Taste of Salt

A short story written a while back after a visit to a fisherman's village in Nagapattinam which even 3 years after the tsunami, resembled a ghost-town where time had stopped the day the wave hit shore.

“More fish?” asked Nagamma, ladle full of fiery curry poised mid-air.

“No, I’m full”.

Murugan pushed away the half-eaten plate of food and rose to wash his hands.

Walking outside he savoured briefly the sound of his sleeping daughter. Her tiny frame lay curled on the mat, sleeping the deep sleep only children know. A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

  Nagamma watching from behind her pot of rice knew it well. That smile tinged with sadness. It had come to rest on her husband’s face ever since the waves had come to their village.

 *******

Murugan balanced himself in his boat. He gathered the net and planted his feet. It had to be just right. Otherwise the net would land in the water with an ungainly plop instead of the graceful splash. The water was the deepest blue edged with gold from the rising sun.

But something was different that morning. A strange current kept rocking the boat, throwing Murugan off balance.

“Amma, let me cast my net so I can feed my children?” he addressed the sea as he often did.

 But that day she was in no mood for his entreaties.

 *******

 A year had passed since the Big Wave roared and claimed the fisherman’s village.

The boy had been sleeping outside. He would fall asleep on the sand after Murugan set out with the others, and awaken on their return. It was a ritual adored by both father and son.

That morning the waves reached shore much before the boats.

“High as palm trees. Loud as a ship” The survivors would tell camera crews and journalists again and again.

“My child”

“My mother”

“My family”

 “Gone”

 “Murugan, the waves came and took everything!”

 Distraught, Nagamma clung to her husband who had become stiff as a tree. The only life left, streamed from his eyes.

 *******

Loss echoed through the village, down the highway, over the borders, through the television and into the ears of philanthropists. They came in droves to the little-village-that-was.

“We will rebuild it. No more huts on the beach” the Minister declared before his chopper sped away.

His audience returned the triumphant enumeration with mute stares. The new rehabilitation housing colony was to be set up 3 km away from the sea.

 *******

Murugan lay on his mat beside Nagamma staring at a hole in the thatch roof of his home by the beach.

“Why don’t you try to sleep Muruga?”

“I won’t be able to hear the waves Nagamma. Smell the salt. Or feel the sand in my house.”

Waving off a fly she closed her eyes.

“You weren’t there” she said. “When it happened, you weren’t there.”

Murugan was silent. He was listening to the distant rumble of the waves. In a few hours he would get up and push his boat into the water.

Turning on his side, Murugan stroked Nagamma’s forehead. She twitched slightly.

“I have lived as a fisherman as long as I can remember. And it is the only life I know how to live” said Murugan sensing his wife’s anguish.

“Do you know what I see each time we bring our boats ashore? I see land as I have never seen it before. Each day the waves have wiped the sand clean of yesterday’s battles. You will see. Tomorrow the sand will be free of yesterday” He said gently.

 “Get some sleep Muruga. The day will break soon.”

A solitary tear rolled down a fisherman’s sun-worn cheek and left the taste of salt in his mouth.

 

 

