The Gate by Simone Weil

The Gate 

Open the gate for us, and we shall see the orchards.

We shall drink cold water where the moon has left its trace.

The long road is burning and hostile to the strangers.

We err without knowing and we never find our place.

We want to see the flowers. Here the thirst is upon us.

Waiting and suffering, here we are before the gate.

If we must, we shall break down this gate with all our blows.

We’ll press and then we’ll push; but this barrier is too great.

We must languish and wait and we must keep watch in vain.

We look upon the gate; it is closed and too heavy.

We fix our eyes on it; we weep under the torment.

We keep it in our view; we’re crushed by time’s gravity.

The gate is before us; what’s the use of our desire?

It is better to leave and to give up on all hope.

We shall never get in. Watching it has made us tired.

So much silence came out when the gate was once opened

That neither the orchards nor the flowers have appeared;

Only the immense space of the void and of the light,

Which then became present and that overwhelmed the heart,

And bathed our eyes at last, almost blinded by the dust. 

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For the last few years, every Sunday began with poetry for me. Every Sunday, nearly a dozen people from all over the world, from different walks of life, would come online on Zoom to read and reflect on a poem. Poems sans borders. Poems that are and cannot be limited by language, culture or nationality. Every week, like modern seances, we would sit with a poem and meditate on its nuances. Some poems are direct and deceptively simple, while some are slippery and elusive. But there are some others that would pull us out of our comfort zones, out of our walled gardens or boxes, to ponder the worlds beyond our sensory grip. We zoomed in on a Gate on the latest edition of our ‘Chunk of Poetry’. ‘The Gate’ by Simone Weil. And ‘The Gate’ opens into a world that is timeless and all too familiar to all who read it. 

Simone Weil was a French philosopher, political activist, and mystic. She was born in 1909 in Paris into a wealthy Jewish family and died in 1943. In her 34 years of living, she crossed the worlds of human suffering, social justice and spirituality. She made it her mission to become the voice of the marginalised and resist the war machines of fascism and totalitarianism. Her political activism took her to factories, farms and refugee camps where she saw and perhaps helped open many gates of struggle, resistance and liberty for the common folk. But, in her career as an activist and through her writings, we can see that compassion was the force that guided her in her actions. It was an original and simple act of having concern for fellow beings. Here, we should understand that in her 34 years of living, she experienced two devastating World Wars and unspeakable crimes against life. She was witness to barbarity. She was subject to hatred. And yet, though it was easy to give in to hate and respond with violence, she chose to have concern. To arm herself with compassion and solidarity. But this does not mean she was immune to all the darkness surrounding her and her times. She, too, waged war with her own demons as she searched for meaning in a world that often crashed down onto her as alien, indifferent and too self-centred. Perhaps this is why she always strove for empathy and a genuine understanding of the world and her fellow humans. She has also explored various religious traditions in her attempt to make sense of a world going utterly senseless. 

The poem here opens by speaking about a Gate beyond which lies a land far removed from the injustice, fear, suspicion, oppression or hatred that defines the dominant realities. Beyond this gate are the orchards and the cold waters graced by the touch of the moon. Beyond this gate, there is a land that is kind and gentle to strangers, where everyone is sure to find their place. And before that mighty gate, these strangers, but travellers of the same road nonetheless, await to witness the bloom of flowers that could bear seeds of their hope. But, despite all the longing and deep desire to cross the Gate and into that ‘paradise’, their Gate of redemption remains tightly shut, leaving the travellers to suffer the very fate they’ve been running away from. 

They were migrants who were fleeing hunger, and they hoped for an orchard beyond that Gate. They were travellers lost in the road, scorched, parched and tired of polluted, toxic streams, and so dreamt of the cool, serene moon-kissed waters they shall drink from. They are refugees seeking mercy and shelter. They are also pilgrims, lost in themselves, now searching for themselves or something else. And so, the travellers are many, and so are their desires. They flock outside the impossible Gate; at first, they rejoice at its sight, and then they prey as they gently knock. As time goes by with no sight of a gatekeeper or the click of the hidden locks, they lose patience, and prayers give way to protest. Gentle taps on the gate become poundings, and joy reverts to anguish. They’ve waited for long and suffered all along, and now, all that stands between them and the life they dream of, in desperate need of, is this gate, colossal or puny, made of heavenly metals or simple plain wood. Now, the impatient mass raises their arms, ready to push or press the gate to submission, find their way to freedom, fight if they must, and finally claim their piece of paradise. But they realise they are no match for this barrier. Thus, they fall into despair, and nothing’s left to be done. Now, they begin their watch and scatter within to find that ember of hope, courage, or even grief that carried them to that gate against all odds. To see if they could keep it alive for a little longer until the gate opens their paradise. Till the moment they could enter and fulfil their desires. But time is the ruler of this realm, and time alone prevails. So even the champions of the many, the best of the best, begins to falter. Everyone now feels the heaviness of the gate. Now they have no choice but to ask, What is the point of all this? Desire and hope! 

