A precious gift

of divine poetry was given to me today and this one is especially for you, my dear sg....
it resonates with exactly the idea you'd expressed in your reflection on what poetry means to each person...

Eating Poetry

My poems resemble the bread of Egypt—one night

Passes over it, and you can't eat it any more.

So gobble them down now, while they're still fresh,

Before the dust of the world settles on them.

Where a poem belongs is here, in the warmth of the chest;

Out in the world it dies of cold.

You've seen a fish—put him on dry land,

He quivers for a few minutes, and then is still.

And even if you eat my poems while they're still fresh,

You still have to bring forward many images yourself.

Actually, friend, what you're eating is your own imagination.

These poems are not just a bunch of old proverbs.

Rumi

(translated by Robert Bly)

--

This poem could refer to almost any thought or profound reality, that hits one in a moment of startling clarity, that might come from a reading, a conversation, an image, a dream, an equation, anything really. The understanding that emerges from it must be processed completely and shelved with utmost care and respect, in a most accessible place in the mind, to be drawn upon at any future instance, so the wisdom gained may be shared in all its brilliance...

'So, what's the secret?'

'Just pick up the phone, babe. That's all there is to it.'

--

Really, that's all there is. Sometimes, days and weeks, months, and sadly in some cases even years have rolled by before I've found the right moment to get back in touch. I am guilty of procrastinating this staying-in-touch business, because I want the conversation to be savoured and the time carved out for it to be free of any other engagement or distraction, to give the receiver all my attention and energy in the space between hello and goodbye; to fill the chat with a generous slice of my life that needs updating on; to be considerate of any other demands the other might have on his/her time, presumed by me obviously, at that moment. And then the moment itself passes, and the exuberance and eagerness to say a trivial nothing with it. Yet, I realized as I spoke with D last night, that in acting upon that impusle, the trivial is made memorable- the immediacy of that exchange collapsing all the time that has elapsed before it, only warmth and a sweet relish remaining. And with friends there can be no disturbing, right? Perhaps, they do welcome the interruption, even if only to say later, yet be gladdened for having been remembered?

And so, today I called three precious friends in the evening...to say nothing really, but everything still, and vow to do so more often.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music

-Aldous Huxley

...

कैसा अजब यह सफर है

सोचो तो हर एक ही बेख़बर है

उसको जाना किधर है

जो वक्त आयें, जायें, क्या दिखाएँ

ओहो ...

दिल चाहता है

कभी न बीते चमकीले दिन

दिल चाहता है

हम ना रहें कभी यारों के बिन...

For Morning

In this the month of happiness and joy, I must share the joy I feel every morning as I step out into the sunshine. A sweet melody this, it captures the essence of that delight.

Morning has broken, like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird
Praise for the singing, praise for the morning
Praise for the springing fresh from the word

Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven
Like the first dewfall, on the first grass
Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden
Sprung in completeness where His feet pass

Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning
Born of the one light, Eden saw play
Praise with elation, praise every morning
God's recreation of the new day

Riding into the rainbow...

Somehow I never understood the gloom that Monday mornings are popularly credited with. At any rate, I cannot imagine a morning, be it any morning, beginning with anything but an utter astonishment for a world created anew; for the beauty that lies ahead in the day, waiting to be unraveled. Oh! For mornings! Everything sparkling under the radiant sunshine, the gift of another day to be lived and learnt from, the pure joy of being! And oh! Indeed what joy it was to reach the Palo Alto Caltrain station this Monday to find the full arch of a rainbow over the train tracks. I could only marvel at it in utter glee. It was truly a wonderful sight, and my phone camera did no justice to it. Yet here it is.

A patch of India...

Friday, I visited the Indian consulate in the city for the first time. (I will soon have had 3 passports issued, each in a different country outside India.) In a last minute decision, I decided to Caltrain it there and was pleasantly surprised by how seamless the transfers were. With a rare collection of Chekhov's short satires to give me company, the 1.5 hour commute each way was made quite pleasurable.

