Buddha's little island

"In the end
these things matter the most:
How well did you love?
How fully did you live?
How deeply did you let go?"

~ Buddha

An early Sunday morning. The now-autumn, now-winter nip in the air. The sun, a big orange ball, slowly climbs the rungs of the pale, fog-clad sky. A quick halt at a roadside chai kiosk to stir the groggy sleepyhead in me. The eager shutterbug in me tries to capture the elusive curls of steam rising from the tumbler. Yes, that's how roadside tea is served in India, in tumblers of thick glass. I kind of like its rustic touch, which opens a little window to a very dear childhood nostalgia of the many five-hour drives to grandfather's place. So, toward a blue, blue lake we head. Framed by rocky canyon-like formations and terracotta-hued pebbles on its bank, the waters glitter under the rays of a rather cruel January sun. On a raucous motorboat, whose foam seats smell like a pungent combination of rubber and metal, we sail forth to a tiny historical Buddhist island. Neat, landscaped gardens greet us through a flight of stairs guarded by tall inscribed pillars. Some trees wear a surprising autumn crown. The bright yellow of the leaves and the sapphire blue lake in the background make a dazzling contrast. Lovely prayer flags, yet again. Fluttering radiantly in the green breeze, they sprinkle their calm and good wishes all over the place. A rusty Buddha, missing an arm, stands inside a brick barricade, humbling all by his towering presence. A heady combination of serenity and well-being enshrouds us as we leave the island at the departing call of the motorboat.

These past ten days I have lived and loved well. More than that, I have been fed well, most of the times to the brink of my nose. Letting go of such wholesome goodness was hard, very hard. The reason - my parents! Need I say more?!

Old tombs

My parents left yesterday evening and since then the emptiness of the house has been quite overwhelming, much more than what I had expected it would be. Ten great days punctuated by momentary disagreements (courtesy my string of tiring Virgo compulsions) sure did a world of good to the loner inside me. Now that they are gone, the gnawing unfamiliarity of everything has come back to haunt me once again. After all, amid all the chaos of the known and the unknown, the old and the new, they are the only ounce of belonging that encourages me to hang on and keep trying.

In my desperate attempt to unearth the old signs and songs that my heart was once so well versed with, I have embarked upon a determined journey - to go back to those places that once upon a time had rooted me to this colorful city. What could be more reassuring for a pair of searching, doubting eyes than a walk down the precious past. So braced with my parents and some cherished old memories, last weekend, I marched hopeful and brave toward my favorite jaunt in the city - the eternal Qutub Shahi tombs. Popularly called the Seven tombs for the seven members of the Qutub Shahi dynasty buried there, these cluster of soot-soaked mausoleums bathed in a charming timelessness has always held a special place in my heart. And this time, this is what what I came back with. 

A place of paradoxes. Enveloped in lush greenery yet covered in the dust of time and neglect, the blackened domes stand proud and mighty against all odds. A place of reverberating serenity. Pearly plumerias adorn the shaded path to the tombs while the quivering bougainvillea petals veil the weathered sepulchers in a dreamy magenta sheen. The soporific, monotonous cooing of the pigeons perched inconspicuously in the latticework. A place of surprises. The intricately detailed alleys and passages come to life with the echoes of footsteps while opening up to an unexpected facade at every turn. A place to get lost for hours. The fast fading but still breathtaking blend of Persian and Pashtun architecture takes one back to the days of poetry and grandeur. The mortuary bath, the carelessly covered sarcophagus, the dilapidated mosques strewn here and there, the watchful minarets, the aging bougainvillea - all define a time that is surely lost, but can still be felt.

To June

Somewhere between e-shopping for hair dryer and applying for a job in publishing, this struck me. That we are almost through half the year. That we have lived half the share of our boons and banes for this year. That come what may, one has to pull oneself through the rest of the other half for yet another hopeful whole. Interestingly, while the end of June marks the beginning of summer in the Western hemisphere, for us, the Easterners it means the end of summer. End or beginning, this is precisely the time when both the worlds are decked up in that lush, blinding green.

