The Red Umbrella

The grey horizon promised a turbulent night ahead. The fluttering sails white against them, seconded it. She hoped Craig knew what he was doing with the ropes and ties. She knew nothing about sailing and had come along only to keep him company. “Would we need to turn home?” Could he hear the hopeful suggestion in her voice, had it masked the anxiety? She had tried to keep her voice as steady as she could – he hated weakness and she didn’t want to come across as helpless damsel in distress – which was exactly how she felt at the moment. The boat’s bow crashed into another wave; she held on to her seat tightly, fighting lunch threatening to rise up along with the next wave. Its wet spray startled her enough to forget her food.

He didn’t reply. Had he heard her above the wind, or was he just ignoring answering? He had once told her he avoided any conversation that would cause dissension or a reason for an argument as he viewed it. That  had been when she had tried to tell him how much he had hurt her over the years, and how a simple, sincere, ‘sorry’ would have been balm enough, but he had chosen silence and a quiet exit from the room, as if her  two sentences had been too much of a bother.

“Do want a drink? Its in the fridge. I usually have a stock of juice and whatever – take what you want.” He called out cheerily. She knew then that he had heard her, but had chosen the easier path of ‘saving his arse’ by changing the topic in an unwanted conversation – as usual. He also wanted her out of sight, below deck; did he think she would judge him on his prowess with the ropes? She, who could not sail and hated water sports?

How far apart they were on this tiny boat, in the middle of water with no one else in sight for miles. Any hope for intimacy was abandoned along with the crowd he had brought along - ‘his people’ -  through his lap top, his phone and had been on ‘important matters’ for as long as he could till they were out of network range. He hadn’t needed her company, it seemed.

 “No thanks.” She turned her head to get her hair off her face not daring to use either hand, still gripping her seat.

“Could you get me one then?” He had heard that. “Need to be here to check the sails.”

She looked at him wondering if she could point out that he wasn’t doing anything with them, merely sitting by that long rope that he had wound over that metal knob like thing that seemed to keep everything on course. The sails seemed calmer now too. Why couldn’t he get up and serve himself? Couldn’t he see how sacred she was? Were they that distant?

“The clouds look angry” she said instead. Indeed the horizon wasn’t merely a metallic grey any more, there were boiling clouds rolling in. Sailor she may not be, but even she could sense a brewing storm. If she pointed it out a second time, he might, just to prove a point, turn even further away from shore. She held back her counsel. He would do just as he wanted, would risk everything for the sheer excitement of it; she didn’t need to encourage him. If she was quiet enough, maybe he would have the thought to turn back, and she would praise him for his wonderful idea. That’s how they normally communicated anyway.

She twisted to looked behind, the way they had come. Shore seemed a hazy outline in the rising mist. Had she imagined it in her desperation to want to be connected to a sense a safety, or were they even further out than she knew? Regret minced at her insides – why had she thought this ride would change anything between them, that they would be friends again, they way they used to be? A flood of memories crashed in unbidden mirroring the heaving craft. Best friends marred by marriage; they should have stayed friends and married others – would that have preserved what they had? Or, maybe it’s just the way of life – seasons change even a forest of trees, maybe marriages too have seasons and maybe they would see spring again? She smiled at the hope. “What happened?” his voice above the wind broke her reverie.

“What?”

“You were smiling. Finally enjoying the ride? I told you it’s nothing. The lake is moody but I can control her.”

Control.  That’s it. It summed everything up perfectly. She looked at him with this new revelation. How could she have not known? He lived for control. Stupid woman, following her heart – what heart? There is nothing left of it, she scolded herself. Bits and pieces glued together with hope – hope springs eternal – where had she read that? Reading – that had always been her escape route – to bury her head in other worlds where she could control the time and pace of the reading, change the scene with a new story if the previous one was uncomfortable or boring or….simply because she could. Control.

