Gandhi's Daughter

The Return

Her eyes searched. Lingering. Amongst the mud, cooled, enclosed dwellings. Searching for that simple abode, seen, so briefly, so many years before.  It was only in this guise, pure spirit, that she had made the journey. The hindering, limiting, ailments of her awkward self, shed. Left behind. In this lightness of being, the travelling had been effortless. She had returned. Come home.

But, she couldn't find what she sought. The fruitless twists, and turns. Heat scorching, empty. Dustiness covering, reigning supreme. She knew things would have changed. So many years lived. But this place. It was so very different from the memories she held. And, the haunting, sadness of it was, they had forgotten him. Whatever had been that humble place, taken over. Remade. Left, now, just motes of dust, floating, drifting, gently, moving on.

But, as she turned to go, softly drooping shoulders, thoughts ebbing low, she stopped. She heard. Whispers in the breeze, voices growing. In their dream states, other spirits were clamouring, calling.

"Don't go! Please wait! We didn't know you were coming! Don't let us be too late! Stay awhile! You've come home to us!"

Surprised. She halted, and found herself, easily surrounded. Wrapped, cocooned, shaded, engulfed in the heady joy, the light of pure love.

Eyes wide in wonderment, spirit shining, brighter still, she asked the question in her heart:

"Why have you come?"

The answer came, loud and clear, ringing splendour, bell-like tone. All the voices, all at once, together pealed their resolve.

"Because, You, child, You are Gandhi's Daughter! With You His spirit blesses, guides, and teaches us a-new. When we see You, we hear His voice. The truth of His words."

She looked at them. their eager glances, tender smiles, their gentle touches. With tears she spoke, and asked another question:

"What is it that He taught, that you remember Him so well?"

Then an old, old man hobbled forth and took her by the hand. She saw that although he was spirit form, he still needed rest. She found him a shaded spot, found seating so that he could speak, say his words.

Still holding her gently by the hand, his aged voice replied:

"Listen and listen well. He was a Mahatma to us. A Master. A Teacher to lead the way. Gandhi wasn't the name of His birth, but God's Light he was, in truth. His aspirations were a torch, they lit our path, inspired our way. By very, very, small, small steps, He taught us how to be. How the lowly place we were forced to hold, could be shed, and our children's, children free. No longer drudges, meanly kept, despised. We are equal. Stand proud. We live.

Equality, dignity, respect. Education was the key. So even when He wasn't here with us, His hand reached out. Helped us up. We climbed that ladder after Him. The spirits that you see here now, are the ones touched by Him. These are the generations still present, and yet to come, who received the benefit,  the care, of that humble, simple man. They are the real fruits of His sacrifice. The Giver who gave his all. What you see in us, is His dream realised. The truth made bold.

And we are pained He didn't know. That at the very end, He felt so lost, so abandoned. So alone. But we, we whose lives He touched, in our hearts He still glows. As long as our memories serve, and our children's, and their children's and beyond. Don't think that He is forgotten. His name is forever written, indelible, in the heartbeats of our living.

But you, Gandhi's Daughter. You returned. And to you we say these words. Don't look for His mark in superficial, shallow things. That's not who He was. He sought no fame, or worldly renown. No riches, or glory. His life's meaning was much, much deeper. Tell Him when the final summons comes. And You meet Him again. Even if the knowledge is not needed now. We need to let Him know. We loved Him. He was the Master. The Teacher. And, we, we still learn."

She listened to the aged man. The truths he spoke, in the stillness of that heat. She would never forget  the ringing, emotion of his words. The silence, tangible, though crowds surrounded her. The love that dazzled brightness. In her heartbeat, her very breath, that message grew. He was not forgotten.

And so Gandhi's Daughter, with heart rejoicing, left that faraway land. Her spirit returned. Her eyes opened. She awoke. Another day.

Being Jiwan…x

Elephant. Giraffera. Balluooo...

Meri Ma

My mother.

I had a lot of names for her, loving names to hug, peck, tease and let her know with simple words, just how much she meant to me. Meri Ma. Mother of my heart.

In her final years, when she was fading, I would talk, enthuse, alight with my latest dreams of venture. I was learning all a-new. Different things. Fascinating potentials. Knowledge not taught in schools. Planning dreams. Growing futures. Disturbing rest, while she listened, patient. Until, finally, eyes heavy with sleep drenched tiredness, she'd seek respite.

