On Eyes...

They say the eyes are the window of the soul. Certainly, in most of the people that I have come across, this statement holds good. I see the best example of it in my children. My little girl is almost ten and her eyes have changed from being completely innocent and steeped in wonder to a more knowledgeable but slightly wary “are you making fun of me?” look. They still twinkle merrily of course and she could speak with her lovely eyes alone when she chooses to. My son is elder to her and his eyes are undoubtedly the most beautiful I have seen in my life. They are shaped perfectly and enhanced with thick lashes. But it is not of external beauty I wished to talk about. His eyes radiate love. Nothing can compare with their expression. His face itself glows with a clarity that comes from an unclouded mind. Maybe its because he is not capable or desirous of complex thinking. The best part of course is that he is always happy.

I see the eyes of my partner whom I work with every day. Her eyes are liquid and soften when she speaks of the children we work with. Her voice is loud. She can be heard raising her voice often and for hours together but the children, even in their toughest moments, turn only to her. I know its because they can see the affection and dedication in her eyes. They relate to her like they relate to few others in their forcibly curtailed existence.

I have also seen people whose mouths smile with a false intensity but whose eyes dart everywhere like a panicky bird and never linger on you for more than a split second. On interacting with them, one comes away with the feeling that they were trying hard not to dwell on any one thing. Perhaps they were capable of processing only so much. Perhaps the reason those eyes showed insecurity was their tendency to be superficial and willingly delusional. Those are the eyes that look everywhere except at the truth that is before them.

I once read a story long ago in an old Reader’s Digest.  I was perhaps as old as my son is now but the story stayed with me all these years. The story was about how one artist was in search of someone who could serve as a model for his Jesus. He had been commissioned to do a painting for the church. After searching for a while, he came across a young man whose eyes exuded the calm and sanctified aura he was looking for. He painted the young man as Christ and the painting was much appreciated. Years later he was commissioned by the same Church authorities to do another painting and he needed someone to be a model for Judas. He went forth in search of the right model and found a drunken vagrant with eyes that spoke of a life of deceit and sin. He got him cleaned up and painted him as Judas and the result was stunning. After the painter paid the man for his trouble, he turned to him and said “You don’t remember me at all do you?’. The painter looked perplexed and said he was sure he had never met him before. The man smiled and said “It was I whom you painted as Jesus a few years ago. Now I am Judas.”

The eyes do change with your thoughts and actions. They show you as you are; not as you wish to project yourself. I wonder how much my eyes have changed as I walk along paths that twist and turn sometimes away from the light and at other times, towards the light of greater understanding.

Writing for me

The rains pour down all evening. They are not comforting drops that fall from the sky to cool down a feverishly heated earth. Instead, they chill an already cool day so that I shiver when I sit close to the open window. I hunt about for my rarely used sweater and pull it over my head as I curl up on the sofa to write. It has been a long while since I wrote. It is not because I have forgotten how to put words down one after the other. It is also not because I have nothing to write. It is merely because I lose the will to make an effort some times. And then I remind myself that here in my blog, I write only for me. To those I know and love, they are aware it is my expression of life. And that for me, is all that has ever mattered.

I sometimes ask myself why I wish to write at all. As my mother unfailingly reminds me, I do not make money out of it. I tell her I never tried to sell my words. I write simply because I cannot not write. It is a very real part of me. There is an indescribable joy in letting words pour forth that paint the images I save in my mind - images both happy and sad. It is my stress-buster. It is also my gift. And it comes with no price tag.

The other day I read about Harper Lee who has only ever written and published one book. I have read ‘To kill a Mockingbird’ at least half a dozen times and I have loved it to bits each and every time. I love each character and the story itself is so engaging that one is instantly transported to hot, laidback Alabama running around with Scout as she learns vital life lessons. It is a story of growing up, of facing prejudice, of standing up to what is important. Such a wonderful book. And yet Harper Lee never wrote another.

I imagine what it would have been like for Harper Lee when bombarded with questions as to why she stopped after one book. Perhaps she had only one story in her to tell. Perhaps she never cared about fame or money but penned down the only story she absolutely had to write. Perhaps for her, joy lay in other things. I admire her for her resolution as much as for her ability to tell a story. 

Every time my mother asks me why being an engineer, I do not work for money but instead work for a cause and why I write only for myself, I tell her its my life. I choose to be a crusader because I do not like being passive when one must fight. I choose to write whenever and wherever I feel like because they are my words – no one has a right over them and no one can tell me whether I should or should not write for a price. I believe that right now, I am living my passion. And when I do that, I live a better life – one that I am proud of, one in which I am assured of leaving a legacy that is more lasting than money.

Light...

Every year at Diwali, I think along the same lines. I have never prayed for more wealth or undue prosperity or felt entitled to receive just because I choose to ask.  More wealth is of course nice to have but in my mind there are other things that I would rather work hard for and when I pray, it is only for guidance. In my mind there can never be a bargain between me and God with me promising to do certain things while God in return assures me of certain rewards. Also, if you do purported acts of piety with a negative mind set in order to bring harm to anyone, then the prayer becomes a curse on to your very self. Therefore be careful what you ask for in prayer, you may actually get it and then you also have to face the consequences. Far better to pray for strength and guidance to get through the bad phases we all have in our lives.

The lights I see around me on Diwali signify illumination on a dark road. They tell me its alright to be scared sometimes, to be unsure of which path to take, to know that a path is tough and yet choose to stick with it simply because there will always be a guiding light. The light doesn’t promise miracles – only to banish the darkness which keeps you from moving ahead. The path is not easier but you see enough to make a choice or to avoid the harshest bits or sometimes what you see is a smoother stretch beyond what seems to be the worst stretch you have ever encountered. The light is hope itself.

I walk in the avenue in front of my house always. Walking sets me free to think. My body knows what to do as one foot follows the other on an oft-trodden path and my mind can therefore be safely engaged elsewhere. If S is with me then we talk of all things. If I am alone, I let my mind roam free. The past few days, I have seen lights in most of the houses along the avenue. There are many kinds – dazzling yellow, garish green, brilliant blues, racy reds. There are the softer lights of the diyas too though perhaps in only one or two houses. 

As we walk past the houses, the power goes off as it does with increasing frequency these days. All the garish lights vanish. There is only the cool darkness which feels deeper because my eyes have been blinded by the lights just seconds ago. As I walk past my house, there is light from the diyas that the children and I have lit. They are not uniformly pretty diyas. Some of them have been painted by the children. Some have been gifts from friends. Some I have bought from shops. They are an eclectic mix but they are all humbly earthen. They are slightly messy because they leave a trail of sesame oil from the cotton wicks. But they are beautiful and they stay lit even when there is no power. Like guidance from a power greater than ours. They are a promise that you are never alone whichever path you choose to walk upon.

As the reflection of the light from the diyas plays on the innocence of my children’s faces, I pray they will always have love in their lives. As S smiles across their heads and watches me replenishing the diyas with oil, I pray that his dreams come true this year. As the lit lamps cast a glow on my hands, I pray for clarity of thought and for new beginnings. To my family and friends, I wish the light of hope and humility stays with you during troubled times this coming year and always….Happy Diwali.