The craft was on course into the charcoal grey of rainclouds kissing the waters, occasionally outlined by a flash of lightning somewhere in that malicious heart of fury. She could see the sheet of water even before the first raindrops pattered down, spitting up the water as they fell. “Let’s turn back!!” Her panic raw and exposed, her restrained reasoning within herself now no longer a choice.

His laughter rode the wind. “Enjoy it!”

A lone figure stood still on the pier they had left behind. The umbrella gave scant protection from the rain laden, lashing wind. He had brought it for her. She would need it when they returned. The water would be choppy; she hated even a fun fair ride – how would she be living through this? She could swim, he knew,  but he also knew she could not fight these waves.

He had waited for what seemed like an eternity. He would wait even longer, if only it meant he would see her again. He hoped his red umbrella would help guide her home, and to safety. He had been her shadow; and like shadows, never seen as long as they lay behind. He had never been in front – how could she know he existed? But he existed for her. He waited….


Disclaimer: the cover picture is for representation only and the Author holds no claims to its origin nor any rights to it.

Who truly represents a state?

When a friend posted about a rude and mean person yelling at her husband for not knowing the local language, and demanding they leave the state otherwise, it made me mad. Mad, because this mean and rude person dared announce himself as a representative of this state. He is not. Categorically, he NOT a representative of the soul and heart of Bangalore. Unfortunately, this cancer is spreading and more violent, mean and rude people are rising up in 'defense' of a culture they think they own.
They don't, because, as far I am concerned, they dont even understand it, to begin with.

When I first came to Bangalore, more than 3 decades ago, I too had had an encounter with someone who insisted I 'learn the language or leave'. Though he had frightened me, he hadn't inspired me. (I wonder if this present mean and rude person could have been his son? After all, meanness begats, meaness, and rude people cannot pass on a legacy of kindhearted tolerance.)

The people I met in my sojourn in this city - the Brahmin family I lived with for years, the others whom I met in different walks of life - however, did earn my respect and because of them, I wanted to learn their language, I wanted to share their experiences on levels that knowing only English would not. And while picking up phrases of speech, sharing jokes on mispronouncing and progressing to full sentences made me 'one of them'. And I am proud of it.

Call me a Bangalorean any day, parawagilla. Namma makkullu Bangalurudhu. My children also belong to Bangalore. I may not yet be very fluent (lol), but my heart is knitted with this city. She is soft, she is gentle. She is magnanimous and she has adopted children of many hues and colours, of different backgrounds and cultures. Her heart is large enough for all of them to take shelter under her wings...she is my Bangalore.

Coming back to the present - where did these Mean and Rude people come from? They are the tares among the wheat. The poisonous weeds that mimic the true crop to spoil the harvest. I think their loudness comes from being small inside, and to be noticed at all, they need to cause a fuss. Given a chance, I am sure they would take the next flight out to a 'white' country, only to come back with accents thicker than their heads, and with this new found identity, will lord it over others as a 'fo-ren return' to crib about the 'dirt, the roads, the sanitation, the hygiene', constantly comparing with their 'better experience' out-there-where-the-grass-is- greener.

Would they use their 'better experience' to help out? To make a difference that would make people want to be around them more? I think not. They would still be mean and rude in their new avatar.

Me thinks, they should be the first ones to leave Bangalore till they can truly reflect her quiet, elegant, glory.

. Baruch Hababa B'shem Adonai

Adonai . Baruch ha ba ba shem.

John 20:1-9
We can come t church to 'check out' /verify what we have heard from another's mouth, like Peter and John did when Mary Magdalene brought news of Jesus' missing body. Or we can stay till we get to meet Him. Why do we attend church?

