Wishful Thinking

Let me be an instrument that plays in harmony with the music of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

When I die, let me become the spectrum.

I will be black and absorb all colours
I will be white and reflect all colours
I will be red and glow with the energies that fuel the Universes
I will be blue in agreement between the oceans and the skies in all the Universes
I will be green as the tenderness and vulnerability of the birth of every new universe
I will be yellow and shed my warmth and light on every soul in every universe that is and that will be and that has the potential of becoming.

A Sermon

Assume Earth is the womb of an organism we have named “Universe.”

Each living, breathing creature, every natural phenomenon, then, is a cell within this organ of the larger organism that is our Universe.

Each cell, of every colour, shape, size, capacity and talent, has a very specific and vital part to play in the grand scheme of the birth of new generations of Universes.

When the cells perform their tasks in harmony, the Universe hums in contentment and new Universes are born, each perfect in its potential for being and becoming.

When the cells become hostile to each other, when they show aggression towards each other, when they assault each other and kill each other, a cancer is formed. Organs are affected. Systems are diseased. The womb is weakened. The potential foetus is damaged. The gene pool is diminished.

The Universe loses a child, a line, a possibility, a potential…

Cells beget cells. Creatures beget creatures. Life begets life. Worlds beget worlds. Universes beget universes.

There may be a tremendous difference of scale between cells and Universes, but a single defect in a single cell ripples in effects and consequences not only through the Universes that exist but also through those that have the potential to exist.

Every chirp, every bark, every rustle, every waterfall, every chant, every rhythm, every song, every tune participates in the vast, everlasting symphony of the spheres just as every soul of every being participates in the spirit of the Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

Every whimper, every groan, every cry, every slap, every voice raised in anger, every curse given in hate, every howl of pain, every uproar, every gunshot, every explosion, every detonation blasts a false note, a discord, a disagreement, a friction and participates in adding disharmony to the everlasting Universes that are and that will be and that have the potential of becoming.

I believe...(for now, at least!)

I have no fixed and codified self; no identity that has a permanent design.

I am a kaleidoscope of multiple identities; a shifting composite of little, fragmented, brilliantly coloured pieces of all my experiences, all the cities I have inhabited; all the diverse lives I have lived.

I believe there is a precision intelligence behind and beyond the universe.

I believe all forms of being, however nanoscopic, are whole and universal in themselves and that they are all constantly caught in a continuous process of becoming.

I believe each becoming whole is an integral and organic part of some other, bigger and becoming whole and so on, past the becoming universe. Ergo, the universe is intelligent, living, expanding and forever becoming as are the stars, planets and we who inhabit them, bacteria, viruses, algae et al.

I believe it is our duty every moment to desire to find our changing roles in the changing universes and discharge those roles to the best of our capacity as long as they last.

If we are cancerous cells in the kidney of our universe and it is our role for this moment to cause renal failure in order that a nephritic cure might evolve for other universes, then we must fulfill that potential.

On Walking Behind Your Man

There is absolutely no denying or disputing the fact that our Indian society still wants women to follow their men.
The wife, by her very definition in our culture, plays supporting role to her husband who is the hero:
She is अर्धांगिनी (ardhangani), one half of her husband.
She is सहधर्मिणी (sahadharmini), an associate in the fulfillment of his human and divine goals;
She is सहकर्मिनी (sahakarmini), a co-worker in all his efforts
She is सहयोगिनी (sahayogini), a helper in all his ventures.

This has been true from the time of the Vedas:
“I will be the Saaman (music) and may you be the Rk (the Vedic text being cast into music).
Let me be the heavens (the upper world) and let you be the Bhumi or Mother Earth.
I will be the Sukla (life force) and may you be the bearer of that Sukla॥
Let me be the mind and let you be the speech.
May you follow me to conceive children and gain worldly as well as spiritual wealth."

It has been true through Manu’s description of the ideal female partner for a man—who, by the way, should be about one-third his age—
" karyeshu dasi, a slave/servant in her work
karaneshu mantri, with the administrative powers of a minister
bhojyeshu maatha, who can feed you like a mother
shayaneshu rambha, and please you like Rambha in bed
kshamaya dharitri" and who has the forbearance, the patience—the sahanshakti—of Earth

It has been true through Kalidas, who said:
“Women go the way of their husband as moonlight follows the moon or lightning the cloud”
And it is true as propagated by all our immensely popular television serials that begin with the letter 'K'.

Much more, it is still true as lived by millions of women all over India.

Therefore, let’s take that part for granted.
Society desires women to walk one step behind their men.

But does higher social approval come to the women who follow in their husband’s footsteps? Who do not deviate? Who never challenge the norm? Who do the done thing, so to speak?
Therein lies the rub.

