Ring in the new… and for crying out loud… throw away that flipflop!!

Pune. India. It is Ganapati Visarjan (the last day of the Ganesh festival when clay statues of the deity are immersed in water bodies). I am about nine years old and in the midst of a loud and festive procession.

The skies above have opened, and the festivities continue in the downpour. The streets are flooded, and people dance and hustle forward shoulder to shoulder in the rain.

My skinny self is smooshed by the crowds and once the water reaches near my knees, I am placed on my sister’s fiance’s shoulder. Drums continue to roll, people continue to dance, the music continues to blare, the rain continues to fall, the water continues to swirl at our feet. I am probably pleased to no longer have to struggle through the knee-deep water, and the vantage view from above, is far better, and far drier.  We are probably trying to get home and it is all quite exciting.

Up until one of my flipflops slips and falls into the water. I flail my arms and cry out, but by the time my family realizes or even hears my shrieks and screams, it is too late. The flip flop is nowhere to be seen. It is lost in the flooded rainwater and the sea of humanity.

I am distraught and predictably, more bawling ensues. I hold on tight to the other flipflop. Honestly, I can’t remember if I hold it safely close to my heart, or if it is still on my foot, with my toes clenched tightly around it. Either situation is possible. I continue to cry – of that, I am quite certain.

My mother assesses the situation and my tears. “Throw the other one away,” she shouts.

I cannot believe it. Even today, I feel that same disbelief creep up inside me as I type this.

“Oh, just throw it away. It’s of no use and it’s only going to make you cry more.”

As I type this, I marvel at her courage. As a parent, I wonder if I would have said something similar to my girl, or ahem… would I have carried the other flipflop carefully back home and made a little shrine for it. Trust me, I really don’t want to know the answer to that question.  

In my eyes, I suppose my mother never lacks courage. In my eyes, I always seem to lack courage.

But back to the flipflop. Funny how that random memory pops into my mind as I get ready to wrap up 2021 and embark on 2022. What would I like for 2022?

A small voice inside me answers… to throw away that flipflop…  

Let go of that flipflop… and of all the things that weigh me down, of all the things that serve me no more, of all the things I am holding on to… tightly… for absolutely no reason…

Not sure if this is an exercise in courage or in letting go. Perhaps the two are intertwined.

You know what your list is… beliefs, memories, traumas, old habits, perhaps, even some people… our lists are different, if we dare to make such a list.

Easier said than done. Just ask my nine-year-old bawling self. For grief is assured. Even when you know you are never ever going to wear it again, that holding on to it is pointless… The act of throwing it away, of chucking it in the flooded waters swirling beneath takes courage and facing that grief and sense of loss takes much bawling. Again, ask my nine-year-old bawling self.

Happy New Year everyone!! May we ring in the new and bravely throw away all that we’re holding on tightly… for no reason.

But wait, how does the Ganapati Visarjan flipflop story end?

I take a deep breath and against every fiber in my body, I let go of the flipflop…  

Which means there is hope and that many years later, I can probably do so again…

Happy 2022 everyone! I hope you find the flipflop/s you wish to throw away! And I hope you find the courage and compassion it will take to do so.

Much Love,

~ Ruta  

 

The sensitive types...

 I never post any of my “free writing”. The kind that starts without a point, a direction, just a feeling, the beating of my heart, thud…thud… and like an itch, which may or may not be safe to scratch, I scratch it… I will share this however… for sometimes when you poke a finger in… it creates a little hole, or widens one that already existed… and perhaps, just perhaps, that is that where Rumi’s words, “the place where the light enters”, ring true.

 

Some just feel more, see more, sense more, intuit more… hurt more. It’s a blessing. It’s a curse.

The sensitive types are the ones who write the most beautiful poems, paint the prettiest pictures, create astounding works of art. They are often also, a little bit broken. From all that they feel, all that they sense, all that which hurts within… that they sometimes turn into art.

Van Gogh, Baudelaire and many other I admire led unbearably sad lives, even when they left behind incredible works of art. Many successful artistes have lived far happier lives and continue to do so.