And at that precise moment of utter and complete hopelessness, as their desires were simply crushed under the weight of that immovable gate, it flung open. But inside the gate, it was not quite what they were expecting. There were neither orchards to satiate their hunger nor moon-touched waters to quench their thirst. There, they walked into a vastness of silence. A space of nothing but light. And in that silence, as their hearts are now unburdened of many desires and shone by the light, they were beginning to feel the presence of the present moment. At that moment, they realised the Gate had now opened to their homes. And this is the test of resilience, of faith, the ultimate key that could open the Gate when it’s time.  

But what exactly is this gate? And where would one have to look for it? This is the question that the poem ultimately leads us to. One thought makes me see how fascinating and miraculous humans are in many ways. We are so full of opposites, ironies, and complete disjunctures, yet we find ways to get along, survive, hold on if possible, and move on if necessary. And what enables us to be this resilient, or even defiant, is our ability to conceive and conjure ‘Gates’ that could either glimpse us on the path forward or portal us off altogether. Now, the important feature of this gate is that it is unique for every individual. One cannot see or cross the gate of another. And every desire, emotion, passion, or dream conjures a new gate. And so, in that sense, we live in a world of countless gates to our many paradise, visible only to us. Some to escape, some to live in, some to cherish, and some to hide.

This reminds me of a beautiful Italian movie I recently watched, Life is Beautiful. This Italian comedy-drama is set in Fascist Italy and narrates the story of Guido Orefice, a Jewish Italian bookshop owner and his family and how he navigates through the horrors of a Nazi concentration camp. In the movie, comical and witty Guido and his family are taken to a concentration camp, where Guido and his wife are separated during the internment. But his son stays with him along with other Jewish prisoners. But, a witty Guido then opens a ‘Gate’ of imagination for his son to shield and hide the child from the nightmares of the real world. He convinces his son Giosue that they are in for a game and that he must perform tasks to win a tank. And so, even amidst the mounts of dead bodies and the horrors of the gas chambers or the hard labour he had to endure, Guido made sure that his son continued to ‘play’ this game by doing tasks like hiding from camp guards, staying silent, not crying, or not complaining. And he maintained this act until his very last, just so his son would find the courage to look for the sunshine awaiting him beyond that gate. Here, it’s not just the gate that Guido crafted for his son but also the one he found for himself, one of his love for his wife and son. He used his humour to prepare that gate through which he saw the beauty of life and its simplicity and, most importantly, taught his son the greatest lesson a father could ever teach. The movie ends when an American Sherman tank rolls into the camp, breaking the iron gate of Nazism that has, until then, imprisoned those human lives. At that moment, after seeing that tank, another gate was opened for Giosue; he had won the game he was playing with his father. 

This is just one story, one perspective. The gate in the poem also alludes to every religion that promises a world and life beyond the one we have here, now, on this pale blue dot. And people do all sorts of things, from random acts of kindness to those utterly diabolical, for the gate to remain open for them to enter when the time comes. The desire for a luxurious afterlife drives their madness, ritualistic or systemic. And people happily blow up themselves or others, erect monuments or demolish history, and do and speak all things unholy, all for the sake of a ticket beyond that holy gate. 

The need for a ‘gate’, at least a desperate and completely fictitious idea of one, is intrinsic to human existence. Our whole life is just a trip from one gate to another and then to another. When one gate opens, we immediately begin our search for another. Suddenly, an orchard becomes insufficient as we start looking for variety. And so we continue our tryst with gates and whatever courtyards, palaces, shacks or doors we find inside. But, none ever satisfies. So, what is all this about? I think it is a test of humanity. I believe these ever-repeating patterns reveal our hubris and the need for humility, compassion and patience. With oneself and the world. And when one finally understands this principle, that there is no gate, that all that we have conjured out of thin air are but mirages, then without any of our exaggerations or embellishments, without any grandeur or divinity, a breeze that carries the trace of the moon from the cold waters would fill our hearts. In that moment of calm, we find our Gate open and ready for us. To enter and embrace the now. Heaven and hell have the same gate, but whoever remembers his breath shall not err and lose his place. And gates, what do gates do? They just open! 

