One Earth: de Composter

One Earth: de Composter: I was stunned when editing a section in a book about how before weddings, a community in Rajasthan (maybe all communities in Rajasthan) wor...

Editing the Noise

'War is the last resort of desperate and foolish kings' Dasaratha's message to his sons, quoted by Lakshmana in Ashok Banker's 'Bridge of Rama'.

But it is not just the war in the battle field that I think of. People speak freely, uttering all nonsense that comes to them in a moment of despair and anger. They speak ill of others.

And the person being spoken of hears of this. Does he discard it as nothing? No! It takes root in his or her heart and starts becoming a poisonous tree. She awaits an opportunity to vilify the person who spoke ill, whatever the trigger, or confront and punch holes, leaving a crack that can never quite heal.

And this vicious circle goes on unabated, spreading unhappiness, not just among these two but everybody connected with them. Battle lines get formed, loyalties are sworn. With time, the original charge is forgotten, only the feeling of resentment prevails.

War mongers have field day, carrying tales, twisting words and adding spices to even inane statements. The ear still does not know how to filter out the noise and the brain laps up everything the ears hear to relish the moment, anticipate the 'enemy's downfall and somewhere feel triumphant for no rhyme or reason.

'How much is price of that reparation? When will our honour be sufficiently redeemed?' Rama demands of Lakshmana a few lines later. 'At what point does the cycle of revenge end?'

Never, unless we develop selective hearing, understand ourselves well and are beyond the touch of mere words. To gossip can be fun and entertaining, but like a movie or a game, should follow codes and have an end. Or else, like a serial, it will simply stretch, running into years! And you know how mindless that can be!

She is The Breeze

The earth sighed, feeling tied
He watched her twirl and rise high.
Knowing he could never travel wide.
But what wonder, he was rising with her
The dust whirling, having great fun.
She cannot touch my core, he thought.
But when she settled, he felt heavy at heart.
She was the breeze who entered crevices.
Exploring dark corners he thought he kept a secret.

The water flowed, but thought with envy.
Ah she can travel, more than me!
I am bound by banks, but she knows no limits!
Even through territories uncharted like a spirit.
And he saw his surface rising in joyful waves.
Tiny droplets carried a long way off.
Falling on lands he dared not dream of.
She was the breeze who carried him easily.
To places he longed to visit secretly.

Fire roared and burned and thought himself strong!
And yet she tamed him so he may do no harm.
When he thought he would die out in shame.
She gently roused him to his former frame!
She teased him, lured him, carried him far.
Showed him his place when he puffed up too broad.
Never mind that she burned too to save.
She was the breeze who would rise again.
And she held in her hand all his secrets.

Calm, untouched, too far above all.
Ether felt benevolent, watching the tiny forms.
Scrambling hither and thither, sending prayers his way.
He thought he held in his hands their fates.
His vision blurred though with the cloud cover.
He rumbled angrily, sending lightening and thunder
She blew clouds away and made them scatter.
She was the breeze who defied his might.
Knowing how hard he kept his weakness a secret.

She was the breeze who gave them life.
She knew all their wily little secrets.
She knew the joys and sorrows they felt.
And played and teased when in the mood for it.
She would not be tamed or contained.
She gave all life, she knew with pride..
She was everywhere and yet unseen.
She was the breeze and she roared and whispered.
Through it all she keeps her secret!

The Shadow Lover

You are the sky to my earth
You are the rain to my pond
You are the ocean to my river
You are the cloud to my sun

You are the one I seek
In a quest that goes deep
When I am awake or asleep
Whether at home or in the street



When I hear your voice within
Ever so fast my heart beats
Like a flippant, fleeting vision
You slip before I can reason

Distracted by the forms around
I grab what comes anon
In ephemeral things I think
I find that thing that I seek

Is it too much to ask?
Is revealing yourself such a task?
Must you remain just a shadow?
No form that you could borrow?

To grasp you tightly
To feel your presence
To become one with you
Forever and ever.

The Prized Collection

Paloma glanced at the room, making sure it was spic and span, every object in its place. Her eyes then ran over the various mementos she had collected over the years during her travels. The large African tribal dolls, the Mexican hat on the wall, the miniatures from Thailand, the ivory table - again, from Africa... Juggling, shuffling, remodeling her rooms sometimes to fit in her acquisitions.

When her husband and she divorced a few years ago, she had negotiated hard to get this house with the artifacts. They hadn't fought so hard about the custody of the children even! Building on what she had - how she loved it! She had managed to find a job that helped her maintain her lifestyle. She traveled, collected, displayed them and invited people for parties so that her displays could be admired and envied. Once her children flew the nest, she felt all her restrains breaking. To the world and her friends, it looked as if she were filling the emptiness in her life with travel. But to her, the children had finally vacated the space she needed to explore the world more. Of course she loved them, they were her children, after all! But she could not hang them on walls. Their achievements were modest and sometimes a good excuse to entertain. Now...

The phone rang. "Hi baby!" she said, excited to hear from her daughter.

"How was your trip?" Tapasi asked.

"Great! I got a rare miniature painting that I just hung up near the staircase. You know the space..."

"Yea, yea... I know. I just called to say I maybe coming down next week for a couple of days."

"Oh how wonderful! You haven't seen the ivory box or the sandalwood..."

But her daughter impatiently ended the call. Paloma sighed sadly. Her daughter strangely did not share her excitement for beauty. She hoped at least her daughter-in-law would. After all, after her, it would all pass down to them and she hoped it was to someone who knew the worth of the things she had collected painstakingly.