जागते रहो

इस काली रात में एक आवाज़ अगर है तो वो है उस चौकीदार की छड़ी की ठक ठक । उसकी पतली टांगें जो देती हैं उसकी छड़ी का साथ, लम्बा रास्ता तय कर चुकी हैं। मेरे घर की खिड़की से उसका यह रात का सफ़र रोज़ नज़र आता है । रोज़ वह पीपल के पेड़ की तरह बंधा, गाँठ-भरा शरीर साइकिल पर बैठ कर मेरे घर तक आता है। दुबला, लेकिन बांस जैसा सीधा वह चौकीदार रोज़ मेरी गहरी नींद की खातिर अपना घर छोड़कर मेरे घर की रखवाली करने आता है। उसे देख मैं सोच में पड़ जाती हूँ । उसके चेहरे पर खिंची संकरी लकीरों पर गौर करती हूँ। और मन ही मन उससे सवाल करती हूँ - "चौकीदार तुम्हारे घर पर पहरा कौन दे रहा है? तुम्हारी बिटिया जो सपनों में अपने बाबा की साईकिल चलाती है, उसकी नींद का ज़िम्मा किसने उठाया है?" मुझे जवाब नहीं मिलता, सिर्फ रात के अँधेरे में गूंजती उस छड़ी की ठक ठक और कभी-कभी वो दो शब्द; वो पहरेदारों, चौकीदारों और रात के रखवालों का नारा - "जागते रहो!" अब नींद से भारी मेरी आँखें बंद हो रही हैं । "पर चौकीदार कहीं तुम्हारी खुली आंखों पर नीदं का साया तो नहीं ? होशियार। इस अँधेरी रात को जो तुम्हारी आँखें घूर रही हैं, उसी रात की परछाई में छिप कर दो अनजानी आँखें तुम्हें पढ़ रही हैं। बस, यहाँ तुम्हारी पलकें झपकीं, वहीँ इस सोए हुए शहर की नींद टूटी। हर रात की तरह क्या इस रात की सुबह भी तुम्हारी छड़ी की दस्तक पर आएगी चौकीदार ? हाँ। बस कुछ देर और। तब तक, जागते रहो। "

Blogging : in retrospect

I just realised that my blog is now a year old and doesn't have much to show for it! I have also realised that I dont use my blog in nearly the same way as do most avid bloggers worldwide - the sort who have taken information-sharing and web-logging to new levels. For me it still functions in much the same way as a notebook or a journal except that it is accessible to those who wish to go through it. The whole idea for me was to keep writing. To remind myself what a joy it is to express oneself through the written word. And to reaffirm my faith in my own literary abilities however limited they may be.

There have been many points in my life where I have (unsuccessfully) tried to maintain a personal journal. The sort that you hide from anyone and everyone simply because the palpable fear of discovery and the somewhat perverse pleasure of knowing something no one else knows provides fuel to the keeper of secrets. My journals were mostly mundane records of the daily trials tribulations of living. Peppered occasionally with instances of heartache and trauma, most often played up in writing to the level of intense melodrama. So much so that even the most banal argument could seem like something out of a Greek tragedy.

When I look back on those pages written with such diligence and candour, I often find myself grinning at the words that had burst forth in an unusually distraught moment. It amuses me when I realise again and again how time erodes much of the walls we build around us. The girl who filled those pages with intense emotion sincerely believed at the time that her life had ended for sure. Or in another instance made it abundantly clear that at that moment she was the happiest she would ever be in all the days to come. Even as I laugh at the childish proclamations of love lost and arguments won, I recoginise similar emotions in myself today. They have changed in degree but not so much in the intensity.

I am aware though that in sharp contrast to the days of journals and sercret diaries, I am far more wary of my own feelings and how their open expression leaves me vulnerable and exposed. So as the old walls become worn and weather beaten, we build new walls. And so it goes....

Ways of seeing

A dear friend after reading my blog asked a pertinent question - is it so necessary to have an opinion on everything? I couldnt answer the question but it set me thinking. This urge to write down my thoughts or voice my opinion - is it merely cathartic and therefore selfish or does it have roots in something larger of which I am still unaware? Do writers ask themselves this question before they set out to coin a phrase or frame a sentence? Are opinions damaging or constructive or both? Is criticism in fact easier than going that extra mile to do that certain something which we feel so compelled to comment on but would not touch with a bargepole given the opportunity?

"In life one must do." I cant recall who said it, but it definitely sums up the basic thumb rule that until its been tried it hasnt been tested. I think it was Milton Glaser who said that we must diminish the difference between work and art. And to that end "work is art and art is work."

Isnt it enough to simply experience a great film, book, piece of music or a work of art? Is it the politics of our time that breeds such creative contempt or is it the system of knowledge we belong to? More importantly, are we, while stating with such confidence our carefully thought out opinions, as tolerant to more diverse points of view? Is qualification the only license to an opinion?

