The Fullest Moon

I am here
Watching you from afar
Trailing in the dust
of my memories
Awaiting your command.

I was bound to you
Time before Time
And will be true
for Eternity.

Judge not my actions harshly,
I am but a simple handmaiden.

Will He deem me fit
to be your bride?
Do you notice I am missing
from your side?

The earth you crush
beneath your feet
is nearer to you than me
but the dust of your presence
rains on my heart
And love is not forsaken.

- Shaista

Tattoo

(Rituximab, Open Infusion Bay, James Ward)

The first drop

takes a long time to fall

down the endless tube

that feeds into me.

I glance sideways

at the man

in the adjacent chair

Lucky he does not

see me stare

at the Medusa

tattoed on his arm

His needle penetrates

her charms.

What would they say

if I suddenly stood

and burst into song?

Would they applaud
and encore for more?

Or bury deeper in despair?

What if the pious stood

and offered up a prayer?

It takes a long

time to heal

As long as the

slow drip
that slips down

me

to steal

my free B cells

The anatomy

of a human disease

has no real

language

Just a careful

steal

of medical

and military rhymes

While the heart's

beats

fight

for more time.

Images: fotobank.ru

Jodha Akbar

These images are taken from a film called Jodha Akbar starring Hritik Roshan as Akbar, the great Mughal Emperor of 1555-1605, and Aishwarya Rai Bachhan as his wife Jodha, a Hindu Rajput princess. The marriage was allianced for the sake of a peace treaty between Hindustan and her Mughal rulers, but the Princess, in true Rajput style, had two pre-nuptual conditions. The first was that she must never, under any circumstances be made to convert, and secondly, that a temple housing her idol of Lord Krishna be built within her chambers. Akbar, a little stunned, and very impressed, acquiesced. The mutual respect, trust and devotion between Conqueror and Consort sowed seeds of racial and religious tolerance all over India.

Today, 25th of January, is my parents' 34th wedding anniversary. Theirs is a Jodha Akbar story for our times. Marriage with a Muslim, no matter how handsome and splendid a doctor, was no easier for my mother, a true Zoroastrian, to agree to, than it was for the Rajput princess five centuries ago. It was a leap of faith that I for one, am very glad she made!

Today, inspite of the media hungrily devouring stories of racial and religious intolerance, I breathe deeply into time, and remember love that conquers all.

Happy Anniversary Perveen and Chotu!!

Bombay Dreams

For reasons I have not yet fathomed, there has been some sort of 'Indian Winter' season on UK television... further promotion of Slumdog Millionaire perhaps? However, I am not complaining! My favourite programme has been an entertaining documentary following a three week cooking extravaganza, from Delhi to Kerala, by chef Gordon Ramsay. He travelled to parts of India I have never been, and despite his colourful language, seemed to draw friendliness and compassionate curiosity from every person he met. It was such a joy to see Indians just being themselves, with no focus or emphasis or slant on religion or poverty, just on the joy and bliss and skill of cooking food. Whether it be ant chutney in tribal areas, slow cooked meals in the desert, or the unexpected inclusion of papaya and coconuts. Or whether its origins be Syrian Christian, Malabari Muslim or vegetarian Brahmin. Ramsay's distaste for vegetarian food underwent an incredible change and he was scolded and teased by eminent chefs from Lucknow to the slums of Dharavi. I did love watching it!

My little collection of photographs for this post are all thieved from my brothers' visits to India. I know they are thinking of me when they take these vibrant, evocative pictures. And I try not to bite my lower lip in envy, but it is hard. Fourteen years away from India and it seems everyone, including Gordon Ramsay, considers it their second home!
I shall return soon, I hope, but in the meantime, it is back into hospital for more Rituximab, and I can only carry these Bombay dreams with me.

Continuation Day

How does a part of the world leave the world?

How can wetness leave water?
- Rumi

The passing on of family and close friends is an acute loss none but ourselves can experience. The passing on of strangers, at all moments, in welcome and unwelcome places, requires a more ephemeral and amorphous understanding. Some of us are more aware of death than others, some of us find it easier to pray. Buddha taught that the death of the human body is but a manifestation and that on the day a person dies, we wish them Happy Continuation Day, for surely they will manifest elsewhere, if only in our hearts. I wrote this poem many years ago in memory of David, a dear family friend who passed away, and today, on hearing the news of another passing, I decided to post it.

