The It's-Ok-If-It's-A-Facebook-Post #2

I love Hyderabad.

And, I miss Hyderabad this evening all of a sudden. Unlike sad nostalgia for home that I’ve experienced in the past, this time ‘round the reminiscing is happy.

Yes, a happy recollection of place!

As my mind wanders through a field of thoughts, one thought that’s surprised me today is: would I still have loved Hyderabad as much had I not developed a natural affection for it having been born and raised there?

Yes! A resounding yes.

           What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?

Wristlet and anklet and ring,

Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,

Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,

Girdles of gold for the dancers,

Scabbards of gold for the kings.

Hyderabad is everything Sarojini Naidu encapsulated in “In The Bazaars of Hyderabad” and more. The city’s attributes and my tastes line up perfectly. That’s what makes me love the place. I love its absolutely captivating history in the old stone buildings and narrow gallies of purana sheher, the genius loci of its rocks, the royalty of the khada-dupatta, rumi-topi pehnawa and this-is-what-heaven-tastes-like cuisine.

I love Hyderabad! And how a casual calling to mind its memories makes me happy.

In The Bazaars of Hyderabad by Sarojini Naidu

What do you sell, O merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.

What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron, lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.

What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.

What do you cry, O fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, O ye musicians?
Sitar, Sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.

What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.

The It's-Ok-If-It's-A-Facebook-Post #1

This post is an exercise in experimenting with how long and in what form thoughts stay alive in your head unexpressed. Do they lose some of that zing and excitement when they first came to you or, having gotten a chance to percolate in your brain for a few days, become better?

It's like the example about American poet Ruth Stone that Elizabeth Gilbert shared in her talk on creative genius. Stone would 'feel' a poem charging towards her as she worked in the fields and in turn feel the need to instantly turn around and run to the house to be able to jot down the poem, or thoughts, on paper.

I've had several such 'writing emergencies', some of which I alluded to on this blog. I have acted on these writing emergencies fairly instantaneously. However, this time around, I wanted to experiment with what form my thoughts would take, sitting there in my head waiting to be let out. 

So, here goes. My clutch of thoughts from this past week.

1. The year began anew, and the work year also began anew in the middle of the week. The ride to work that morning was an exclamation-filled effort in trying to get to my destination safely. After nearly two weeks of quiet roads and lulled traffic, the after-new-year's-eve driving seemed to be an unleashing of rookie drivers on the road all desperately trying to make up for rolling out of bed late by driving like the devil himself! Yeah, it was a video game-esque experience escaping sudden jerky vehicular moves as I tried to arrive at my workplace with myself and my sanity in one piece.
2. Of late, I've been focussing on deep and intent-filled breathing any time during the day when I feel calm eluding me. On a call with a customer service representative, I was asked to stand by as the person at the other end of the line tried to find the information I needed. After being on hold for more than a couple minutes, I instinctively breathed in and out with a deep, long and satisfying sigh to release all the stress I could feel building up. From the other side of the phone I heard a, "I'm sorry; it will take just a few moments longer." And my inner monologue to myself was instantly, "dang woman, don't breathe!" I realized that she didn't mute the line, and neither did I. All that my brain could now tell me was, "don't breathe!" And I did just that! After what seemed like an eternity, the representative came alive on the phone again and began relaying the information I wanted. My slightly-starved-of-oxygen brain now started pounding, "breathe now, woman, breathe!"
3. The first week of the year is also a reminder of loss for me. I lost my grandmother at the start of the year, three years ago. It's always a conscious effort by me to fight off thoughts and memories related to her that naturally begin cropping up around that time. It's a coping mechanism because the pain is still too intense to feel and to have to go through. It's much easier to block off the thoughts and memories. Some memories do sneak their way into my consciousness. Some of those memories seem like they are so far away in my mind now that it almost feels like they were a part of a previous life. Some memories are bitingly fresh and seem like it was just yesterday the the thing they're reminding me of occurred. There was one such memory that came to me this week - the memory of adversity growing up but my grandmother's tenacity in the face of it all; those meals that were nothing more than the proverbial 'sukhi', dry roti and pyaaz; the symbolism in those meals of persisting, trudging on through hard times; the teaching that my grandmother was implicitly imparting to field life's highs and lows with grace... The teaching remains, the memory - painful and sad. 
4. Writing is meditative. Writing requires patience. It can't be hurried. It needs sukoon.

