Home Life

“There’s an earthworm in the house, and its bleeding!” 
My 10-year old calls out this morning.
So what, I think to myself, yet another earthworm.
I continue my sweeping, undeterred.

“It’s bleeding so much.” he cries in a pained voice.
I don’t respond, and then my sweeping brings me to that spot –
A trail of thin red blood, as if from a cut on a human finger.
I am surprised at the redness.

“Take it back to the earth,” his father says,”he will survive.” 
Thus begins the rescue mission – a paper placed in its path,
The worm creeps slowly onto it, turning the paper red;
My son waits patiently for the worm to settle on its magic carpet,
Then gently picks the paper up, carries it outside slowly,
Places it in the mud in the garden, hoping it survives at home.

My son returns and washes his hands.
I have a string of instructions for him –
But I pause, and stare at the blood trail;
I remember it’s important sometimes
To take a moment
To give life a chance
To be.

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Sometimes …

A single word,
An entire poem,
Sits at the bottom of my screen.

Sometimes

Like
Perhaps

Reeking of unfinished sentences,
Of unspoken circumstances,
Of probable realities and likely falsehoods.

Sometimes

Has hope
Even when one doesn’t know what comes after,
A twist in the tale
Or an obvious end?

Sometimes …
Hiding stories within its bosom

It hurts, sometimes, between a 6 and a 8.
Sometimes I feel so angry.
Your actions are so confusing sometimes.
The sky, the sky is so blue sometimes.

Sometimes …

Sometimes I feel I would be better alone;
Sometimes I want to laugh the way we used to laugh,
Just sometimes,
Not always.

Sometimes I want too much.

Sometimes I can’t believe I’m so lucky.
Sometimes I can’t believe its true.
Sometimes I know its not,
And still, sometimes, I keep on.

Sometimes is what life always is,
Sometimes it becomes death.

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I am not nice.

Everyone wants a girl who is “nice”,
A girl who will make them “very very happy”.
To which I smirk and say, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, but I will not make you happy.”
So you can forget “very very happy”.
Because I am not nice,
I am fire.

If you are malleable like clay, I will make you strong,
If you are brittle like wax, I will melt you.

I may warm you, with gentle waves of truth,
Or burn you, with sharp stabs of the reality to your soul.

I may open your eyes to the glorious vistas of the world,
Or I may rub your face in the emptiness of your self.

But one thing is sure,
I will not make you happy.
I will shake you and make you uncomfortable
I will make you question everything you know
I will make you want to hide.

Because I am not nice,
I am fire.

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Desires in the time of Coronavirus

I found some dried figs in my fridge a few weeks ago which have been in there for several months. I had bought them on one of my travels; it was so long ago that I can’t remember now where it is from, although I do remember that it was very highly recommended by the local people, which is why I bought them. I have always had mixed feelings about figs – they are great for baking a fruit cake, but too sweet to eat otherwise and so I always end up having too many figs in my fridge.

When the lockdown started, things we usually eat started becoming harder to come by. It became difficult to step out into the bigger markets to buy meat and fish, so we started cutting down our trips and rationing our meat and fish. I have been craving mutton for several months now, but mutton was even harder to come by. To distract myself, I rummaged through my pantry and fridge and made a mental list of everything “interesting” that I could still cook with whatever I had. All I needed was a little creativity. The figs were a little tricky – its not the season to bake fruit cake and I couldn’t find a recipe with dried figs that interested me. And so I decided that the figs would be eaten the way they were meant to be eaten – as fruit!

One morning as I continued to miss a good mutton curry while chopping the figs up to put in my oatmeal, I thought about why I didn’t like figs. I realized it was because I was so overwhelmed by the sweetness of the figs, I could never taste its other characteristics. Figs have a deep and complex flavour and a unique texture – a flavour which, if one could moderate out the sweetness, was very interesting. So a few chopped up figs in bland oatmeal, balances things out nicely and makes both fig and oatmeal enjoyable. Of course, it didn’t make me crave mutton any less, it made me appreciate figs more.

Each day now is an awareness of every ingredient I have and how their unique characteristics add flavour to the food I cook. It is about being thankful for that one ingredient when so many have nothing. I take every ingredient and add a different experience to today by creating something new, just being sure to throw out every ingredient that’s rotten.

And if you’re incredibly lucky – like it happened with me today – sometimes you will find the one ingredient that you felt was really “missing”. Yes, mutton!