So while oscillating between both the searches, one materialistic and the other absolutely abstract, I embarked upon yet another search - a good June poem. And this is where it led me, The Guardian, the station where every art/book lover's search ends. I am sure many of you stop by here to catch a review or just stir those sleepy morning grey cells. Although moved by the many beautiful but mostly long forgotten poems recommended in the article, I however chose to stand by my old favorite - Neruda. 

"Green was the silence, wet was the light
the month of June trembled like a butterfly."

~ Pablo Neruda, 100 Love Sonnets

And since I couldn't find any butterflies for you in this concrete jungle, I believe my Ma's most lovingly tended and Bapa's most photographed object, the football lily (that's what we call them here) would do. A lovely coexistence, isn't it?! That's how the two have traveled through the years and today completes the thirty-first year of their journey. To June and to togetherness then! 

Home

"Every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home."

~ Basho

Home. After two years. That familiar sparkle of happiness on two sets of tired, waiting faces. Those old, unaltered spaces of comfort. Books, old and new, awaiting my arrival, neatly stacked by my father. The enchantment of summer all around. My mother's garden, a playground of colours. Faint whiff of hibiscus in the air; some decked up, fresh and dewy, on the sacred basil every morning. Mangoes galore, those forever summer magnets. Their trees laden with fruit, an orchestra pad for cuckoos and other chatty birds. Wake up calls and evening ballads they leave behind, every day. And every day the journey gets lovelier, more complete.

Of course, Ma's food adds the final dollop of bliss to this perfect summer recipe.

Indian summer

Come Friday and most of our cherished stuff shall be carted away by the movers for the big shipping. What's left behind will be put up on craigslist. The apartment resembles a hurricane ravaged place at the moment and despite my compulsion to fix and arrange, there's not much I can do. The time to leave draws closer and closer with each passing day and with every move bound decision we make, the knot of unease in the stomach becomes more tight. At least once a day our talks have to have some piece of the 'when in India' puzzle, however minuscule that is. A vase here, a book there. But it's there, even if in the unspoken form.

I know I have sung my relocating litany here time and again but I'm sure you all will understand.
There is a certain comfort in repetition, not that the foolhardy roundabouts make life any easier. But it certainly makes change look simpler and somewhat less threatening, which is when my mind starts to focus on the things that I should be thankful for. The unrestrained happiness of my parents of course tops the list. They have been waiting forever and now that the time has almost come, plans and proposals of visiting and getting us settled have started dominating our phone and Skype talks.

Also, it will be the start of summer then - the legendary Indian summer. And this time I am not talking about the idyllic, late autumn scenes that the Western world tags the season with. Back home in the tropics we take it literally, word by word, where the Sun god and the electricity have a mind of their own. But as much as we curse the merciless sun and the haphazard power cuts, there are many seasonal beauties that our summer brings with it. So whenever I think of the big move, along with the assuring smile of my parents, there will be many more joys that we'll be looking forward to.

The ubiquitous presence of the golden shower (photo) that literally showers the streets with its lush yellow. The mango madness that soon hogs the limelight at every meal. The salted fruit pieces dried on the terrace before the elaborate process of pickling starts. The sweet, refreshing scent of the moist vetiver curtains filling the dark bedrooms in the sultry afternoons. The colourful sherbets to beat the pinching, hot wind. The nocturnal jasmine, aka 'queen of the night', stirring one and all with its intoxicating scent. The much awaited swing festival in June, the high note that marks the end of summer and paves the way for the monsoons.  

Fruitcake nostalgia

A little kick-start to the festive baking with these easy-peasy strawberry muffins aka 'the muffin with a heart' because of the slice of strawberry sitting prettily on the top.

The post-Kansas inertia still throbs inside me, beating together with a tired and insomniac heart. But tarry it must no more, for the time has arrived to give shape to things. Red and gold, green and bold. Golden bakes and boozy cakes. The day seems to have almost arrived.