    - Harishna M U

This is How Memory Works by Patricia Hampl

This is How Memory Works

You are stepping off a train.

A wet blank night, the smell of cinders.

A gust of steam from the engine swirls

around the hem of your topcoat, around

the hand holding the brown leather valise,

the hand that, a moment ago, slicked back

the hair and then put on the fedora

in front of the mirror with the beveled

edges in the cherrywood compartment.

The girl standing on the platform

in the Forties dress

has curled her hair, she has

nylon stockings - no, silk stockings still.

Her shoulders are touchingly military,

squared by those shoulder pads

and a sweet faith in the Allies.

She is waiting for you.

She can be wearing a hat, if you like.

You see her first.

that's part of the beauty:

you get the pure, eager face,

the lyrical dress, the surprise.

You can have the steam,

the crowded depot, the camel's-hair coat,

real leather and brass clasps on the suitcase;

you can make the lights glow with

strange significance, and the black cars

that pass you are historical yet ordinary.

The girl is yours,

the flowery dress, the walk

to the streetcar, a fried egg sandwich

and a joke about Mussolini.

You can have it all:

you're in that world, the only way

you'll ever be there now, hired

for your silent hammer, to nail pictures

to the walls of this mansion

made of thinnest air.

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Today our CoP was all about memory (ies). We were all diving into the many layers of how we perceive and experience memory. We talked about how memories remain elemental to our sense of being. How it corrupts, is corrupted, and remains corrupt. And how we use this capricious piece of cognitive abstraction to bring meaning to our lives. And before I could listen to all I had to leave the session early to attend the commemoration of Shri. Chembur Sukumaran Nair, a teacher, writer and from what I understood, a wonderful friend to all he had touched. I never knew the man, except that he's the father of Aravindan sir. But when I reached the venue of commemoration, and as I listened to all those people remembering him, I realised I was indeed attending an extension of our virtual CoP session. Now I was listening to the memories of people; friends, colleagues, family, and students. They were all remembering a man, who I don't think was a saint, but an ordinary man who cared enough to make his every gesture a saintly touch that left indelible imprints on lives. And what more could make a life meaningful than this? And it made me think, contrary to what I felt was the dominating thought of this morning, that memories are but false constructs that our minds conjure from the thinnest air to add and omit layers to our reality, memories could be real. Sure, a memory may undergo wear and tear over the years, but I believe its kernel remains the same nonetheless. A memory retains its originality in its nuances, which will resist any attempt to corrupt its essence. I think it is this resistance of our memories to preserve their integrity that keeps us alive rather than the memory itself. After all, it is the anchor that holds us together, in place, offering us a choice between life and oblivion. 

    - Harishna 

11.11

Life is something quite arbitrary. No matter how meticulous we are in drafting our scripts, it always finds a way to subvert them, throw us off balance, and often push us into unexpected paths. We start at one place, hoping to get off at another, but life, like the Cheshire cat, smiles at us, all wide and bright (sometimes a bit too bright) and then voila, it's a whole new world for us. And in between, the all too familiar would suddenly become strange. Stories would run out of their charm, poetry would resonate as alien rants, and people would fall apart like broken ice shelfs. But the cycle is renewed nonetheless. For the better of course. After all, that's what hope dictates. And we move on, march ahead, (most of the time, we will be crawling, but still) and continue to persist in search of something new, something old, something familiar, someone like a mirror, someone like us. 

And it all seems so arbitrary at this point.

Maybe like a dance. We were dancing on the same floor, occupying the same space, and yet, every step we took, took us afar. Our paths would have crossed many times before, but perhaps our eyes were then not ready to be locked in a gaze. But now, the threshold's broken with a shared word, a simple greeting, a word that's insanely reassuring in a world so capricious. And here we are. Home. 

But do not think for one second that this is the destination. That this is the end of the line. That it is time to stop and rest. This is where the next stage begins. This is where we resume and further our fight against our own demons. Confront ourselves. This is the next leg of our growth, of our peace. Do not hesitate, nor be afraid. This, too, can be overcome. Remember the dance, the gaze, the word. Remember, the cat is smiling at us. And we won't be alone in this. Ever. 