"We'll talk tomorrow, tell me then", she'd say.

And I, sitting on her bed, would sneak a guilty look at the time, almost midnight, before wishing her an even guiltier goodnight. She was the best of listeners. The very best of huggers. Warm, tender, engulfing embraces. Stoic and uncomplaining. To the end, I saw only those smiles. She hid the rest.

Every day was richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.

But why talk about her now? Well, I went to see 'Lion' yesterday. It was spur of the moment decision. I wanted to do something a bit different, the day had dragged. So I ended up having a bite of scrumptious scotch egg with seasonal greens, at a wonderful organic place I know. And then, having booked the ticket first, I watched the early evening show.

Feelings wrought, emotions challenged. I was deeply moved. Loved it. But, the mothers in the movie. What they did. How they strived. That look of loss, held close, deep in their eyes. I know the story was all about the search, about the small, lost, boy. But. How they held on. Loving tenderness in their words. Soft caresses in their hands. I know it was a movie, entertainment on view, but, in that darkness, it made me cry.

That's the thing you see. The chords that resonant with us. Our experience of what a mother will do. What she will endure. For her child. To raise him. To clothe and feed her. To show right, from wrong. Uncomplaining, quietly tending, just caring, being mum. Easy to forget she is more than that role. But the nature, naturing part of her, that kicks in when you're born. Come into her life. How profound. If you are of the blessed creed, that has known a mother's love, it is something that will stay with you, beyond that final engulfing hug.

So, when you see a film like that, it's your own mum you recall, who you remember. Whatever those memories are for you, the sweet nectar of a mother's love, lingers. Infusing, gently soothing the trials of this world. That's what I remember, still do, always will. How she made life easier, lighter, even when times where hard, and when tears flowed.

My mother was beautiful. Her beauty, a bright, shining radiance. To my loving eyes, she glowed. But in the years of her ageing, to her, her reflection showed a different mien. Someone she didn't recognise. Someone she didn't know. She'd avoid looking at her face saying those very words. And I, I in my distress, would try and re-assure her, forgetting she was a woman too.

"Look mum. Look. Look at yourself with my eyes. Can't you see, just see how beautiful you are."

And, as she had been quietly suffering, the effects of her failing heart:

"I'm so grateful you're still here with us, so grateful you're alive."

And, she, she with her mother's love would wryly respond, in laughter tinged, sing-song refrain:

"Not Beautiful. Not Beautiful Me. Beautiful My Children. My Children. Me Elephant. Giraffera. Balluooo..."

My life was all the richer for her presence. I miss her. Still.

Being Jiwan…x

The Art of Dying

Colour Me

Colour me New-born, a mewling, puking babe.
Fresh delivered, scented, loving.
Welcomed, and embraced.
Fragile, small, spun delicacy.
Hope.
Eternity clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.

Paint me a Dreamer, child, maiden, woman.
Unfurling, blooming, changing.
Awkward graces, seen and hidden.
Blushing fiery, loving, pained.
Feelings, experiences, abundance. A riotous glory. Mystery unveiled.
The seven ages writ large, writ clear, in moving drifts, in shifting sand.

Clothe me with Maturity. The Master's Autumn Palate.
Ambers. Golds. Sepia memories.
Touched, tinted, brushed ruby. A flickering, burning glow.
The rich, deep, turbulence of living, gently ebbing.
In the blessed, silent, solitude, of night.
In the eventide, stillness, life flows.

Shroud me in indigo, in shades of midnight hues,
The warm, sacred, enfolding spirit.
Beckons. Whispers, come, come now.
Move on.
A single drop. That was, is, will be.
Hope.
Eternity, clutched fast, held close, held tight, in tiny, tiny hands.

You really want to know?

Death. Dying. Dead. No more. You want to ask. Question. To help, heal, succour or just plain know. It's one of those subjects people will avoid. The words difficult. Painful and scary. To speak the haunting dreaded names, makes it too, too, real. So instead of being a part of life, something lived with, endings known, discussed, even casually hugged away. It's stuff to put off until the decision is already taken, no choices left to be made. And so the journey ends, with precious things kept silent, left unsaid. With bruised sadness left adrift, still seeking, searching, for that firmly, closed, locked door.

