in dreams seen over many years

i call your office.  you are in a meeting.  i call back again and again and again.  in dreams seen over several years.  you are still in a meeting.  the walls are of steel.  as if you work in the vault of a bank.  

i have just missed you.  i was at the same place through which you passed a few minutes after.  i keep missing you.  in dreams seen over several years.  i smell the rajanigandha they put in the very big vase just next to the elevator you took to go up to your room.

you are sleeping.  turned away into the heart of the bed.  i can’t see your face.  in dreams seen over several years.  you pull the “chador” closer to you.  you are cold and the window next to the bed is open.  i cannot close the window.

i call your name but you cannot hear me.  you are walking into a clock that strikes 9 am.  in dreams seen over several years.  the lapel of your jacket is flapped wrong and you reach out to put it in place.  i call your office.  you are in a meeting.  the dream starts again.

you hand me jui flowers.  i take them in my hands and wear them in my hair. contentment in Lal Paar.  i turn around and you have gone.  in dreams seen over several years.  you come just as often as you leave and i am not certain if you are here or if you are not.

The Discovery

you were within me,

and i spent so much time

looking so far.

the rain had told me, as did

the stream gushing down

the hillsides.

i've spent a lifetime 

disbelieving, and i wasn't 

going to start having faith.

it wasn't a matter of faith,

the kind that takes you

to mosques and temples.

it was simply a turn into

a lit corner of my mind,

you were there, still there.

you were always within,

never far, never outside,

that is how i have lived.

The return of the Muse

i see mistletoes, i see brown leaves,

i see you

you are a cobweb over my eyes

i see through you.

you are the pinwheel that fans my mind.

i write sonnets.

you are the first breath of my morning.

last of my night.

you are where time lives, next to the moon. 

you are my neighbour.

i wait for you.  i die a bit before

The return of the Muse.

_________________________

This Time in Paris -- Ebaar Paris

Paris has seen blood before.

Lost her innocence way back when.

The French Revolution.  Napoleon.

The empires.  Two world wars. And,

then some.  a lot of blood has 

flowed with the Seine before 2015.

the pendulum of the French clock

cracked back to normal even after

Lady Diana died in their tunnel.

This jihadist attack however has

smattered our faces with blood.

The whole world is bleeding today.

Kokhono Sydney, Kokhono Peshawar,

Ebaar Paris, Next Somewhere, 

next to innocents and bystanders.

People die when they are meant to,

not a day too soon, not a day too late.

Our solidarity marches are not going

to stop death which marches to its

own relentless rhythm using cancer,

using jihadists, using points of view.

All that the solidarity marches can do

is to comfort those who haven't yet died,

make us a little less afraid of dying, 

make us forget that the end game is death

and in between is life in which we all play.

For each ounce of optimism lost with

each ounce of blood that was spilled,

the solidarity march filters pessimism

and makes us think we are safe, there

are no monsters under our bed, there 

are only angels in the wings, only

well fed children all over the world,

clean water and vaccines that can 

stamp out evil as soon as its detected.

the point of the solidarity march could be,

we did not die, we are still alive, so

we have to work to make someone's

next day a little bit better if possible.

So that we leave behind more than blood.

Namaskar

Namaskar, i see God in You,

just like i see him in jasmines,

defines the core of my being,

i'm happy being just me.

Namaskar, to the rising sun,

beams of light run through my limbs,

warm red bricks use their energies,

build the contours of a new mind

Namaskar, to the mountain stream,

it talks profoundly, i listen,

they take my silence, make it wet,

i'm happy being just me.

Namaskar, to the pink jasmines,

they write to the core of beauty,

in the language of the subtle,

we are refreshed to a new script

Namaskar, I see God in you,

the Head, who gave your body light,

water to your mythical soul,

And, the pink jasmines of my mind.

_________________________

Deepak Chopra (the Vedanta) says that

life is transforming when 1. you don't

worry about anything, you feel great joy,

 and 2. synchronicities keep happening

and accelerate to the point where you

can experience the miraculous.

Wildflower Hall: On the Nature of Things

a bunch of pink flowers making merry,

many stones around looking in askance,

we have lasted hundreds of years, they think,

the pinks laugh and say, yes! but as a stone.

a stone has veins and carry jasper blues,

contemplative "malas" in their belly.

the pinks fall into line in a chapel, 

soon! they can't stop themselves from giggling.