At any rate, I had found it rather strange to read on the CGI website that the consulate provided no storage/ lockers for leaving back packs, mobile phones, umbrellas etc. in, while prohibiting taking them inside. Thankfully, a dry and moderately sunny day had been predicted, so locker or no locker, I was quite happy to make the trip sans phone or umbrella, carrying just a folder and the delightful Chekhov. I arrived at Arguello and Geary at 8.39 to find the Tricolor peeping out from around the corner of a pet store. A modest building, the most striking object outside it was a flower pot turned into a cement slab-holder for the following sign.

'FOR ENSURING YOUR SECURITY AND SAFETY, THE FOLLOWING ITEMS ARE PROHIBITED INSIDE THE CONSULATE PREMISES AND SHOULD BE LEFT OUTSIDE AT OWNERS RISK:
MOBILE PHONES
BACKPACKS, BRIEFCASES AND OTHER SUCH ITEMS

LADIES HANDBAGS
BABY STROLLERS
PLASTIC CARRY BAGS
FOOD OR DRINK '

In fact, there were two signs proclaiming the same. Satyameva Jayate was almost in fine print above the door by comparison...
As it turned out, there were a dozen lockers just outside the side service door! I could feel a smile begin to form at the familiarity of this blatant contradiction and the promise of more to come. Having arrived 20 minutes before the consulate opened, I was only the 3rd person waiting outside. And at that point the 3 of us were fairly impressed by the methodical fashion in which the security guard cum all-purpose handyman checked our belongings, assigned each of us a token number, read through a checklist of supporting documents for each type of application, and through it all treated us in a most agreeable manner. He even offered to check if he could arrange for us to be seated inside before the counters opened.

Just as soon as he went inside, however, a group arrived; two of them barged straight inside, nearly bumping into him as he turned around. The remainder formed a second 'single' file to our left and amongst themselves agreed that, clearly, they couldn't be expected to leave their phones outside- they would just turn it off and stick it deep in their pockets... The guard decided we were best left waiting outside.

--

8.45 am:

A stream of cars bringing consular personnel arrived, the last of which was a mini-van for the deputy consul general. His chauffer banged the van door shut nonchalantly, and whistling to himself, twirling the car keys on one hand and swinging the DCG's lunch bag on the other, cast us a sidelong glance as he strode in, as if to say he also had a share in the authority vested in his boss. The gentleman behind me muttered to his wife as soon as the chauffer was out of earshot, 'Thank God we only have to do this once in 10 years...'

--

8.50 am:

There were about 10 of us waiting outside by now. We'd turned around to watch the street, standing in a semi-circle. A lady walked past rapidly and overshot the consulate. Then, perhaps realizing there were an unsually large number of Indians congregated in one place, walked back and heaved a sigh of relief . She then rummaged through her bag frantically and said out loud, 'I need glue'. When nobody responded, she asked the man in front of her pointedly, 'Glue?' He replied, 'Yes, this is the queue.' She frowned, and tried again, 'Okay. But do you have glue?'

'Oh gum!'

'Yes.'

'No.'

--

8.55 am:

A white Honda civic arrived and the driver audaciously attempted parking behind the DCG's minivan. A curt glance from the chauffer who was pacing outside told him this was not such a great idea and he quickly backed out and reluctantly moved into the paid parking spot on the street. An old couple, a younger lady with a little boy and a baby girl sleeping inside a stroller, got out, speaking loudly in Punjabi. As the guard proceeded to tear out 5 tokens for them, explaining meanwhile security regulations and document requirements, they nodded distractedly. When asked to see their paperwork, it emerged that they were still waiting for R, who had all the documents for Ma, the sole applicant.

--

9.00 am:

After carefully negotiating the space behind a nearly double-parked Corolla, a grey Mercedes claimed the last parking spot outside the consulate. A tall dusky lad with an overgrown stubble, clad in baggy jeans, a flabby grey sweater, and a cap worn backwards stepped out of it. For a few minutes he just stood and stared, eyes narrowed, hands stuffed in his pocket, nose wrinkeld as if in disgust. Quite unnerved, the two men to my right, who hadn't spoken a word to each other until then, turned to one another in shared apprehension. One of them whispered, 'You know the crowd in San Francisco is pretty weird.' The other nodded his agreement. As we waited for the dude to break into gangsta rap at any moment, he swaggered toward us. Feet shuffled hastily, the semi-circle tightening just a tad, everyone clutched their folders instinctively. Mista gangsta then stopped abruptly, turned back and went to his car. He then retrieved a large worn yellow envelope and his phone. He walked toward us again, paused to call somebody and said, 'Where are you guys?' From the far end we could hear indisticnt Punjabi. R had arrived.