I write because I feel most confident expressing myself in this form. Words provide a platform from where images take off. Writing is for me, as of this moment a tool at best. Not as eloquent or free from prejudice as the instinctive brush of the seasoned artist, but more like the strange and daunting piece of charcoal in the clumsy hands of one who is learning to draw and thus learning to see. I too am learning to see - and my image is made or letters and words and phrases and inflexions. It is an untrained eye that knows not many ways of seeing - yet.

My article on the web

I wrote an article for the in-house NID Film Club publication Cut Here on the documentary film Jang Aur Aman (War and Peace) made by documentary filmmaker Anand Patwardhan. Anand read the article (thanks to Arun!), liked it and decided to post it on his website. And that is how I now have a web presence! Do check out the article at the link given. Also worth reading is the magazine Cut Here the pdf version of which can be downloaded from the NID website. Both links are given below. http://www.nid.edu/download/cuthere4nov05.pdf
http://www.patwardhan.com/reviews/WP_NID.htm

Songs of the Mystics

It is impossible for even the whimsical visitor to remain untouched by the energy and vitality of the Dargah. It is in every way an assault on the senses from the moment you enter the crowded lanes till the time you leave the complex. One dare not hurry through it all lest one misses a whisper from beyond the grave. Turn a corner and Mirza Ghalib rests in an unfortunately unnoticed complex. Stop for a moment and you might be waylaid by the insistent perfume seller. "You must try Khus today", he says. Little grubby urchins with an impish sparkle in their eyes tug at your clothes. "Spare a rupee in the name of Allah!" The heaps of roses, the bright green chadors and the pulsating throb of the crowd engulf the unguarded visitor. Just when it seems too overwhelming the first strains of a Sama (traditional Sufi musical assembly) in full swing reach ones ears. That is what one came for. The calm within, despite the chaos without is always a welcome surprise. The Sufi way has revealed itself already. Order in chaos, unity in multiplicity.

Littered with the graves of long forgotten saints and dusty ancestors, the small complex betrays its many liaisons with the ghosts of yesterday. A vagabond mogul and a beloved princess share the same space (if not the same glory) as the mighty poet and his mentor. Many lives thrive within these walls. Some have made this place their home simply for sustenance, others in search of emotional and spiritual reassurance. But each one whatever be the purpose, is tied to the other in their acknowledgement of that Truth that none can deny- the truth of the Universal Spirit. The core of being itself that unites all things on earth. It is this that one sees embodied in the myriad faces of the Dargah-e-Nizamuddin. The water- bearer, the flower seller, the shoe keeper, the qawwal, the fakir, the pir, the sheikh, the pagan, the Hindu, the Mussalman, the rich, the poor, the woman, the child, the old, the young, the dead and the alive. Sufism is a prism through which the unity in the multiplicity of Beings becomes plain for all to see.

The crowd that throngs at the gates of Dargah-e-Nizamuddin each day bears testament to the living legacy of Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro, and also to the continuing relevance of Sufism. As a poet has rightly said, "In these senseless times a faith that makes you look within is a faith that makes sense". Synonymous with Sufism in India, Nizamuddin Auliya and Amir Khusro stand for values such as tolerance and humanism. Khusro’s contribution to poetry and music is not unknown. His verses have often been a eulogy of a country that he likens to heaven on earth, and a celebration of the diversity of Hindustan. His devotion to his teacher, Nizamuddin Auliya is unmistakable in his work.

I shall be set free from the bonds of the two worlds
If you become my companion for a while.
By your wanton playfulness you must have destroyed
Thousands of hearts of lovers like that of Khusrau.

What is remarkable is that Amir Khusro is perhaps more alive today than his mentor. It is customary at the Dargah to visit the smaller (but no less significant) shrine of Amir Khusro before proceeding to the main shrine of Hazrat Nizamuddin Auliya. Khusro lives in the innumerable verses, riddles, qawwalis and sayings he penned. He was indeed an ambassador of an India that was assimilative and inclusive. The foremost exponent of a spiritual and literary movement that rose above parochial concerns to reflect a truly cross-cultural sentiment.