                     Here's a little expansion of these most famous verses in story form:

    They peered into the dark tomb. Empty! Mary was right,Jesus was missing, Bewildered, they ventured further in, looked around and finding no body, left back to where they had come from. They had forgotten what Jesus had told them: they who had been the closest to Jesus while he had been alive.
         Mary, as a woman had not been allowed according to custom, closer than the fringe of their all male circle, watching from a distance but nevertheless had followed Jesus everywhere he had travelled. Not a member of the privileged Inner Circle yet faithful to him whom she had accepted as her master.
           Now, the two men, confused, frightened by the news left her to herself. They returned home: back to familiar surroundings, back to what they had left behind for their master. He was no more; they had to rebuild their old identity. Her news had excited them but there was nothing more they could add to it.

        Mary sat outside the opening in the wall of stone, weeping.
      Reluctant to leave the last known place he had lain, refusing to follow the example of the men who had been closest to him for surely they knew him better than she did. They, had new plans now; she, had nothing left.
      Her desperation, her brokenness, her sense of utter loss was far greater than her need to rejoin the group. Without him,she had no connection to the group. Without him,she had no direction. Where was she to go now? Who else could give her a sense of identity beyond what men labled her? What was she without him?
      She would remain here.

      She'd better get out of sight before the sun rose bringing others to the graveyard. People revisiting memories of other loved ones. They may question her presence, her tear streaked face outside an empty tomb. She didnt want to meet anyone. She had no answers for anyone. She didnt have any answers for herself. She would hide inside and mourn her loss by herself. Alone as usual.
      The linen used to wrap the master's body! She would take them. She remembered, before she had run out to call the disciples, that there had been something strange about them. They were neatly folded and placed at where they had laid his head. The kerchief that had covered his face though was away from this neat pile as if dropped in a hurry.
   Mary Magdalene looked into the empty tomb again only to react in shock at two men in white who had entered without her noticing. Mary was disappointed. Was she to be cheated of her last hope? She felt anger rising. They were strangers. They had no right to be here.
       One sat where Jesus' head and been and the other where his feet had been. This was her master's place, now hers! Her bitter disappointment lent courage to the words she would use to eject them out.
 
     "My lady," one of them spoke before her, shocking her by his tone of respect. She, a woman need not have been acknowledged with any more respect than a dog. "Why are you crying?"
   
      The silence stretched between the three of them; the men waiting unusually patiently for her answer, she, wondering how to answer. Finally, " Because they have taken away my Lord, and I don’t know where they have put him." She couldn't think of a plausible lie. They would probably laugh at her- who would rob a whole body? Grave robbers only looted treasures buried with the dead. Jesus had been buried with nothing. Hearing the sound of her own voice speaking the words she had been refusing to believe, punched home the reality. He was gone!
      Fresh tears flowed out through her fingers as she wept into her hands, a deep groan coming up from her broken heart. It would not, could not ever be made whole again. He was gone.
   
      She sensed a third man behind her before he spoke. "Dear lady, why are you crying? Who are you looking for?” Dawn had brought the gardener who tended the grave sites.
      "Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have put him, and I will take him away.” She didnt know how she would carry the dead weight but she would think of something later. If only they would give him back to her.

   "Mary!" A soft call. A firm voice.
 
    Her heart stopped. Her head swam. Its him!! "Teacher!!" She spun around in disbelief, excitement. Her hands stretched forward to touch him. Was he real? Or had her heart forced her head to trick her?
   
     "Dont touch me." He stepped back. "Not yet." He was laughing with her. "Don’t hold on to me, because I haven’t yet ascended to the Father. But go to my brothers and tell them, ‘I’m ascending to my Father and your Father, to my God and your God.’”

   She didn't understand what he meant, but it didn't matter. She couldn't wait to tell the others!

An old clam shell and I.

He did it again.
The world outside say I shouldn't let it get to me, but it hurts anyway.

 So, like this old clam shell, I added one more layer of hardness over my heart and vowed (though I knew it wouldn't last), to never let anyone matter enough to hurt me again. We settle back to maintain peace as best as we can...till the pressure cooker inside lets off steam. Again.
Its a fact with every relationship, I find. Life, in itself is an experience.

