On Presence

Circa 1917 

Sail Away.

Do not look back at those footsteps that led up to this point -

the unsteady impressions, the bolder imprints that hold stories of much fatigue and intrigue.

Resist.

Derive from the Past, don’t dwell in it.

Neither let your restless mind wonder, to wander across to the end of the horizon.

Set Sail. Trust your Vessel.

And be all there when you are adrift in the vastness, 

feeling the heaves and ripples in your bodily being, 

resist tensing up as the waves leap higher above your vision, erasing the horizon.

Listen in.

Feel, sense, smell, taste the salt in your arid mouth;

let your body sway with its expert weaving through the waves. 

At times winning, sometimes pliable.

And then hear the sea whisper into your ears,

“Are you present to your own Presence?”

Feel the words trickle in, settle into their sound

until the syllables reach into spaces deep inside you, that you never fully inhabited.

Do you sense those untouched contours swell, yet snug and warm despite the wildly heaving, gladly tossing waves? 

You feel safe now, secure, alert and somehow complete?

This was inevitable. 

This is the Present. It's here in you. Just like your breath. 

The retreat that was always there to return to.

Sail. Go Away. Travel. 

Meet with your Presence.

In going away you return to yourself
and meet with your soul.
Travel heals the soul.

##May 30, 2019

What Was She Thinking ?

Photo Credits : Orijit Sen (#OrijitSen)

#NotInMyName #JusticeforAsifa #ShametheRapists

What was she thinking
when those men snatched her off the field,
she was looking for her ponies at dusk, just like every other day!

What was she thinking just before they roughed her up, 
muffled her muting her cries, taking her away to the dark, dingy room!

Did she think it was a prank, 
that someone was only playing a rough game of hide and seek?

What was she thinking when those men
touched her and hurt her in all terrible ways, 
in places that Amma always said are to be secret and covered?
‘Why were these men not covering her up?’
‘What would Amma say?’ ‘Where was she?’ 
‘Would she be angry if she found her like this?’ 
‘But where was Amma ?’

What was she thinking when those men used
violent force and pushed their heavy, angry bodies on top of her,
thrashing her, hurting her?

What was she thinking
when their faces kept changing,
When it seemed like two became four, became more.
Was she confused, searching for a familiar face that would change this violent, hurtful game?

What was she thinking when the new faces
did nothing to soothe her,
they brought her nothing new, 
only new ways to inflict more pain that made her cry and scream?

What did she think
when every time the doorway filled up
with the silhouette of a huge frame?
‘Was it Abba?’ ‘Did he finally find me’ ‘oh God, let this be him!’

What did she focus on when her stomach ached more
because of the wounds,
than the gnawing ache of hunger and thirst?

When every time the doorway lit up
did she think maybe—just maybe—
someone will walk in with food and water,
or something a little kinder
than their big sticks and bodies to hurl at her!

What did she think when she knew this was not a game at all?

What was she thinking
When no Amma or Abba showed up after what felt like endless days,
‘Are they thinking of me?
Are they even looking for me?
Are they missing me?
Hope my ponies got home! Are they thinking of me too, somehow!’

What was she thinking when the only wait was to drift into exhausted sleep, 
sleep in which the confused, worrying, weary mind would not run away 
to places in a distant life,
when she lived with her own happy people.

Because only in sleep would she not fear the footsteps 
that inevitably brought the next assault, next lashing, 
next bout of pain and hurt.

A kind of sleep when the mind is numbed in stupor!

What was she thinking when the temple bells rang
not too far from the darkness she was chained in,
Was she old enough to estimate the exact place where she was being kept, 
bound and helpless?
Did she feel hopeful every time the bells chimed,
that this time someone—just a little kinder—would find her, 
bring her food and water 
and surely, just for once not touch her body hurtingly, violently!

What was she thinking when the hours of pain and dullness 
got longer than the moments of lying awake;
When the lull of not knowing became the only sweet comfort for her!

What was she thinking when she knew the game was finally getting over,
When her breath came in spurts and gasps 
in the most scary game she’d ever played,

A game where she will never find Amma, Abba or the ponies in the meadow again!

{In the midst of everything Asifa, a nagging, singular thought for me has been ‘What was she thinking through it all!' What can a little 8-year old think inside a horror that no one is able to make any sense of?! 
Wrote this In a moment of overwhelming restlessness to quell this unshakable gloom}

Running With the Rain

As I ran 

the sweat came

And came the rain.

I was running.

It softened a lot of my inside, slowly.

Maybe, it washed away bits of I and Me 

that I carried in the sweat?

A smile framed my lips as I felt the 

tightness melt away;

With salty dews of rain running down my face,

Stinging my eyes as it mingled with my sweat.