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Rooms

Someone once told me
He had rooms in his mind –
A love in each room.

Thinking of love
Confined
In a room with windows
And no doors –
Everything in it’s sight
But nowhere to flow –
Makes breath stop in my throat.

What is love,
If not a geyser that explodes on your skin,
Leaving it burned and crinkled,
Melted to mush?

What is love,
If not the hot May breeze in Delhi,
That blows through your whole mind
Breaking down sanity?

What is love,
That can live in a room,
Unable to escape it’s imagined prison
And not scream the walls down?

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Deluge

There is a deluge in Mumbai today
Of words floating inside my voiceless mouth
Of blood abandoning my tired body
Of pictures crawling over my shivering skin
Of rainwater pouring mercilessly on parched earth
As if
It were retribution
For every desire we ever had
Me and mother earth
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Currents

If I could I would

Pour showers of water over the mirror
That holds all the light that was once mine
Wrest it clean of today, tomorrow and yesterday
Especially yesterday

Until the clouds emancipate to nothingness
Free from the weight of stones

If I could I would

Throw flames of a glorious orange into the forest
And watch gleefully as it burns
The forever trapped in trees
Crumbling in an instant

Until the animals come running out
Fear in their eyes, heat on their backs

If I could I would

Gouge out the flesh that still lives
The leaves that still flutter
The roots that still grow
The skin that still feels

Throw it into the salty waters at the edge of strength
Until they dissolve in the black hole of everything.

If I could I would.

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A meditation on transience

It’s spring and flowers are blooming everywhere. While I have always enjoyed being in the midst of nature, I had never been a keen observer of nature itself, appreciating rather the mood set by trees, shrubs and the sounds of birds. Last year though, during a trip to Assam I was mesmerized by the raging red flowers of the Silk Cotton tree blooming everywhere we went. My fellow traveler and friend is a tree-enthusiast who has spent hours walking the streets of Ahmedabad observing trees. She explained to me that the silk cotton tree, known as semal in Hindi, is very common in India and in all likelihood exists on the campus of IITB as well. And so, after the trip I began morning walks around the campus of IITB in an attempt to find it. What I found in addition surprised me – a dozen varieties of trees with leaves and flowers just as glorious and alluring, that I had missed noticing for the five years I had been residing in this campus.

I began observing trees and shrubs, their leaves and flowers, and photographed them all spring long, especially enamoured by the copper pod, ashoka, bougainvillea, rain tree and gulmohar. The trees on our campus don’t bear copious flowers the way one might see in the “showcase” pictures of these trees and the blossoms demand a keen eye to notice them amidst the rich green leaves. The copper pod and the rain trees are tall and the blossoms grow high up, almost missed until they fall on the road. Still they continue to grow, surrounding us with their beauty, strength and grace all year through.

As the Monsoon came I began staying largely indoors, away from nature and caught up in my thesis. Until this spring came and pictures of flowers from all over the world started flooding my social media accounts. I was especially moved by pictures of cherry blossoms in the University of Washington campus in Seattle sent by a friend. Dozens of people crowding under the trees looking at the flowers. I felt a twinge of guilt and sorrow for my campus trees – old, yet resilient and generous, that give our home lovely colours while being largely ignored. How often do I stand under a flowering copper pod trees and stare at its blossoms? And yet, when I travel I take the time to do exactly that – stand and stare at beauty because, well, that is a “special case”, telling myself to soak it in because I won’t get to see it again. Why do I take my home blossoms for granted? Why do I not have the vision to realize that those too will die at any time and so I should appreciate and enjoy them as well?

Reading up about cherry blossoms I discovered the Japanese tradition called hanami where people gather under the cherry blossom trees to enjoy the transient beauty of the blossoms. How lovely I thought to take time to enjoy the beauty of the blossoms which have returned after a hard and cold winter. The philosophy underlying this practice is mono no aware, which literally means the “pathos of things”, a melancholic appreciation of the transiency of existence. Mono no aware refers to the recognition of the impermanence of things and the gentle, yet deep sadness that characterizes their passing. The idea of hanami then is to recognize that the blossoms are transitory and so appreciate their delicate and fragile beauty which last only about a week. A training to experience and let go, perhaps.