      

 A patch of yellow on its shoulder and a white lump on the other, betray companions who had stuck onto the shell, obviously much later on in the life of the clam. Passengers who had weathered the storms that raged in the seas around them, together. Had they sung with mermaids in the watery beams of sunlight that played on the sandy sea bed and stoic coral where multi colored fishes swam among dancing weeds?  What secrets had they shared, these completely different species from separate worlds, yet so close that even death could not separate them? A symbiotic relationship no doubt.

      Reminds me of the friends who have weathered storms and been the rainbows for me.


         















 I turn it around and it fits perfectly in my hand. Its as if it is mine, beyond the fact that I found it. Born for me. Could it be as old me, its first layer of shell created along with my situation and adding layer on layer along with me? Now isn't that a thought?

        Inside it is smooth, polished, completely different from what it exposed to the world outside to be so easily dismissed as inconsequential, unappealing. 
I rub a thumb over and marvel at it. I enjoy it with my eyes closed...till I meet a slightly, not so smooth patch, an obvious scar. It is white, and I wonder what could it have held so close, absorbed it even to become an extension of its very being. A pearl? A very costly possession created by its own tears? Embraced and treasured. Not shared, not discussed, not to be misinterpreted, not to be judged. Savored as uniquely its own.

        How did the clam loose it then? Was it wrenched out, taken over by someone else; displayed as a thing of beauty while the old clam who had given everything to make it was tossed aside, discarded as worthless? However they were separated it had cost the clam its life.

  This shell found half buried on a sandy beach at the lip of whispering waves, could have been me...or you.

Conversion / Coercion

"i've converted my maid!" I declared and more than 40 members of my group congratulated me.

        My maid, over time had been watching me collect kitchen waste and dry leaves for composting. Intrigued, she announced one day that she too would like to try this. She had been converted. Oops I have just used the dreaded 'C' word. 

         But honestly, what are they afraid of? If your example is worth emulating, why not? Should you be condemned for daring to change another's thinking? Should you be discouraged, abused and driven out of your space for daring to allow another human being to make a calculated, sensible judgement which they prefer to their present state?

        Why would a bystander be offended? Because he was not invited to the party first? Because he was not the one who had done something good enough to copy, to inspire, to convince another? So the only other way to get some attention to himself is to pull down the two, with as much noise as possible. People are always attracted to loud noise, so the louder, the better. The more abusive, the more attention. And there you have it, his name is on everyone's lips, for better or worse; everyone has an opinion on his actions, and he, only he, is the centre of all that attention, that glorious attention!

       Conversions are different from Coercion. If something is forced on anyone without their consent, it is not right (even a marriage). But to say that no one is allowed to make a sensible decision to change their mind over something, is not democratic nor reasonable. To expect everyone to remain in their state of existence just because they happen to be born into something, is unjust - where is the freedom as a human being?

      Sure, my maid never thought of harbouring kitchen waste for 90 days or more. She had always been told that waste is waste, and you had to get rid of it - never mind where - throw it out on the street in front of the house, in the neighbour's back yard or around the corner when no one is looking...just get rid of it. But being 'better than her neighbours', and rather than dump the contents of the dustbin directly out for all to examine in detail, she, the enlightened one, would put them all in a plastic bag, and throw it out on the street, in front of the house, in the neighbour's backyard, or around the corner on her way home from work.

     But now, she is confronted by a new thought : Dont throw, Segregate.  
     It took some time, but now she is convinced that there is another way of doing things, another belief that she can cling to and call her own. One day, she did the unthinkable - she stepped outside the house to sweep up dry leaves from the road!! 
"Oh heavens, the ignominy of it all", her family cried. "What will our neighbours think?! Are we so common, that you should stoop to that level? Stop this practise right now! You will bring disgrace to our exalted name!"
  But she needed the leaves, she pleaded, its for her bin.
 "Bin?! You are collecting garbage as well?   Stop this unholy practise right now, or forever leave our house. We have NEVER had rotting garbage in our homes. We are clean! Holy!"

