Wrong Parcel

Last evening, while driving home, I was waiting at the red signal. When it turned green, the car ahead of me refused to move! I honked and honked, but it seemed like there was a problem with the car. I started panicking! I turned on the hazard lights as the cars on either sides were going past me in full speed. I was terrified. My heart was beating doubly fast. I imagined a car dashing me from behind and the air bags being inflated and my face being bruised! The signal turned red again. This drama continued in my head making me sweat profusely. I indicated to turn left so that I could escape that lane. But when the signal turned green again, the stationary car just zoomed ahead , turned right and drove away as if nothing had happened! And here, my heart was pounding and sweat was trickling down my temples and through the curve of my spine till I reached home. I felt like crying out loud. But no one seemed to notice anything unusual about me.

I realised, I have been crying on the inside for the past five years, ever since I lost my beloved mother. Everyone thinks I am fine and I have dealt with it rather well! But when I am in a stressful situation, my grief gets triggered and I feel I have lost everything I had earned. I drift back to that forced home quarantine period of COVID days in April 2021, when we had returned after travelling to India to say a final goodbye to my mother till her ashes merged with the river bed. The helplessness, the incapacitation, the worries, the profoundness of the loss just return and all that yoga and meditation done for the past five years, goes back to level zero, where I find myself standing at the bottom of that deep chasm in the earth’s belly, with no way to climb out. It feels like standing in a lift well going many floors below the ground level.

Most times the reason for the traumatic chaos in our mind , seems to have dissipated, but we continue to suffer habitually. The burdens I have been carrying were never only in my share. Those who may have passed on their troublesome baggage onto my shoulders are free, with no excess baggage. Mentally, it is me, who is living in that tiny house by the railway line, that I knew, was never meant for me, but it was the unluckiest thing that could have landed in my lap. It has been the metaphor for the worst mental prison, with no sunlight, no wind, that my mind knows, I did not deserve in the first place. While the others are now living in the palace, co-designed by me,  I dwell in the bitterness of having lost many important things, which others haven’t lost..at least yet! Now my childhood home is added to the list... The garden and the swing keep calling me out to play, but I know its a teasing mirage to slap myself out of daydreams.

Sometimes I think, the wrong parcel of troubles was delivered to me by accident. My name was not even written on the package. I was the emergency contact for the one the parcel was addressed to!  If it wasn’t for me, why am I still holding on to it? Its time I let myself off the hook... to walk out of the victim’s stand and from the judge’s chair, just to sit and watch my life as the audience.

What is forgiveness after all ? Nothing but choosing your own freedom against someone else’s fault...

:: Artwork from my book, Amaira the little woman ::

Far Behind

Carrying a couple of rugged suitcases,

he waits alone on the crowded platform,
for the known train to take him,
this time, to innings unknown...

Seventy five living years,
unbelievably fit into just two bags.
Excess baggage lies in memories,
stacked in dark caves of the mind.

His trembling hand grapples,
to hold a mounting mental load,
of the past six active decades,
upon a bent, less- than- six- foot frame.

A father gave up his only home,
that was struggling to stay alive
without the lively presence of his wife,
and his daughters’ childhood gone by...

That vintage photo album preserves
selected proofs of his story,
kept aside with musty old books,
and a lovingly hand knitted sweater.

Double set of washed clothes,
a spare pair of reading glasses,
twin dentures, one came free with another.
Two of everything, but a single soul.

His ideals wont let him admit,
how tired and lost he has felt.
Being independent is not the same
as living forlorn with loneliness...

He longs to hear a familiar voice,
call him for dinner with a dialogue...
a caring hand to help with chores
and making the unmade bed.

As he looks out from the railway carriage,
yesteryear flashing past teary eyes,
something important seems missing...
perhaps half of himself is left far behind...

#oldage #fathersanddaughters #homefarbehind 

:: For my father, who left his only home far behind...He now lives in my sister's loving home. But its hard for him to live away from his hometown, where he lived for six decades of his life! He keeps revisiting his old life from time to time... ::

Purr-A-Dise

I was collecting flowers in the community garden that morning. Just then, I saw two white paws under the Bougainvillea bush, trying to catch my hands playfully. I recalled a similar flutter in my tummy! Oh, I know this feeling!

She walked out lazily, stretching with every step, and greeted me with a “ Meow”. That’s my favourite language, I admitted with a smile. She gave me a nudge with her small furry head and her purrs so loud, coordinated with my fast paced heartbeats. She reminds me of Rumi! The same thoughtful eyes, impish whiskers, soft muddy paws. Not too young, not too big. Just the right active size for a kitten. Oh, how this familiar feeling tugs at my heart strings!

Unlike Rumi, she has a few brown spots on her white and black fur. The kids in the community have named her “ Cookie” - the brown spots are for chocolate chips in the cookie! She follows me like she already knows me and my scent. This morning, she followed me home, sniffed the doormat and stretched to sleep on it, just like Rumi did. I don't have any cat food these days. I distributed it all two years ago at the street-cat Iftar party, I planned for them.

I don't have anything but affection to offer now...my heart overflows with love, when I pet her and stroke her chin. This is the unique kind of purest love that only pets seem to bring out from us! She gives me an instant purring feedback to reciprocate the feelings. She walks through my legs, nudging me with her head again, just like Rumi...

The doors to my heart were shut tight after Rumi wandered away. I convinced myself with the karmic contract reasoning, of a cat’s purpose in our life. But why does this kitten knock ever so softly on those doors...trying to open them and peep into my heart...

The two predators, Simba and Ginger from the neighbourhood are quite old now. Ginger is too lazy to move. Simba challenges himself with chasing this new kitty on the block. She swiftly climbs the trees and he cannot reach her. He is too chubby to climb trees. In short, she knows how to take care of herself. Everyone feeds her lovingly. She can easily survive in the community garden, hiding under the bushes and sleeping on the moist earth.

One afternoon, she followed my boys home after school, giving them that familiar loving feeling. She stretched out on the doormat and we could see the silhouette of her paws under the door. Rumi used to play with the doormat and pull it from outside. We used to notice the pulled mat and open the door for her. She used to have that mischievous glint in her eyes!

It feels like a gift, finding this lovable creature in the garden, by serendipity. Whenever I see her playing on the lawn, I am tempted to pick her up and take her home. But she belongs to the community garden. She is everyone’s pet. Let me not take that fragile route again. This time, I am keeping my mind detached, without any emotional investment or longing. I love her enough to let her be free. I don’t seek ownership.

This is how my spiritual journey looks like, somewhere midway, I’d like to believe. Those few minutes of soft purrs every morning are enough for me to get a glimpse of Paradise ... 

or should I say, Purr-A-Dise!

:: New Kitty on the block! ::