    - Harishna 

When the Shipwrecked Traveler by Benjamin Fondane

When the Shipwrecked Traveller

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When the shipwrecked traveller

came at last to the island, having saved

his toothbrush, pipe, liver trouble and

an old disbelief in miracles from the waves,

time dissolved suddenly like the snowpack,

silence suddenly crackled everywhere,

the traveller’s blood became light

and drunk so drunk and so light that he went

into things and things went

into him in an incandescent thirst so vivid

that his sight stumbled amongst visions,

suffered vertigo, such strong hallucinations,

ecstasies and revelations

so clear, that he became afraid of himself, of becoming

a spider, or a wild strawberry –

so afraid that he threw himself to his knees, praying

to his god who was too great to do miracles,

and let himself fall from a cliff into the sea

just an instant before

he would have received the gift of prophecy.

- Benjamin Fondane

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The image of Jesus Christ from the Last Temptation came to me as I read this poem for the first time. A frail little man, torn between the shades of life. The story of the son of a man. The story of the son of God. The story of his struggles between the spirit and the flesh. The story about war and peace in his lifetime. 

After a lifetime of 45 years across borders, Benjamin Fondane died in a concentration camp in 1944, perhaps just an instant before he would have received the gift of liberation. 

This poem is about a shipwrecked traveller and his struggles between the spirit and the flesh as he finds himself on the island. Not any random island but "the island". Now who is this traveller, and what or where could this island be? The traveller could be any one of us because life is, after all, a journey. A journey without a beginning or an end. It is said that we are made of stardust, that the ingredients in our bodies once formed the hearts of a billion stars or more across billions of years. And this mixture of atoms from across the universe underwent a process of constant assemblage and disintegration until this fleeting moment, where it fused together to give us this form and material for our physical existence. And here we are, a mould of stardust from across infinite lifetimes, cruising to a day when we disintegrate to give form to something else. Maybe another star or a spider or a wild strawberry, but the journey continues. 

On reading this poem on a larger canvas of our existence, I take that the island referred to is our lives. This mundane, earthly, often redundant experience of daily life. And no matter how far or how fast one tries to run away from it or how long one wrestles with the waves in search of something better or something extraordinary somewhere else, far away from the crushing ordinariness of our lives, the fundamental principle of life is that no one gets out of it alive. But, our inability or even recalcitrance to comprehend this simple truth often throws us off course, as we inevitably get washed ashore (maybe on a different shore), on this island, like a shipwrecked traveller.     

Here, I see the traveller in the poem as someone who kept running for a long time. He was possibly running away to save his madness from this chaotic world. Or he was probably fleeing from those who wanted to conform him to their madness. Or he was just another man who longed to find a place for himself in this often unforgiving world. A man who was in a constant search for his meaning. But now, this poem narrates the last time he got washed ashore. This is what we may call the precipice of living, with nowhere left to run, no ocean left to cross, the defining moment which could either push one into insanity or open their mind to the truth of living, into the beauty of the ordinary that they have always overlooked. The last temptation; take a leap of faith in either direction. 

Now that he is at the precipice, he would be experiencing an epiphany of his whole life. A man: after years of running, hiding and fighting, who has reasons to not believe in anything anymore, has the quintessence of his life revealed at that moment of utter hopelessness. And so, time dissolved suddenly like the snowpack, and silence crackled everywhere. This was him, a simple man, opening up to the elements of creation. The atoms in his body would have begun to speak to him in the crackling silence, in a space beyond time, about the truth he so long sought. The burning thirst for the truth despite being so simple and obvious. Something that even he had not known to exist until then. Can this be the moment of enlightenment? Where the eyes would lose sight simply by the ecstatic beauty that unfolds. The hearts of a billion stars that slept in his atoms would have throbbed all at once. A shipwrecked traveller on an island now felt the light of creation coursing through him. 

As I said, it is a precipice. The experience of witnessing himself stripped bare to reveal his essence would have been bewildering for the poor soul. And so, he became afraid of himself. Nothing terrifies a man more than seeing himself for who he truly is. But it is the necessary catharsis, like a rite of passage. And so he stumbled, clueless, afraid, like a child, he wept. The truth is always as simple as a feather, but it can crush a mountain if not ready. And so, he melted at the sight of his own glory. For now, he has seen where he comes from and where he passes to. But the ever-rebellious human in him was still unwilling to let go and wanted to cling to this human form despite realising its ephemerality. The war raged on within him between his spirit and the flesh. Finally, he threw himself to his knees and surrendered to his God, his spirit now hoping for a miracle, a deliverance. But the flesh, in its hubris, chose to take a leap off the cliff for one last time, perhaps hoping that now it would wake up from this dream into the world it once knew. Now, isn't that too a leap of faith? I don't know!

