Compartmentalise

 

You can watch the birds from the terrace here.

The tangle of wires slices the sky thin

and shrinks the views, but still, it’s been a good year -

the mynah’s back, so are the crow and pigeon.

The  doves and, in their season, the cuckoos.

There’s birdsong, even if you don’t get the views.

 

The drongos like beads on an abacus

the sparrows of unremarkable throats -

ordinary plumage’s all around us.

Put off that search for remote scenic spots.

Bird calls rise with the light and urban fumes,

the city ebbs from the terrace and the rooms.

~~~

Gosh, May's ending already? The months are vanishing faster than ever, I don't know if that's a good, time-flies-when-you're-happy/busy sign or an ominous one of days outstripping my capacity to keep up. Let's go for the positive one - I'm all for the feel good, steady boat themes. 

Lots happening as usual - workmen in the house, trips to the eye doctors, an antho submission, thank goodness the war noises have stopped, let's keep everything here small, personal, worm eye level. Because what's happening out in the world is kind of overwhelming, to put it mildly. I'm borrowing a line from one of my favourite fictional characters - 'I'll think about that tomorrow.'

Another line from another favourite character, real not fictional this time - 'a man is a success if he gets up in the morning and gets to bed at night, and in between does what he wants to do.' That's Bob Dylan, his birthday went by a couple days back, happy birthday sirji! - from this fan. 

By his definition, which I expect holds for women too, I am success enough. I listen for the birdsong. Focus on the wires, treetops, clouds. Block out the incessant noise at ground level. Read a little. Write a little. Compartmentalise. 

Have a happy-busy, time-flies type week ahead.

Choose your own title

 

View from shikara. May-June 1981. A long ago and far away Kashmir.

All night long I dozed fitfully

dreamt of elephants crossing the Alps,

of Carthage and Rome. Deep furrows of salt.

And oaks and pines, higher than gothic spires

made into Viking masts sailing cold seas.

The children kept waking, fretting, calling.

Mother. Father. What’s that? Is that shelling?

Why does the horizon glow so eerie red?

What is that horrible smell on the breeze?

I quietened them, wrapped them in my steeled arms

inches from where my heart was racing against theirs

sang them lullabies my grandmothers once crooned.

Go to sleep, the light of my eyes,

horizons get eerie just before sunrise,

thunder carries in the stillness before dawn,

they’re somewhere far over the mountains,

somewhere far from home.

 

Grandmothers used to say that everything

that you were destined for, or that was destined

for you, had your name written clear on it –

grains, cups, ganga jom’na paar, scars, bullets.

They were women gnarled by hardships, moulded

by wars, collaterally damaged inside

and out. Fault lines, frontlines and famines grew

them to formidable heights and shapes, staunch,

unflinching as fortresses. They had the right

lullabies to soothe children to sleep

during battles and in peacetimes. They could

slice fruits translucently thin and feed hundreds

from one handful of rice and two fishes.

They knew how to stare down famines, disease,

unknown, eerie red horizons. Burnt paddies

wafting in on the breeze. They rarely slept

through the night. Dreaming wasn’t an option.

 

The dawn comes in overcast. No more sound.

No birdsong, nor call to prayer, not even

the faintest shelling, nothing but the clouds

emptied of the death threats. The horizon

innocent of flashes and our senses

suspicious of this explosive silence.

The street’s pockmarked with thumbprints of conflict.

The news comes later, trickles in through phones

on grapevines of fear. There’s a ceasefire.

Is it over? Father? Shall we go back

to school? May I go fishing now, Mother?

An army vehicle clatters down the street

checking for last evacuees. I scoop up

my grandmother’s old hand knitted blanket.

She’d knitted my name in it. We step out

and I notice, as if for the first time –

the door has my name carved on it as well.

Title 1) Mother's Day 2025

Title 2) Carved names

Title 3) Ceasefire

Title 4) Compose your own

Please let me know your choice in the comments. The title is the hardest part.

I'm glad there's a ceasefire. Anything that brings peace closer is to be welcomed. Not sure it will lead to anything lasting though. And I'm gutted at the way it has come about. 

Once upon a time our PMs used to refuse to be pressurised, to let other countries, no matter how mighty their global standing, meddle in our business. We didn't have a top ten economy, but we had a spine and some respect out in the world. Now we meekly let another nation broker ceasefires and decide our tariff policies without a cheep. What can I say? I miss the sagacity, the statesmanship, the reverence for country over party, the commitment to democratic values and the political acumen of my previous leaders. 

Once you've lived in a country led by towering personalities, it is awful hard to live with petty, braggadocious, incompetent politicians who don't have a shred of self respect or give a @#*& about the very people who've elected them to the position they hold.

I hope your week has gone peacefully and that you're nowhere near any situation that requires a ceasefire to be brokered. 

Duodecad

 

Well, yeah, survived the challenge for the 12th year. Which Google Chacha tells me is called a duodecad. So I'm a duodecadal survivor. I thoroughly enjoyed getting back with properly researched, immersive posts for the A-Z. I left a lot of stuff out, which I knew I'd have to, because textiles comprise a range from carpets to shawls to towels to turbans to dupattas to handkerchiefs, from little socks and underclothing to tents and sails and sheets and quilts. Even though I resolutely left all of that out and focussed on the saris only (I had to leave some saris out too, Bomkai, Arni, Ilkal, Dharmavaram, the list goes on) - it still made me feel awful - Pashmina shawls! Kashmiri carpets! Assamese Gamusas! Bandhej dupattas! - how can they be excluded?? The non-saree textiles can make an A-Z theme by themselves.

I read widely but not as deeply as I wanted, that is an unreachable target. 'Wide' this year meant less than 200 blogs, I was reminded of Alex saying that was what the challenge was like in its first year. I wasn't there for that, I joined in the 3rd of 4th year I think. Deep reading always comes at the cost of deep writing, I've learnt that from my first A-Z experiences. So that's that, c'est la vie.

Thank you to the hosts and all those who visited, read, commented and generally kept things lively and interesting. 

Will I be back next year? A cautiously optimistic yes - circumstances permitting. Hopefully, see ya next year, same time same place.