you’d be given some basic
respect.
We dream small, where red lines and
limits meet.
I’m out on the lane. Please pick up
your phone!
Where are you, daughter and when
will you be home?
News of the Kolkata rape and murder of a post grad trainee doctor on 9th August has been reported in the international media, you might have seen it and therefore can surmise the reason for the poem above.
Widespread protests have erupted across India this time, people are marching in their thousands calling for justice for the doctor and for women's safety. It's distressing, outrageous, preposterous that women face this level of violence but it's also heartening to see the solidarity. I'm hopeful still.
Kolkata used to be a safe city for women, it's still regularly voted as the safest in India. However, the sad truth is that India has become progressively unsafe for women over the last 20 years. The reasons are many layered and complex, but what is not in question is that we require a seismic societal shift if things are to change. Making the laws more stringent can only achieve results if they are implemented rigorously, that is where the system is failing. And it is failing deliberately - because there is political patronage of criminals, an enabling of violence against women across the board and across party lines. That needs to stop immediately if the rape culture is to change.
Hoping for that change soon, for speedy justice for every case of abuse/rape and in the R.G. Kar Hospital case in particular.
Wishing all women a crime free, disrespect free and stress free environment at every corner of world. May we get to see the dream of an equal and just world realised in our lifetime. Thank you for reading.
The street lights, for some reason,
aren’t on today
and in the dark, even rain comes on
tiptoes
the traffic’s still gridlocked
beneath the windows
but it’s quieter, because light has
got a way
to amplify sound. One streetful of darkness
has dialled down urban angst and
calmed the restless.
The balcony herewears no trellised shadows
no umbras, penumbras of leaves
filigreed
against the walls – those arabesque
patterns need
a strong light, a municipal lamp
that glows
at railing height. No one’s willing
to disturb
this chiffon silence, the cars
crawl past the kerb.
The streetlights haven’t been switched on this evening
a minor malfunction, human or
machine
a sensor perhaps that hasn’t
signalled green.
Some epiphanies only darkness brings,
that light fails to show. A small
error has led
to a darkened lane, cars going past
muted.
I've been
reading more than I've been writing - old favourites in poetry, where even if
the eyes get a bit blurry, the lines are known so one can do without crystal
clear anything, recognise the words from their shapes on the page anyway.
Edna
St Vincent Millay, Emily Dickinson, Auden, Neruda, Yeats - the all time smash hits. Mary Oliver and Maya Angelou, of course. Some Mahmoud Darwish, top of mind right now because of the conflict.
Some children's poetry as well, Eletelephony is guaranteed to cheer me up every time. I love Escape at Bedtime and this one of Shel Silverstein too. Escape from the doom and gloom in the blink of an eye. What is your favourite children's poem? Do you have any favourites? What do you read when you get exhausted with the headlines?
slicing through the mists and never
looking back -
that’s where you’re most at ease,
without any need
to think on what lies beyond or
what recedes.
Ferns dip their dainty toes into
the highway
waterfalls weave small rainbows
into their spray
the eucalypti raise their hands to
the sky
a mile is a unit of time flashing
by.
As you draw near, the sandal trees
make it plain
there’s no scent without a price of
crushing pain.
The border staff check the car for
smuggled goods
for gold’s almost equal to this
sandalwood.
The yearning to breathe in freely
perfumed air
does not work - you return to the
road from there.
From NH 85
I am back from Kerala after a wonderful trip -
the monsoons are absolutely gorgeous in the mountains, whether it's the Himalayas or
the Western Ghats. Kerala, being at the very south western tip of peninsular India, has two monsoons - one when they come in from the Arabian Sea and again, when they recede. It rained nearly everyday, a beautiful drizzle that gently misted everything to a dreamscape. Clouds floated across the slopes so close you felt you could just stretch your arm out and touch them.
I first went to Munnar in the early 90's on a work trip. It wasn't the huge tourist destination that it's become now, I'd never even heard of it before. The town was a line of straggly buildings along a tiny main street, which I had no occasion to get into because we were put up by the client at a property some distance from it. My room had wrap around windows with the most spectacular panoramic views of the mountains and tea gardens.
It was the kind of place that makes you want to return to it even before you've left it. I resolved to go back someday. On holiday - no work meetings, no client directed facilities tours. Taken me thirty plus years but now that's been ticked off. :)
Marayoor is about 40 km from Munnar - there is a forest of sandalwood trees, some 65000 of them. I wanted to check out the scent of the live forest as opposed to dead wood and processed oils. So I badgered the family and our guide into a drive there. Unfortunately the whole area is fenced off, naturally...sandalwood is one of the most expensive woods in the world, illegal felling and smuggling has been an issue, deforestation is an ongoing problem in India anyways...So. Walking among the sandal trees is a strict no-no. The main road cuts through the forest, that's as close as a visitor can get. I asked everyone in the car if they could smell anything. No one could, our city noses are not up to the task. Cautionary tale in there somewhere, also a life lesson if one looks hard enough.
The drive was beyond sublime though. The only sounds that of the winds and the wheels on the road. Occasional waterfalls cascading down the how-green-is-my-valley-type slopes. And once the engine was switched off, a thousand different birdsongs in chorus.
Strangely, I did not feel half the disappointment I thought I should. Maybe I'm finally becoming capable of appreciating the meaning of the journey being the destination.