As I conclude my reading of this remarkable poem, a few questions remain, as the residual effect of the time we live in. As we often experience, it is getting quite difficult to find peace or calm or even beauty around us, within us. The days can get overwhelming, and we lose faith in everything, abandoning hope. We are all shipwrecked travellers, one way or the other. Only our stories slightly differ. We are either fleeing from or searching for something, but the net result is us left stranded on these islands, exhausted. So I wonder; What do we truly desire? What are we truly looking for? What is the meaning of this search? Who/What/Why is God? What is a miracle? I'll pause now. And I hope there are no universal answers to these questions. 

All we can do is search our feelings, not to find anything in particular, but to see who we are and learn to love, forgive, be compassionate and make peace with it. As to the question of miracles, I suppose, the very existence of each one of us is a testimony by itself. And what reaffirmed my faith in miracles lately was the rescue of a baby girl born under rubble after the earthquake in Syria. And she was named Aya, meaning 'Miracle' in Arabic. A miracle is, after all, what appears impossible, but happens anyway, and I think we must only have the courage to see it. A simple leap of faith is all it takes. 

- Harishna 

 

 

The intimate enemy

There is an enemy, hidden deep within us, buried in our depths, lurking in our shadows, waiting for the opportune moment to surface and strike. This enemy is more like the U-boats from the war, deadly if we are not cautious. If we don't know our way around. And to make things worse, we often mistake this enemy for ourselves, carrying it on our backs, owning it, without seeing it for what it truly is, and most often losing ourselves in the ordeal. This piece is thus about this 'intimate enemy', who lives within us, among us, hidden behind our every thought, word and action, waiting for our guards to come down. Waiting to execute its surgical strike, leaving us and those around wounded and even crippled. 

Before I start, please don't be deceived by the title. This write-up is not about the 'Intimate Enemy' by Ashis Nandy concerning the psychology of colonialism. I shall write about that soon. But this here is about something much closer to our daily human experience, with far-reaching impacts and consequences than colonialism itself. The enemy I am trying to identify here is something that we all know. Yet, it remains elusive to definitions for it is ubiquitous. 

To start this inquiry, I take our emotions to be the first carrier of this enemy. Every emotion that we feel, suppress or express carries its seeds. Now, don't think that this enemy is some form of hate or something that's born in the outside world. It's more like a mischievous or a certain malevolent shade of ourselves. So, how does it manifest in our emotional realm? This surfaces as a faint little voice in the background, like a pull to the opposite side. That at moments of love, this voice will tell us to be possessive, to take control of the love, or it will prick in our past wounds, sending us down the path of self-loathe, doubt and fear. And this voice will only get louder if we start paying attention to it. And then, the love we once felt will be subverted into something loathsome and pitiful. But still, we would think and convince ourselves that we deserved it and it's our fault. While our enemy here slowly withdraws until it finds the next suitable opening to resurface. The same is the case when we feel hopeful, happy, sad, or angry. This 'enemy' of ours would simply amplify the darker shades of our being, making us desperate. And if we pay attention to this other voice in our heads for long, then slowly, this voice will begin to dictate our lived realities. And that's where we most certainly do not want to be. So what's our deterrence here? I think the only pragmatic counter to this is to not feed it our attention. And when the faint voice surfaces, with its preposterous prepositions, we should try and take a deep breath, give ourselves a pat on the back, smile, and move on, experience and handle the moment at hand, because that moment is all we have.  

