Thursday, May 24, 2012

The Return


It was a quiet evening for the hills. The sky was a stretch of faint yellow dabbed with the vermillion of the setting sun. The silhouettes of the tall pine trees bordering the winding mountain roads looked august against the sun’s receding light. She drove up the hill to the cottage. Every year, around this time, their group of five college friends met at a place to spend some time together. This time it was his Mussoorie cottage. It had been quite some time since she last visited the place. From what she knew, he had arrived at the place two days ago to settle everything. After the loss of her father she had wanted to shut herself up to the rest of the world. She had refused to talk to anyone. It was a time she had wanted solely to herself.  He had given her that time. But when she declined coming for the reunion, he had finally called up. What had followed was a long silence, intruded solely by the sound of their breath, which neither of them tried to break. And once she held the receiver down she knew she could no longer deny him her presence and herself his.

She parked the car in front of the cottage. The house was still. The patio glowed under the gentle moonlight.  She sat at the stairs to the house and heard the floorboard groan beneath her. Some ten minutes later she saw a figure at the bend of the road. Even in the dusk she could tell it was him by the briskness in his walk. His tall figure rose and fell with the rhythm of her heartbeat. She sat there absorbing his approaching presence- the squared shoulders, the hair left unsettled by the breeze, the lean legs that moved with controlled energy. She saw him stop for a brief second outside the wooden gateway and notice her car parked outside. And then he resumed his walk up the path leading to her, his eyes never leaving hers from thereon.
*
Her sudden arrival did not surprise him. He felt as if nothing could be more obvious than her presence there- in his home and with him. It was a place that belonged to her. He liked how they often met without any warning. It made him feel the continuum of her presence in his life. He stood in front of her – letting the summation of that moment sink in. He gradually took in every detail fathoming what all she had let herself go through in the past three months since her father’s death – the colour had left her cheeks and the smile was not able to reach her lips in the way that had defined them. However those eyes still had the vestiges of unsettling spark, the shoulders still hinted a stubborn confidence even in their fragility. He had not lost her.

He went up to her and enclosed her in a gentle hug. She fit perfectly in his arms. The faint smell of the vanilla orchid perfume she had worn reminded him of the first time he had hugged her. The cool breeze made her soft hair brush against his cheek. It was in that moment that he let himself admit how much he had missed her. She dug her face deeper in his shoulders letting the warm tears stream down her cheeks and dampen his t-shirt. He held her there without demanding any explanation. She had lost her mother when she was some two years old and hence losing her father was like losing her family. She had however not allowed herself to breakdown in front of her relatives. She had waited for this moment to let out that storm. Now she did not feel the need to control anymore. She made no effort to stop her convulsive sobs as he held her closer. They stayed like that for what seemed like a long time.

“Coffee?” He asked her, finally breaking the silence.

She gave a delicate nod.  

He leapt up the stairs and went inside the house. She had always loved his coffee. He made them out of fresh coffee beans; grinding them at home and brewing it just the right amount. Fifteen minutes later he returned with two china cups full of the beverage. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted in the cool mountain air. Sitting beside him, as she wrapped her fingers around the hot coffee cup, she felt the warmth of life returning back to her.

*

The others were coming next morning. So after dinner the two of them went for a stroll. Along the arched pathways of the hillside, they rambled - the moon following them in the sky above. They reclaimed those memories from the past which were solely theirs, laughing at some and lingering on the others. Somewhere in those moments with him, removed from the stir of activities, with the hills guarding their solitude she felt more “herself” than she had felt in the past three months. As if there was a part of her that had remained with him- protected and unscarred by the tumult of time. And that evening he had gifted herself back to her.


"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on."- Henry Ellis

Friday, April 27, 2012

Dear

Dear

You have turned into a young lady now and I choose this day to tell you what a pleasure it has been to parent a child like you. You have always been an extraordinary child. I still remember the first time I held you in my hands. Unlike other newborns who can’t focus on a thing for long, you held my gaze for an instant too long , as a silent promise of our comradery. Your eyes have always had an intensity that could not be missed by anyone.  