There! That's my coterie of thoughts, all neatly laid out. How do they fare though? Better or worse than when they first came to me. That's an analysis for another blog post. 

To embrace Samwise Gamgee

It was Christmas, some nine years ago, that I wrote about finding hope in Frodo's arduous journey and Sam's unwavering loyal companionship. It was a phase of life that made me relate to Frodo's declaration of "I can't do this".

It's another December, not too far from Christmas too, that I watch and write about trying to figure out how to trudge through more I-can't-do-this situations in life. Over the years, I've watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy more times than I can remember. This evening, the phase of life I am in makes the the re-watching experience add proof to that well-know phrase 'life comes full circle'.

Yeah, life's come full circle and how.

My battle with personal hardships then had my parents and siblings be the Sam to my Frodo. Now, I have an addition to that company. I could not be more grateful and thankful for my real-life Sam - my life partner - who matches Samwise Gamgee in support, loyalty, companionship and encouragement. It's still a battle with personal hardships - new ones this time around, because what is life with all sun and no clouds every now and then? As we navigate my I-can't-do-this situation, my Sam reminds me of our love for each other, our taking care of each other and our lasting partnership for life. There's strength that you draw from knowing you are loved and cared for and that a trusted someone close to you has your back.

Sam stood true to his character and word. He made a promise to not leave Frodo and did just that. Frodo allowed and accepted Sam's loyal effort in helping him through the journey. To Frodo's every gloomy "I don't suppose we'll ever see them again", there was Sam's balancing "We may yet, Mr. Frodo. We may".

And so, yeah, there come points in your life every now and then when sometimes you become your own Samwise Gamgee and help yourself through your perilous journey. Sometimes, you allow a Samwise Gamgee  - be it your family or a film or an author - to help you change the I-can't to an I-can. And other times, when you get lucky, it's you and that special someone that you choose to share the rest of your life with that complete the perilous trip to Mordor and back together, successfully.

We shall overcome

'...Ruthi taqdeerein toh kya,
Tooti shamsheerein toh kya,
Tooti shamsheeron se hi,

Kar har maidan fateh...'

Learning from parting

Life has a way of testing you repeatedly in similar ways.

But hey, Life, I can beat ya this time!

The absolute hardest test of my life was leaving home, hearth and loved ones (which included, most definitely, my cat) to begin life on foreign shores. Losing a parent followed soon. Strangely enough, the act of cutting physical ties and moving from home steeled me for successive life tests like no other. I probably would not have been able to make it through the loss of a parent in as stoic of a manner as I did had it not been for going through the pain and torment of that first real test life put me through.

And then, life has a curious way of coming full circle.

I face the same test - again. With the looming prospect of travel, albeit short-lived and temporary, I feel the old pain making a revisit. Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine it would be the other way around  - that a piece of my heart would get left behind on those very same foreign shores, the journey to which had shattered my heart into smithereens. And that that piece of my heart would cause me the same ache as that first journey across the seven seas.

But yes, this time, Life, I've learnt. I've learnt resiliency from the very lessons you taught me. I will be fine. That magnificent being, to whom that piece of my heart belongs, will be fine. The proof lies in the pudding, Life, the proof lies in the pudding. Where earlier, Dickinson's tragic 'parting is all we need to know of hell' would have reverberated in my soul, today, Gibran's more pragmatic 'ever has it been that love knows not its own depth until the hour of separation' and George Elliot's 'only in the agony of parting do we look into the depths of love' resonate with me.

Here's to learning and growing.