A is for April...n...A-Z

 

Welcome to the  Blogging from A-Z Challenge 2025, this is my 12th year participating...All this month I am attempting to write about aspects of Indian textiles, a quick but captivating dive into the saree specifically, a garment worn by Indians for five millennia. Indian textiles have a history that is amazingly rich and long and wide and I absolutely adore them. 

Come with me into the colourful, complex and utterly fascinating world of yarn and thread, of skills and techniques of dyeing and printing and embroidery, of sumptuous finished fabrics that not only make a fashion statement, but also constitute our cultural identity and a political symbol. 

A is for Ajrakh

The origins of Ajrakh textiles go back at least five millennia to the Harappa/Indus Valley Civilisation. A bust of a 'Priest-King' excavated in Mohenjo-Daro shows a garment draped over his shoulder, with a trefoil pattern and remnants of a red dye, resembling Ajrakh. 

Source

Ajrakh is produced in India in the Kutch region of Gujarat in the extreme Western edges of the country. It is also produced by the Sindhi community of Pakistan. Both communities make these hand block printed textiles in the same age old processes and natural dyes used for thousands of years. Ajrakh fabrics are characterised by their vibrant colours and typically geometric and/or floral motifs. 

It is a 16 step process from the blank fabric to finished Ajrakh. Watch this video to see how lovingly and laboriously the fabric is made:

So, that's Ajrakh. A is also for Aanchal, which is the end of a saree draped over the shoulder and left free. It is usually decorated in ornate patterns, markedly different from the body of the saree.