But before I head to the kitchen and don my baker's hat, I must share a golden thread with you. One that keeps my childhood tied together in its gossamer embrace.
I still remember the X-mas holidays (that's what they were called back then in India) when we were in school. How we would hoard and treasure every single day of that! Unlike its superior cousin, the summer holidays that lasted for about two months, this counted down to just a fortnight. But like all grey clouds this too had a silver lining - no holiday homework! Hence to romp about was our singular motto, much to the parents' vexation. But the highlight of the holidays was Ma's fruitcake, the aroma of which would fill the home and spread warmth everywhere. Every now and then I would rush to the oven and try to see the puffing cake through the glass. I would even count how many cashews and raisins had plumped up to the surface of the cake. As I write this, it brings back a faint, fond smile on my face like all cherished memories do.

The time soon came when I would leave home and set out for an independent hostel life. I would be home for the winter holidays again and this time Ma would bake an extra cake. It would be packed neatly and wrapped in a special package for its journey on train to Hyderabad where my friends would be waiting to devour it. What gluttony that was! And one of the very rare times when my figure conscious girlfriends wouldn't mind the calories at all. Of course the guys cared little anyway.
Even when my parents came visiting, Ma would be there with her bag of goodies of which her fruitcake was the star. But more than that what actually shone was her smile, warm and so very child-like. I cannot wait for April to come when I would see that smile again and at last I wouldn't need Skype for that.

Such lovely and simpler days they were. Gone with the wind and lost in the years, leaving behind a trove of fragrant tales... And cakes.

Conquering fear

"Faith, indeed, has up to the present not been able to move real mountains... But it can put mountains where there are none."
~ Neitzche

Tonight as I fumbled my way through butchering a chicken, my very first, my eyes feverishly trailed the blood and sinew till they could no more tell which was what. Despite the plethora of recipes and my reputation as a cook (okay, I can't help but be a narcissist here!), I had never ever dared touching raw flesh. That was always Sam's job. But tonight I had to, for the husband was 'busy'. Making my way through the wobbly carcass, I realised it's no big deal. What was I so afraid of? It's just meat and it's dead. There!

And so sprung up a string of incidents that have remained singularly unforgettable in my inconsequential life thus far...

I was barely ten then, when I had once returned home from my regular evening recreation before the helplessness of 'homework time' would kick in. How I had straight gone into the bathroom to hide the gaping wound on my thigh that had resulted from a bad bicycle fall. Lest the parents see it and give me a good piece of their mind, which I was anyway quite used to in those days. Lest I am rushed to the hospital for that much dreaded shot. But like all mothers do, mine too discovered the wound after a day or so and what followed should better be left out. Let's just say the lesson thrived well inside me, for years. Because the next time I had tumbled off and bruised myself, I had just cycled on briskly with a bleeding knee to the hospital. Shot time!

Three winters back during a rafting adventure, when almost drowning in the glacial waters of the Teesta, I had seen it looming large like a green monster. Fear. Little did I know that the life jacket would fail me when the then daredevil in me had decided to take an impulsive plunge into the tempting Himalayan waters. I was already doing the goodbyes in my mind, and all this when I was just a month-old newly wed. How supremely unreal the moment felt! Suddenly, something inside me had silenced the howling tears and strangled that sneering monster. And there I was, streamlined (what if a creature from the deep pulled me into the fathomless depths!), holding on to the boat and actually using my head. Of course, I was rescued back into the boat. Of course I cried, wailed in fact, but not before I was snug and secure in one of the changing huts.

One afternoon, when words had been whispered and blames had been hurled inside closed doors. When judgement was sung callously, the notes of which still ring deep in my ears. When I learnt that it takes only a handful of days for some people to stab you right in the heart. Just like a spell, the mirror of illusions had broken. And how I was reborn, stripped of doubts and fear. And a little respect, too. Fate lets you have only one choice (which I proudly have) and keeps the rest for herself - perhaps the most important of all lessons I've learnt.

It starts from some point. How we carry some fears with us all along and then one day we just drop it, like clothes from a tired body. One fine day, just nothing matters. Absolutely nothing.

What's in a name?

"What's in a name? that which we call a rose,/ By any other name would smell as sweet."

