Rajasthani Romanticism

Jaipur is insatiably beautiful. From beneath the squalor and decay, can still be felt the pink sands of time and matter that form the legacy of this ancient city that juggles with some grace, the modern and the antiquated.

The cities beauty stands out for me because it is an unadorned one: its certainly not an obvious beauty, in fact its a rather oblivious one.
But at some level, it is also a taken-for-granted regal, yet unnoticed one.
Beauty is in the bones of Rajasthan.

I have the pleasure of being here at a time when the city is host to both a Literary Festival as well as a Heritage Festival. These are run in parallel, creating a rather combustable creative energy. And sparks fly! Like when Prof Nandini Sundar of Delhi University says, "Fuck the State! We will be heard!" or when Hanif Qureshi says, "when all those rather confused pieces come together to make sense of identit(ies), then we call that literature" and even more so when Asma Jehangir says that she's disappointed with India's arrogance while admitting that Pakistan is 'the menace'. Or Girish Karnad's comment earlier today when he said that VS Naipual must have been stone deaf. Why? Because he wrote about India, but he failed to write anything at all about music, and it's indelible influence and meaning in the Indian context.

Sparks fly, indeed, when you find yourself at the core of a melting pot of grand ideas, challenging minds and fanciful collaborations.

I've also managed to see two plays at the Birla Auditorium, thanks to the Heritage Festival and the Jaipur Virasat Foundation. One, 'Salesman Ramlal' is the Hindi adaptation of Arthur Miller's 'Death of a Salesman', and features a cast including Satish Kaushik as Ramlal and his wife played by Seema Biswas... and the other was directed by Naseeruddin Shah. Comprehensive reviews to follow. I'm not quite quenched with this cup of Jaipur dynamism, drink on, drink on!

With much love from my moonlit hotel room,
at almost 2a.m. Indian time,

S

Tick, Tock, Skull-duggery...

Tick, he said. What makes you tick?
Read me. Easy as a book.
I tick. Like that clock

of time

that wants the world to twirl its hands around me;
as I curl my hands around it...

anti-clockwise to the beat and then
in mock mimicry of the moving sun
wiping the upturned bowl finger-licking clean,

then

bopping down and up. up and down.

What makes me tick? Ha!

I think I evaded that
quite nicely;

But I can tell you in two ticks

What ticks me off!

Lol. It's all those two bit
ticks and tocks that pretend

to move

hands towards the sun
then point and flail and flounder;
the intent to tick, tacky and torn...
then fall still pointing, to the ground.

Tick. Tock.

Wonder why.

It makes me tick.

It ticks me off!

It tickles me, tog.

It toggles me, sick!

What makes me tick?

Indeed. I told you so.

Now tell me why?

:P

i am you, alright...

you are

that fresh breeze
playing with the curls in my hair,

that tinge of sunlight that
leaves gold dust on my skin,

that rustle in the wind
of the grasses before
the summer rains...

that dainty twitter
of love birds
meeting each other after
a time.

you are
that moonlight
dancing on the surface
of a crystal pond,

that gleam in the
gems that glisten on
my earlobes...

that sound of
life just awakening
to its wholeness.

you are.

i am.

and i am you.

but you are.

in my cd shuttle...

"Dhard mein, bhi yeh labbh
muskhura jaate hein...

beethein lamhein hamein
jabh bhi yaad aateh hein..."

I love that song! And I have it in three mixes. Thank heaven for little brother with his rotating CD collection.

Crazy weather, weather crazy

I love the rain... it reminds me of being born.. again and again... of the cycle of life, and the ways in which the innocence of children can be a storehouse of learning for us adults. I love summer, because of its warmth, that eternal feeling of being embraced with the kiss of sunrays leaving you just a little pink... and I love the breeze that works its way into my room when im writing... playing a little distracting game with me and the muse... teasing just enough to get some amount of free writing out in a mere five minutes.

I love my freedom. My family. My books. My car. Yes, that too. I love being a girlie girl. And I love being South African. Oh and jelly tots. But for now, I love the rain. Its great for writing. And painting. And baking, believe it or not. My shortbread biscuits just came out superbly today!

This rain has memories for me. It reminds me of coffee shops and colourful umbrellas. It reminds me of yellow butterflies. It reminds me of spontaneiety. It reminds me of me...

amsterdam is

amsterdam is the colour of naples on a yellow summer afternoon when the rain has just washed my forehead clean of the anxiety that last winters brush scratched across it.

amsterdam is fine, oil, colours of warmth.

amsterdam is where i am.

with a canvas, palette and brushes.

and all the colours of my imagination
working their way around my head -
sometimes as a wreath i can touch;
othertimes a halo that touches me.