Another lethal carrier of this enemy is the words we spill so carelessly. To quote Prof. Dumbledore's not-so-humble opinion, words are our most inexhaustible source of magic. Capable of both inflicting injury and remedying it. Words here create a world of their own every time it is uttered. And yet, it is these words that we so callously blast around so heartlessly, often not seeing who is on the receiving end. Every time our mind minces words to aid us in our communications, this malignant friend within us catches a piggyback ride to the surface. So that now, if we are not cautious of what comes from our mouths, this malignancy can spread to those around us, infecting them, creating chaos and disharmony, and leading to doubt, envy, jealousy, or even hate. Even if we pay attention to what we speak, this enemy attached to our words can be very persuasive. And the cost of our insolence here would always be regrets, guilt and hurt. And sometimes, the damage done by words could be so deep that the wound may never fully recover. But here again, we often fail to see the truth behind the scene and resort to either justifying ourselves or blaming ourselves beyond what is necessary. Leading to more pain and attitudinal unpleasantness in our lives, getting ourselves stuck in a vicious loop. Here again, the question arises, what can be done to prevent this, and what can be done to remedy the wounds caused by our words?. To prevent this, the only way is to be mindful when we speak and to train ourselves to be more kind to ourselves first and then to others. Because there is a child inside everyone who needs to be nurtured and tended to with love. And to remedy the wounds, there too, the only way is to offer an honest apology, own one's fault, resolving not to repeat it again. And then give time for the word here to do its magic. 

This enemy here is intimate because it is a part of our own self. It is subtle in its manifestations and yet potent in its capacities. We can't ever do away with this intimate enemy of ours. But I do believe that we can learn to manage its influence upon us. Through the little steps, a thoughtful pause here, or a reflective silence there, we can try to blunt our nefarious friend's fangs before it spews its venom. And we can learn to appreciate the beauty of our perfect little weaknesses, which allows us to connect with and feel the others around us. This weakness could be a heartful expression of sorry, no matter whether we are right or wrong, our choice to forgive the other or ourselves, or our decision to give ourselves a second chance or to move on. It is these graceful weaknesses that allow us to live here. These petite 'failings' of us act as our first line of defence against the onslaught of this intimate enemy of ours... I think I'll pause here. 

- Harishna 

PS: Here's a prayer to remember. 

I am sorry,

please forgive me,

thank you,

I love you. 

Finding my hate

Hate.

My loathe is nowhere to be found. 

Misplaced as it always is,

Where do I find my hate?

I set out in search for it, 

and I traversed through the archives first.

I went to its dark corners,

to see if it was trapped under some parched logs of the past. 

And there I saw regrets and despair, 

with all the untold stories,

and nameless verses.

Some forgotten, some gasping, some longing.

But I did not see hate anywhere there,

and so continued the probe. 

Then I went to the court,

to see if my hate was under trial. 

There I saw the judge and the jury,

and the many witnesses. 

And there stood my truth, 

alone and bare, facing judgement. 

Still, my hate was nowhere to be seen. 

Next, I stopped by the temple.

Hoping the gods to be kind. 

As I entered, I saw a woman washing rags

near the temple pond. 

I asked her if she saw my hate.

Without raising her head, 

she said that she was busy rinsing those rags,

and asked if I could lend a hand. 

Irate, I climbed the ancient steps,

and there, I saw my hate,

sitting outside the Sanctum Sanctorum,

near to my mercy. 

Stunned, I stood there, silent.

Hate began to speak, 

"I am not the one to be sought and yet here you are..."

and it asked, "why do you seek me?"

I didn't know what to say, and I mumbled, 

"I was sad... and I was angry... 

I felt unheard and unseen... I felt alone... and my love remains unrequited... 

I didn't know anything else..." I stopped. 

Hate laughed out loud, and said, 

"Silly boy. I am not a refuge, 

nor am I your home to run into. 

I can devour you this instant, 

but I take pity on you now. 

Skedaddle, before I change my mind."

Here, mercy stepped in with a smile. 

Caressing my pale face,

she reminded me who hate is,

while making me feel who she is. 

And when I asked why I found them both

together in this temple, she said, 

"I am the warden of hate. 

I pacify him and keep him on a leash. 

But you should know,

that I derive my strength from the choices you make. 

Sometimes, when you forget me-

when the empty tries to catch you, 

hate surfaces to remind you

that I exist, as a possibility,

as an alternative, as a choice, for you to make. 

Hate is a powerful force, 

but your compassion binds him within limits. 

Always let your mercy prevail over your wrath." She stopped. 

Now, I've found my hate,

but I no longer find it necessary. 

Yet, my heart aches with the burdens

I carry,

from the archives and the courtroom,

and the market, and the many lives I came across.

"How do I cleanse myself? 

How can I remove all this weight?"

I prayed. 

And merci responded, 

"Go wash with love". 

And then showed me the way out. 

I walked out,

wondering where love is. 

I went to the pond, to wash my face,

and there was the woman, 

still rinsing and scrubbing those rags. 