I can vividly recall how the most fascinating part of the home's library for you used to be the place where your grandfather’s collection was kept. A glance at the old leathered spines of the books would make your eyes gleam. You would smell them with such occupied reverence as if they held the scent of antiquity. I saw you grow up into a person who developed an intimate relationship with literature. And it has been a joy to see the abstract charm it has added to your personality.

Ever since you were a little kid, the sight of you indulging in a chocolate cake has been the most delightful sight for me. You intently savouring the thing- smudging it all over your face (even now)- oblivious to the people watching you. It is the picture of a girl who believes in enjoying the things she loves , in her own way and on her own terms and has the courage to do so.

Challenges always amused you. I can never forget how you insisted on learning to ride the bicycle without supporters, despite getting bruised several times. That was so much you- pushing your boundaries and never giving up. How each time we went to your uncle’s orchard, you would land up on top of a mango tree with your older cousins - your face smeared with the juice leaking from the mango you were sucking at. I loved the smile of guiltless pleasure you flashed every time you did that.

It is your eighteenth birthday today and the whole idea of adulthood must be a little difficult to absorb. You will be asking life many questions- and while you will discover answers to some, you will define the answers to others. As you will move out of familiar spaces to discover new dimensions of life, you will find yourself pulled to many new, unexplored ideas and avenues. Knowing the kind of person you are, you will want to learn about and try out  many different things. All I want to tell you dear is that always take out time to reflect on yourself and nurture the  the depth of your personality. It is very important to be sensitive to the artistry within in order to truly absorb the creative knowledge outside.

Time will require you to make choices for yourself- the career, friends, partner. Choose a career which you love. Then you will not have to work a single day of your life. Your love for the work will transform it into fun. Choose friends who accept you in your worst. Some of the friendships forged now will have the potential to last a lifetime. And Choose a man in whom you can see a friend before you can see a lover; someone with whom silences are not uncomfortable; one who can hold the intensity in your eyes. He should be someone who commands your respect because that is the foundation of every relationship. True love inspires. The right person will bring out the best in you and will see the best in himself through you.

It is fun growing up. Play with the shades of life.Don't be afraid of making mistakes. Let yourself be. And with every passing year fall deeper in love with yourself. Happy birthday darling.

Love
Papa


Monday, April 16, 2012

When I Read Out To Him


His hands flipped the pages, scanning each page for a brief second, finally resting on one which divided the book into almost two equal halves. From where I was observing, the book in his hand- opened midway- looked like a bird’s outstretched wings.
“Can you read this page to me darling?” he asked.
It was a Sunday evening. The first time he had asked me to read to him was when I was some 12 years old. Before handing me the book, he had told me that to be a good reader I would need to nurture an intimate relationship with words; I would have to internalise what the words want to say. Only then would my reading have a ‘ring’ of meaning .
  It was a J.Krishnamurti book. I went on to read it aloud....
“Have you ever noticed a tree standing naked against the sky, how beautiful it is? All its branches are outlined, and in its nakedness there is a poem, there is a song. Every leaf is gone and it is waiting for the spring. When the spring comes, it again fills the tree with the music of many leaves, which in due season fall and are blown away. And that is the way of life”
That day for the first time he said, “The text was speaking to me when you read. You have grown into a fine reader dear”.
***
They told me he was no more. I don’t know what hit me harder- the reality of the words or the abruptness with which I encountered them. In the next few moments I could feel the naked truth detonating in my brain, preparing to explode and blow me into rubble. But it was as if my emotions had  lost even the energy to explode. I stood there as silent tears ran down my cheeks-like a naked tree against the sky of life.  
***
It was 10:30 p.m. She was showing me the ‘mind-map’ she had made of the thoughts that occupy the different compartments of her brain. My eyes were intently scanning the sheet spread before me with her finger guiding me through the connecting pathways whenever I lost track. So somewhere in the middle was her father who somehow led to her KFI school which then led to a quotation by Krishnamurti and the arrow starting from there landed at my name. The quotation went as follows-
“The reality of truth is not to be bought, to be sold, to be repeated; it cannot be caught in books. It has to be found from moment to moment, in the smile, in the tear, under the dead leaf, in the vagrant thought, in the fullness of love.”
“You were the person who, I thought, was a living example of this” she said, when I threw  a questioning glance at her on seeing my name linked to it.
And then as if she could not let the meaning of that moment get lost in the subsequent chatter, she asked me, “Can I not wait till 12 O’ clock and give you your birthday present right away?”
The look in her eyes made me feel that there could not be a better time for her to give me what she wanted to and I could not take that moment away from her.
So she rushed to her room and came back with a tiny little book in her hand. The cover of the book read
“Freedom from the known” – J. Krishnamurti
I opened the book and we landed on a chapter titled ‘Love’. And even before I had read the first paragraph, I could hear myself reading it aloud. And as I went ahead in the chapter, pausing at junctures which compelled us to discuss about them; I had a subtle feeling that he was hearing me, that he had wanted to hear me read to him then.
What a perfect way to spend time with him on my birthday.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Harmony Of Contradictions


