Meanderings...

There’s something about the bright green of paddy fields that arouses the village girl in me. That part is usually buried deep inside since I have not really grown up in a village but I did spend enough time in my grandmother’s village when I was tiny and perhaps one’s earliest impressions dig out channels in one’s mind that stay in place when we think we have forgotten them. These channels then well up with hazy memories and strong emotions when we encounter certain triggers. The fields somehow trigger in me the love for the land of my birth. The green is enchanting without being overpowering. The paddy sways gracefully and waves form in the light evening breeze as I walk on the mud pathway built to traverse the fields. The scent from the paddy lush with burgeoning light green grains is intoxicating – a promise of future abundance, a comforting aroma that makes you feel warm inside, a fragrance of openness.

I walk unhurriedly. No one else in the village cares to dawdle in the fields. Even here people have places to go and things to do. I, on the other hand, simply love to look about me. Mahi comes along of course. She loves these evening walks as much as I do. Appu said he’d rather stay on the couch than walk the fields again. S had to be elsewhere but he admonished us to get home before dark and to not dream but watch out for snakes. We both grin back mischievously and make our escape. 

The green is so bright, we feel refreshed immediately. There is stagnant water in the fields from the rain and an abundance of insects and tiny little fish. Frogs hide in the water and croak away with just their bulbous eyes visible and only if you look really carefully. In the distance, I see white and grey storks walking about gracefully and feeding. The sun is just pondering on whether he must begin to set or not. There are no glorious orange and peach tinted sunsets here – usually the sun decides and he is off immediately. So we hurry a little and walk. The path winds a bit and some parts are so overgrown with grass that it is nearly impossible to walk in comfort but we squeeze ourselves through the clear portions and walk happily anyway.

Mahi enjoys the sights and keeps calling out to show me some new little aspect that she fears I may have missed. She is reluctant to walk back home and wants to stay. I cajole her and promise to let her stop at the ‘kolam’ or tank on our way back. The kolam is an old and badly-maintained tank with algae growing everywhere but its setting is scenic and there is a section where the water is clear and untouched. We head down the steps. I go in first and wash my feet rubbing my heels on the worn rock steps and suddenly spy a little snake. There it was, with its head poking out of the water and resting at the edge of a step. It was small and delicate with brown and black skin. I stepped out carefully and motioned to Mahi to head back up. She protested vociferously till I showed her the snake after which she screamed and ran for the house at top speed. I laughed and followed her slowly. She was still a little shaken by the time I caught up with her at the temple gates where she stood looking down the path anxiously.

She soon recovers however and we reach home tired and happy after our meanderings. She smiles at me when we get back and asks “Can we do this again tomorrow?” – I think the land weaves its magic around her too and I am glad…

Evening rains...

The rains beat down with a fury and I watched, entranced, from my cosy corner. The palms were buffeted in the wind. Little puddles appeared and seemed to boil over with a surfeit of drops attacking from all directions. I knew the fury would be short-lived and all of it, the lashings of rain, the howling of the wind, the thunder – would fade away in a few minutes. I smiled – nature was quite a performer herself. I love watching the rains – it always makes me feel like my very soul has received a fresh scouring. The crisp, freshly washed air enlivens both mind and body. My whole being perks up and feels revitalized. 

Today’s rains reminded me of farewells. I have always needed closure in my life for everything. Many times however I have had to cope with an event in my life where there was no chance to end things nicely. I have never forgiven myself for missing the chance to say a final farewell to my father. Open endings are tough to handle. A part of the pain ceases to go away because you have forever lost the chance to say the words that you think would have made a difference – small words that have great importance – “good-bye”, “sorry”, “thank you” – the words remain unsaid and the scar that grows over, always feels tender to the touch.

Much like rain, farewells too, can be blessings. Done with the right spirit, they can cleanse you. You look back and see clearly the turns in your path where you have stumbled or someone else has laid a trap for you or where the path itself turned treacherous and you decide that it was all for a yet-to-be-revealed purpose. You bid farewell to the hurtful feelings, to the pain of having stumbled badly and you move on – with or without the chance to actually say goodbye. Words have always mattered to me but even I have learnt that there are certain occasions in life where only silence will work. Silence, when consciously chosen, is the best farewell.