~ William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Who would dare to refute the Bard?! But I do wish to skirt around a little with some amusing stories woven from my rather unusual name. A few days back a friend, who happens to be a classmate in my Contemporary British Fiction course, asked what my real first name is. Bemused and cold-shouldering the old feeling of unease, I told her it is the one she already knows - Mickey. Now this is not the first time when someone has asked me this peculiar question. Ever since I have been put on the frills of society and have made friends and enemies on my own, my name has always been a part of many interesting discussions.

When I was a child, I would often be cross with my parents for bestowing me with such a strange name. Moreover everyone at school had it the traditional way - the perfectly poetic bhala naa (good name) and the affectionate daaka naa (nickname). My unconventional father, to avoid this whole fuss of two names decided on just one. So there I was, a girl with the name of Walt Disney's most famous poster boy. Errr... mouse?!
Then comes the second aspect of naming - the surname. I wasn't destined to have that either. Once again my parents decided to be a little creative and went ahead with - Mickey Suman - a flashy, unique name which when roughly translated means 'Mouse Flower'! In a class packed with kids with names that carried a whiff of chaste literature and Sanskrit, I would often feel like the other, the outsider.

As I outgrew my childhood and ploughed my way through the usual lawlessness of teenage, the name theory and my rebellion, both started growing in leaps and bounds. There even came a time when I was all set to go to the court and change my name. But sadly that never happened. My predicament of those days can be best exemplified by The Namesake, a mainstay of my shaky emotions. Like Gogol finds it embarrassing when the mental health of the Russian writer (his namesake) is discussed in his literature class, I too, wouldn't enjoy the Mickey Mouse presents that my birthdays brought along. His father, Ashoke, has a heartrending tale behind this name - Nikolai Gogol is his favourite author and if it wasn't for a page flickering from The Collected Tales of Nikolai Gogol, Ashoke would not have been spotted by the rescue team during a major train accident. Hence, the gratitude and dedication.

Another 'how I was named' incident dates back to my graduation days, when me and my best friend Asha had been theatre-hopping to catch the latest Bollywood blockbuster. All hunky-dory and free from the claustrophobia of boring lectures, it was when we chanced upon one of Asha's school seniors, a guy. While she was introducing me, he flinched and asked, "Mickey??!" Since it was almost my twentieth year on the earth of being used to this bewilderment, I just smirked. Immediately, in a desperate attempt to undo the flinch and display his humour vein he blurted, "But you don't look like Mickey! You should be Anarkali..." Just when my pride was about to take a thrilled flight, reality shook me hard - I was still Mickey Suman! May be the only common link between Anarkali (meaning pomegranate blossom in Urdu) and my name was the floral element. Taking Anarkali's legendary beauty and Madhubala's eternal charm (the epic Mughal-e-Azam just tags along) into consideration, it might just have been a bombastic compliment. I sincerely hope it was one.

Over the years I have had so many cackles over this obsessive-compulsive tirade against my name. Like everything betters with age, I too, have gradually understood and accepted, if not loved, my name, especially the singularity of it. Also, parents and Shakespeare are always right. Well, most of the times.

Of birthdays

I remember how I used to draw little glitter stars every year on the 2nd of September in my diary when I was young and happily dumb in the ways of the world. It's strange how fast, and with what vengeance the years creep ahead and very often it's with a jerk of strong emotions we realize that things have actually changed. I got my father's first email birthday wish today and needless to say, it felt 'capital'. I love the fact that in spite of the infinite miles we can communicate in more than one way. Although his mail has the natural eloquence that is expected of a retired professor of English, every time I read it I somehow stop at this one line --"Every year this day, I remember the night you were born and the subsequent birthdays we observed together." It has been more than four hours since I got his mail and I am still not able to shake off the nostalgia.

Birthday is the most awaited of all days in a child's calender and I was no different. I remember this day when Ma would prepare a grand feast for my friends in the evening and how after all the hullabaloo was over we would watch a movie that was rented especially for the occasion. A certain uncle who is a close family friend and also happens to be one of my father's oldest students would take my picture for what he called a 'memory photo'. This was an unfailing ritual for him every year and I reveled in the moment all decked up in my birthday finery. After all I was his beloved Sir's 'little girl'.

