Riyaaz

She sang every afternoon. In the dry dusty heat of Delhi. She sang in a tan-colored room. Patterned curtains closed against the sun. Windows open in the hopes of a breeze. She sang to Bhairav and Bhairavi, she cuddled Yaman. She lingered over Khamaj and fancied the Bihaag. But most of all she sang to that shadow that stopped under her window. Every day at 3 PM. A figure right under her window that she could not see. That she spotted only as a shadow cast against the tarmac. That she noticed by chance when reaching for a sheet drying over the rails two weeks ago. That shadow appeared everyday. She would pause in the middle of her riyaaz and quietly tiptoe out to check and then tiptoe back. And resume singing. And when she stopped at 4PM the shadow would be gone. She did not wish to confront. But who can curb a young heart's fantasy? And soon her notes flew from her to that shadow - pure, golden notes carrying her youthful crush, resonant with hours of riyaaz. And now she sang of Krishna playing holi. She described the torment of unrequited love. She wove dreams into taranas. And all the while her heart bloomed. Her voice carrying a sweetness that no teacher could bequeath - that scorched her mother's heart. That scorned the hearts of dry dozing housewives. That burned into the minds of stern old men lounging in front of TVs. It burst through the sleep of slumbering toddlers and beckoned them with foreign urgency. It stirred passion in docile housemaids. It reminded the watchmen of their youthful dreams of glory.

And they all cried STOP! For the love of god STOP!


She was 19. Her name was ....Riyaaz.

Once upon a shower

As I showered today
In misty hot water
The sill of the window
Did cause me to totter
There lying quite still
In a tranquil heap
Was a tiny mosquito
In soundless sleep
I peered intently
So difficult to tell
Death from slumber
But I did it well
Why it is quite dead
Not asleep at all
I thought to myself
And made a wise call
I turned away softly
Letting it be
If thats what it wanted
What is it to me?

Tendrils

I stepped out of the rat race- into my house - to create a home. And ironically I detect a loss of my sanity within this peace. Without the experience of a struggle, the mind is fogged by peace, my heart is riddled with attachments. When I slow down to really view life, I realize how utterly beautiful she is. How gorgeous is every second spent alive.
So how do I love my children - and not fear death? How do I live with a loving husband - and not fear loss? What is this about life that every turn is full of conundrums? Little ironical twists that have me plunging my innards for rationality, equanimity, humor, courage. I am told to stand in the midst of this tempest- clothes billowing, hair streaming- but not blink!
A while ago I could have honestly say I did not fear death. That I did not dread my absence, I did not cringe at nights. Now I feel tendrils all around me curling, tightening, lulling my awareness, dulling my alertness. Fragrant tendrils of decieving sweetness.
Perhaps life is so full of care, because if you do stop and stare- the withering rose can break your heart.

Thinking idly.....

Was I tricked into life? By a charming cheating God?
Or was I bullied down by an enraged deity?
Or did I choose to arrive and someone waved fond farewell?
I wish I knew.
So I could move on with living.
Know its pointlessness or appreciate its significance.
All this mystery.
Do I own it or does it own me?
Perhaps it was conspired by the sky, so occassionally we stare up in wonder.
Or by the oceans, so we search their depths with keen eyes.
Or by babies, so we are full of wonder at their birth.
So in the end do we resign or get the pink slip?

Vedant-ism

Mommy! I only think in school! (in response to what are you thinking?)


That cloud is not happy (pointing to a black rain cloud)


No! My poo poo is inside my butt (when asked if he has had a poopy accident)