Loudly Celebrated

It is the 4th of July again, and again, it is cloudy, hot, and smokey. I do not look forward to this day. Yes, the day off is definitely welcome, but other than that, there are few things that redeem this holiday.

We finish groceries and chores early in the week to avoid leaving the house on this day. The beach is overly over-crowded, as are the few stores that are open. People descend on the beaches and parks armed with chairs and gigantic coolers with lots of beer. Things get really loud after that, and this is just late morning. By the time the 4th dawns, even, the air crackles with extra static and fumes; people have been fire cracking away for days. The little showers that are so much a part of this land and this season, do little but add steam and damp.

One of the extraordinary things about this part of the world, unlike India, is that festivals are all the business of individuals, not the entire community; these are controlled events, contained within designated areas and there is no joy or celebration that spills over to the streets. If one were to find oneself driving around town on festival days, there is little evidence of anything being celebrated.

In India, I remember pandals, exhibits at every street corner, music, people in festive garb, extra hawkers, extra beggars, colored lights and flags stringed all over streets, and no one would be confused about what victory, god, beginning or end is being celebrated. Fresh flowers and colored sand would be in great demand for days before the day, as people plan decorations for their businesses, streets, houses, temples,even public buildings in their neighborhood. There was a particular smell of festivals: the air smelled of marigolds, incense,and laddoos. Freshly cleaned and decorated houses stood invitingly open, the family in newly stitched clothes milling around with neighbors and visitors, sharing sweetmeats with all, acquaintances and strangers alike. Even if one did not share the ideals or the faith being celebrated, one didn't have a choice but to get swept in the celebrations. I loved it all except the firecrackers during Diwali.

Here, I do not have much family in town. So today is truly a day off. No music blares so I cannot work; no fragrances distract; indeed, this could be any Saturday, a sunny morning with rain later on silent streets and quiet houses.

This post may sound unpatriotic or snooty. However, as we move towards a more globalized entity, I wonder how many Independence Days one should celebrate, and what exactly we celebrate. These days celebrate our victories over each other and often, become the flint that spark riots in some parts of the world. I shudder and fear that instead of celebrating end of atrocities, these days open up scabs and force old wounds to bleed and weep anew. They remind us, most of all, of our differences, our separations.

For these reasons, I AM glad that the 4th of July is quieter here than the 15th of August is, in India. After all, freedom-day is a serious thought, a quiet contemplation about the price it demands, an examination of its various hues, a continuous re-adjustment of its definition, and it is a sad day that forces survivors to reflect on the heavy losses incurred.

I wish we had an anthem for the planet, a day that marks end of global atrocities, a song that arouses an upsurge of patriotic feeling for the land, the oceans, and the air above, without imaginary, artificial boundaries that apply only to human beings.

On such a day, perhaps, I will not mind the fire works.

Still Life

I know I should be working, honing, polishing, sharpening handouts, but a heavy weariness weighs me down. I cannot imagine the cause for this fatigue, but it does feel bone deep. I know I can ill-afford these almost constant naps; I have too many clamoring projects. But my eyes burn with left over sleep and my senses shift, unable to fixate on a coherent task. I feel unable, limbless, immobile, even, so that even the passing winds fail to sway me from this spot. A friend suggested that perhaps my fatigue emerges from my strict diet, the depleted portions from a limited list. Perhaps that is true; but my diet is not a new thing. I am quite used to it and comfortable with it. I have not over-stretched myself in physical labor by any stretch of imagination.

My spirit could also be homesick, a longing to go and touch something, some place of my birth and formative years, an event nowhere on the horizon. However, the buzzing of my tribe's presence every time I get on Facebook or emails reassures me immeasurably. A brief visit from some of my tribe feels more than wonderful. So it is not abandonment or despair that is responsible for this.

I believe this torpor is a natural cycle of my being, a condition that regularly drowns me as the year begins to set. Someone asked me for recommendations for a reading list for an upcoming trip, and I have been unable to come up  with any meaningful titles, something I'd thought in my youth, would never happen. I'd believed that I would ALWAYS be in the middle of at least 3 books, and the local public library would be my second home. However, things have not unfolded thus. My bedside is strewn with the most predictable of all reading, the epics. The new Atwood (of the Oryx and Crake series) is out, but I lack the will to hunt it down; today Salman Rushdie is in town, talking about his newest book, but the very thought of driving exhausts me. Once, I'd believed that as an active reader, I was an integral component of the world woven by words. This belief used to be the prime motor of all my willingness to hop aboard many a whirlwind and carousel, the dizziness convincing me of my relevance. Now, however, just sitting down is enough.