The evening grew quiet after the short and furious spell of rain. How swiftly it had passed and how beautiful the silence felt after all the vented fury! This calm is when I find myself almost lost in contemplation. The silence is soothing and I feel cocooned from my everyday worries. There is so much to relish in the moments when you can be one with the world around you. Even thoughts cease to arise for a moment. The continuous seething of colliding words disappears and you are left with just the incredible sensation of being at peace.

I learn anew from every rain. The message I hear in the drumming of the drops is that of hope – everything can be cleansed, refreshed and renewed. You only have to open your mind to receive the blessings coming your way. I learn to inhale the scent of benediction, to be grateful and to walk fearlessly in the rain.

On Masks...

I look around me and see people in masks - masks of propriety, masks of being happy, masks of being bleeding hearts - all sorts of masks and I wonder what they do with these masks when they are alone. Do they yet see them when they look in the mirror? Do they take them off when they go to bed? If two people in a relationship agree to wear the masks that each want to see on the other, do the masks stay fused on only in the heat of the discomfort of each other’s presence or do they come off in front of another and then are donned on again when the play resumes? Masks are fascinating and to a certain extent, commonplace. They perhaps make life more colourful. But they also make life more contrived.

If you do not know whether you can ever see another truly as he or she is and accept them as they are, warts and all, and rather build an idealized or rather ‘Bollywoodized’ version of them to love, then masks are indeed a very attractive alternative. Because the truth is every one of us is flawed and we carry many scars as remnants of battles fought and won or lost. To see another as they are, to learn that none of us can point fingers at another without in effect condemning ourselves as well, would be liberating. There would then be no need of masks. Every flawed one of us is also beautiful. The beauty of the body is so transient that if you build your life around the image of yourself that you think impresses others, you will find at the end of the day, when the beauty fades, you have nothing to fall back on. But if you cultivate the beauty of your mind by opening it out to truth and reality, generosity and kindness, willingness and gratitude, you need nothing to hide behind and you certainly do not need others to hide from you.

A friend had posted a video this morning and as I watched the woman in it saying that people declaring that they are fine is probably the main reason why you find so many unhappy and discontented souls out in the world today, I smiled because I usually think the same thing. I do not say I am fine when I feel sad. If a close friend asks me how I am, I usually tell them I am low if that’s the way I feel or that I am ridiculously happy for no reason if that is the way I feel. I see no reason to say I am fine unless of course the person asking has no real interest or has lost the right to actually ask after me. This too is a mask, this saying of ‘fine’ always – except that in this case the mask we don is to fool ourselves more than anyone else. Perhaps this too is necessary, then again if we cannot even see our very selves for what we are, which mask will be enough?

I do not write this in order to point out a problem and suggest a solution – I merely observe what I see around me and write it down. I have always done that. In writing, if you don a mask, you touch no one – there you cannot lie – so for me writing has always been a solace, a way out of confounding thoughts, an enjoyable mode of expressing what many of us contemplate on but few would put down in words. Live, if you can, with no masks or failing that, think awhile on why you need so many…maybe you will find that you are simply quite wonderful just the way you are…

Never Eighteen...

He turned eighteen two days ago. It was cause for celebration at the centre. He might have been happy about it. Again he might not care. It was hard to say with him. There he stood – a handsome young man with a smile that could light up the world. His shy ‘Anima!!’ and my ‘what, Anima?’ and the ensuing ‘Good Morning Anima!’ was our daily morning ritual. It made me smile but also it made me sad. Would he never come up to me and reach out to shake hands and say this most simple of lines by himself? He was the same with everyone else at the unit. He didn’t know how to be any different. Each of us would correct him every single day and again every morning it would be the same performance. But he knew all of our names and which days we did not come in to the centre. And he always seemed so happy.