Mono no aware finds its roots in Buddhism, which stresses the impermanence of life and a letting go of all attachments to transient things. The poet in me appreciates the concept of mono no aware because pathos is a fertile subject for art and poetry. The practical side of me finds it, at first glance, defeatist. I am not well read in Buddhist philosophy, so I am going to attempt to articulate my reflections on the subject in my own words. By romanticizing the notion of loss, it appears to give human beings an “excuse” to pursue transience. Why plan, because everything is going to end anyway? Perhaps that’s why we keep jumping from one experience to another, from one place to another, one job to another, one person to another? What we may fail to recognize is that there are different scales of impermanence. Some things are inherently more permanent than others. Cherry blossoms last a week, but the cherry tree lasts years. The argument that everything is transient must not become a reason for us to ignore longer time scales. Acknowledgement of transience should not be taken as a suggestion that one is not responsible for one’s actions because after all everything will end. Perhaps. But not soon enough. And before it ends there are consequences to our actions that we must acknowledge and accept. We cannot ignore them, we must live with them.

Attachment is not necessarily undesirable. An attachment or love of things, causes, people and the world brings a sense of awareness of our inextricable connection to them.  What is bad, as vedic philosophy suggests, is attachment to the outcomes of our actions or expectations from these things, people or the world in general. For instance, to experience the fleeting beauty of the blossoms one must plant a tree and ensure it is nourished enough to bear blossoms year after year. But we must not expect that the tree will indeed bear blossoms for us. The lack of a rounded understanding of attachment would suggest that one should not love either the blossoms or the tree; why bother with the trees when the blossoms will die within a week? How would the world grow with such an attitude? The real learning from the notion of attachment is that one must must love fully all things, causes and people and work towards their development, but one must not expect anything from the object of one’s love. That is true detachment – detachment from the fruits (or in this case flowers) of one’s endeavours. To not love because something is going to end anyway is cowardice.

A third minor point in mono no aware that bothers me is the emphasis on the beauty of the blossoms because of their attractiveness, fragility and transience. Why must only transient things be beautiful? Transient things are easily noticed by our senses which are tuned to detecting changes in the environment. But this notion of beauty must not diminish the beauty of the rest of the tree, which while not attractive in the way blossoms are, are nevertheless beautiful in their strength and depth. Why do we not celebrate this strength and depth, remembering that that too is transitory? Why do we not love that which nurtures and helps grow the blossoms that we so admire and mourn? Why do we not have the vision to love something because we see potential in it, rather than only that which stares us right in the eye?

Many questions, very few answers. This is a meditation that will not end.

To learn more about mono no aware visit –

  1. https://www.huffpost.com/entry/untranslatable-words-mono_b_9292490
  2. https://www.theschooloflife.com/thebookoflife/mono-no-aware/
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An ode to the copper pod trees of IIT Bombay

The humble copper pod
Lines the streets of the IIT Bombay campus,
A natural “infinite corridor” high above your sight.

I sat beneath a tree today;
I am sorry, I said to it, for I never saw you.
I never saw you, even though you remained around me
All year through as the seasons changed,
Growing green leaves, copper pods and vibrant yellow flowers.

I am sorry that I never saw you because
You were twenty feet above me and I kept staring
At flowers at eye level, like the fiery ashoka,
The delicate hibiscus and the flaky bougainvillea.
I am sorry I did not look up.

I am sorry that I never tried to know you,
Never tried to reach into your branches
And look at your small, but copious leaves,
Your beady copper pods and your small, but sturdy flowers
That showered down to create a yellow carpet every April.

I am sorry that I never stopped to stare at you
As I walked under your green-yellow umbrella
And stepped on your tender flowers carelessly,
Taking your shade for granted all year through.

I am sorry
Because no one told me that I could make a tradition
Of pausing to admire you in all your glory
And I did not think you were worth stopping for.

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Archives

When I moved countries I packed up

books, notebooks and research papers from grad school
still marked with the dreams of youth,
stacked end to end in box after box and shipped,
all the way from there to here, because what if
someday I want to study “Information Theory” again?

the pantry, all the vinegars, sauces, extracts and powders
of all cuisines – Italian, Greek, Thai and Chinese –
once cooked into careful, intricate memories
stacked neatly in rows, padding in between,
piled into an over-sized moving carton, and bequeathed
to my little sister, to make her own memories with.

***
Boxes of books, notebooks and research papers lie
waiting in a loft to be unpacked,
dreams hidden inside dust and cobwebs,
preserved, forgotten, waiting to come true
while the vinegars, sauces, extracts and powders
have blended into someone else’s memories.

I think this is what one should do with memories

***
and next time, this is what I will do with dreams –
when they’re still new, liberate them to a loved one.

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