    That could have been the scene at her home, because as far as I know she doesn't segregate nor does she compost anymore. She had been RE converted.

    Should she have stayed the course of her decision? Which 'conversion' was the more acceptable one, the first time or the second? Was it better when she made a choice for herself, or more acceptable because 'majority rules and might is right' and she was forced to comply?

   Conversion or Coercion?
    

Nothing is right here.

Dear Blog,
    the recent beheadings of the Coptic Christians by the ISIS was shocking, but not really unexpected, given the cruelty already demonstrated by this group. But really, how bloodthirsty can Man be? How depraved and hollow inside?
         When confronted by the stories of Jack the Ripper and other 'monsters', one would shudder to think we could have passed someone like that on the street and just never knew how his mind worked...Then we calm ourselves thinking, that he was just one among the hundreds we pass everyday, he may not be that man in the mall, in the buss we just alighted from, on the parallel road to our homes, in the next car at a traffic signal....hopefully not.
         Then we read about mass murderers, monsters like these men, dozens, no hundreds who all have the same killing streak, the same need to hurt, maim, rip apart body, souls and minds of those who might even have been his neighbour, once upon a time. Who enjoy hearing the screams, seeing the tears of their victims, of those who are weaker, milder, defenceless against such cruelty. And then to take pride in knowing that those whom they had driven out now have no future, all their memories left behind in smouldering ruins, is a badge they wear with honour, while they shout out their victory cry!

   Victors of what? Who will acknowledge their triumph? No religion here on earth wants to be associated with them, nor claim true kinship with their doctrine. Is heaven really waiting for them as they suppose? If they are emulating their god, then what kind of a heaven awaits them? Where the supreme being they are imitating and obeying is waiting for them, with what- open arms of love? Hugs of joy? Unconditional acceptance of their past failures? For surely all man has slipped up sometime or the other, done something which in their minds might forfeit them eternal bliss? So what in heaven are they expecting for the carnage they have caused? Will all be forgiven in this heaven of thiers?
      Forgiveness...will they cry out to be forgiven? To be given another chance to do right? Mercy? Who would they cry out to, beg from; who would listen?

    But thats just us, Blog, what we deduce from what we have seen and heard. Taking another train of thought, knowing what we know now, wouldn't we want to approach these monsters with caution? Would a picture of these men holding kittens and soft toys suddenly brain wash us into thinking they are the Salt- of- the- Earth, Guardians-of- all-things-Good; Benevolent and Merciful...? Seriously?
   So the mind boggles when we read that teenage girls are rushing to be by their side.What are the girls going for? Something is not right here.

      Nothing is right here.

The cost of anything is the price you are willing to pay for it...

Dear Blog,
  The title has made me think.
Most things we have comes at a cost it is automatically assumed even before we look at the tag. But 'how much', is the only question we ask as we select the car, clothes or even groceries. Then we move to'do we really need it?' if the price seems a bit too steep, and finally, we may stop at 'maybe next time' or 'sure, why not?'
 Then blog I wondered about the things we cannot see nor measure except with our hearts - peace, happiness, love, time...
Time, you ask - surely we can measure Time.
Time on a clock, yes, but the quality of time spent cannot be measured so easily and it would come at price too, dont you think?

So Blog when it comes to PEACE - what is the price we are willing to pay? Or would the price, if our answer is 'do we really need it?', be paid by our children?
What then of JOY, LOVE and HAPPINESS? I guess we never really think about the consequences of our actions yet expect them to automatically end with one of the above or a combination of them....Is it really that easy or are we willing to pay the price?

"Price, price", I hear you say. "What is the price? Is it standard for everyone?"

No Blog, the cost of anything is the price you are willing to pay for it...