Society may expect a woman to be one way, may prescribe a woman’s ideal, but it reserves its approval—its esteem, its appreciation, its recognition, its awards, its admiration, its praise, respect and acclaim—for those women who flout all the expectations and defy its prescriptions.

Think of any Indian woman who has had any impact through myth and legend and history:
Durga, Kali, Draupadi, Rani Lakhshmibai, Indira Gandhi, Mother Teresa

Think of any contemporary Indian woman who has achieved social recognition or appreciation—Rekha, Sushmita Sen, Arundhuti Roy, Mira Nair, Kiran Mazumdar Shaw, Sania Mirza,

You will find that they are all women who do not recognize any social limits on their beings. They are all women who stride way ahead, or go away, or create their own difficult road.

They are all women who do not follow the beaten path.

On the other hand, think of the women who did the done thing:
Sita did every single thing by the book. Did it get her her society’s approval?
Madri was the perfect wife who even committed sati with Pandu. But who gets all the attention? Kunti, a woman with a curious past and her own mind.
Krishna’s wives committed jauhar after him. Do we know their names? The names we associate with Krishna and celebrate and adore are of two of the most deviant women in their society—Radha and Meera.
Littérateurs like Kalidasa and Tulsidas became men of learning because of their wives. Do we know who they were?

It’s very simple, really.
When you follow behind, you remain unseen, unsung, unnoticed—taken for granted and therefore uncelebrated.
When you walk ahead, or walk away, you are seen, followed, recognized, validated.

So ladies:
By all means, walk a step behind your husbands.
Do it so you can support them and prop them up to give the world the illusion that they have a spine.
Don’t expect social approval for doing it.

Feel free to follow in your husband’s footsteps.
Do it so you can clean up his messes and do damage control.
Don’t expect society to validate your hard work and celebrate you for it.

Take the backseat when your husband drives.
Do it so you can drive him where you want to go.
Don’t do it for any respect or rewards from society.

One More Reason to Dis-organise Religion

In religion and politics, fatwas are issued, tankhaiyyas made, idols broken, ancient mosques razed, missionaries burnt alive by mobs.

In real life, however, individuals interact with other individuals. Priyanka’s rich father will react one way to his daughter marrying poor Rizwanur. Anju’s father may react entirely differently.

In real life, Anju marries Husien and they both retain their religions and raise a wonderful, intelligent, sensitive child called Samir who is comfortable with both his mosque and his gurudwara.

In real life, Fatima Bibi runs an old age home in Chennai. She has a Ganesh idol at the entrance and performs Ganesh aarti every Friday and distributes prasadam to her 45 "guests."

In real life, my friend Hulya Celek of Selcuk, daily battles the custodians of her own religion so she can extend the boundaries of her existence just a little bit more.

In real life, Basheer the driver recites the Sikh “mool mantra” every day and that does not detract from his being a good musalman.

In real life, many Muslim women in rural Bengal wear the sindur, bindi, shakha and pala—so called Hindu symbols of a “sadhaba” (a married woman whose husband is still alive.)

Of course, in real life there is also Salim the carpenter, whose past experiences with Hindu households had taught him that water and tea would be served to him in “other” cups and glasses.

And of course, in real life there is Ali, my carpenter of many years, who is a brilliant craftsman and a man of tremendous integrity. But Ali will not eat in my house.

In real life, individuals meet and interact with individuals. In real life, communities are made of the people living in the neighbourhood or going to the same school or joining the same club.

If only the mosques, the temples, the gurdwaras, the churches didn’t form such a big part of real life.

Why This?

Once again that same old same old.

"Why do you write what you do?"
According to some of my anonymous readers, my poems are weird and incomprehensible; my stories are twisted; my descriptive pieces are too detailed; my ramblings about life are really eccentric and in general my stuff is too complicated to read.

The experts, on the other hand, find my writing "really interesting" and advise that my non-fiction is "strong and vibrant" and that my poems are "gnomic" and "aphoristic" with "compelling visual imagery" and that I should leave everything else and concentrate on the poetry and descriptive pieces.

More believing of my anonymous readers, however, I ask myself:
Why do I write?

I can’t sing a sunset or paint my fears; I cannot dance my experiences or play the rhythms of my children on musical instruments. As a child in school, I used to envy my talented friends their natural gifts of expression. When Gargi danced Shiva’s tandav, my heartbeat changed to the pulse of her feet; when Amrita sang "Bridge Over Troubled Waters," my insides melted; when I saw Pinkie's “Rainy Day,” I wanted to pour black poster paint all over mine.

But I never envied anybody’s writing.

So I write because I can.

As for why I write what I do,
I write myself. That's why.