How does one celebrate a milestone such as an eighteenth birthday for a child who would never become an adult? I stayed away from the party at the unit. It was not easy to stand and watch something that would break anyone’s heart. My partner is perhaps one of the most courageous characters I have come across. She took him shopping, made his favourite dish and was determined to celebrate. I, on the other hand, hung back and tried to keep the tears down as I thought of all the things this child should be out doing but could never hope to do in this lifetime. 

He would never be able to drive and go places on his own. He could never watch movies on his own and movies are his passion. He would never have friends, girlfriends, secrets, fights, love. He would stay a child of seven or eight. Such a beautiful child fated to never grow up. To me, it seemed like a grotesque parody of eternal youth. How does one get through days when thoughts like this render you incapable of feeling that there is a power in the universe that wants only goodness for all? Where is the God that would take a child and do this to him? Where is the God that would write out a living death sentence for his parents? Where is the God that would create so much beauty and then refuse to instil the spark that makes life all it should be? I do not ask for happiness for every child always but to bestow only enough consciousness to know you are missing something but never enough understanding to work your way out of that lack is a gesture that is cruel beyond belief.

And yet if he himself was always happy, why was I railing against fate? Is it not the ultimate aim of every human being to achieve happiness? He seemed perfectly content and perfectly complete in himself. His bursts of anger were usually because he could not communicate his needs effectively. His lashing out physically was because of his inability to cope. And his need to be taught the same thing over and over again was because of seizures that continued despite medication. He stayed detached from everything around him and continued to smile. And when he heard the strains of a favourite film song, he would sing along in utter enjoyment.

For A’s eighteenth birthday, I wish he gets to hear all the music he wants, I wish he gets to watch his favourite heroes in action every single week, I wish he always keeps that glorious smile…

Fighting the blue

Blue is never just a colour. It is also a state of mind. Some days, despite trying really hard, it’s the only colour you feel deep inside. Yes, one does simply go on with the day but the whiff of sadness never completely passes. The smile lacks lustre. The eyes have the glimmer of unshed tears. The lips soften and tremble often. It is not something that is put on. Sadness lies inside nearly always – happiness is a cultivated habit and a constant work-in-progress. 

Days that leave in their wake a sense of pain are pretty much the norm in my life. It is not a crippling pain or perhaps I never let it cripple me but it is there in the background and life goes on despite it. It is easy to make me slip away from happiness. I hear the story of a friend who is going through perhaps the toughest time in her life. She lives far away and I cannot help beyond lending a ear and attempting to show her a different perspective on the problem she struggles with. Closure will take a long time I suspect. Yes, I know, its not my problem but it is hard to shut out a cry for help or stay detached from some other’s pain especially if the other is a friend.

My son has been difficult for the past three days. Today appears no different. It is perhaps one of the biggest curses of autism to not be able to take a break in routine and then get back seamlessly. He was ill for a few days and so he did not go to the centre. Monday morning saw him determined to make us crazy. Nothing worked – bribes, threats, cajoling – nothing at all. After a few hours of this I had had it. My partner however, is persistent and is the only one I know who will not take a no for an answer even when the going gets incredibly tough. So she kept him till late evening and even managed to get him to do some work. It was the same on Tuesday and Wednesday. I dread the coming day – it is not even 8:30 and already I know he will gives us a hard time today as well. I realize it is part of the disorder but somehow that does not really make it any easier.

It is hard to find causes to not be blue on days where every single thing makes you want to give up trying. I get weary to my very soul – weary of trying to understand a disorder that makes no sense sometimes, weary of stretching myself thin emotionally and financially, weary of trying to keep in check the hurt that comes from neglect by the very friends who used to make my life that much brighter just by being part of it. I am even weary of trying to drum up an appetite when all I do is lose weight anyway. Two hard-earned kilos have slipped away in the last two weeks. Well, to look on the bright side, I get a chance to buy myself some new jeans soon enough!

The day has only started and I will, as always, fight the blue…