This exhaustion could be due to the time of the year. Elements are changing their wonted liveries; the golden sunshine glimmering on the still leaves has left for the West. Days are smaller, silver, breezy, like little jewels. This landscape demands almost constant rain, but the colors bouncing off the torrents have mellowed. The moon is getting larger, nearer. Perhaps the year wants me to sit still, take stock, and exhale the months passed. Perhaps I should listen. Perhaps this is a natural part of growing older, calming down, an increasing quietude.

Before I exhale, I breathe in the advancing Autumn. It smells different, like a dream of smokiness, of promise of a chill not here yet, of  velvet moonlight, of crisp dusks. I must confess, this particular evening smells not of endings, but beginnings. The air needs a little crispiness to herald the clanging of the Goddess' chariot; the days need to be silvery that Diwali lamps shine brighter.

After all, there are so many ways to banish the darkness; to banish such darkness properly, however, it needs to descend properly. I will not resent this sluggishness, since it looks to the busyness of the festive season. Inertia is a necessary component of animation.


 

Flickering Lights

The tiny votives flicker in windows as though the flame had real heat, as though these are real flames. However, much to my peace of mind, these are LED lights and their twinkling a kind lie. Today is Diwali again, and a year has passed since last Diwali, when I came home to find my home burned away. For some reason this day has affected me without warning, with more force than I had thought. The day has been uneasy and this unease has not left my side since my dawn dream, in which I didn't want to leave but just hold my child, the cats, my quilt, a doll I had forgotten about, all of them.

Fortunately, I could indulge my unease and stay with my house, puttering around, sweeping up, picking up, so the Goddess might be tempted, that she might step in with gentle feet. The little votives, like hopes, flicker around the colorful rangoli in my porch, in the same place as last year.

This year, my Diwali is quiet, if a little uneasy, and I am grateful for the quiet little lamps who seem reassuring, as they murmur shadows, whisper gleamings, their soft glimmer giggles spill and tinkle around the floor; after all, no Diwali should be silent. I am very grateful for their kind company, as I am grateful for all who have quieted my unease today. One of the many lessons I have learned as someone who lives alone is that all undefined unease must be publicly acknowledged, that one should not be allowed to feel alone when these airs raise the hair on one's nape, when these gulps drop to the bottom of one's stomach.

Usually, I have my child at home for Diwali. Usually, there are sparklers that sketch golden shapes that linger on eyelids after they have melted away. Usually, we get the camera ready and worship a few coins, a special puja to woo the Goddess. Today, I have no sparklers, and yes, I could have gone to the temple, where a welcome is assured, and yes, they'd have sparklers and other fireworks. I could have done the puja on my own. I could have taken pictures of my little rangoli.

However, today, I want to woo my home back to me: the Goddess cannot be wooed without one's own threshold. Last Diwali was unforgettable, loud, big; I want this one to be unmemorable, quiet, contained within my comfort zone.

The festival promises lamps to aid lost footsteps back home, on dark nights when heavenly lights, the sun and moon abandon us earthbound beings for other orbits. This festival reminds us that the lights that can be most relied upon are of this earth; extra terrestrial light sources have their own agenda and may often seem indifferent. The fault, then, lies in our failure to recognize our place in the larger cosmos, not in the orbs that we imagine have abandoned us. This festival reaffirms our kinship with little lamps whose flickering lights accompany us through different nights.

The twinkling lights of my windows and I, all of us wish my patient readers a very Happy Diwali!

 

Of Hanuman, Anthony Gonsalves, and Crossed Streets

It is my favorite part: the jungle chirps in joyous excitment. We feel the static in the air as the entire cosmos awaits the monkey, with bated breath, breath that hitches every time this story is told, on street corners when the year begins to die, on TV screens, echoing down the millenia, from the tree shade where the telling was probably born. The story I speak of is the Ramayana, and the character, after whose arrival in the story nothing is ever the same, is, of course, Hanuman. I cannot have enough of this story, in spite of all the annoying, jingoistic propaganda that inevitably accompanies it.