Palpable lightness.

Could it be that the sweat carried the burden of my expectation? 

Or the math of clocking the anticipated miles?

Does predisposition burden us?

Or does it disallow exultation?  

Does sweat induce pride in athletes? 

Or does it comfort and spur on?

Could it be that lightness comes when the run melts into nothingness?

What is Nothingness after all

but the unbridled joy when my mind empties into those minutes of plugging in, plodding on 

and simply running.

Perhaps. Surely.

Because the Mountain Knows

{With mighty Kili watching over. (Pic courtesy: Rajesh Ramakrishnan)}

Because the Mountain knows.

HE knew the moment I set foot on Him, 
there is little chance of straying too far away; 
certainly not for very long.

Because the Mountain knows.

HE knew, while stripping me off a lot, 
most of all, rearranging my sense of 'I'; 
the sense that got toggled around on its axis; 
a reframing of 'what makes 
me' and 'what (all) I possibly can be'.

Because the Mountain knows.

His magnificence is in his benevolence, 
the benevolence of the 'knowing' he imparts.

The hard and the soft, coexisting.

The certain invincibility of purpose and possibilities, 
together and simultaneously. 

The certain timelessness within a finite moment : 
as in the moment of my physical body striving against the odds, 
to touch the summit; 
and the soulful timelessness of reaching the Peak.

Because the Mountain knows.

Because that must be what the Mountain wants us to imbibe; 
as he stands tall and towering over us. 

Invincible in Purpose and towering in Possibilities. 

Purpose made me set foot on him 
and the allure of possibilities as my fuel, 
kept alive my intention to climb, to summit. 

To have climbed those odds, 
to have crossed the steep, craggy, ungenerous terrain HE hosts, 
is the 'knowing' that will always remain in me. 

Could I have climbed higher than his highest? 
Perhaps. Possibly.

That's the abiding limitlessness that the Mountain teaches. 
And this now will forever be the inner pool 
of my knowing and courage.

That possibility, that promise of a steeper, limitless climb 
will always fuel my world of dreams and dares. 


Because now I know.

Because that's how I see the Mountain exist.
Standing tall in a changing, unrepentant landscape,
with the ever-transient clouds, glaciers, 
the feisty flora and fauna as companions; 

All so malleable and adapting 
to the constancy of hardship and survival.


Yet, So accepting. So giving.


Because glaciers melt.
Because the clouds do swell into rain 
and at times, are swept away too. 
Because the winds do blow and manifest, 
just like many-a-time the clouds spill over 
and wet all that HE cohabits.

There is no process, least of all any pattern. 


The only pattern is Uncertainty; the only hue is that of Change. 

And huddled in this ever-changing fellowship 
HE stamps his undubious presence.

Because the mountain always knows. 
To exist in this uncertain and changing milieu 
is what gives him his knowing.

Just as HE always knew about ME.

The Mountain always knew 
that once I acquaint with these threads of his existence; 
I will view my own in braver, kinder, softer shades. 

That I will see how life is made of many polarities: 
that Uncertainty is an Opportunity, 
that the timeless can take shape in a finite moment.

And that's how I will learn 
how not to look for obviousness or 
define life by limitedness; 

And I will learn how to entertain possibilities 
and dare to prepare for them.


Just like the Mountain, I will learn to know.

##

{In March 7-13 this year, I ventured to summit Mt. Kilimanjaro, up to the Uhuru peak, the highest African peak standing at 5896 meters a.m.s.l. For anyone who is familiar with the seven route-options up to the peak, we took the Rongai Route in an acclimation + climb + descent route planned over 7 days.

After 5 days of climbing and acclimatising with the oxygen sparse altitude beyond 4000 meters, we (with my group of 7 fellow trekkers) finally summited at 8:30 am on March 12, after a gruelling 9-hr. climb up an unforeseen terrain through a starry, full-moon night. An experience as surreal, as vivid, as awe-inspiring as the starry night and the sunrise, the accompanying wonders of nature wombed within those hours of climb. The summit-night called upon the deepest reserve of endurance and individual (and collective) will. Although not quite the very last! The last hour was entirely about the deepest-dig into the very last ounce of intention and courage. 

Would I do it again? Definitely!

Looking back, while it's been easier to talk about the physical imprint of this climb on me; the processing of its influence on my soul, my spirit has been much slower. There's no framework or questionnaire to capture all that the experience has brought to me. In fact, the process of assimilation is yet underway and thoughts do continue to arrive at my level of consciousness, even as I write. 

Putting words to my thoughts is what gives me a sense of absorbing an experience and these lines are (so far) a sum of what I brought back with me from the Mighty Kilimanjaro, at a metaphysical level perhaps}.