Love is the only intoxicant in these mystical alleys. A sublime truth; the eternal and immortal soul of being itself. It rests beneath pearly white and swathes of green velvet. Poetry has been put to rest forever in the company of He who inspired it. These marble walls do not bind him. These bloody roses do not bury him. He rises out of his stony grave each time a single voice of the many reverberates through the air. They seek him in pleasure and they seek him in pain. They seek him in ecstasy and they seek him in despair. He seeks no one and yet he turns none away.

A timid strain at first; a lilting melody. Crowds melt into oblivion. No one is spared the tyranny of love. It consumes the self in its wake leaving only the soul. Cleansed, pure, pristine, provoked by passion and yet forever at peace. The words float above, over, under, around and through the crowd, wrapping themselves around the agony and the ecstasy of those who give themselves freely in love. Spirits leave their fleshy confines and come alive in the guise of the flourish of a dervish’s skirt or the solitary tear on a weather-beaten cheek. They take forms so delicate that they defy the cacophony that inspired them.

The attraction of love won’t leave you unmoved;
Should you not come to my funeral, you’ll definitely come to my grave.
My soul has come on my lips
Come so that I may remain alive
After I am no longer - for what purpose will you come?

For some the shrine is the beginning of a life anew whereas for some others it is the culmination of a journey that has brought them closer to achieving a desired state of rest. Ahmad Raza, 8 years old, has left his home in Bihar to come and live with his uncle. He is the boy who collects the empty flower baskets and takes them back to his uncle's flower shop. He knows Nizamuddin like the back of his hand and his eyes betray the many stories that he has to tell. He looks at my camera with curiosity and bewilderment. "What can you see through it? Can I see what you see?" Obviously he knows something I don’t.

The water bearer has seen it all. He has seen the compound choked with people the day riots broke out in Gujarat. They came in droves, he whispers. Some held on to each other while others wept by the grave of their saint, their confidante. Baba Khusro listened to them all. Khusro ki marham jaisi is duniya mein aur koi nahi. Where are you from, he asks. Do you have something to say to Him too? I have come from Ahmedabad I say. And I have come to listen to Him and his people. God bless you, he says. We share a smile and already a moment has transpired between two strangers - a moment of compassion, a moment of truth.

Death is not to be mourned. Rejoice in death for it is death that will unite you with your Beloved. Let me die before I die! Urs is the death anniversary of the Sufi saint and it is celebrated with much pomp and glory. It was my privilege to witness one such celebration. Crippled as one is by the insufficiency of language and the inadequacy of words, it is futile to attempt to describe an experience such as this. To say the least it is a world where you are defined by what you feel and not by what you know. Look around and it is plain to see. A lone voice rises above the crowd. It is some tune you haven’t heard. But listen to it you must. Twilight approaches and the crowd is like viscous glue. The summer air, thick with incense is about to get thicker with the songs of Love. The Qawwali begins without warning. Before you know it your hands join the others in the maddening rhythm. Soon it has made a fanatic out of you. But you stand still while these waves break over you with unending force until you are spent. You wonder, what is the diaphanous glow that has suddenly come over all that you see? Blink. The glow clears as tears flow free.

The journey of the mystic is a tremulous one at first. But only to be transformed, with time, into the confident stride of the seasoned traveler. There are no tourists in these quarters, only wanderers who need no maps, who in fact despise all maps. The journey then is a journey within, an inexorable quest. Who can say what the end shall be in a journey such as this? But the rewards are plenty. Love, compassion, humanity, universal brotherhood, the innate potential of every being to reach a higher state of existence and the realization that God is after all a mirror of the Self, are what drive the Sufi towards greater consciousness. The Sufi proclaims in all earnest: love is the cause of all creation. Love of God is the love of humanity, because to love god is to love all that He has created.