the darkness is lit by artificial suns
crowds cheer and wave their flags
drunken kids climb up trees,
trying to get a glimpse of something, anything
we sit quietly and stare at the screen,
listening once again to his words
I feel proud and strong
but do not rejoice like the rest,
wondering instead what is to come ahead
knowing that it is but a step forward
and not truly an end
I am grateful for those who will find closure
I am sad for those who still won't
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
soulful eyes
the most soulful eyes
piercing, deep, endless
I search in them for answers
not too long, though
forced to look away
for fear of what I may find
soulful eyes
even more so when they are sleeping
lashes that flutter like silk drapes
showing a glimpse of what lies beyond
a hint of a world without limits
enticing me to see further
soulful eyes
that smile pure joy, without any movement
and cry a sadness, without any tears
quiet, calming
enveloping me like a blanket
my heartbeat begins to slow
matching the gentle rythym of each blink
piercing, deep, endless
I search in them for answers
not too long, though
forced to look away
for fear of what I may find
soulful eyes
even more so when they are sleeping
lashes that flutter like silk drapes
showing a glimpse of what lies beyond
a hint of a world without limits
enticing me to see further
soulful eyes
that smile pure joy, without any movement
and cry a sadness, without any tears
quiet, calming
enveloping me like a blanket
my heartbeat begins to slow
matching the gentle rythym of each blink
Monday, February 28, 2011
Our Children
Moti Nagar, New Delhi.
It is an old city within a city. Nothing has changed in twenty years. I walk by a construction site near my aunt's home. Women, barefoot, carry piles of material -bricks, wood, rocks, twigs- in large containers atop their heads. Their children skuttle around, the youngest ones naked. They run around, playing games, laughing, oblivious to the world around them. Their innocence touches me. I look at one child in particular, not more than two or three years old. He is wearing nothing but a tattered rag, the remnants of an old undershirt. His bare feet are covered with dust from the site. He doesn't play with the other children, but lingers to the side. I watch as he picks up pieces of rubble from the ground and looks at them curiously. At one point, I watch him lick a rock and want to run up to him to take it away from him. But I stay where I am, watching. An older girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, goes to him. She lifts him with one arm and carries him over to the other children. He giggles as they walk away. He looks over her shoulder and sees me. He smiles. I can't help but smile back, but my heart aches. I want to take him home with me.
Panjabi Bhagh, New Delhi.
I stay at my cousin's place for a week. They have more space than my aunt, and one of her sons graciously gives up his room for me. They have a servant named Rupa, a girl not more than fourteen, with a beautiful face and the demeanor of a child much younger. I ask her how old she is. I don't know why I think she will tell me the truth, they never do. I watch her do her daily chores with ease but she lacks the grace of a woman. How could she not? She is still but a child. She does as she is told by the members of the household, including the boy who is her own age. She makes the tea, cleans the dishes, cleans the floor on her hands and knees, hangs the laundry to dry. There is always something to do.
Each morning she brings me my tea, just as I like it. One morning in particular, she giggles when I thank her. Didi? (Sister?), what is this "thank you" every time you say? I smile. I am unsure how to explain it to someone who doesn't have the phrase in her vocabulary. "It is what you say when you are happy that someone did something for you." She just giggles some more, as though I have just said the most foolish thing, and goes on to continue her day's work. I worry for her. She bears an innocence that will make her weaker than the rest. For a crazy second, I wonder if there is a chance I can adopt her. There are rumors she will be married off to the dhobi's son in a year, and they will go back to her village. She knows of the rumors and tells me she will run away before that happens. I want to take her home with me.
It is an old city within a city. Nothing has changed in twenty years. I walk by a construction site near my aunt's home. Women, barefoot, carry piles of material -bricks, wood, rocks, twigs- in large containers atop their heads. Their children skuttle around, the youngest ones naked. They run around, playing games, laughing, oblivious to the world around them. Their innocence touches me. I look at one child in particular, not more than two or three years old. He is wearing nothing but a tattered rag, the remnants of an old undershirt. His bare feet are covered with dust from the site. He doesn't play with the other children, but lingers to the side. I watch as he picks up pieces of rubble from the ground and looks at them curiously. At one point, I watch him lick a rock and want to run up to him to take it away from him. But I stay where I am, watching. An older girl, perhaps seven or eight years old, goes to him. She lifts him with one arm and carries him over to the other children. He giggles as they walk away. He looks over her shoulder and sees me. He smiles. I can't help but smile back, but my heart aches. I want to take him home with me.
Panjabi Bhagh, New Delhi.
I stay at my cousin's place for a week. They have more space than my aunt, and one of her sons graciously gives up his room for me. They have a servant named Rupa, a girl not more than fourteen, with a beautiful face and the demeanor of a child much younger. I ask her how old she is. I don't know why I think she will tell me the truth, they never do. I watch her do her daily chores with ease but she lacks the grace of a woman. How could she not? She is still but a child. She does as she is told by the members of the household, including the boy who is her own age. She makes the tea, cleans the dishes, cleans the floor on her hands and knees, hangs the laundry to dry. There is always something to do.