This is not about artistes whose sensitivity and talent have led to great art. This is about the sensitive types, who exist in the day to day, the mundane. Not that there isn’t art in their lives, or creativity and a little bit of craziness, that comes from the brokenness and the sensitivity. They live in a pragmatic, practical world, with rules and expectations, and defined roles to play… like round pegs in square holes. They fool the world. They cover their broken, they draw safe boundaries around their sensitivity, the wounds, all that within, which could possibly hurt. Sometimes the boundaries become walls.  

They live with the those who are not as sensitive. Those who are practical and efficient, and don’t fall apart and hurt as much. They live with those who take reality as it comes, with grace, with practicality, with rationale thinking. They find the best solution. They do what needs to be done. In that is their salvation, their peace. They don’t hurt as much.

They sensitive ones watch them. For they see everything, notice everything. Judgement sneaks in, rationality even. It seems the right way to live, the right way to be. Why then will the brokenness not go away, when they simply do the right thing that needs to be done. Why doesn’t the hurt go away when the make the wisest choice that is to be made.

Whilst inhabiting with the rationale, the pragmatic, the sensible, why does the hurt grow bigger, the hole wider? Why do they feel weirder, like there is something wrong with them for feeling the way they do? Why must they feel broken or empty while making the smart, wise, practical choices that the world expects them to?

How do the sensitive ones embrace their sensitivity whilst living a normal life in a normal world? Like the “happy artistes” from before, some seem to do so. And that seems like a quest worth taking for the sensitive types…

To live their lives, in the openness, and brokenness of their existence, to show off the wounds, and the sore sensitive parts, and feel at home in the world… in a world that allows it, accepts it… a world that allows those parts, those feelings, without dismissing them simply because they can’t see them, feel them, be them. The world would be lovely. For we need each other to balance it out. To balance us out…

The ten heads of Ravana… a retelling… of a retelling…

Today is Dassera. The day Rama destroyed Ravana in an epic battle involving monkey armies, monkey Gods, intriguing and powerful demons, and much valor and bravery. I have always loved the allegorical telling of this mythology… the victory of good over evil. Of Rama, the conqueror of all evil, the restorer of all good.

This morning, I peek into my yard and am delighted to see bountiful marigolds, yellow and orange. Nostalgic reminders of Dassera spent decades ago in India. Of my tiny fingers enthusiastically stringing marigolds garlands interspersed with mango leaves, of the bright orange and strings dotted with green, everywhere. Of books, vehicles, all “instruments” honored with marigold offerings. A bright auspicious day of new beginnings, fresh starts, of good overcoming the bad, the old, the unworthy.

Over the past years, I have seen images of Dassera wishes that depict the victory of good over evil within us. Ram is within us, as is Ravana. More allegorical mythology. I have paused, I have appreciated the thought and the retelling.

Images show a brave Rama destroying Ravana and his ten heads, often depicted as a shadow, emerging from the same place as does Rama. Rama and Ravana are intertwined, and Rama destroys Ravana and his ten heads, each of which depicts a vice within us – victory of good over evil, within ourselves.

In the past, these images have given me pause. I have appreciated them. I have aspired to awaken the Rama within, to destroy the demonic Ravana with the ten heads – each symbolizing vices that don’t I don’t need … fear, anger, insecurity, jealousy, worry… you get the drift.

Today, I see one such image. It gives me pause, again. But something feels different, and I poke and prod that uncomfortable feeling. And it gives me pause, again.

The ugly ten heads of Ravana do exist in most of us – like from an ice-cream parlor, each of us has our own ten flavors and ten heads. And while it would be wonderful to be a brave and valiant Rama, destroying, crushing to the ground, turning to ash, those ugly heads that we no longer wish to have inside us, I suspect it may be more complicated – for they are far too interwoven in our being. Whether or not we may be proud of them, whether or not we may be aware of their existence, whether or not we may be in denial of their being, truth remains that they are still a part of us, and a part of who we are. 

This realization and my analysis or retelling even, of the symbolic heads of Ravana seems doomed. It has neither the valor, nor the grandiosity of the mythological narration, nor the romanticized allegorical beauty or happy ending. The inspiring story I have grown up with, is far more satisfying and one I want to believe in for it tells me that the brave will win, and the menacing will be vanquished.