Driving Dad Crazy

Azra's awesome post, Paternal Instinct's, about her dad got me thinking about my own sweet, volatile, and fluid relationship with my dad. We all start out with that typical daddy's girl virtue of life. And having come full circle, we do indeed return to take that place with full conviction. And in so far as dads are concerned, I dont think they ever imagine that we ventured away from that place. But then we're all not typical I suppose :/

Seriously though. Dad's are our ready made heroes. They do the impossible, with gritted teeth we never get to see, they save kittens from daring heights to the eyes of our four-year-old beings and take us to see grand wonder's like pavements full of pigeons. And they're armed with necessities like packets of breadcrumbs for such occasions, I might add.

They also cheer us on when we set our sights on reaching goals. But in asserting our identities, they feel afraid for us, I imagine. They wonder, if their little girls' grand enthusiasms will outlast a world of meanness and strife. They transfer their fears of a life lived hard onto a blank canvas and look carefully at it, wondering if those tainted hues will bleaken the clear vision of that sparkle that they see in their daughters' eyes. They're heroes, sure. But they're real softies when it comes to their little girls. And in all their good intentions, they're a little bewildered when their little girls show a feisty stubbornness to hold onto airy fairy dreams in the hope that these will stay afloat on the stormy ocean of the adult world. Dad was. He thought I should enter the health profession. I thought not (with all due respect to health professionals!). He supported my decision. I did undergrad architecture. Three years of it. And that was it. My post highschool stint was done. This was only the beginning for me. Then came the candy store! And I was the doe-eyed kid. A Bachelor of Arts. With Psychology, Sociology, English, African Lit, Classical Civilizations, Applied Ethics, International Relations, Politics, Philosophy... I may have skipped a few electives, but I was wowed by the options. And I delved in with much glee. Dad was concerned. Talents wasted, he said. And how will you survive? I did. In fact, I thrived!

I joined the corporate world soon after my MA. Writing continued. Blogging began. I travelled. I grew. But I yearned for something more. This was only an interim place to be. And dad was happy. I was learning responsible things, he said. I was making strides, meeting people, and carving out some bits of life.

I am a writer. This makes me happy.

He still is, too. Because now, he sees me. He really sees me. The little girl me. The creative me. The corporate me. The daughter me. The sociologist me. The writer me. The every me. All his dreams for me are me. And more than that, I also see me. I see him, too. And I see me in him. And him in me.


The beauty about relationships that heal and mend and make us who we are, is that they are wonderfully (and often surprisingly) evolutionary in nature. It takes an open awareness. A realisation. And a heart of compassion. Thats about it.

this is why i blog

i have been sitting in complete darkness for almost an hour now. thank heavens for my trusty laptop. and thankful, i am, for getting out of the shower in time! today was writing day. it followed on from yesterday. i have this new ritual, where i make special time to write, not like its a job or a have-to-do, but more like it fits into that category of, hey lets go shopping. okay maybe not quite that, but close enough.

for example, i had to take care of some stuff for dad yesterday, so i went off to Killarney Mall, got his stuff done, then browsed the bookstore for a bit, and finally made my way to Mugg & Bean. I found myself a comfy little table beside the window, ordered my brunch, and got to work with pen to notebook. and i was amazed at the output! aside from the welcome stream of words, i also met some friends and cousins as they ambled in and out. the thing i love about this coffee shop, is that its placed on the first floor of the mall with an awesome view of the highway. and yesterday happened to be one of those cloudy, watercolour grey sky, rain-teasing kind of days, so the view was simply fabulous. i used to love this place back in the day as an architecture student. (im a dropout architecture student:P) creative brainstorming potential is immeasurable in a place like that.

i wrote a bit today, too. and i sat around in comfies all day, while the family has been galavanting on a visiting and shopping expedition of sorts. and so, here i am, staring at the laptop after an invigorating shower, contemplating my next round of a hoped-for word storm, when the lights go. power out. its the entire neighbourhood, by the look of it. i plodded downstairs rather precariously, by the light of my rescusitated orange mobile phone, carrying the laptop like a well-loved teddy bear, and found a spot on the leather couch to plant myself. so, this means that im safe and preoccupied. these are necessarily good things. i am safe from stumbling and breaking ankle, neck or any talented appendages like fingers that type at keyboard or play mxit muse-ic. also, i am preoccupied. which means i don't have to dwell on the darkness. i only like dark chocolate, not dark houses.