A memory tugged at me
weeding in the garden
I looked up
to hear your laugh
reach the furthest branches


reminding me
though the light may dim
the birds sing on
enchanted.








Painting by Kahlil Gibran

Breaking (news)

Haiti hit by earthquake

Stones thrown to Malaysia

Glass splinters off

the gurdwara

and shards

find their way

to the dungeons, the brothels

of Cambodia.

There, if the earth quakes

and a million sighs escape

Death equates

to freedom.

Image from cbc.news, Port-au-Prince

A Cup of Snow

Last night while I was putting the paper bag out, the scent of snow re-awakened a memory. Not my own memory, but the memory of my favourite Uncle when he was 17 years old.
He was deeply in love at the time, and his misfortune was to be torn away from her for a family holiday in Kashmir. What could he do to prove his fidelity and steadfastness? He would bring back snow!
So on the last night, he trudged up to the highest part of the mountain in Gulmarg, and filled a bottle with fresh scented snow. He capped it, and on his return to the houseboat in Srinagar, tenderly tucked it into the fridge, awaiting its long journey home to Bombay. That night he slept the sleep of the valiant, victorious lover.

The next morning, to his utter horror, he discovered the bottle contained a mere quarter of its contents. A dribble of water. "Who touched my bottle of snow?" he bellowed. And my grandfather, equally horrified, confessed with deepest apologies. He had been terribly thirsty in the night, and discovering a bottle of cold water in the fridge, had thankfully glugged it down.


Image from the bbc website of a Kashmiri boy in Srinagar, India, carrying a bag of sand...

Hello snow angels!!

I cannot remember the first time I saw snow in England. I remember it was pretty, and gone the next day. This yuletide snow, now this is the real thing. Disrupting the country, people unable to go to work, friends moaning on facebook about the sheer and utter boredom of Yet Another Snowman!

I love the cycle of passionate delight at the appearance of extreme weather and then the eyebrow raising monotony of it all - oh no, snow again! - it reminds me of waiting for the Monsoon, waiting, hoping to get flooded in, and then hating the trapped in feeling of weather mastering your life.

I made snow angels. I chucked snowballs. I made new friends this year gone by, did I tell you? All hospital long I gathered new names and faces in the world of mind and spirit, but then summer came and I returned home to a skittering of loneliness tugging at me. A restlessness of needing more than faraway friends. I hope that doesn't sound ungrateful. Have I ever mentioned how desperately lonely it can get tucked up and away in a little village on the outskirts of a city? And then, the young doctor appeared on the ward, and with him, in time, his wife, his brothers, their friends, and my very first New Year's Eve party... dancing and all!! (My younger brother rang the night before to ensure I went to the party, "Shaista! You are not staying home with The Parents! No guilt!")

So I went. I wore a hot little number and threw some serious shapes, and after we had all

congratulated each other on accomplishing the living of another year, I stole a candle and crept upstairs to the top of their house. In candlelight I recited some prayers to thank my prophets, my saints, my friends, my family, for their prayers, their love, the miracle of still being here. A friend joined me and she spoke of beauty and grace. She is a survivor of Rwanda's genocide, she understands suffering, and she understands grace. We shed some tears. We smiled mistily. And then, we blew out the candle, joined the party downstairs, and lit up the floor all night :)

Goodbye Christmas tree

Undecorating the Christmas tree

tier by tier

I unwrap each bauble

year after year

And name them each

in hope and good cheer.

This tree of life

Father cannot see

These pine needles

he brushes tentatively

This scent, these dreams

he gathers gently

And offers them

to me.

The Year of the Spiritual Warrior

The first day of this year marks the first year anniversary of my blog. I began it then not knowing where it would lead me, not knowing the nature of the year that awaited me.
The year has passed. My feet have walked the Warrior's path, my heart has marked the beats between pain and the force of a power I cannot name, only know to be my saving grace.
You have walked beside me. Your shadows cooling me. And in the cradle of your arms your faith has allowed me to heal.
The Way of the Spiritual Warrior is the Way of Friendship.
And I thank you all for teaching me that.