In the overwhelming darkness of the night, the moon stood aglow- a tiny circle unobscured by the infinite blackness.It was then that it suddenly struck my mind that the greatest concord in nature dwells between opposites.  The bright light of the day would engulf the gentle glow of the moon, dissolving its presence. The darkness of the night enhances the elegance of the moon, it feeds its existence . The night surrenders itself to the moon and this union of contrasts breeds divine beauty.
Voices can exist only in the presence of silence. If there was an inferno of noise everywhere, voices would have no meaning.  Rest would be robbed of its beauty in the absence of fatigue. The cool breeze has its tenderness only in the scorch of summer. It is only in the dusk of deep sorrow  that you see the light of that courage which, you had thought , was impossible in you. The most benumbing of shocks stirs to life something that was numb in you all your life. In the heart of contradictions exists impregnable harmony...

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Yearning


The shades playing in the sky,
A beautiful weave of hues;
The sun sinking slowly ,
The gentle breeze whisting a soft tune.

I look back at my trail,
My footprints etched in soil;
And hear my heart whisper,
If only your footprints could be beside mine...
How easy it would have made this toil.

The moon brushing its silver in the sky,
The scarlet of the sun receding,
If only your hands would gently slip into mine,
Everything would attain so much more meaning.

As I tilt my head to the vastness above,
A million shining stars catch my eye;
But still my heart craves to see a different light,
That lingering spark in your eyes...
When they were locked into mine.


Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Castles Of Sand


The night is descending slowly,
Leaving me to myself,
The silent fury of life dawning into me...
My hands - they move frantically,
Sculpting a fort of fortitude,
To guard me from my past,
Only to get knocked off by a violent gush of memories...
Promising  to never make them last.

I start again ...
With endurance in my heart,
To build my castles of sand...
And comes another tide of remembrance,
Engulfing it all.

And yet I build and build again,
My castles of sand...
Fighting against the surge of nostalgia,
Struggling to survive in the storms of time,
Not letting it dissolve....
My castles of sand.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Some Things Are Better Unsaid


The  ecstasy of a sculptor shaping his dream,
A singer singing the song of his heart,
The joy of a painter filling hues into his vision,
A dancer blending with the dance as if they can never part...

A writer penning down his burning passion,
A baby etching a tearful smile on the face of the mother,
A poet lost in giving rhythm to his thoughts,
The emotions flooding the soul of two lovers...

Some of the most beautiful feelings are better unsaid
For  their intensity ought to be lost
If in the quagmire of words they get caught