Now that I've confronted hate,

I walked towards her, offering my help. 

She pointed me to the nearby stone

and gave me a few rags to start with. 

What a strange woman, I thought.

I offered my help and there's not even a glimpse of gratitude in her ways. 

Nevertheless, I began to wash the rags,

and it was then I noticed something peculiar, rather familiar. 

These rags, had my name imprinted. 

And as I looked closer, 

I saw my life embedded in its fabric. 

"Go wash with love"

these words resonated in the air.  

And here I am with love herself,

washing my rags, cleansing my heart,

without any burdens. 

Now I see love,

and together there's much cleaning left to do. 

-Harishna 

 

New Year Ruminations

Dear ones...

We are at that time of the year when we look back and look forth at the same time. Like the Roman God Janus. Looking into the end of one and the beginning of another. As our dear beloved earth completes another orbit around the sun, we find ourselves placed at the crossroads of time. And as always, we are presented with this "moment" to reflect upon the journey we have had and to choose the relative direction of the journey we are about to begin. 

A few hours back, when I slipped into memory lane and boarded the way back machine into the archives of 2021, despite being a largely sedentary year, I saw it to be quite overwhelming. Exciting and lovely in many ways, yet overwhelming in many other ways. And that's when a wise young monkey reminded me that now and then we humans need to be rewired. Yup, sometimes we need to rewire and upgrade our circuits to make sure that they are not burnt out, damaged or gone missing. So that when things get overwhelming we don't experience a short circuit. And occasions like the new year present us with this opportunity to check and recheck our connections, assess our weak points and rewire if necessary. 

Ever since the pandemic began, it has been a tough ride. We have lost many on the way, friends, family and loved ones... We were pushed to our limits quite often. Some broke down, some held their grounds till the last moment, some chose to quit while many held on, clinging on to any shard of hope they could find, or even making shards of hope in the process as small steps forth, never losing sight of the future and its possibilities even if the vision gets blurred or even dark sometimes. 

I want to tell you all that despite the darkness that we had to confront on this road (often ourselves) we have all been the reason for someone else's happiness at some point. Our action might have been the reason why someone chose not to quit, not to break apart and not to shun life. Our words, at least a random word of kindness, of concern, would have given someone reason to have faith in themselves and others. I think that's a win for us. I think this is one elemental choice that life offers us. It's very simple in its design. And when we feel overwhelmed, I think it's okay to be overwhelmed once in a while. It could be life reminding us to rewire, change the connections and move on. 

And here comes the tricky part. To choose to move on if the connection is either irreparable, faulty or even dangerous to the whole circuit. And this is where many of us get stuck every year, during this annual, almost 'ritualistic' review process. When we find ourselves unable to let go (I know it's a cliche, but letting go remains the major theme) of memories, people, moments and all. Often, despite knowing for a fact that this could be toxic to ourselves. And most of the time we hold on because of a promise made aeons back, or for vengeance or love (the worst of all reasons). And we forget to live as we carry forward these debts from yesterday to the promise of the future. And we get old by the weight of it and we die many times before our time. 

I don't write this for anyone who's reading this. Rather I write, and I keep on writing to remind myself of this. So that I might not lose sight of the life in front of me. So that even if my eyes get clouded, I'll be able to find my way back home. 

2021 was gracious in many ways for me. Joined for M.Phil, started work with an amazing team of young and vibrant minds at Indic Law, met some beautiful 'harmonious' souls, got to spend some blissfully cherished evenings, got my own bicycle, and yes, though my dearest Grandmother passed away, I know that she's part of the eternity now and is at peace... 

And I am thankful to all of you. Of the many who remembered me, of the many who chose to be kind, who showed concern, who drew me closer and held my hands, assuring that life continues. I am grateful to you, all those who came closer and all those who drifted afar (also to the people in transit... thank you). And forgive me for my wrongs. I'll try to be a better human this year. 

And my dear friends, the world is pretty much the same as it was in 2021. But let's remind and be reminded that this will pass and all we can do is to be patient, sane and resilient. To give help if possible, to seek help if needed. That's how we live. 

May this new year bring to you the love that you have always wanted. The love that you deserve. May this new year help you find the strength to disconnect from the connections that drain you. May this new year grant you the health that you need the most. May we all be given a chance to start afresh. To renew ourselves for the better.

Wishing you all a very happy new year... 

Love ❤️  

Harishna