But again, can we simply tear down the ugly ten heads inside us – entwined in us, forming a part of who we are? There may be a reason why each of those heads came to be in the first place. And where I stand today, it feels impossible to simply destroy those ugly heads without understanding how and why they came to be and why they exert a force, desirable or not it may be.

From where I stand today, something tells me that rather than make them our enemies, and destroy them with bows and brave arrows, we must somehow inch closer to them, to see them, understand them. Maybe even find the courage to befriend them a little.

And while it seems far less heroic or romantic than pelting them with brave arrows and blows, it may take far more courage than that involving those brave arrows and blows. And it may need compassion, big, brave compassion, which may seem incongruous in their face; it may need maturity and understanding and self-love, to get closer to them, to not hate them, to not see them as their enemy.

And maybe that will cause them to soften and lose their grip over us. And that may still be victory of good over evil. Even if it looks different from the mythological tales.

They may not be reduced to dust to simply vanish from our being, but they will lose their grip over us and allow us to be free. They may always continue to exist and may always have the potential to rear their ugly heads, for they are a part of us… and yet, we may have won… without going to battle…

Another September…

Birthdays are for cake and celebration and plenty of attention. As we age, birthdays are often, for reflection.

It may not be the fact of another year passing, or the increased wisdom acquired from another year (ahem… even I claim so, despite its wobbly truth), it’s simply the time of the year. Each year.

I have written other blog posts about September and birthdays, about passing years, and changing seasons, about time and its fluidity and I continue to wonder where we fit in this continuum. Are we bystanders watching time flow and leaves change color? Are we in a symbiotic dance with it, influenced by it, influencing it? Are we trying to control it, wanting to turn it, taking charge of the now, so we can influence its course? Time passing now, connected to the future… are we living in that future, in a time that is yet to happen, futile even if it may be…or are we eyeing the heap of passaged time, wondering where it went, what we did, regrets, joys, hopes… all part of that heap?

Clearly, I have no answers. Only questions. And fleeting thoughts… like time fleeting…

I love that my birthday coincides with a season of change. Is youth the warm summer soaked in sunshine that I don’t want to see end? And yet, it must... and I must let it go. Will I do so with ease and grace and wisdom, or will there be kicking and screaming involved?  Wisdom (recently acquired or not) tells me there is only one way to do so, and the feathery, falling leaves show me how.

I love that my birthday coincides with a season of change. Inviting movement, inviting letting go, changing… Like the leaves turning colors, and swirling away from the trees, I wonder how much there is to let go of, how much is held inside me, from the passing year, from the passing years… Can it just as organically, swirl and move away from my body and being… like a floating leaf of autumn? All that no longer serves me, all that which is best released, leaving me lighter, happier in the now…  

Another September… another year passing… wispy thoughts… swirling about in the autumn breeze…

When you must choose… what must die…

Last summer, I put in a pretty plant in my tipped pot and watch it bloom and pour out of the pot just as meant to.  

This summer, I move the hose away, choose not to water it and watch it shrivel away and die.

Life is strange like that. Life makes us do strange things. Sometimes, for something to live, something must die…

My dog likes to follow me around as I potter about in the yard. Stick her nose in the herbs, sniff the tomatoes as I pluck them, chase the squirrel, only to be tormented as the squirrel perches on the fence and mocks the silly dog, and of course, she is absolutely beside herself in excitement when I cut a zucchini.  A little yip, some excited circles around herself, a few jumps to reach the vegetable in my hand. This dog loves zucchini.

Last month, during her explorations, she surveys the tipped pot. When suddenly she leaps back and runs as fast as her short legs can carry her, all the way to the other side of the yard. Zoomies ensue and I wonder what got into her. Crazy dog, I shake my head dismissively and continue with my work.

Later, as I water the plant in the tipped pot, a bird flaps out furiously, mad at being disturbed. Oops, sorry I say to it, I didn’t know you were resting in there.  

The next day, the same thing happens again, and I move the hose away from the plant. I notice the dog is wary of the tipped pot. I decide to explore. I peer inside to see a tiny nest, constructed neatly and industriously.