--

9.05 am:

We were finally asked to go inside. There were 3 counters facing us and 3 more to the far right. There were all of two people manning the counters, one of whom was the cashier. To our left around a narrow wall, was the waiting area, with only about 7 seats, an enormous TV, and beyond it was a smaller room with rest rooms at the back and a few scattered chairs and a couple tables in front. A door ahead of us led into a hallway with offices for embassy employees. As everyone scampered in to find seating, the flustered guard explained that we should seat ourselves in the order of the assigned token numbers. Some prized seats were reluctantly vacated and new occupants sat down smugly and smiled up at the guard, as if their obedience would win some favor.

At the cashier's counter, 'Sir, the website clearly states we only accept money orders or demand drafts'.

Token # 1, 'Oh, I see. Okay.'

Silence.

'We do accept debit cards now.'

'Oh! Thank you Ma'm!'

--

9.10 am:

More people started walking in, quite optimistic that a last-in first-served policy was in place and queued up outside the closed hallway, only to told off by the guard.

One couple observed,

'Apparently, there is a single line.'

'No, look there is another line to stick your photographs on the application.'

'And I guess that is the family line', pointing to the area in front the rest rooms where there were now at least 3 baby strollers and the accompanying spouses and parents of applicants huddled together.

The security guard, after multiple feeble attempts to interrupt the rapid Punjabi exchange, asked R, 'So, Sir, do you have copies of your mother's passoport?'.

'Umm...No.'

'You can make copies at the store around the corner of the street. Okay, does she have an ID, proof of residence?'

'Umm...Ma?'... 'I guess.'...'So, how long will this take? I only paid for half an hour's parking.'

'That depends, Sir. So, next, copy of proof of status? Visa?'

'Umm...where should I look for that?'

--

9.15:

Token # 4 next to me got up and huffed, 'Oh God! Why are they taking half an hour for each applicant?!'

Token #1: 'Ma'm, my receipt shows you have charged $25 instead of the $3 debit card fee.'

'Sir, please look carefully.'

'No, Ma'm, really!'

'Okay let me see.....Oh! I am very sorry, let me see what I can do...hmm...Were you going to come and collect your passport?'

'Yes, definitely Ma'm.'

'Okay, good. Now what I have done is to charge your payment for a stamped express mail envelope to have your passport mailed to you and that will be $17. So, that way there is only a $5 excess. We cannot refund the fees, unfortunately. Okay?'

--

9.20 am:

Consul officer, 'Everyone please listen. Only one person per family should come up to the counter, the rest of you please remain in the waiting area. And please, keep all your documents ready for scrutiny. Do not start opening your folders in front of me and have things flying around.'

At #3, I had already moved on to make the payment at the cashier's and was quite impressed by how quick the whole thing had turned out to be, and inwardly glad I had made the effort to get a cashier's check the previous evening.

'Sir, I just made an announcement to keep your papers ready! Did you not hear that?'

'Ma'm'.

'Please step aside. Next!'.

(Flashback: 5th grade, English class, Chennai.

Mrs. Rodrigues, 'Everyone. Silence now. Please listen. Draw your margins and write the date on the left. Start this new lesson on a new page and underline the headings. Bring your homework book and classwork book when you come to my desk. I shall start calling you, one by one, in 10 minutes.

...

Mrs. Rodrigues, 'Where is the heading? And why is your homework book not covered? Stand outside!')

--

As I was leaving the consulate, R was just returning with some photocopies freshly made.

'Okay, now I have the copies of her passoport. So, umm, this proof of status thing. I looked in her passport. What are we talking about? I mean, she has a US passport, we all do.'

