Harvest

They come in great big trucks filled to the rim
chances of survival now are nil

injured and sick de-stressing in a pen
waiting for the vet to say when

a long needle pricks them down for nap
in heaven, they will now flap their wings,

necks hung up by a hook, in a swift move
a knife pierces their throat

bled, de-haired, sanitized
beheaded, split in half, frozen
skinned, portioned and split
lurched down separate lines to be processed

smoked or wood fired for Hickory flavor
browned in a machine for caramel color
flattened and compressed, sliced to strips
bacon is packaged ready to be shipped

another line has ham or pork belly
the skin is separated for-- jelly

unmentionable organs are cleaned and cut
shipped to customers who even eat the gut.

A Hog's life is over in less than one year
we keep harvesting and processing without a tear...
The head is stripped into many parts
the tongue a delicacy, even more than the heart.

A Little Girl in Paradise – PART THREE

WARNING: READ PART ONE AND TWO FIRST

Shiv and Pari’s grandmother ran the house with a solid hand.  Having lost a household helper, the despotic grandmother assigned chores to little Pari.  Shiv watched Pari morph from an innocent sweetness to an overworked, neglected young girl.  Her vacant eyes carried her through the days which turned into months and years.  Her clothes hung on her like a rag doll.

One day Shiv saw her walk across the courtyard carrying a basket of clean clothes.  He noticed her face change colors and scrunched as if in pain.  He walked up to her and touched her shoulder lightly.  She winced as he asked if she was okay.  He offered to carry the basket for her while she walked slowly behind him.  Since he was a boy, he was not allowed to do any household chores.  She sat on the bed and started to fold the clothes.  Each movement seemed an effort until she could carry on no longer.  She allowed herself to fall on the bed and her eyes closed.

Shiv let her rest and walked away.  A few minutes later he heard screams.  He ran in to see Pari waving her arms in the air frantically as if fighting unseen demons.  His grandmother walked in and exclaimed, “She’s got the devil in her.”  Next think he knew Pari had been moved to a remote corner of the house.  Over the next few weeks he witnessed the comings and goings of various sadhus, priests, exorcists.  They carried feathers of unusual birds, red hot peppers in bunches, smoking clays bowls and various other unidentifiable objects.  He heard shrieks all through the days and nights.

One night he sneaked in to her room and saw her face by the glow of a diya clay lamp.  Her eyes stared up at the ceiling as if in a trance.   He noticed her sunken-in cheeks on her ghost white face.  Even though she was under blankets, her body shivered.  The howling wind outside travelled in to whisper terror in her ears.  Her feeble voice called out, “don’t snatch me, no… make the pain go away.”

The next morning they found her stiff body cold as the Himalayan mountain peak.  The image of her sparkling and later glassy green eyes stayed with Shiv.  He also could never forget the tragic and short life his angelic cousin had endured.  If only he had the strength or the intellect to help her.  Years later he learned that his Pari had in fact been possessed with a demon and that demon had a name – Cancer.

- THE END -

A Little Girl in Paradise – PART TWO

WARNING: READ PART ONE FIRST

A whole month passed before Shiv was allowed to see his new cousin. Her hazel eyes were as deep as Dal Lake, her skin as soft as the snow on the mountains, her hair as dark as the night sky.  She reminded him of an angel and decided to call her Pari.

From a delicate bud, Shiv observed his cousin bloom into a colorful flower.  He laughed as she tried to toddle behind her mother.  He listened to her as she added words, then sentences and finally the incessant questions.  She followed him everywhere in the house but as soon he stepped outside the main gate of the courtyard, she would look at her mother and back away.

Just like any ordinary day, Shiv dashed back home before sunset from his daily adventures in the orchards and river bank.  But one day as he stepped through the gate, what greeted him was unlike anything his creative mind could have imagined.  A commotion of adults gathered in the courtyard.  The air was filled with a stench he could not place. His mother saw him frozen at the gate.  She ran to him, sheltered him in the folds of her sari and walked him away from the courtyard into the house to join his cousins in a room.  Pari ran up to him and looked up with her big, wet hazel eyes searching for answers.  He had none and looked away.  She sat down beside him and rested her head on his shoulder.

The day of commotion was never discussed in the house.  Shiv picked up words like “spark”, “cooking” or remarks like “sari clung to the skin”, “what a tragedy” from neighborhood chatter.  He stared at Pari unsure what to say to her.  She walked around the house in search of her mother, tears constantly rolling down her cheeks.