and out of this worded reflection, the greatest revelation is that i have remembered why it is that i blog in the first place. its because these arb moments in life are of utmost bloggability, thats why! i think im liking this solitary darkness after all :P

i just wish that my ghd was battery powered... sigh.

misplaced intentions

these can get so twisted:
intentions, misplaced

like a set of keys;

leaving just a bitter
memory
of the ringing
sound
they made as they
dangled
from the wardens hands,

and a cold
memory
of the day i strode
barefoot
across the stone floor
of that
castle of promises.

bitter and cold;

this handful of
misplaced intentions
remind me just
of temporariness
and my own mortality.

Ode to the Odor

this odor of distrust
is like the stench of tyres burning
in an abandoned warehouse;

this odor of regret
is like the taste of cardboard
on my salivating tongue;

this odor of irritation
is like the feel of sandpaper
on my bare shoulders,
making me squirm,
scratch,
and then
shudder
in disgust!

its this thing...
this odor of something tasteless
now gone bad,
making it an unworthy guardian
of too many odor's...

distrust, regret, irritation,
all clambering for the attention
of my senses, at once
heightened by the mark of
the archer.

deuce juice

I am reluctant...
fundamentally flawed by the curse
of a day gone by.

the end.

and the beginning, a bitter reminder
of some inner longing
reduced to a case of ulcer
and putrid
gas.

what with the price all so shaky at the moment,
the oil-rich look less shiney
and the starved look somewhat
a trendy artists grunge inspiration.

aah, the pathos of
a new condition
regurgitated from the machine
of an over-worked mind
and a rather battered muse;

with a juicy social consciousness squeezed from
the-eye-half-closed to wrongs,
an airy fairy soul still struggles
to cling onto
plastic wrap
and staples
in the hope that the competitive edge will
inspire the one to entice suffocation
or the other to slice
wrists damned by
the clerks
choices!

for now, head-to-head
are dreams reduced to deuce
with so much work
still left
to do.

faking it

it would seem that he turned out to be some kind of wannabe super hero...

calls himself 'anon'...

spews out darkness and glib poison at unsuspecting folks
and then slinkers back into the abyss where he belongs.
no call to duty.
no accountability.
just pathetic and drivelsome.

a fake superhero.
unimaginative.
and plainly nothing.
yep. a fake.

just like that

i am feeling an overwhelming sadness tonight. and i dnt know what to do about it.
im typing these words. and feeling a sense of relief in seeing them on screen. pretending that this way, the sadness will dissolve. but its not.
i still dnt know what to do about it.

im drenched. i dnt think i can afford to lose more salt right now.
but its all not always easy to find answers to everything.

maybe sad is healthy. i dnt know.
i dnt know if anyone knows.
but i know that i dnt.

uSe or Abuse?

I wonder. I wonder at what point people might realise that they’re in an abusive relationship. I wonder at what point they can know that it is abuse. I also wonder how much people are willing to put up with. And why?

It felt love...

How
Did the rose
Ever open its heart

And give to this world
All its
Beauty?

It felt the encouragement of light
Against its
Being,

Otherwise,
We all remain

Too

Frightened.

(From The Gift: poems by Hafiz the Great Sufi Master)

I'm a loser; You're a loser. Its all okay.

Words can sometimes cause more harm than good. I'm not so sure that its about the conscious intention. Rather, its that words are interpreted by our brains already filled with a range of mind drama. And often, words are flung about rather carelessly, with little notion, at first, of the impact that they might make on their recipient. Take falling in love, for example. It's possible to fall in love with a bunch of words on a screen. But it's just as easily possible to fall out of love that way. So then the relationship of words with words and energies from that, is really something that might dwindle to nothingness if it's left to simmer for a while in a pot of mental melodrama. The spice of the inner workings of the mind is not to be underestimated, of course. It has the innate ability to add a wonderous flavour to the energies of a fertile imagination in cultivating the grandiose interest. For a time, souls are convincingly quenched. But then, it also has the skill to deftly carve some doubt and plant some insiduous seeds of resentment, bitterness and even guilt in the garden of an already infested psyche.