'What was your appointment for again, Sir?'

--

Jai Hind!

Friendship

by Ralph Waldo Emerson

A ruddy drop of manly blood

The surging sea outweighs;

The world uncertain comes and goes,

The lover rooted stays.

I fancied he was fled,

And, after many a year,

Glowed unexhausted kindliness

Like daily sunrise there.

My careful heart was free again-

O friend, my bosom said,

Through thee alone the sky is arched,

Through thee the rose is red,

All things through thee takes nobler form

And look beyond the earth,

The mill-round of our fate appears

A sun-path in thy worth.

Me too thy nobleness has taught

To master my despair;

The fountains of my hidden life

Are through thy friendship fair.

I've never been one to like cold rainy days or grey skies. But I must admit, yesterday evening as I waited for the evening shuttle, I was stunned by how beautiful the sky looked as the heavens prepared to pour down upon us....the silvery grey of a dozen clouds gathered together, the evening sunlight gleaming just beneath, slowly receding from the horizon...the trees bereft of their leaves, bare, like ivory against this backdrop...
So stark and yet so arresting in its beauty...ah! creation! what a marvel it is!

In celebration of Emily Dickinson's birth anniversary...

A poem of persevering and purpose, and within it a message of hope and the reality of an eternal existence.

Each life converges to some centre

Expressed or still;

Exists in every human nature

A goal,

Admitted scarcely to itself, it may be,

Too fair

For credibility's temerity

To dare.

Adored with caution, as a brittle heaven,

To reach

Were hopeless as the rainbow's raiment

To touch,

Yet persevered toward, surer for the distance;

How high

Unto the saints' slow diligence

The sky!

Ungained, it may be, by a life's low venture,

But then,

Eternity enables the endeavoring

Again.

A new holiday tradition...

This morning a curious thing happened. It is almost a ritual for me to begin the day with piping hot coffee, looking out at the sun as it comes up, while listening to the news. This morning as I made my coffee, I wondered how much of the news do I really digest and retain, and how much of it do I merely hear and tune out unconsciously. So I tore myself away from the window, and sat down in front of the TV (you see when the news is on the TV, I also need to watch it to really listen to it, yes I do). And so I watched, with horror, as the story of the San Mateo residential intrusion and shooting was narrated and then was mildly cheered to see the sunny forecasts for the holiday weekend. There's way too much violence in the world, so many people using all forms of desperate and inhuman measures to be heard and taken seriously. (Maybe that's why I tune out? Because I cannot bear to see the cruelty...Excuses excuses...) At any rate as I drove out to work I resolved, today I would genuinely pay attention to (more) news on the radio without mentally charting out an agenda for the day and trying to recollect a forgotten melody at the same time.

Apparently my mind waves were picked up NPR, for it aired the first in a series of recorded conversations inspired by StoryCorps' new holiday tradition for the day after Thanksgiving: To spend the day Listening! No, really!

A sobering thought indeed, if we have to declare a National day of Listening...

Indeed, we must all resolve to listen more carefully; to the birds chirping cheerfully every dawn, to leaves rustling gently in the wind, to hills murmuring mysteriously. To really listen to the responses of 'how're you doing?' tossed out hurriedly to friends and colleagues, to really pause and listen to what the cashier is saying as we hand out change, to hold the hand of a grandparent and accept the wisdom they so benevolently share. To listen to unsaid 'but's in a soft sigh, to the unasked request hidden in hesitation and pride. To the unheard voices that know not they could be helped, to the cries that do resound with compassion, each in our own ways , to the call of duty in every task postponed. To our inner voices, of reason and balance. To a higher truth that is all around.

Moved...

By the history that was made last night, by the unity that was forged, by hope that was resurrected, by dignity that was rewarded, by the barriers that were broken down, by the courage that was displayed, by the words of a man who promises to be an iconic leader...by these words:

http://elections.nytimes.com/2008/results/president/speeches/obama-victory-speech.html

Yes, we can.

Eunoia

Meaning 'beautiful thinking' is the shortest word in English containing all 5 vowels! It is also the title of a book that explores the unique character of each vowel in the English language. What a delightful idea and such a marvelous project!