TO BE CONTINUED……

A Little Girl in Paradise – PART ONE

A mighty bird circled above a tree guarding its nest.  Snow-capped mountains of the Himalayan range stretched in the horizon for miles dividing the continent.  They loomed over crevices, ravines and valleys as they stretched upward reaching for the sky.  Sheltered by the high mountain range, the valley boasted green prairies, translucent lakes, colorful wildflowers, gurgling rivers, succulent apple orchards and mountainside wild life and the settlement of Kashmir under the Raj.  Within this valley a bustling city, Srinagar flaunted a large lake nicknamed “the jewel of Srinagar”.  The jewels in Dal Lake were numerous and diverse.  Floating gardens drifted parading their lotus blossoms and lily pads.  Long Shikaras speckled the lake as they rowed people to floating hotels and houseboats, scenic gardens in the far banks or just for a serene cruise.  Tiny islands boasted the Chinar trees with their hollow trunks.

Shiv stood at the bank of the lake that featured the Moghul gardens.  His eight year-old legs took him aimlessly through apple orchards and walnut trees.  He explored in the crevices of the Chinar trunks and sat cross-legged in the hollow center, pretending to meditate.  Before the sun started its low descent to rest its head on the pillows of the mountains, Shiv ran to his large, bustling house.  He dashed through the open gate of the boundary wall and stopped in the courtyard where his father stood with his six brothers and their children.

Shiv looked up at their worried faces then turned towards the screams coming from the room with the closed door.  The door opened and his mother stepped out.  Without meeting anyone’s eyes, she dashed into the kitchen and ran back into the room.  A few minutes later, the door opened again and one of his aunts stepped out, ran to her room, and returned with something tucked under her sari.  She slipped back into the room from which the screams were louder and more frequent.  Then a cry. Shiv looked up.  It was the cry of a baby.  His mother slowly stepped out and walked towards his oldest uncle.  “It’s a girl,” she announced.

TO BE CONTINUED……

Best Friend

Beagles and their urge to chew

It is their destiny to be shrew

You give them food, they gobble it up

For every treat they’d waddle or sit up

Raw hides or chew toys are not enough

They even munch the inedible stuff

Carpets or sofas, take your pick

These in my tummy, make me sick

Chomping, munching and gobbling

Canine jaws working at gnawing

Whatever they see in the mouth it goes

In the tummy out the poop by joes!

Beagles and their urge to chew

But their loving friendship is few

They look up with those expectant eyes

What they dislike most is goodbyes

Right next to your sitting form

They cuddle up close to you at home

Licking away tears off your cheeks

Cheering is their business, they are not meek

Sensitive and depressed they feel

Love is their next best meal.

In quiet they lick their wounds

Uncomplaining remain these hounds.

My Perception of Peace

The obvious definition of Peace is the elimination of wars, violence and conflicts.

But what about the inner conflict that we all battle with daily?

In our struggle to find or define happiness, our mind has become chaotic

We have added so much noise with constant internal dialogue

We have even become slaves to intense emotions driven by fear and greed,

There is never an end to wanting. 

I believe Peace is bliss

It is silence

It is solace

It is a relaxed mind

It is even detachment

When individual minds are at rest, conflicts and struggles are undesired

Strong emotions become placid

Thought processes become clear

Everyone is calm.

When internal conflicts are resolved wars and violence appear meaningless

External strife dissipates

Harmony takes over

Life becomes a blissful journey…

Monk

The sun does not reach my eyes in time for the procession

monks had proceeded down the depression

I wake with a start, don my robes

run up the mountain to see them below

I see a stream of fire, orange robes ablaze

flowing down like lava, a path to carve

their chants fly like birds over the ranges

rise into my ears echo through the ridges,

I observe my own robes, pale in comparison

I stand on the edge, waver to be risen

the climb had been long and hard

a journey alone, no one to hold a hand

turning back is not an option joining them is deception

right or left, I can choose a path, whatever the destination

the sun sky high with mystical illumination

the monks bathe in lightness, shadows my culmination.

A Second Life

I am cold, oh, so cold….

My nostrils tingle with the smell of ammonia.  I hear wheels tweaking under my weight as I am being rolled away.  I open my eyes and whiteness greets me – ceilings, walls, nurses’ uniforms, and even their skin.  It’s cold.

My lips feel dry.  I cry out weakly, “mummy, water”.  No response, only the sound of the wheels and the never-ending ceiling above me.  I am laying flat on my back and as I look down my body, I see suction tubes all over my chest.  I get scared but am too weak to cry.  I close my eyes.  The dry lips hurt.  Nothing happens even when I lick them.  I feebly moan, “Water.  Mummy please!”  I hear weeping.  Just quiet, contained sobs.  I wonder why nobody is responding.  Are they going to let me die of thirst?