The Art of Dying.

But, it's not that hard. Not so difficult. There is a way of doing this, if you take it easy, if you take it slow. Just take my hand. Hold it fast. I know you find it hard.  But you can still listen, still hear, and understand, these are simple words. Until that final breath, I'll breathe. Breathe in, breathe out, repeat, repeat, repeat. And repeat again. No thoughts required, no plans to tend. For until that last long exhale, that lingering sigh good-bye, I  live life in joy's transcendent, ethereal, light. Breathing in,  breathing out. This simple breath of life, it humbles, and sustains. 

Colour the ignorance of fear my friend, chase away regrets. Just learn to live, breathe life, laugh, sing and dance again. This subtle scent of waking hours. The life, today, you own. This moment. This space. Right here. Right now.

Breathe.
Live.

Just Be.

Being Jiwan…x

Once Upon a Time...

Memoirs of a Forgotten Man

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, in a far away country where the days blazed heat, and you sought the cool caress and breeze of shade, there lived a boy. A very young boy. The boy was the centre of his mother's world. She doted, and adored him. And he spent his days playing, laughing and learning like all the other boys. He knew he was loved, and he loved in return.

Now, this boy was very special. Although he seemed like every little boy. He was very intuitive. Gentle. Caring. Sensitive. He noticed things missed by others. He knew there were things that his mother tried to hide from him. He heard her soft weeping in the dark, aloneness, of night. But he never talked about it. In the bright, light of shining days his mother sang him lullabies, songs of love, of dreams, of hopes. But the boy he knew of the pain she carried, and he loved her all the more.

Now, the boy had a special name. Because his mother made him simple clothes, dressed him in the fresh cool of white from head to toe, the other kids would tease, and call him a name. You have to know that this name meant something in the country of his birth. He didn't really mind. It wasn't hurtful. So the name, it stuck, though the roots forgotten.

Now, the little boy was excited because he'd just started school. Like all the other children he would hurry to his classes, with the earth already warming, heating, for the day. Small feet were left hot, sore and tired, but he didn't complain. Learning was a joy to him. The wonder of new things. Where letters became words. And books beckoned, enticed, drawing him in. And the boy was truly blessed. Unlike the other mothers, his would stand outside the school when it was time for him to leave, and picked him up and carried him home in her arms. His feet kept cool. He was wrapped, embraced, in love. He was a very little boy. She loved him. He loved her in return.

But, then something awful happened. Life changed. His mother died. Nothing was the same. He heard stories of her broken heart. He heard stories of his father's disdain. His mother you see was a gentle soul, sweet, loving and true. But his father, his father was a handsome man. To him, appearance, good looks, beauty, was all. In his ignorance, these shallow traits, these small, small things, they mattered much, much more. He was fair. She was dark, and therein lay the bitter gourd. Although she was womanly kindness, everything and more, she was never loved by him, and the cruelty, it showed. He broke her spirit one final day, and it left his son alone.

Now,  although he was a little boy. Only five years old. He never forgot her sweetness, the gentleness of her soul. He had to grow up that day, when his mother died. His father worked in a distant place, and his relatives, his uncles, they were cold. So cold. They didn't want to bother with a little boy alone. They gave him scraps. What wasn't wanted. Leftovers. Stale and poor. He who had known such love, now wept. In front of that fire. Burning fingers. He cooked his own bread and dipped it into thin, thin whey. They didn't want to keep or feed him, but what would others say? Besides, his father was sending money, so there was still some gain.

Now what happened to the little boy, with the special name? The miracle of all this is, that he was still the same. He was not bitter. He was not angry. He did not rile, or hate. A very little boy he was when he decided his own fate. He would live. He would help his people rise. He would show the way. That was who he was. Equality. Dignity. Education. He knew that was the key. He would live his aspirations, his mother's dream. Work hard, strive, serve. And above all. Give. His mother had been a gentle soul, sweet and true. And her spirit lived on. Can you see? It was shining bright, glowing there in him.

And the special little boy? With that special name?

Gandhi. He grew up.

And that, that is for another day.

Being Jiwan…x

Time to Talk/Time to Change

Do You See Me Now?