Grand Butterflies

a monarch sits on the earth,

amazing orange,

a Sabyasachi saree

A Sabyasachi Wedding

We had a lovely Indian bride this week, and she is going to wear this absolutely Grand Sabyasachi Couture sari for her wedding to this tall, dark and handsome American -- they are getting married with no one else present except the witness, who is going to hear their vows. The groom told me that "this is a celebration of our love." I just finished reading Liz Gilbert's "Committed" and I wish more people would "celebrate their love" instead of falling for the tinsel. We, at PKG, have fantastic clothes for those wishing to celebrate the love "of two young people starting their lives out together". Sharmila Tagore requested the press to allow Saif and Kareena privacy during their wedding saying those same words.

Swedish Prince's Wedding

i watched this wedding of Prince Carl Philip of Sweden and Sofia Hellqvist and it reaffirmed a view I hold strongly about bridal wear --- the wedding is NOT JUST about the clothes. You have to watch this wedding to see how happy the couple are with each other. They could be wearing swimsuits or jeans.

Raag Hameer: Tarana: Poem 3

Dance of The Warrior of Empty Arms

in the place, in the very first place,

where it all began and where,

there is no beginning or end, where

there is acceptance 

i accept you as i know you

you accept me as you know me

all artifice has fallen off, there are

elemental truths, basic truths,

contained in a "tarana"of despair,

longing, and empty arms

you are forced to look at yourself

and confront the truth about yourself,

you love yourself, you can then love me

there is no separation between you and me.

i exist happily in the universe, as do you.

Raag Hameer: poem 2

dance of the warrior

as the black night deepens,

a woman's hair unfolds

like an accordion

he reaches out to her

firmly, strongly,and hard,

she put her hands on him

against the limitless

the night finds its own strength

and can sleep in passion,

the warrior protects

the idea of love

dance of the warrior

with swords in two soft hands

one points to the unknown

the other to her breasts

standing silent is brave,

there is dance in stillness,

the sword in her soft hands

bleeds Khusrau's tarana.

*********

Raag Hameer is one of my favourite

raags.  The idea of the "tarana" came

from Amir Khusrao, a Persian poet.

What does the Tarana signify? It 

reaches into the essence of all things--

basic elements as in Chemistry--so 

there must be a single unified truth if

Khusrao is to be believed.

Raag Hameer: a raag reflecting Vir Rasa: Poem 1

we're the warriors of the night,

on our watch, love is protected,

let all assailants be at bay,

let his head sink into pillows

and his knee not hurt anymore,

let dreams be revealing and kind,

in a truly yogic posture

let him be nothing while he sleeps

we hold the lamps over the head,

close but not too close with our light,

our weapons are hidden from all

in the scabbards of our own hearts,

we bleed over Persian rugs,

the carpets show off red flowers

we're the warriors of the night,

on our watch, love is protected.

Dukkhobhilash (Desire for Sadness)

do you know why a red rose is so beautiful?  it takes all our pain, our

"abolombonheen sunyata" and manifests it in the silkiest of petals as 

soft as a kiss.

"abolombonheen sunyata" roughly translated: desolation without any recourse.

Reviving Dabanol

it's been 5 years since i've written in this blog.  i've been writing incessantly on Facebook, but Neel convinced me that I should start writing here again.  So i asked him what should I write about? he says things you are passionate about -- saris, poetry, travel, dogs, flowers and not necessarily in that order.  you give birth to children, raise them and then they become your parents -- your advocates, your critics, and your conscience.  the good thing is that like your parents, they are kind of stuck with you....i'm the only Mom they will have, and that makes for fulfilling, frustrating but interminable relationships.  knowing that we are certain to die and all relationships will terminate, it is a lovely illusion while we are living to think that we have interminable relationships. 

Molinete

when you will wear the shawl

which i have given you,

it won't be yards of silk 

minutely embroidered,

it won't be a garment

to keep away the cold,

might not even be an

instrument of power,

though the color charcoal

may have suggested that...

when you wear the shawl

which i have given you,

i will be dancing first

to your side and then front,

holding on to your arm

for balance and support,

giving you your dance space

so that you can flourish,

then you can draw in my

arms all around you.......

The molinete (in Tango) describes the grapevine

 steps that the women takes around the man as he

 is performing any variation of giro

this poem was written in March 2010, i believe

Tumi Bolo

Tumi Bolo 1

The sea had spoken
Waves crusted with white,
In Arabian
While it is her night

The sea is in flow
Over to land's end,
Her hand as cover
She closes her eyes


Tumi Bolo 2


Speak to me of that life,
Of banana leaves green,
Ponds floating lotuses,
The speak of the rui fish

Speak to me of daylight,
Of windows in our house,
Marble in noir et blanche,
Drone of the afternoon

Speak to me of temples,
Of the day of Jhulon,
What were you doing then
while it was getting late?