But that was not to be. The young bride of her son was an outdoors person who traveled light and liked her house furnished simply. Paloma turned to her daughter, trying to get her excited, telling her of the money she spent on each piece, where she bought them, how she knew it was authentic stuff... Paloma hoped Tapasi was able to appreciate the time and effort each piece cost her.

When she breathed her last, her thoughts were for her possessions. Would they be taken good care of?

"This is like a museum!" Nethra, the daughter-in-law said as Paloma's children and their spouses sat around to discuss the next move. "Selling it is the only way out."

"But who will buy? Are they really worth it?" Veer, Paloma's son asked.

"How many times I told mom not to just keep getting things! I told her we have our own stuff to worry about, but she insisted it was for us! Let's just divide them and then do the best that we can!" Her voice broke as she remembered her mother's pride in her purchases, but frustration at being burdened with all this contorted her face.

The discussion continued long into the night, and Paloma's spirit, which lingered awhile, screamed in agony unheard as her callous children treated the artifacts with scant respect. How she wished she could take them with her to her new home! How she wished she could mark this address and be reborn. But already, she was dissolving into nothingness and her memory fading. Only the desire to cling to her acquisitions remained strong.

  

What's in a day?

"Is new year on Dec 13?" my younger one asked, perplexing me completely. Did he mean are we done with 2013 or something else? I nodded mechanically then asked him to repeat the question.

"Is new year on Dec 13?" he asked again, making me laugh.

Oh yes, he figured it out in a few seconds but I was amazed at how completely disconnected he was from the date. Was it because he was on vacation and doesn't need the dates?

Really, what do we need dates for? I hardly feel a day older than I did a few years ago (not from the day I was born. Of course, I have grown since but not like every year, every minute!). Unless there is a deadline or a flight to catch, the date and time all are relatively insignificant (okay, okay, there are the birthdays and anniversaries to remember). And then, deadlines are artificial pressures we create to add excitement to some of our lives and drag others down - life will not end if an upgraded version of a particular technology is not released on a particular day. And emergencies do not announce their date of arrival.

So let's just enjoy this day as any other - the sunshine, the cold, the rain, the day the night... Let's just enjoy every day.

Slow and Sure

"Madam, your brother and you shared a close bond?" the police inspector spoke with due respect.

Meena nodded, wiping tears from her red eyes. "Even after I married, he continued to live with me. He was like my son," she said, her voice breaking.

"He came into a lot of money, which he has bequeathed to you...?" he asked, his eyes keener.

She nodded. "Yes, he told me that. I had fallen in hard times a few years ago. A year or two later, he said he made money from some deal that had gone well. That is many years ago. Then, when his health started failing, he told me he had willed it all to me."

"And that was...when?"

"Oh, maybe five years ago..."

"By then your husband had passed away? You didn't move in with your brother?"

She shook her head. "I have fond memories of this place."

"Your brother's house was more comfortable..." the policeman lead her on.

She shook her head firmly. "I have too many things I am attached to here. I didn't care for his wealth."

"So what do you plan to do with what you have inherited?"

"Charity. I have something of my own that will see me through life."

The policeman looked at her sceptically, and yet, seeing her simple dignity, he could not suspect her for long. He got up finally, inclining his head respectfully, and left. No motive here. The neighbours vouched for the close relationship the siblings shared. The night before the brother, Mangesh, had died, she had come as usual, made him comfortable, cooked his dinner and left. He had even limped to the balcony and waved to her. "Life is a cycle, di," he had said and laughed. She had smiled back. "Yes, everything comes back full circle."

It was as usual. But he had died. Of poisoning. No trace of anything anywhere except in his stomach. Who administered it? This loving sister? Some passerby? He had no enemies, his sister vouched. No ghosts from the past, and no one other than the sister had been around him. Even if she was a suspect, there was nothing to prove anything... Maybe suicide. One fatal dose and end of story...

Meena had really given all the money away. She had told him even when he wrote the will. But when a week before Mangesh' death he mentioned he had already written the will, she had again demurred.

Now, she wanted nothing to do with it. It was not meant for her. It was money that would leave her bitter. Money that her husband and she should have enjoyed, that she should have had in her account, that would have been used to treat her husband. But Mangesh had cheated her of what should have come to her. "Folly of the youth," he had said watching her. "At that time, I needed money badly. Your husband told me about the big commission he had got for a deal he had clinched. You both would have put it in FD and watched it grow slowly. I promised him bigger returns and tempted him. He told me not to tell you."

She had tensed as he narrated the incident from so many years ago, when her husband had told her a good deal had turned sour. She had smiled and borne. "You couldn't make good your promise?" she asked, ready to forgive her brother the overconfidence.

He smiled, but continued to watch her. "How do you think I became rich?"

She breathed hard but her smile remained intact. "Why tell me now?"

"What I am giving you is yours. Don't refuse it..."

"What about what you should get?" she had asked after a long pause when she struggled with the feeling of shock that wouldn't go.

He touched her hand and said softly, "I have enjoyed all that I could. Now I am confined to my chair, my home... What can I do with the money?"

She shook her head. Yes, what can you do with obscene money when your body let you down? She nodded, "You are right. You can't do much. But that's not what I meant." She smiled reassuringly. He smiled, relieved to be her little brother again.

Her baby, the one she couldn't forgive... And now, she could never forget.

The poison, mixed with his food. For once, she cleaned the vessels and plates after he finished his meal to wash away all traces of poison. Slow but sure, she was assured by the Internet.

It had turned out to be right.