2012

January 1, 2013 § 12 Comments

The Annual Report from WordPress made me feel terrible for my laziness with regards this blog, and so a minor update: I’ve moved a few times since descending the Blue Mountains, and will be on the go again in a month. A brief on the wonders of 2012 (easily one of my happiest years, might even scoop first place as The Happiest) have been jotted down below:

In drunken revelry, a year of time and fierce presence is remembered.

Another full year, and I did not see the sea very often, but the sun did set and rise in it. And as light pulled back and forth, so did my stories. It is no longer easy for me to say where I’ve come from, nor where I’m headed. This knowledge is now like vacant truth, denied by meaning.

My story is not my own. It has travelled over surplus borders and languages and foods and faiths. And the people that scrawled words across its canvas are some of the greatest poets I’ve met. Their lives – their everyday – tell limitless tales of what it is to hunt down meaning, to fight and struggle with passion, to feel full of blood and humanness. There is no longer room for merely getting by, no longer space for a single day to pass forgotten.

And somewhere in between all the skies, I moved from countless house to house, always calling them home as they buried themselves in nooks of living memory – new neighbours to dine with and listen to and share with; new teachers to walk tight ropes of freedom with; new friends to love and challenge; new families of my own.

I had never been pushed so far unto freedom, and could no longer claim to know myself. I started to dispose of unnecessary articles that halted, even so slightly, every opportunity to live and engage with life. And in began to flow older thoughts from younger days: the knowledge that routine is a myth, but exhilarating comfort still appears when a local recognises you as part of their landscape; that no matter how full days become, there’s always time to be more; that another drought and flimsy banks and lawyers can drive someone you know to suicide, even as you watch a storm light up a desert with soft rain; that no amount of seeking refuge in pre-defined sentiment will teach joy, but sunrises come rather close; that to disconnect ourselves from our lands is madness of a dangerous breed; that winter winds carry flocks of migrants who choose to trust despite unknowing change; that trust isn’t, and will never be, as significant as love; that we are all vulnerable to theft of many kinds; that we can never find peace if we only wish it unto ourselves; that all that I am certain of rests within this moment, ready to perch upon a distant echo and dance out of reach. I know so much less than I did a year ago, but the intensity and joy of each day are all I wish to pursue.

And 2013? I can only anticipate.

November 27, 2012 § Leave a comment

I was brought to believe it was the rats – disease carrying beings that run through our well-defined systems and cause havoc and misery. Repulsion is a steady survivor. Even when removed from a stained memory of refuse, it remains. And yet, in the cove of a Neem tree carved in the luxury of time, all repugnance dissipated. Unknowing, we searched for new meaning and adapted afresh. The decay remained strongly rooted in the system, and yet, not all its propagators are as aware or wise as the rat when removed from a complying, filth-ridden race.

November 4, 2012 § 1 Comment

Evening light tugs at the fields and creatures they house. The peachicks have arrived, and so has winter. In this land of birds, little is missed in patterns of change. There is now an everyday revelry in the new.

Bombay Blue-Rocks

September 12, 2012 § 4 Comments

An experiment in flight –

a scurry of seeds,
and birds and men.

Light hurries;
the sea pulls away
as another landed frenzy resumes.

August 15, 2012 § 3 Comments

26th January 2012 (0952hrs)

 

The nation celebrates its becoming a Republic.

Among all the imagined borders that crowd our globe, this little village finds its own. Tracks of railing separate the old village from the new, with an intermediary crossing that presents an illusionary fluidity. The new village is more accessible from the main road, is a few meters closer to the nearest town and has its own load shedding pattern that differs from the old. The old village lies as it was for a decade during which politicians, educators, doctors and businessmen created new space for themselves. Some were from nearby towns looking to settle where land is cheaper and yet accessible by road. However, most were of the village, merely choosing to display their prosperity and power in a place slightly distanced from their own. With time, others from the old have moved into the new, but remain off the cemented roads to maintain a familiar drainage system. Even though the old and new are distinguished with freshly acquired notions of what each says about the other and themselves, for mostly political purposes, they remain as one.

Celebrations were held in the old village with all the old and new villagers participating. In the old village lies the public school and local government offices, both at which flags were hoisted. The hoisting of these flags was to conclude a procession through the village, led by the school band and children. Teachers and political leaders followed with most other villagers remaining spectators. The morning commenced with rounds of trained physical displays and the honouring of Gandhi and Ambedkar, whose frames sat garlanded on armed plastic chairs.

The time after this auspicious occasion was rigorously and solely focused on the upcoming elections. Rickshaws running on man or horsepower were mounted with speakers along with symbols honouring principles of various political parties and individuals. This time round, people’s votes ensure power at the village and district level. The only issue at hand that all the candidates seemed to agree on was a song which would for certain gain them votes. This made matters testing for the voting populace as all were individually fighting for unity.

Villagers soon began discussing our political affiliations on the basis of whom we most interacted with. Here, personal relations determine voting choices. Free alcohol on the day of the elections runs the risk of ruining all the hard worked at friendships, but most claim to stay loyal and continue reaping friendly benefits.

In the dusk of this political skyline, cows continue to be milked, families continue to arrange marriages, boys continue games of cricket and marbles while girls prepare meals for the house, and farmers continue to choose death over unyielding fields.

Soon, it was time to leave.

August 9, 2012 § 2 Comments

The wind whispers a secret to the dust in tongues I do not understand, and yet the smell on its breath is enough to know – a storm is approaching.

The fires were put out before the sun could sail beyond another millennia of dreams. Lightening glowed distantly and threw itself against a wide desert sky, leaving pinpricks of light to guide a belated moon to rise. Hours of visible darkness stretched on as beetles and lizards awoke to leave stories in the sand; stories that caused stars to shiver and playfully mirror patterns in the sky; stories that deluded sleep.