All this feels like a long lost era now. In the meanwhile this little girl grew up into a rebellious brat and now has a little world of her own. Where did those days go? Sure there are the ever faithful memories, and a trunkful of them I have, to revisit these happy days. But they don't help every time, they are not the real deal. Sometimes I wonder why do we have to grow up at all? Because then we grow out of certain moulds and fall into some less cherished ones. Here I am, a woman of 27, going on 28 arranging and rearranging the clutter of emotions inside my helpless head. Still, the one thought rules -- Why do we have to grow up?!

The spice jar

"Take this with you, but careful -
Don't lose it in the vastness of the Atlantic."
She meant her words, my mother,
a simple woman with little desires.
True, losing 'things' across infinite miles is easy.
I have learnt it well, bit by bit.
A dear dear uncle, a cousin...
Ma told me how the sad, hungry ocean swallowed them all.
And I just stared, defeated and distanced.

The glass walls of the small jar looked familiar,
choked with cloves, cardamoms, cinnamon sticks, pepper pods.
A very Indian smell, guardians of my world.
I've emptied it into my days and nights,
into my morning tea, flavouring the curries,
always searching for that familiar aroma.
The aroma of Ma's palms,
of ginger garlic, of love and sacrifice.

Everyday I see it, the half filled, half emptied jar,
sitting mute in the disturbingly neat white kitchen cupboard.
Perfunctorily, I refilled the jar today
with imported spices from the India bazaar.
Spices that have traveled across the proverbial seven seas
shedding some skin of originality on their way.
And so I mixed them all, the Was and the Is,
letting my world unhinge into an unknown territory.
But deep inside my labyrinthine thoughts
I am scared, as if I have lost my only defense.

For the Was and the Is never meet.

A singular tale

I often hated being an only child when I was a kid. I secretly wished for a younger sister, so that together we could weave innumerable tales of childhood and growing up. But alas, this was not to be! And to add to the woes of my solitary existence, my parents manipulated me into following a long list of dos and don'ts. They worked hard to inculcate the virtues of sharing and kindness in me so that I grew up with a humble head on my shoulders. Sometimes I grudged them for my so called single syndrome in spite of my mother's countless attempts in making me see the glamour of being the 'special' one. But it was very obvious that she never meant a single word of it even though she tried hard to be sincere and tactful at it. Her sternness would always give her away at the end. And I was to follow the wheel ruts again, and behave. But technically I was a single child and so I would anyhow retain certain single child traits. My juvenile thoughts often turned to how my parents wanted me to suffer alone, especially when my friends had siblings. While I befriended people effortlessly, I also loved cocooning up in a shell of my own. As I grew up, I realised I was a failure when it came to handle comparisons in a positive way. My father, who happens to be my worst critic, discouraged my complacence which was growing in leaps and bounds during my adolescence. I would get lost in an emotional maze and would take aeons to come out of it. Quite often I would get touchy about my 'situation', most often just so because teenage angst was always in vogue! Like any other belligerent teenager, I too loved to bask under a rebellious halo. Now, years later when I look back at my foolhardiness, I can't help laughing at myself!

The world has always been a little prejudiced regarding the only child. We are often stereotyped as spoiled, selfish and bratty. But this is just a twisted truth like the patchy outline of a story. Time and again I have been complimented by my close friends for having a flair for understanding people and their plight. Ah! God bless the friends! Contrary to the universal belief of we being apathetic, I have always been a concerned ear for my friends, no matter what the day or hour is. Strangely, the world loves to operate in contradictions. I have come across certain people who possess the temperament of a single child in spite of having siblings. But the trauma does not end here! When the "oh she's the only child" tag gets carried over to one's matrimonial realm, it results in more than one pair of raised eyebrows. The air swells with questions of adjustment, acceptance and tolerance. At such hapless times I have found it alarmingly difficult to fight these preconceived notions which are mostly groundless.

This eternal urge to make oneself understood and unscrambled sometimes takes away the cream from one's life. But as they say, certain things about the world hardly change. It's an old, stubborn place after all, strewn with age-old customs and dead conventions. And so the battle continues...