I marvel at the beauty and hard work of the bird, now perched on the fence, squeaking madly. I gather that in bird language, these can only amount to expletives. Step away, you crazy woman… and that water… %$#@%#%...

The dog on the other hand, eyes the tipped pot warily as I approach it, following cautiously, making sure to hide and stay behind me. My big, brave, guard dog. Sigh…

After I’m done admiring the bird’s craftsmanship, reality strikes. My poor plant will have to die. This twisted tragedy of nature can put any Greek tragedy to shame – only one can live. One must live and the other must die.  

I look at the bird in exasperation. Don’t you see all the many possible spots here? I ask it. Perfect places for your perfect nest that wouldn’t involve intentionally dehydrating and killing plants in a summer of record high temperatures?

Stop flapping and screeching, I tell the bird. Your future chickees are safe here. The hose will not come anywhere near the pot. As for the dog, I don’t know quite what you did, but she won’t be poking her nose in the pot either. But again, you seem to have taken care of that already.

You win, you annoying bird. So, stop squawking. There will be other plants in that tipped pot’s future. You build the best nest possible in my tipped pot and take good care of those future chickees.

Life is strange like that. Something must die… and sometimes you choose what it will be…

And sometimes, despite the wistful twinge at the sight of the dried-up plant, there is a the joy for that which you allowed to live.

The scooped out tree

The tree stands tall, majestic, reaching out to the skies… and hollow. In its grandeur and strength, it stands there… oddly empty. Like someone has scooped out its insides, carved its innards, brutally, angrily, leaving it open, its void exposed, cavernous where its insides once stood… gaping. 

The thoughts that cross my mind may or may not be a result of binge-watching Criminal Minds as a family. The soundness of that decision and my good judgement I question with each episode. Sigh… but these are the thoughts that grip my mind as I gaze at the tree, hundreds of years old - broken, and yet whole.

I wonder how long it has been broken. I wonder what happened. Could it be heart break, a gut wrenching pain, a tragedy… travesty, despair, dashed dreams, lost love or friendship, unkindness… and other things that leave us feeling hollow and gutless within. Things that allow us to function, but nothing can ever completely fill the hole, the void, the emptiness… 

Things happen, shit happens… to most of us. How much it corrodes our insides varies from person to person, to how sensitive we may be, to the extent of the trauma, to how many different things we may have had to endure in the past – small things, big things, piercing things, even the slightest of things – there’s no knowing what will eat at our insides and to what extent.

I touch its grizzly bark. Every wrinkle, every fold has a story. What broke you, I ask the tree. What consumed your insides? Why you, and not the one standing next to you? The wise wrinkled bark has all the answers, I am certain. Yet, its hollow and brokenness will always be a mystery. I will never know the story.  

I move my gaze from the gaping hole to that which stands, that which holds, that which allows the tree to be every bit the tree it is.

I hold my breath. The idea of “brokenness” has no place in nature. It is only a narrative of what has happened, the life the tree has led, and that which it continues to do so… in flourish. Nature is cruel, nature is wise, nature has no room for pettiness, smallness or regret. It moves and continues to move. That is all it knows to do. That is all this tree knows to do. 

I move my gaze from the empty to that which stands, that which holds, that which allows the tree to be every bit the tree it is.

The parts that hold it are strong. The parts that hold the tree are unflinching. They have no time to miss their missing pieces. They do what they know to do and hold the tree and allow it to flourish and thrive, gaping holes notwithstanding. The branches widen above and reach to the skies - just as they were meant to. And that is all that matters. That is all that can ever matter. 

Poetry

Word after word on reams and reams of paper often fail to express what a swift, short poem will. Reams and reams of paper, with lines and lines of ink, will often fail to move us, the way a few short lines in verse will.

For a poem is a nugget of conciseness, of consciousness, holding together a scattering of ideas, experiences, emotions... Set often to rhythm and meter, that resonate with the beating of our heart, evocation of times and moments, of thought…

Last week, Literary Arts hosted a virtual talk by author, Madeline Miller. In talking about her craft, she mentioned that she often starts her workday by reading poetry. The succinctness of poetry helps her keep her prose tight and adhere to a certain economy of words, finding the choiciest and the most succinct.