Floating melodies...

Have you ever been caught mid-stride or mid-sentence wondering what that beautiful thing in the air is; that's producing the most pleasant waves of happiness within you? Something dancing gently about you, like a tiny bubble, here now, gone next and there again! Like the fragrance of roses in the distance, tickling your senses and changing your course till you catch sight of the enchanting bloom, elegant and demure, that tempted you so...
Ah! It's music after all...someone's playing in the warmth of their home...to a special audience, perhaps? Or for the sheer joy of it...
There's a secret thrill in hearing the music sung or played by another, unbeknownst to them. Of anticipating the next note, hanging delicately off the tips of the last one, and to be rewarded with an unexpectedly exquisite variation instead. Sigh...if only I didn't have a desitination to conitune on to...if only they hadn't stopped playing...
Sweet melodies...~

शुभ दीपावली!

An afternoon with the children

My former mentor, and God-mother at work, offered me yet another opportunity for learning when she invited me to speak at her son's school about community service. As ever, I was touched and moved by her kindness and more grateful than words can convey. For the first time though, I realized that I was actually quite nervous to speak in front of an audience; an audience of mostly ten- year olds. You see, adults think in familiar ways (and I highly recommend reading 'The Little Prince' to find out just how suffocating those ways are ;) ), along well-beaten paths of questioning and reasoning. Children are a whole other species altogether. Not for them the confines of such paved avenues of thinking; not for them the excuses and burdens of 'that's how it's been done'. On winged chariots, their minds race a zillion paces ahead of you, pausing only to clarify 'why not?!'.
After agonizing for days on how best to present the notion of sharing and service to such a discerning audience, I finally decided to make a short presentation and let the energy of the class drive the better part of an hour ; go with the flow, I said to myself...And flow it did! In fact, the children took charge entirely. Within a few minutes of talking to them, one thing became very clear to me. They understood, almost implicitly, the need for sharing and giving. In fact, many were even rather puzzled at why I was going to such lengths to explain what a wonderful thing it was! On more occasion than one, I was caught speechless by their depth of understanding; of their grasp on the mindlessness in throwing away used eyeglasses rather than donating them. M frowned at the statistics that were projected- more than 97% of used eyeglasses go uncollected every year- and declared, "That's really silly! Why do people throw things away?", and his buddy shrugged his shoulders, "Seriously!".
Yeah, seriously!
After fielding multiple questions on how UFS works, various impairments of vision, starting eyeglass collection drives and so forth, I was quite overwhelmed by their zest and curiosity, and looking for a breather, I exclaimed, "You guys have already collected twelve pairs!". At which, S adjusted her own spectacles on her nose, and nodding sagely, said "It's the ripple effect."
...
A most glorious Friday afternoon, spent with the most precious little beings, I came out of the classroom, heady with the exhilaration of knowing our world is in very safe hands; in their hands. Also, stunned at the compassion that children have. They do not question why one must serve of or help another; only how. They do not wonder what good it will do them; just how much good it will do the other. Isn't it so strange and ironic, that in growing up, we must go back to being children; to re-invent for ourselves this purity of purpose and eagerness to give?

--

As only Gibran can, he describes, and I quote, the truth I discovered yesterday about children:
"
...

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

..."

Apparently, Deepavali's on Monday....But it's not in the air-you know what I mean? Sheesh!!!!! I need to do something about the air!

I must also tell you

that I have, finally, read 'The Little Prince'. Or rather, have had it read to me. It is truly one of the most delightful books to be read, and turned out to be everything it was promised to be by other lovers of this treasure. Some of the truths, as explained very patiently by a little child, were very startling in their simplicity. And I know I will read it many, many more times to completely grasp, and fully own the knowledge within those covers. For now, the first reading has left me with a deep sense of satisfaction, and a song in my heart! :)

ps: I also think all children's books should be read aloud.

I must tell you

about this very cool drive Whole Foods has going every month- they will accept about 20 plastic bags in return for two re-usable, bio-degradable Whole Foods bags!