The Anchal - is mostly different
from  the body of the saree
to make it stand out

~~~

Did you know that the handloom textile sector employs over 3 million people in India? It has been the largest employment sector in the rural areas after agriculture traditionally, though in recent years the children of weaving families have tended to migrate away from the family occupations. Think of the whole process - the cultivation of  fibres, the spinning, the weaving of fabrics, the post production treatments, the ancillaries - the dyes, the blocks, the shuttles, the packaging etc - it is a vast, intricate and fascinating ecosystem.

Thank you for reading. And happy A-Zing to you if you are participating in the challenge. 

A-Z Challenge 2025

The Prompt Was Friendship

 

With friends. Far away and long ago. 

Can't claim too many friends - 

I've moved around too much,

it's hard to say goodbye,

harder to stay in touch.

Social media platforms,

letters and video calls

can't bridge the whole distance,

they can't plug all the holes.

And therefore by and by

the connections taper off -

two worlds too disparate

and keeping up too tough.

I can count them on one hand.

I'm thankful for the few

who've remained through thick and thin

and that it includes you.

Some poetry group that I belong to on FB put out this prompt on friendship and I wrote this but then couldn't locate the original post where I was supposed to submit - story of my life! - so I thought I'll post it here instead. 

Nope, I've haven't been abducted or quit blogging, just quietly prepping for the A-Z which I thought I'll join in this year with some sort of theme and coherent posts after the haphazard, cobbled-together-at-the-last-minute type posts for years now. So yeah, I'll be there.

I hope March has treated you well. A very happy Eid in advance to my friends celebrating. I'll be back on the 1st. See you soon. 

This Too Is Love

 

It's been quite sometime that you've gone away - 

there's a creeper growing in one of the cracks

on the ledge - rather a pungent bouquet.

It's sinking in that you're not coming back.

Your coffee mugs lie dusty with disuse.

Your bedroom slippers are neat on the rack.

Absence feels like a gently spreading bruise - 

a purple tide, because you're not coming back.

Vases and glasses wear chips on their rims,

pages crumble along silverfish tracks,

even the light in these rooms is muted dim.

A strange cast that knows you're not coming back.

I still open windows. Dust off the years.

Keep keys safe. Just in case. Though you aren't here. 

~~*~~

February has just zoomed past me. There's been a family wedding - so a mega reunion of the clan, gathering for a few days from all corners of not just India but the world. That's always super pleasant, to catch up with the gang. Cousins remain my firstest, funnest and bestest Valentines ever. 

For every high there will be an immediate and corresponding low - the offspring picked up some ghastly bug, therefore an ER visit had to be made, stressful at the time but all okay now. This too is a milestone, first time admission in the hospital. Anyway, all's well that ends well.  

As you can imagine, not very conducive to poetry-ing. However, there's no control on thinking. The thoughts come unbidden, without any respect for timing or place or state of mind - whether the aforesaid mind is panicking in the ER or teasing out the meanings behind the rituals at a wedding ceremony. Always a chance to get fresh angles to love throughout the year. Weddings can celebrate it publicly and very visibly, with solemnly taken vows, effusive displays of affection and joy, heaps of tinsel and glitz. Love can equally mean a whole host of quieter, everyday things. Long loves are mostly made up of ordinary stuff - giving a cup of coffee, refuelling the car, adjusting the thermostat because you notice the sheen of perspiration on a loved one's forehead. Just small acts of consideration and courtesy, offered freely without having to be asked.

At the wedding, a cousin of mine saw my father in my son. We talked about our loved ones who weren't present, remembering past weddings they had attended. "How diminished we are now!" my cousin said. But are we really? They weren't there physically but they permeate our life. We see them everywhere, in our children and in their values handed down. The memories are fresh, almost tangible. And we carry our departed loved ones with us into every family reunion  and into everyday dinner conversations. We tell and retell the stories they told us, hear their voices in our own and laugh again at all the same places. We keep the keys safe. Is this  not love too? 

All Season

 

A sunset may look like a sunrise,

a flat bread may look like a cake,

not all things appear as themselves -

to assume that is a mistake.

Mild winters often fool the public

into thinking it's already spring.

Remember that some leaves will wither

as the rest of the tree gets blooming.

A backyard can contain deep snowdrifts

as well as robins overhead -

call it a miracle or mundane,

birds flying in flocks of hundreds.

What's seen though is often not equal

to what you might manage to get.

Some stranger slams in from outside

and skews the whole game and the set.

Compassion's never a guarantee

that the very same will be lobbed back -

you can send all the cakes and roses

but karma's a tough puzzle to crack.

No particular time for despair -

it's an all-year, all-season thing.

Just like love, hope and happiness.

None of them is confined to spring. 

The video above was sent by my school buddy Riki Roy who lives in Alberta, Canada, thank you Riki!  

But why on earth should images of snow and ice and -30 deg C temperatures result in a poem on spring? Because it is Vasant Panchami here in India, which is a kind of advent festival observed for the start of spring.  Vasant is the word for spring in several Indian languages, it is called Rituraj Vasant around these parts - the King of Seasons, the season of renewal and rejuvenation, of planting and growth. Cusp season, love season too, as it is the wedding season in India. 

Just as a matter of info, the minimum temperature in Srinagar today, the  northernmost provincial capital  in India, is 1 deg C. And where I am much further south east, the min temps are in the 20s. 

While we prepare for spring in India, my friends and family south of the equator are readying for winter. Indo-Fijians mark Vasant Panchami the same as Indians, though their seasons are completely flipped over there, they are observing a 'spring' festival during their own autumn, isn't that piquant? Yet they have completely adapted to the local seasonal rhythms for all practical purposes, they have to. The contrasts across the planet - extreme, awe-inspiring and aren't they utterly fascinating!