For poets do that. They must. They compress into a few scant lines, reams of narratives, stories, feelings, and emotions.

I too have returned to poetry, ahem… even if my “art” has nothing to show for it. But in times of illness, when I did not have the energy to read pages and pages, when reading a few lines was all I could do - before my eyes closed, or nausea struck. With poetry, even if my eyes shut after a poem, or at times, after a few lines, the words and emotion carried further and longer than their sparse characters. It gave me the opportunity to remain surrounded by books and ideas, and the creative thought process. It allowed me a sense of normalcy when there was no semblance of any. In my heart and in my body. 

I too have returned to poetry, mostly unfinished, unpolished poetry. I seem to not complete it, to not finish saying everything I started out to. And while it would be nice to finish and polish the poems, with poetry, even in a finished poem, sometimes, you do not need to fill the blanks. The wholeness seems to come together, in its scattering, from the juxtaposition of ideas, from sparse strewn words, compacted with meaning and emotion.

It may be the blank spaces, the negative space in art, that draws the eye and the mind to that which is most important and moving.

I have no delusions of being any kind of a poet, trust me. But how can I forget the joy it brought me as a kid? In my childhood I wrote verses, with the clear and lofty literary goal to infuse in them, as much silliness as possible and incite as many giggles as possible. Move over Shakespeare. 

In school, whilst something way-more-important was being taught was invariably the most “creative hour” in this young poet’s life. Silly rhymes scribbled on chits of paper and passed around, to be received by muffled giggles to more “literary works” (sic) written in college classrooms. These masterpiece verses sometimes involved Baudelaire, Flaubert, Montesquieu et al, melodramatically lamenting, in their own genre, of course, the treatment that their oeuvres were being put through at our hands. Irreverent, metered, pointless and futile words, even if at-times intelligent – even if the intelligence, largely misplaced. Oh, the irreverence and arrogance of youth. Seems almost a delicious thing – noticed only when gone.

In Journalism school, I was surrounded by enough crazies, all very talented, of course, that the notes we passed in class, all in rhyme, the rhyme continuing as it passed, resulted in nothing short of literature.

Poetry has always been a part of my life, and I realized why when a friend recently commented on social media oh how our school (K-10, in India) forced poetry appreciation in English, Marathi and Hindi upon us. It was one of my most favorite part, surprisingly, in all three languages and I remember the slim poetry books we had in addition to our regular school curriculum.

Poetry recitation was also a thing and an expectation. We were required to learn poems “by heart” (as we called it) or to recite from memory. And as we grew older, and smarter (ahem), we got more creative. Wordsworth would most likely, turn in his grave to hear his beloved Daffodils, set to the music of the then Bollywood hit, Papa kehte hain, or Madonna’s True Blue - both work beautifully, by the way.

Our Marathi teacher insisted we put a tune to the poems (she also refused to teach us the tune), and that may be where this began. Boy, how we adapted. 80s music prevailed and renowned Marathi poet, Kusumagraj’s Saagar, was set to the Bollywood hit, Chehra hai ya… When asked to recite the poem, (I think it was part of our testing), I do vaguely remember standing in front of the class and belting out the poem Bollywood-ishtyle. Our teacher was okay with it (I think). I adored her and she instilled such love of poetry in me, even when we were singing it Bollywood-style.

I may not remember what I ate for lunch yesterday, but I spout random verses from my childhood. Some years ago, a friend started reading out a poem at a dinner gathering. I realized I still knew it “by heart”. Before I could hold my tongue, or my excitement, there I was reciting it, (such a showoff…sigh...). And as I got further into it, I realized I couldn’t do it without the Bollywood tune. Ahem… so I added that in as well (cringing now… Sigh…). Apologies to this friend, his calm reading of the poem would definitely, have been better than my-partly-set-to-Bollywood version.

Yes, poetry has always been a part of my life. And I can’t help wonder, if it is a dying art in today’s world? A dying art, in terms of appreciation, of relevance, of its lack in the educational curriculum. Yes, you can imagine the many eyerolls I receive from my teenager, each time I lament that they do not have enough poetry in their curriculum. Like a stuck record, I repeat, each time, how when I started learning English, it was the third language I was being introduced to, and yet, I have studied way more poetry than she has. Another eyeroll. Sigh…

Poetry, and art in general, have their place and always will. But will we consider it a thing of frivolity, and not serious-enough to deserve our energy and our attention?   