I open my eyes again and see that the ceiling is still passing by overhead, more slowly now.  Nancy, the nice nurse leans over bringing something white to my lips.  It’s a wet cotton swab.  Is that all the water they are going to give me?  I hear more sobs and recognize that it’s my mother.  She is pleading with the doctor to give me more water.  I don’t see Dr. Stark but recognize his husky voice.  He is trying to explain to my mother that it’s not safe yet.  I hear my father speak but can’t hear what he is saying.  The wheels stop.  I feel something cold and shiny on my dry lips.  It’s water!  A whole spoonful!  I fall into a deep sleep.

Crash! I wake with a start.  My head and chest hurt.  I’m cold and feel something prickly on my arm.  I try to sit up.  An unfamiliar nurse comes to me right away gently making me stay still.  I realize the noise was of my I.V. cart that had bumped with the bed’s metal frame.  I was in a special room, not the ward with other kids.  I deciphered the letters on the frosted glass window.  It said, I.C.U.  “Now what could that mean?” I wondered, “A special code for the doctors – icu?”

I lay back in my bed to rest.  I think back the past month when we first reached London in a big airplane all the way from India.  I enjoyed my view of the clouds and toy-like houses below from my window seat.  On the way to my cousin, Anita’s house, I spotted red double-decker buses on the streets.  I also got to play with Anita’s cute toys and especially loved her tiny tea-set.  She is also 5, like me.  I remember the old Mrs. Rudge who babysat us some days.  Her daughter, Lorraine, was mean to me.  I also hated the food there, boiled meat and mashed potatoes.  Yuk!  Some days, though, Mrs. Rudge would take us to an indoor park where we could run around, jump on the trampoline, and play on the monkey bars.  There were also many other kids there our age.  We could never play outside since it was always raining.  I don’t even remember seeing Mr. Sun since we arrived here, in early March.  But we had to stay for my surgery, else I would die.

I had overheard my father tell somebody that my heart condition was called ASD/VSD.  Later, when I asked him he explained that I had a hole in my heart.  However, my main problem was that the flow of my blood went the wrong way and when it came to the hole the good blood was able to go to my body.  The doctor at the children’s hospital could fix me so I can run and walk, without gasping for air all the time.  My heart wouldn’t beat as loudly anymore and my face won’t turn blue whenever I cried.

Suddenly, I hear a squeak from the door and quiet footsteps entering my icu room.  I see mummy and papa and give them a big smile.  They are overwhelmed with joy, tears going down their cheeks.  Their eyes show love and relief.  Their daughter had returned from the clutches of death.  I learn that I will be moved to the ward tomorrow.  I can see all my friends again, even Lisa, who gave me the big activity book with fancy markers.  But soon I will be able to go home, back to India on the big airplane.  I can see my baby brother who is with grandma.  Soon I can play all the running games with my friends and won’t feel left out.

I feel very tired.  My eyelids are getting heavy and I feel drifting into dreamland seeing bunny shaped clouds, toy houses, tiny cars, little people, and a giant tea-set.

Pashmina

She takes the shawl

in her hands

admiring its simplicity,

respects its shade of mud

its patterns

of delicate intricacy,

loves the muted tones

of yellow, green, red

of threads in its embroidery,

runs a finger over

the meticulous design

across the narrow periphery,

elevating this simple gift

high above her eyes

amazed by its beauty,

feeling its softness

on each cheek

melting in its velvety,

made from soft hairs

of hardy beast of Himalaya

that is its specialty,

its warmth, its softness

known around the land

famous across boundary,

she holds the fabric

to her chest

valuing its austerity,

she brings the shawl

to her nose

drinking aromas spicy,

buries her face

in its warmth

revering its intensity,

drapes the shawl

over her shoulders

Snuggles

In its healing comfort

Its quiet affection

Its loving melody.

Mother of my Children

First time I saw her was through the bars of her kitchen window.  She stood in profile in deep concentration over the stove.  Steam from the pan rose in the air, settling on her delicate skin to form tiny beads on her forehead.  Her dark long hair collected loosely at the nape like silken drapes.  Few strands escaped veiling her face like a lace curtain.  With her free hand she used long fingers to guide the runaways behind her ears.  She used the back of her hand to wipe her forehead.  A shiny wet bead hung loosely at the tip of her elegant nose, threatening to take the leap.  She ran a finger over it and the plunge was averted.

I moved closer to the bars and called out.  “Didi, what are you making?  Smells good.”