Wishing you a fascinating time full of inspiring contrasts. Happy February!

Constituent Parts

 

Within me you'll find my parents

and in me you'll find my sons,

you'll find them all everywhere in me

but they're not the only ones.

There are folks too that you'd never know -

friends, and strangers I've met just once.

For we aren't only our forefathers.

And we're not just our descendants.

The houses that I've ever lived in

continue to live in me.

The beaches I've picked seashells from

shop fronts I've looked at longingly.

The woods I've walked, the glory of stars,

the shadow of bird and tree.

For we're not just folks that are in us,

we are all that we hear and see.

The sum of my whole's never equalled

the sum of my constituent parts.

Each word I wrote and then scratched out,

every stumble and all false starts.

The half done poems that missed a beat,

the stories that made me fall apart.

For we come to be all that we've loved,

everything that's nailed to our hearts. 

 

Saffron, white and green are the colours of the Indian flag. Here today because 26th January is celebrated as Republic Day in India, to commemorate the adoption of the Constitution in 1950 and so completing the transition to a sovereign republic nation, where everyone has an equal chance at happiness and freedom. One of the many important things drilled into me by family elders, teachers and even random strangers sometimes. Nailed to the heart in short.

Happy Republic Day to all Indian citizens. May democratic values prevail across the world and in India always. 

Resolution

 

I'm resolute that I'll let joy arrive

at its own pace, I'll not ask it to rush,

nor will I turn away from the less joyous.

Everything comes at its appointed time.

I'll wait and learn. To keep the flame alive

whatever is served. Not let months crush

the night flowers slow blooming in darkness,

the rivermagic supreme and sublime.

And I'll learn to listen more acutely,

to love deeper, in more effacing ways.

Make sure my love is felt, not seen nor heard -

I'll erase the extras most resolutely

till less than joyous also feels like grace,

beyond the need to spell it out in words.  

Well, here we are  - the first post of the year. Hope you've had a brilliant time these past holidays and that those good things are going to repeat throughout the year. Wishing you lots of happies and merries in 2025. 

I don't really make resolutions, New Year or otherwise, the above is pure poetic licence overload.  Mainly because I suck at keeping them. However, the general idea is to do a bit better, to learn something new and go someplace new. To work on the patience quotient, which, after decades, is still not at an acceptable level. And the less said the better on the detachment/decluttering index, yikes. Work in progress, work in progress. Sigh. 

Do you make New Year resolutions? Tell me the secret to not fail at them.

The Merry n Not So Merry

 

I wish for you a smoother path than you’ve had

a room, a friend, a sky to make your heart glad.

For you to know that the dark’s a balm as well,

a pathway to a lasting peace from flashy tinsel.

 

Not every festival’s star studded and bright -

love and peace are sometimes low key, low and light.

I wish for you to find the charm in low key,

learn there is solid earth below the debris.

 

The needles fall, the limbs will disintegrate

that’s the law. Tomorrow’s a different date.

I wish for you to know today’s just today,

and the future’s never an exact replay.

 

Things will turn, even if they’re grim for a spell.

I wish you hope this season. I wish you well.

It's been a rough year, they don't seem to be making the buttery silk ones anymore, they've forgotten the recipe or what?

Rough not just for me but a lot of people I know - online and offline. Not everyone can be, or even afford to be, merry right now. 

I'm not going to whinge about the disasters small and big that have dogged me this year, it serves no purpose except to spoil the general party mood. 

All I have to say is this - if you've felt crushed, panicked and/or overwhelmed by some or other life event, if you've been pushed to the limits of your endurance, then I hear ya! And I'm not wishing you a glib happy holidays!

What I am wishing for all of us is a coping mechanism, that we find a way to turn angst and helplessness into patience and a pathway forward. To find solace in the everyday miracles and good memories and the concern and love of friends, family and community. To keep the chin up and the mind open to 'dwelling in possibilities,' even when we're down on our collective knees. 

As for me personally, I could do with some of the buttery silky stuff - are you listening, Universe? 

Wish you tranquil festivals and a celebration of hope in New Year 2025. May it treat us all gently. 

Good Days

 

Tiger Hill, Darjeeling. 

On good days I notice the smaller things -

how the light strikes the litter, crumpled foil

bravely tries to give back. Butterfly wings.

On bad days - there are headlines on the boil.

On good days - the birdsongs. And their echoes.

How long they take to reverberate, to fade.

How the bracken on the mountain slope grows.

On bad days - the leaders and their tirades.

The waterfalls, the orchids, the lone skink.

The squirrel come to scope the balcony

as everywhere their normal habitats shrink.

The clouds offering handkerchiefs to me.

Most are good. Sometimes it's hard to discern

the exact point they end and where they turn.

The main purpose of going to Darj this time was to  get a clear view of the Kanchenjunga, which as you can tell from the image, was fully achieved.  We had several absolutely clear days, not a speck of rain anywhere, magical sunrises and sunsets, clicked everything I possibly could, so all in all - fabulous.  Much changes, and yet much remains the same. The mountains feel timeless though we know they too erode.  We went back to the old haunts - Glenary's, Penang, St Paul's School, hubby being an Old Paulite. He showed us the spots where the best views (and food!) could be had. It helps to have an insider in the team. 

I had planned to get a little introspective for this post, rounding up the year etc, but there are still three weeks left.  So still some way to go. In case you're taking time off from blogland  over the rest of the month -  season's greetings  to you and yours. Wish you the very best for the holidays and the New Year 2025. 

Fernweh

 

All round me is autumn, but over there it’s spring.

The lure of a distant season’s strong. Everything

here’s gold, but it’s a withered gold – the end is near,

there it’s newly green, different world and hemisphere.

I’ve dived into that world,  and I’ve been forced up too

and home wasn’t home anymore, all strange and new –

it morphed to a restlessness, a vague sharp ache

for distant worlds once touched, and those I’d hoped to make.