Now take chat for practical instance. Words are all you have to work with. Mxit. GoogleChat. Mirc for days gone by. And Facebook, and a whole realm of instant messenger de(vices). While words generate and transport energy, their static one-dimensionality on screen is an easy hoax for their danger to hurt or create misunderstandings. "You're such a loser" may sound like a cool rebuff. It can be read as a deep affront. "Don't be an idiot, dimwit, fag, five-year-old" The list is imaginatively endless. Then there's the protocols unobserved. e.g. "My dear" is not endearing to most independent females. Condescending tone is easily accompliced to an unsavoury choice of words. And the results are disasterous. Catastrophic even. Chat is bad enough, without the real elements, the human interaction, the smiles and facial nuances, the communication of eye to eye...soul to soul. Chat, distorted by unreliable connectivity and words misplaced is a nightmare. Telkom needs some competition methinks.

But what does all this say of the speaker of these arbitrary weapons of mass destruction? It's NOT okay. It doesnt feel okay. I do it. You do it. It doesnt make it okay. We're taught to love thy neighbour. Ideally, we all want to grow up to be astute and loving folk who will honour and respect our fellow beings. Maybe it's time we started with ourselves, for a change.

With love, honour and respect...
Shafs

NB: In tribute to a celebrated individual who has made a profound impact on my life this last year or so. Shabash! ;)

Flood Residue

'The taste of today is not that of yesterday.
A pot boils over.

A watchman calls down the ladder,
Did you hear the commotion last night
from the seventh level?

Saturn turns to Venus and tells her
to play the strings more gently.
Taurus milk turns red. Leo slinks from the sky.

Strange signs, because of a word
that comes from the soul
to help us escape speaking and concepts.

I answer the nightwatchman,
You will have to assign meanings
for these ominous events.

I have been set free from the hunt,
the catching and being caught,
to rest in these dregs
of flood residue, pure and empty.'

The Essential Rumi- Coleman Barks, p296.

the quest for marshmallows...

I have been experiencing these awesome 'eureka' moments these past few weeks. I imagine that it's all part of a long drawn process of self-realisation that will continue for the extent of my life, however long or short that may tend to be. But I also feel immensely grateful for the journey, and the point at which I now find myself.

Theres so much I want to pen here. So much that I want to document, for myself, and to share with erstwhile readers. Because, everyday I pray for answers to the muddle of questions in my forever inquiring childlike mind. And everyday, I may have failed to see the answers.

My quest for the bowl of marshmallows in my eye-line has kept me striving without wanting to enjoy the view of a far bigger reality.

What an amazing reality it is!

I feel like the universe has let me in on a little secret. And I have this incredulous feeling that the secret is only the key to many more. Every single day, I have received a tiny piece of the puzzle, only to discard them into my box of seeming nothingness.
Until recently that is. When I had some time for silence, and reflection, and the need to do something creative. I reached back into that box of stuff and began to unravel and piece together the little bits... And a glorious image (still halfway there) began to emerge. I feel held and embraced by all that life can be. I feel like life is working with me. I feel loved :) I feel like I am always at the right place at the right time. And that I have no reason to want. Just to be. But I have to admit, it took some doing and some sandpaper-to-skin in getting here (rather I chose to make it feel like that for a while).

I also know that this is a temporary resting place, and that the shade of these leaves will shift for some time so that I can see the greater climb that awaits me.

I am just grateful for every moment of love that has brought me to this point, and I know that my emotional wings are a little stronger now ;)

an apple a day...

Apple Source

no name brand

I just learned that a good friend of mine blogs. All this, thanks to her mom. Now, she's one heck of a person. And she's got a 'wow' mind. All this means that she must have one really awesome blog. Or two. Or however many she might have. But, she chooses to remain anonymous. And, of course, thats to be respected. I remember when I first started blogging, I chose to write simply as Kimya. Theres something to be said about total blissful anonymity. In the way that one writes, in the level of expressiveness and in the non-judgemental approach one has to ones expressions regarding self. Not much of that has changed, in principal, but I wonder if, at least at a subconscious level, this open writing challenges freedom in any way? Or does it add a responsibility of sorts, perhaps? I wonder.

I wonder if anonymity belies intentions. If it aids exaggeration. Or if it courts embellishment. I wonder if life is fiction anyway. Or is fiction reality, all the same.

I also wonder if this blood pressure level dropping below 100 is causing my mind to spin in too much wondering. I need sleep. And water. And less caffeine. And more fresh air. And an oasis of new inspiration.

And I would really like to write again. So I am off to do that. Ciao.

With love and sweet nothings
S