Tumi Bolo 3


Ought not you sleep? The candle
Flame burns, fire in the wall,
Fire in the white glass panes,
Luminescence within me

Ought not you sleep? When you come
Red of the night will be caught,
Spider dancing in the web,
Somnolesence within me


Tumi Bolo 4


I can hear when you don't speak
The waterfall chuckles, the
Rising wind, the solid earth
Pit in their proxies for you,
Crackles in the fireplace
Join the chatter of gas pipes,
A grand symphony of all
Five elements lend you your
Vociferous eloquence


Tumi Bolo 5


Did you really say it
Or was the summer strong,
My imagination
Dashing?  The universe
Is in neutral, neither
Moons of the month have said,
If you did, it was good,
Their silence deafens me

Laguna Beach

the sea in its majesty

humbles our sense of littleness,

the waves return us again

to the majesty within,

i have found particular

waves in this immensity,

i have found my own true love

in a breathless universe,

my love is a constant wave

abreast a body of time,

i have found total stillness

inside relentless movement

2010, November

Dawn

unbroken beauty of the sea

is like my love

as the night is gone

sun rises where You Are.

Laguna Beach, 2010

Khalil Gibran

had written:


Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. 


........


You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth. 


a poem is the child of a poet..........we are only those stable bows, apparently
loved by God, according to Gibran.  those poems don't belong to us, they
can be dedicated to our Awesome Muse, but they don't belong to them either,
they are " life's longing for itself" and they belong to the Universe.  perfect
example of what Tagore wrote in Rajarshi about "nishkaam karma"  (in other
words, perfectly useless work)

Mamma Mia

Where i live in Silicon Valley, is very reminiscent of Tuscany and i can almost smell the virgin olive oil poured over fresh pasta.  I have less time to cook here than i do when i'm in Firenze.  I love going to the Mercado Centrale daily and getting wonderful stuff to cook.  Fresh pasta from Laura, who always know exactly how to cut the sheets of pasta and Nicoletta, who has the best dark chocolate slabs in the entire world.   Pancetta, salcicca, fresh  Bufalo mozarella.  Veggies from the Bangladeshi, who always want me to come to their houses for Biryani.  A four year old Bangladeshi girl rapidly speaking to me in Italian is one of my blissful memories.  When my plane lands in Firenze, i feel exactly as I do when the plane lands in Calcutta.....i feel that i've come home.  Where i live is reminiscent of Tuscany but not Tuscany.  A good likeness but a likeness is not the original.  There are six billion people in the world but likenesses of those we love are never good enough, are they?


i miss Positano today.....i miss Positano often.  Must be all the staring I did there from the balcony of my apartment.....looking out to the Mediterranean.  one night a very impressive yacht came and they had a party on board.  i really wanted to don my LBD and go and dance!  i wonder what it is about Positano that I miss.....i had to climb 163 steps to get to my apartment three times a day and it was not fun to do that with groceries.  neither was it fun to drive on the Amalfi coast.  but seeing my daughter jump from the boat to swim in the Mediterranean on the way to Capri will remain an all time peak moment of my life.  the water was so emerald.  


i thought that i was going to write about living in Connecticut today but i'm now sure how i got to Italy.  i started with the thought about the time i lived in a boat in Greenwich, Ct for 2 months....i was 22 then.  i was thinking about Stamford, Ct, where i lived--that was when i learnt how to drive on the I-95. had my first accident on High Ridge Road,  took the train to Manhattan to study French at the Alliance Francaise, had no money, no work permit, sold Avon, stared at 'Tavern on the Green' and promised myself that one day i'd have enough money to come and have dinner there, stood in line for half price tickets to Broadway shows, spend hours at NYC bookstores, skated in Rockefeller Center, pressed my nose against the glass windows of Bergdorf Goodman wondering who bought earrings for $525,000......i remember Mrs. Dvorak, who is probably dead, who gave me Coffee Cake when i brought her her Avon stuff, my Greek friend, with sumptuous hair, i remember my Avon route, it was like doing a paper route, and cooking, endless meals for no one in particular but just to experiment and create, Strawberry Hill, going to Westport and standing at the edge of Long Island Sound, getting fresh orange roughy early in the morning to be cooked with mustard and turmeric.....where are those happy days they seem so hard to find?  what ever happend to our love i wish i understood?  an Abba song....SOS.......that was then, this is now.....


so when you are near me darling, can't you hear me darling?  SOS