I have referred to this tale at various times in this space and it is one of my guiding metaphors. Ever since the house fire, this tale has resonated with me on a deeper level, helping me articulate questions about where I belong (if anywhere), if such belonging comes with any rights and prices, even questions about what makes me human, and the age old exploration about the nature of the divine. It fascinates me that in this epic, the apotheosis is realised by Hanuman, not the human hero, Rama, who throughout his story insists upon and defines himself solely in terms of his humanity, and who, indeed, is admired for being human more than he is for his divinity.

I am getting used to living in this house that is yet to become wholly mine. The bright colors, familiar books, the furniture that comes well-lived from my good friends' and well-wishers' lives, and the remembered spaces, of course, are helping me own it. It is almost Diwali again and I have some new designs for the Rangoli sand art that I always decorate my thresholds with, hoping to woo the goddess of prosperity. I also have some votive lights (LED; flameless, of course) but as I sit here looking around the bright walls, it feels as though someone has switched on an internal light and night never need fall in my house ever again.

The cats have found their spots and they seem as comfortable here as though they have always been here. Maybe I should look to the Ramayana for my answers: the questioning is what separates the human from animals. Hanuman never questions his place, nor is he ever confused about his apotheosis or what the right thing would be and who'd decide that. Perhaps I should stop the endless questions, stop looking for guiding lights and close my eyes to let my instincts lead. It is these questions that lead me to fear the brightness of these walls, fear that the brightness comes from hidden flames, not sunshine.

So tonight, I shall try to quiet all questions and ignore the wondering. The Ramalila is done for tonight and I shall concentrate on one of my favorite fictional characters, Anthony Gonsalves (from Amar Akbar Anthony, a movie I try to  never miss, which, thankfully is being aired today). This character's uncomplicated joy of being himself, complete lack of self-doubt, and ease with himself often reminds me of Hanuman.

I stand at the West threshold of my not-burnt home, looking to the house that was never mine, where I spent my months of displacement. I remain unbelieving that the street has finally been crossed, that the lights in this kitchen do not beckon any longer but attest to my belonging to it.

The year has changed again and even though the darkness marched in before evening was done, night is taking a long time in falling. The cats sit around me, studying the grass behind our house and I wish for their non-wondering, their acceptance of shortened days, an acceptance that does not flow from the comfort and reassurance of old and new stories.

I remain acutely aware of my humanity, my helpless reliance on the tales. For me, turning of these seasons is never an easy thing and I shall need many stories to brighten these darknesses, even as I remain here, sick with relief that the light across the street has nothing to do with me. 

The Funeral

My house is dead and we had its funeral yesterday; it burned a few weeks ago and no one quite knows why, though I am sure I was responsible, somehow, for this devastation. On Diwali, my life irrevocably changed. I remember the morning with a forced clarity, since I've had to retrace it endlessly, both in my tortured solitude and verbally for various authorities who have tried to analyze and square this away neatly.

Like all deaths, however, this one defies all logic or sense of fairness, and really, it matters little how it happened: the fact remains that I came home from work one day to find a ruin, almost as though I'd wandered into an alternate multi-verse, in which I am less fortunate than in the one I inhabit, or that I'd wandered into a wrong fairytale (this was ME! This wasn't supposed to happen to ME!!). I usually don't sleep much any longer, and when I do, my vivid dream life tries to convince me that it was all a horrible nightmare, that of course my home is safe, exactly how I'd left it to go for work that Diwali morning, waiting for me to come and light the ritual lamps. But then I know exactly what that is: it's a defense mechanism construed by my shattered, shocked sense of self, and I confess to have wondered about the means by which I could lose myself in that dream and not wake up. With equal shame, I have chosen to wake up and tried to gather myself around me, like a shawl of ashes.

It amazes me how much of myself I'd stored within those charred walls. It is a strange feeling to realise that I own nothing: not a spoon, not a safety pin, not a needle or threader, not chairs or door knobs. A lot of my books, like my poor cat, did not make it either. On the other hand, I am sure I own some sheets, some photos, more clothes than the ones in that box next to me, but I couldn't say where they are. No matter how many times I try to remember what the Sufis, Saints and Poets have said, this realizing does not liberate me in any way. In fact, I am a lost soul whose horizon has either abandoned her or been erased. I have no compasses to steer my reality by!