Do you see Me now?
Do you know My name?
No, no, look at Me,
Don't turn your face. Don't hide My shame.

Can you hear Me now?
The words I spew?
No, NO! Don't listen to That.
"FUCKING BITCH. WHORE.
YOU LOCKED ME UP. GET ME OUT! GET ME OUT!"
That's NOT Me.
What I want to say.

Turn it off! TURN IT OFF! SWITCH IT! NOW!

Listen. Listen. Listen… Get closer... closer… still...
Here. In this silence. I'm screaming pain.
I'm Here. Still. Here. Hiding. Deep. Hide Me. Again.

I'm scared.

Don't tell them. Don't let them know.
Pills, jabs, restraint. Twisted limbs. Swollen hands. Dark despair.
I raged. I hurt. I wept.

Do you care?

You know Me. ME. The Me I was. The Me I am.
Really ME.
See Me again.
Hear Me.
HELP ME.
Let Me be.
Don't let pity crush.
It's hell I'm living.
LET ME BE!

I Know You See Me.
You Know My name.
It's Time to Talk.

NOW!

It's Time to Talk
It's Time to Change.


Today is 'Time to Talk' day. 

You have a voice. 

You may know or care for someone who suffers from the debilitating effects of poor mental health.  There are a lot of very dedicated caring professionals involved in supporting the misunderstood and vulnerable individuals in our society. There are also a lot of families and friends that try and do the same. I do. We struggle. Physical ailments are much easier to handle. To deal with. To respond to. To care for. To explain.

It is not easy to care. When fear strikes. Reality twists. Abuse screams. How to relate. Reach out. Shine a light. Listen. Just be there.

Please take the time to start a conversation or take an initiative to mitigate the stigma still experienced by a lot of people with mental health issues. Make it easier for them to talk. Especially those individuals isolated by crippling severe, enduring conditions. Depression. Bipolar. Schizophrenia. Words that bind. Forgiveness. Compassion. Understanding. Words that heal.

Be the difference. Make a difference. See the person, not the dis-ease.

Being Jiwan…x

Getting Started...

Procrastination. 

I live the words. I will. I should. I must. Not yet. Not now. Not ready. Maybe. Later. Soon, soon. And, the easiest of all, tomorrow. There was always tomorrow. Finding obstacles to delay. Blocks. Barriers built as easily as bridges would have smoothed the way. 

But what if that option of future 'doing' dims? What if 'Now' really has to be 'Now'? What if every thought, every choice, every moment that still breathes life is Legacy? What then? Who, how, when and where do you choose to be?

Lately, I have been pondering on my own unique place and purpose. Pivotal points, tragedies and challenges, tend to concentrate the mind. You may have experienced events. Similar thoughts. The 'why?' of life becomes an unremitting strumming. Begging answers, until there is nothing left. Questioning. Making sense of the random and unfathomable. Searching until the still, silence of night finally falls. What have you added to this chaotic mix of human experiences? Did you matter? What will be remembered? How do you hold on? How do you let go? Was the pain worth it? Will joy still glow? 

Deep, reflective, wry thoughts, light, airy, tinged with bright, dark humorous glimpses of lives being lived. Delving. Or, simply breathing. Mindfulness. Presence. Just Being. Eclectic observations covering a lot of really useful stuff. And, often, touching on a lot more interesting but not so useful things. The doings of Sages and the thoughts of Fools. 

But…then again, isn't it all a matter of viewpoints? What's the difference? Who's the sage and what's a fool? How do you know? 

Clarity can be striking. Mistakes. Lessons, learnt, forgotten, repeated. Forgiveness. Compassion, understanding. Learning, growing. We can all wear those T-shirts. 

That's the downside. 

Procrastination.

It's life. It's hope. It's faith. It's resilience. 

That step. That leap. That chance.

Carrying on, regardless.

It's beliefs.

It's choices. 

It's actions.

It's what I choose to share.

It's about being who you are.

Are you confused? Not sure? Procrastination. Do you know the dictionary definition? It's delaying or postponing. Do you see the irony of all these words? Do you remember the beginning? The title that said it all?

I'm 'Getting Started' on expressing, musings, reflections, stories, family tales. There are no if's or but's to this, it's really very, very simple. Here, right 'Now', it's all about Being Me...x