Each morning she brings me my tea, just as I like it. One morning in particular, she giggles when I thank her. Didi? (Sister?), what is this "thank you" every time you say? I smile. I am unsure how to explain it to someone who doesn't have the phrase in her vocabulary. "It is what you say when you are happy that someone did something for you." She just giggles some more, as though I have just said the most foolish thing, and goes on to continue her day's work. I worry for her. She bears an innocence that will make her weaker than the rest. For a crazy second, I wonder if there is a chance I can adopt her. There are rumors she will be married off to the dhobi's son in a year, and they will go back to her village. She knows of the rumors and tells me she will run away before that happens. I want to take her home with me.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
the road
Driving south on the 5 highway, on my way home from a solo road trip to San Fransisco, I spotted a canary yellow convertible in my rear view mirror. It was one of those classic cars, wide and regal. It had either been restored or otherwise meticulously maintained over the decades, as the car looked almost new. It happened to be a beautiful day. As the car moved closer -it was in the lane just to my right and a car's span behind- I couldn't help but be curious as to who the driver of this car could be. I strained to see the person, struggling to catch her in my line of sight. Then she appeared. She must have been in her mid to late sixties, with a head of gray hair, cropped short to her ears. She wore big Jackie-O sunglasses. And of course, the top to the convertible was down. In my mind's eye, when I think back to that day, I picture a scarf wrapped around her head, blowing with the wind. Or instead, I imagine a large wide-brimmed hat, white, that she tries to hold to her head but gets swept far away by the wind. But I know, as I look down at the notes I made that same day, that there was no scarf, no hat. If I were putting that scene on film, I would definitely add one, though.
As her car got closer to mine and I was able to get a better look, I noticed how free she seemed. She was alone, she was smiling as though she were the happiest woman on earth, not a care in the world. What a fun woman, I thought to myself. Driving to who knows where, top down in her fancy yellow convertible. Ordinarily, I would find the color quite repulsive, but here it seemed... appropriate. It was sunshine on wheels. In this instance, it only added to the joie de vive of the scene. I kept one eye on the road ahead of me, and one eye on her. Who was she? Perhaps a widow who was on her way to visit her grandchildren in Los Angeles. Or a wife who was just on a drive while her husband played golf with his friends. No, that one didn't seem right. She seemed more likely to be the kind of woman who would join the men on the green. Perhaps I was wrong to assume she had a family at all. Maybe she was single, never having gotten married, enjoying the new car she bought for herself for her birthday -or even better, just because.
My mind continued to wander as we drove further south on the highway. I wondered if we would be driving like this, next to one another, for the next several hours. Then a song came on that distracted me and I found myself forgetting about her for a while. A little while later, I realized that I had not been keeping an eye on that yellow car and it was no longer in sight. I sighed. I should have paid better attention. But why? What difference would it have made? I continued listening to the radio, daydreaming, when she again appeared out of nowhere -this time just to my immediate right. I turned to get a better look at her and -as though she sensed me looking at her- she turned to her left and smiled at me. I couldn't help but smile back. I couldn't explain the feeling then, nor can I now, but I wanted to be friends with this woman. She seemed like she would be the kind of favorite aunt I'd look up to and want to spend time with. Maybe I saw a bit of myself -a few decades from now- in her. I looked ahead and saw the turnoff to another highway and wondered where it lead to. A moment later, she turned off onto the road. I kept my eyes on the yellow until it shrunk into the distance.
As her car got closer to mine and I was able to get a better look, I noticed how free she seemed. She was alone, she was smiling as though she were the happiest woman on earth, not a care in the world. What a fun woman, I thought to myself. Driving to who knows where, top down in her fancy yellow convertible. Ordinarily, I would find the color quite repulsive, but here it seemed... appropriate. It was sunshine on wheels. In this instance, it only added to the joie de vive of the scene. I kept one eye on the road ahead of me, and one eye on her. Who was she? Perhaps a widow who was on her way to visit her grandchildren in Los Angeles. Or a wife who was just on a drive while her husband played golf with his friends. No, that one didn't seem right. She seemed more likely to be the kind of woman who would join the men on the green. Perhaps I was wrong to assume she had a family at all. Maybe she was single, never having gotten married, enjoying the new car she bought for herself for her birthday -or even better, just because.
My mind continued to wander as we drove further south on the highway. I wondered if we would be driving like this, next to one another, for the next several hours. Then a song came on that distracted me and I found myself forgetting about her for a while. A little while later, I realized that I had not been keeping an eye on that yellow car and it was no longer in sight. I sighed. I should have paid better attention. But why? What difference would it have made? I continued listening to the radio, daydreaming, when she again appeared out of nowhere -this time just to my immediate right. I turned to get a better look at her and -as though she sensed me looking at her- she turned to her left and smiled at me. I couldn't help but smile back. I couldn't explain the feeling then, nor can I now, but I wanted to be friends with this woman. She seemed like she would be the kind of favorite aunt I'd look up to and want to spend time with. Maybe I saw a bit of myself -a few decades from now- in her. I looked ahead and saw the turnoff to another highway and wondered where it lead to. A moment later, she turned off onto the road. I kept my eyes on the yellow until it shrunk into the distance.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Happy New Year
Dear 2010, I do not begrudge you the bumps and bruises, the scrapes and scars, for with them came laughter and love, lessons learned, smiles and hugs, flowers, rainbows and poetry...for that, I thank you.
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