So, imagine my joy to hear that the absolute superstar poet, Amanda Gorman will recite poetry before the Superbowl. To see a poet receive the same stature of recognition and of coolness as a pop diva artiste.

For there will always be poets. There have been from the start of time. And there will be, till the end of time. That I know. For there are things that need to be said, there are emotions that need to be felt… and poets with their exquisite scattering of words take us there.

And as a way to apologize to Wordsworth for setting his beautiful poems to 80’s music, I will end with his quote, that says it all…

“Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity.” — William Wordsworth,

 

Tilgul ghya… goad goad bola

Today is Makar Sankranti. A Hindu festival that celebrates the Sun. Although it is rarely sunny on January 14 (or January 15) in the part of the world I currently live in, the soul, the heart of the festival spreads warmth. Even when there is little outside.

My memories of festivals mostly revolve around food, the sweets in particular, the festivities, the people. I remember the making of tilgul, the super sticky jaggery, melted and mixed with toasted sesame (with coconut and peanuts in some recipes), flavored with a heady dash of cardamom. With palms greased with ghee, plenty of ghee, the balls are rolled out whilst the mixture is still warm, or smooshed and flattened into a large plate, to be cut into square, rectangles or my favorite, diamond shapes.

A word of warning about the warm gul (jaggery) and warm tilgul. Boy, does the sticky mixture hold heat! My tongue may still be recovering from the PTSD of my youthful tilgul delinquencies - ahem…of trying to get some before it cooled.

Dedicated to the sun, the festival marks the onset of warmer weather and longer days. While most Hindu festivals follow the lunar calendar and hence fall on different dates every year, Sankranti, is the only festival (that I know), that follows the solar system and the Gregorian calendar and falls on the same day every year (well, sometimes, a day difference).

In Maharashtra, tilgul ghya goad bola... is what you say when you give tilgul to one another. Translated literally, “Take this sweet, and speak sweet”. I suppose it signifies allowing sweetness into our lives, letting go of the dark and the grudges, of new beginnings amidst the increasing light.

Celebrated differently in different parts of India, the theme remains the same. The end of dark times.

Traditionally, these festivals hold their origins in harvest cycles and significances. And although not many of us will go out into our fields today, we could adapt them to the world around us and apply their significance to our current urban worlds, our political climates, our hopes and our humanity.

And while my mind was sweet and nostalgic this morning, with memories of tilgul, and the smell of warm gul (jaggery), scrumptious gulpolis, and even a blister or two from eating tilgul before it cooled, my mind was also entrenched in recent political events.

Earlier, I had started this poem and some rambling thoughts on recent political events. I may never complete the poem, and the rambling thoughts are probably incongruous in a piece filled with sweet memories and sticky sesame sweets. Yet, I will stick them right there… for after all, that is the life we live in. With all its duality.

 History repeats, they say,

With a shrug, insouciant

It’s happened afore

We’ll watch it unfold again

But who are the “they”

Can “they” be the “we”

who say no, to repeating history

To senseless actions

That destroy our peace

How long will we hide

behind complacent beliefs

That history repeats

 Leaders wield power. Even the weakest, the most cowardly, the most brazen. They hold in their hands, the ability to mobilize the masses. For at least someone will follow, without questioning the wisdom in the message, in the rhetoric, without forethought of its consequences.

Leaders wield power. Power to sway the masses. Mold minds. Influence the course of history. You don’t have to be a media studies student to know that it is simply a matter of repeating a message over and over till it seems true. Ask Goebbels or his ghost. Or the modern-day Goebbels that seem to crop up the world over. And we let them. For in our complacence, we have accepted that history repeats.

And even if the above thoughts are a jolt from the sticky sweetness of my nostalgia, I cannot find a better time, a better festival, one that celebrates the Sun and new beginnings to talk about recent political events with fervent hopes of more light and brighter days and new beginnings…

Tilgul ghya goad goad bola…