I hope your week is filled with the most beautiful sounds and scents of nature wherever you are.
As summers have stormed in with
their fangs bared,
as the lissom rains have twirled on
the ground.
I hear your voice in the soft,
whispered prayers
of the sea breeze in trees that it
weaves around.
I don’t have to prime myself body
and mind
I don’t have to take any extra care,
to sharpen my senses for symbols
and signs.
Wherever I reach out blind – you’re
always there.
However great the time and space
we’re apart,
you’re with me still – nothing
needs a high alert.
A scheduled post - because I'm on a short break in the Nilgiris but I'm reluctant to let anything disrupt the hard-fought fortnightly schedule of posting here. Fortnightly? is that archaic? I never see people use it, come across it anywhere in writing either, unless it's 'period' writing. Ennyway. I digress.
What I meant to write was that I'm quite unsure how to label this poem - all love poetry feels like something else too, to me - deeper than the glib labels words define. However, the lines have come about because of an old 1970s photo a childhood friend posted on a social media platform. I oohed and aahed over it, I'm a sucker for old snaps. It struck me later that I've managed to remain in contact somehow through all the intervening years with all the people captured in that photograph, though we each are continents apart at this exact moment and have been so through the major part of our individual lives.
Should poems be labelled to reflect their source of inspiration? On a different note, isn't that - that I'm still able to be in touch with them - an ineffable blessing and a celebration deeper than words?
Hope your month has begun well, have a wonderful July.
to untangle themselves and lay limbs out straight,
know that walking has least to do with legs.
Know that feet themselves can be the maelstrom
regardless of where they go or come from.
Strange things have been happening to the weather here, Kolkata has been giving itself airs that it is the Arabian desert. Though it's got the temperatures almost correct, it's way off the mark in humidity and the result is an unbearable mix.
The lemonade is certainly coming in handy, no dearth of lemons here, further ones have materialised since I posted here last - hey, we have a never ending supply! As usual poetry - both reading and writing, is a peg of sorts and therapy and a huge comfort. As is the blog and your company. Hope you are cooler and more comfortable wherever you are logging in from. Thank you for being here.
for shared air or dreams - that our pasts don't make
us us, we're the sums of our differences.
That you're not me and I am not you -
and we must observe our separate taboos,
confined to neighbourhoods scarred by fences.
Yes, the longest ten years. But now we're done.
And breathing out is enough celebration.
Hello, hello, long time! The longest I've been away from my home on the web, which is the only steadfast unchanging home I've been able to live in so far. It's been too long. Though I did pop into the WEP catch up post early this month.
A quick update - the vision issues are still ongoing, the tsunami of graduated eye drops will continue for the near future, I'm still running in circles round the ophthalmology clinic. Life has also handed me a few other lemons to make lemonade with meanwhile. However, on the plus side I was able to vote! after nearly 30 years, that improved my mood no end. And the outcomes have been better than expected so...um...yay! Go, democracy!
I've got a bit fed up of being fed up, I'm totally not cut out for the perpetual grumpies. So I thought I'll write myself to a better place. And here I am. A fresh start at a blogging schedule. I'm aiming for twice a month for now and hopefully will be able to step it up and get back to my weekly posting routine sometime sooner rather than later.
I hope life has been smooth and beautiful for you meanwhile. Hope to catch up with you shortly.
Zebra not crossing. Sheep crossing. St Catherine, Sinai, Egypt.
Well, that's it. Another April, another A-Z, muddled through somehow. Hope you enjoyed the pictures. Big fat thank yous to all those who visited and encouraged.
For the last few days, my eye has been super sore. And closed for the most part. Back as soon as this never ending rubbish is sorted, hopefully sooner rather than later.
Y day and so close yet so far, yikes! It's turned out to be a total yorker, if you know what I mean. Didn't expect Y to be so difficult, but there it is...
The old, original York, UK. Incidentally, a yorker is not a resident of York but a cricket delivery, one of the toughest balls to bat.
Newer, new York, USA.
Darb al Asfar - translates to Yellow Alley, Egypt.
That's a dessert called Bali Breakfast, made of mango and whipped coconut milk, not an egg. The 'yolk' was runny just like the real thing though. Cuca, Jimbaran, Bali.
Private yachts at Denarau, Fiji.
Fall leaves in a lucky shade of yellow! Texas.
That's about all I could scrape together for today. Funny how what you think will be easy turns out quite different, while the expected difficult ones don't create as much of a problem. C'est la vie.
Thank you to all those who've read and supported me through this erratic version of A-Z. Hopefully, I can be back for the finale.
I shall Xploit the following photos to Xtricate myself from the predicament that is X...
Needs no captions, right? At the NC Museum of History, Raleigh
Is this an Xample of obsessive memorialisation?
Beyond weird....
Spot the X - how many do you see? NC Museum of Art, Raleigh
The label on the installation...in case you wanted the Xplanation...
More Xs spotted...Mirror Image by Maud Gatewood
The detailed label. NC Museum of Art, Raleigh, NC.
Some Xtra large Xs among the stripped branches. East Fork State Park, OH
Bowl with X. Indigenous American art. Dallas Art Museum, TX.
That's all for X, and boy, am I glad that's over! Hope you've enjoyed the photos. Just a couple more left now, thank goodness. Happy end days of the challenge to you if you're A-Zing! And happy cusp season if you're not!