Not that they’re not splendored, the withered, the yellowed,

but there’s a yen to be again on unknown roads

to drink once more from some strange stream, to face crosswinds

never felt, to plumb worlds never quite imagined.

Not that these are not enough – they are. They are.

But there’s a lure to green and gold that’s somewhere far.

If you google the title -  the straight translation is wanderlust, but I like a different one that explains it as 'farsickness' or 'farsoreness.' Way more on point. I'm quite often farsick. A friend posts pictures of fall colours in the higher latitudes and presto! - farsick. Another puts up ones of flamboyants blooming in the southern hemisphere - farsick.   Yet another shares travel pictures from Africa - you get the idea. 

I'm a constant tug of war between wanting nothing more than to be curled up on the couch at home and to escape it and get thousands of miles away this instant. Armchair travel is one way of indulging the farsoreness. Poetry is one too. There are a thousand virtual ways to escape. 

However, I'm pleased to report that I'm off the hills in a couple days for a much needed break. Most unvirtual, though in the same hemisphere and season. Back next week. Till then keep well and happy. See you soon.

Cocoons of Stone

 

'Rivers know this : There is no hurry. We shall get there some day.' ~ Winnie the Pooh.

Sometimes it needs a little bit more,

sometimes a little less.

All life sustaining grains are grasses,

I’m told – so’s mortal flesh,

and I’m told love’s like the breeze in trees

never seen, only felt,

a shaken bud and some falling leaves

try hard but cannot help.

 

I’ll go with you to the bamboo grove

alight with fireflies

and to ancient riverbanks raked up

their gold and silver prized,

some boat cruising the narrow stream

will call for us to come -

we’ll signal back panicked that we know

neither to sink nor swim.

 

I’ve read in books with that paper smell

that love’s a fever dream,

it burns and cools and boils up again -

no one knows what it means,

and most times what we think are stars

are just bugs with backs aglow,

and for a hundred crowns of thorns

there’s just one reluctant rose.

 

I’ll come with you to the desert sands

pleated even by the wind.

The wind that’s a metaphor for love

on some eternal brink,

there’ll be no birdcalls at sunset

only the slinking fox,

the viper fangs, the scorpion nests,

no human calling the shots.

 

The rainsong’s loud and the desert’s wide

and the sands consume the drops,

the earth gives back as per its whims

a field of flowers or nought

and everyday the sun segues

a degree north or south,

a puppet moon tugs at the tides

hidden behind the clouds

 

I’ll come with you to medieval forts

like cocoons spun in stone,

walk beside you on paths laid prior

in some forgotten aeon,

and every step we take on the grass,

winds keening into storms,

each blade a sign of mortality - 

our arms make no final home.

 

I’m told star constellations have formed

some sort of secret code,

those who know how to decipher them

know the miracles wrought,

and though grass dies the secret lies

in its always cycling back

as we too of the mortal flesh.

No need for panic attacks.

 

Sometimes it needs a couple of words

and sometimes a fortress

to understand how the grass withers

to equal dust of flesh,

sometimes it needs a stanza or eight

to figure the meanings here

and sometimes it needs nothing at all

the silence’s loud and clear.

A long time ago, the offspring was a child then, his age in single digits, during a different autumn delirious with hope, he had asked - is he the President of the World? - the capitals very evident in the question. Indeed, my son. I had tried to explain why it seemed that way with the TV coverage, especially in the Middle East, because millions of lives are impacted by who gets voted in there even though the rest of the world has no say in it. 

Elections leave me feeling somewhat battered, in my country and in the most powerful nation. I have extended family settled in the USA for decades, some of them are feeling on top of the world right now, some others are devastated. It was the same here in India a few months ago. Endless gnashing of teeth and beating of breasts, houha unlimited, analysis of this percentage and that share and why? why? why? and how are we ever going to survive?

My own two cents - Rome wasn't built in a day, therefore it is unlikely to be destroyed in a day too. What's been put together over two and a half millennia/centuries can't be annihilated in four or fourteen or even forty years. Calm down, people. Whoever gets voted in will leave too, sooner or later, and someone else will take his place. No matter how far the pendulum swings out to the left or right, when it stops, it stops in the middle. We'll get the future we all deserve, equality, liberty, justice and peace, whichever route it takes to get there. Equilibrium is a law of nature.

On a completely different note, this here is the 1001th verse entry on this page. And the October post for WEP was the 50th flash I've posted. That feels like a milestone or something, which I have to admit I'm bad at noticing, but better late than never. Or I can say, there need be no hurry here either. Mini celebration is duly being observed, if with a time lag. 

Have a peaceful and happy week, hope you have lots to celebrate at your end.

Simpler places

 

Come, let’s go back to places where festivals

came simpler – without the show and dazzle

the autumn nights bright with a thousand stars

smoke curling from a bushfire somewhere far

the tunes of a cowherd yanking hearts awry

the earth the goddess.  her canopy the sky

 

where the river bent to preen in its reed fringe

the sacred hours were marked by the dove and finch

the acacia shadows laid in filigrees

reptile tracks echoed the signs of rice paddies

quieter joys flared in the pulse of the firefly

the earth the goddess her canopy the sky.

Happy Diwali and/or Happy Halloween to you, whichever you'll be marking.

Write...Edit...Publish...Halloween Special Flash Fiction Challenge 2024

 

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 2^nd in India and ends with Diwali on the 31^st/1^st 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.

Final sum

 

Some things I wished for – a guava tree,

a small, stone fountain on a balcony,

fragrant green herbs plucked fresh out of a pot.

Some wishes came true and the rest did not.

 

A cowrie shell from a faraway coast,

a smooth, round pebble from a river I’ve lost,

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.

Vibe

 

You come back and come back and every time

you plaster yourself flat to the doors and walls,

you snatch at the silver threads of tramlines,

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? 

Thank you for reading.