Yesterday, my friends helped me remove, salvage, and discard the remains of my house. It felt like a funeral, and had it not been for so many kind hands holding me up, I would have been lost in yesterday, unable to find my way to today. As I considered the detritus of all that had made sane sense to me and recognized myself in each familiar arch, cadence, texture, and hue in that heap, the immensity, the impossibilities of my circumstance, my situation, stood out clearly, in relief, forcing me to meet their eyes with the same recognition I had saved for the Odyssey a student had given me, for the ceramic bowl my daughter had made for me.

Time behaves strangely for me now, and the very ground feels malicious, like quicksand, waiting to swallow me down. I think of Odysseus on his way home from Troy, never dreaming how much must be endured, conquered, travelled before reaching Ithaca and being recognized. I think of my Sita in this story under the Father Tree, slowly understanding the full implications of her impossible position. I think of the Ancient Mariner, who is left with only a harrowing tale that he must repeat endlessly.

I do not wish to seem ungrateful, of course; there have been many mercies: the worst, hopefully, is behind us, we have realized how many wonderful, generous, kind people we have always been surrounded by but had failed to realize it, and we have been lucky to have survived this with our fingers and toes intact. We shall, of course, build ourselves up from these fragments because, really, there is no other choice.

Kind Reader, please enjoy a glass of water in your own homes, in your own glass, and be grateful on my behalf for being able to do so. I, too, shall think of you, and take heart that Odysseus does find his way to Ithaca, after all, even if it takes decades. Please pray that the stars who have extinguished themselves from my skies have not gone out, but just changed their orbit, and shall be back soon to light my ship to familiar landscapes.

'Tis Almost Fairy Time!

The days have suddenly shortened. Like Coleridge's Ancient Mariner, I watch the dwindling light, wonder and fear as at one stride comes the dark. On days like today, even as the temperature mounts in mid day, the sky never brightens and 6pm feels like 8pm, and my cat worries that I might have forgotten to feed him. My postage stamp of a backyard is alive with night rodents that scratch and screech into the hot wee hours.

Something archetypal in me recoils at the fading lights; in the dying year, I find it difficult to trust the shifting whispers of leaves. Many friends, especially the ones who live in different geographies and landscapes, claim to love Fall of all the seasons and I admire their courage to notice beauties as all things close and end. In this season of endings, mornings feel like a gyp, misnomers for the grey mists shrouding and hiding the earth in treacherous cobwebs.

I think it might be more difficult to face the Fall for those of us who nest in the Tropics, where either the day is bright or stormy or both, but never neither. I wonder if the urbane ducks, cats, and palm trees are affected similarly, if they would confess to a discomfiture with the anomaly of Autumn in the land of eternal sunshine.

I remember a really, really black Fall, many moons ago, when I used to consider 3pm and worry about where I was to be when all light was gone from the skies. That was the Fall when I first took my small daughter fairy hunting in the streets near indifferent strip malls. We would arrange rocks of broken cement and come back the following evening to exclaim amazement if they were or weren't where we'd left them. I took to spending nap hours to eek out child verses with hackneyed meter and beaten rhymes, and hiding them in hedges for us to find later that evening; those were our fairy lamps and they brightened many evenings.

Yesterday, we attended Sol's An Afternoon with the Elves, and not surprisingly, that resonated with me. The play celebrates our need to believe in the numinous in the midst of unbelievable, heartbreaking realities we often find ourselves in. In fact, the play contends that so strong is this pull towards the numinous, that often, we find ourselves upsetting the comfortable, easy status quo of the familiar and recognizable, as we race after the flickering, winking glimmers we imagine on the borders beyond our peripheral ken.

It is this very need that makes the lengthening nights sparkle with festive votive and lanterns,as the darkness is shawled in clothes of brightest hues; firecrackers and joyful music mingle with twinkling, tinkling jewelry to drown out the dusk hush; the greenest of evergreens grace lintels and mantels; the once tightly shut doors smile open in welcome, their thresholds sporting Rangoli.

Tropics do change their seasons after all, and fairies do light up the path markers of Fall. As I watch the long shadows dancing in my backyard and through my window, I am aware of a deep gratitude for the incredible, extraordinary capacity of our species to take arms against the very mantle of the sky, and by opposing, end the smothering dark.