Her face turned showing small, round eyes and arched eyebrows in surprise.  Her lips widened lighting up her entire, round face into a smile.  “Dumm Alu.”

She returned to the stove.  After a brief pause, she added in a barely audible voice.  “But I’m just frying the potatoes now.”

            I leaned on the window sill and asked, “So soon?  The henna is still red on your hands.”

           Her response was a smile and lowered eyelids.

            We met again the next day, over our adjoining terrace.  She was collecting sun soaked laundry from the line.  We talked until she was called away.  Her duties were never ending even as a newly-wed.

Finding comfort in each other’s company, we found ways to do chores together.  We sat in the alley next to each other among other neighborhood women.  Some sifted through the lentils or rice to remove the pebbles.  Others tackled the mending or embroidered intricate patterns.  We mostly kept to ourselves, listening in on the gossip or banter among the older women.  Our own conversations were muted.

She was shy and uncertain.  She listened while I talked.  I pointed out the interesting personalities and the various generations among us.  I filled her in on the neighborhood scandals and shocking developments in the inhabitants’ lives.  Her nods were slight and surprises innocent.

Our best times together were the walks to the dairy.  We carried the empty steel cans half a mile returning with the containers filled with creamy, buffalo milk.  It was on those walks she started to open up.  Her smiles were genuine but suppressed in larger company.  Her voice was soft but strong.  She had a deep enthusiasm to learn.  She shared tales of her childhood filled with mischief and adventure.  Her reminiscence allowed me to peak into the life of a spirited young woman.

            During the same time I was discovering my new friend, she was finding changes in herself.  Soon her belly started to show.  Within the first year of her marriage, she gave birth to a beautiful girl of twinkling eyes and happy disposition.  Motherhood came naturally as her duties extended from household chores.  We still found time to be together.

As her daughter stepped into toddlerhood, the strain on my friend’s face started to show.  She masked her pains well with smiles.  What she could not hide were the shadows under her eyes.  As I noticed and commented on her weight loss, she shared the happy news.  Her womb was filled with another joy.

I responded with concern.  “Will you be able to manage the two and all the duties at home?”

As I had expected, she replied with a smile.  “I have nothing to complain about.  My husband loves me and I have the gift of motherhood.  I am happy with my treasures.”

She went on to talk of personal matters.  Her relationship with her husband was of deep mutual respect and friendship.  She shared her dreams for her children.  I listened and watched her perform her duties with effort as her body changed.  The pregnancy was hard.  Our excursions to the dairy became fewer until they were not possible anymore.

After a long and hard labor, a beautiful tiny boy joined her family the following spring.  I saw joy in her eyes but also noticed that smiling seemed a strain.

Our evening walks to the dairy continued.  In the chatter of close friends I did not notice until months later that the walks had actually become slower.  My friend had developed a limp.  Her face showed no signs of pain but the limp was obvious.  She dismissed it to being tired.

She had seen different doctors, subjected to various tests.  The diagnosis was hushed.  It was the disease that eats from the inside and robs of small pleasures of life.  With no known cure, her cancer had started to spread in her leg.

To limit the spread, the doctors advised amputation.  Within months of the surgery, she carried on her shoulder the strong determination to live.  Holding a pair of crutches under her arms, she hopped around the house doing chores.  Our conversations continued through the bars of the kitchen window.  She balanced her weight on a crutch as she cooked the family meal.

Several years progressed with her daughter blooming into a beautiful eight-year old and son chatting away at five.  Her children spent hours at my house playing with my young brothers or out in the alley with all the neighborhood children.

 My friend kept her spirits and moved about the house.  But her body showed signs of deterioration.  The cancer had travelled up and into her very spirit.

I remember those last days.  Bedridden and in pain, she began to fade away.  Her eyes spoke with plea as her hand rested on her children’s head.  I promised with my eyes to take care of them as my own.  Her last moments were shielded from her children as they were sent to my house.  My friend suffered quietly the strain on her body and the pain of leaving her young ones behind.  She departed in suffering but with a smile.

Years later, I stepped into her big shoes and became the mother of her children.  My friend Madhu lives on through us and her children.

Journey of my Stories

Life is a climb through rough terrain to reach new heights or a flowing river serenely following its path.  It's an obstruction run in one phase and a quiet walk by a lake in another.  It sinks to the bottom of the well one season and reaches the highest peak in a new one.  Life carries on with joy and love of friends and family but the constant reminder that nothing is forever leaves you feeling alone.  This blog is to share stories of the lives of characters I have developed by observing and studying people, conversations on lives of those before us or of other lands and contemplating on life's great journey itself.  I look forward to this journey of sharing my stories with a larger audience.