Disappointment arrived instead of you

Where were you?

Where was I?

Neither here nor there

tis be true, tis be true

Side by side, step by step

We are together

Though the beating of my heart is discernible to anyone

Yours’ is much less clear

This music within the noise

We finally speak to each other,

I by the front, you by my side

You chuckle, I laugh

Maybe this time you see the difference in my eyes

Maybe this time you see the desire in my eyes

in israel

They asked my purpose of travel

I spoke to them of my ancestors

They inquired where I was planning to stay

I related to them scriptural passages in detail

They queried me as to the duration of my trip

I admitted to them many lifetimes

They thought I was in Israel

I told them Israel was in me

- Brandon Marlon

Your smile haunts me

I walk away with a presence 

though the chance small

would I, by any chance

haunt you just the same?

He lit a fire

walked away

its burning the house

“An ode to the travelers”

-for every traveler-whether by free-will, or fate; either inside or out-whether searching for hope or escaping from injustice, whether robbed of their natural home after thousands of years or rejected by ’society’, and unable to compromise …and for the birds who so defiantly, so beautifully built their nest in a tree in the heart of Belfast, in the midst of all the violent turmoil tension-to speak of love-of hope-of trust-

-Michael

Today as the sudden winter melted to a sudden spring, the air loosing its chill and the birds chirping full of joy, I wondered when I would meet Michael again. 

He is amazing. I haven’t yet met a person of this magnitude who drains of me my speech, this considered my only expression of admiration. The truth though a little less enthralling is that I have only met Michael in my mind, or more so I create our initial meeting conversations in my mind, where I am spilling the thesaurus’ adjectives in every sentence: “Your music is exceptional., Your words are exquisite., Your pauses wonderful.” 

Its quite a story how he keeps me up at night:  One day, exiting the OISE building after 3 hours of dialogue french, I hear a sound I was not familiar with. That night was not like any other night, the air thick with humidity, the street lights had orbs of moisture surrounding them. I heard this heavenly harp sweep across me like a giant wave of cold sea water. It was refreshing but sudden. But the suddenness played with me. At first I wandered around trying to find where it was coming from. I couldn’t and the night becoming darker and my stomach growling for a meal, I left dejected. I kept playing back the scene I most loved the feeling of refreshment on a sticky hot june day.

The next time I saw him. But he was far away and I wasn’t sure it was him, again a friend was waiting and I had to leave.

But finally a few weeks ago, a friend lent me his CD, and I am very happy. At last I have some of his music playing in my vicinity, surrounding me. The music relaxing and the words philosophical.

The little blue man with the tufts of white, heavenly hair who plays the harp on the streets of Toronto, has rendered me speechless.    

I can’t seem to upload his songs, but I can always email to you, so just give me a shout!

untitled

You keep me restless at night 

hither and thither I move

Uncomfortable in my bed

watching the lonely lazy shadows

move across the sky

I get up to reach for the light switch,

yet fall back believing this darkness be companion

to my undreamt dreams

instead I flip through these pages to write these words

believing in the unbelievable

If I were ever asked what to take to my next life it would be all my memories. All of them, clear and picturesque, they have served as many things: tools, lessons, lies, truths. They reside slowly and peacefully amongst my everyday thoughts and emotions. I have of course erased or forgotten some but for the most part my memory has indeed served its purpose and served me well thus far. My memories have indeed found good homes here too, written and then read, read, read. This is important as memories are only able to leave one and enter another if they are shared. These memories I would like to share:

At 10 years old, my life up to that point wasn’t exceptionally interesting: I had lived a mediocre life, went to public school, rode the bus. But I had an interesting perspective at that age, I remember our 5th grade teacher asking us, “why people smoked?”

I distinctively remember my hand shooting up and being picked first to answer: “People smoked because they wanted to keep warm in the winter.” At this the 5th grade class did not hesitate to laugh whole-heartedly. I looked around, fearing I had just farted. My teacher chuckled too: “That’s a great answer Geetha, but let’s see if other people would like to answer. Hands again flew up. I learned that day no answer was stupid but some answers were of course ridiculously stupid, but it hasn’t stopped me from putting out my ideas. I hope that warmed you up on this chilly day. 

This next memory was when I was really young, I don’t really remember the day or the circumstance but I remember that I was there and now I’m here memory intact.

The closest McDonald’s to our house was within walking distance, but yet we only went there when it was an occasion. My parents would order two happy meals and split a big mac. But more than the food and everything else, it was the play pen that I remember. It had a twisty slide and ladders and excitement was written all over. The ball pool was of course the main attraction. The slide being the way to get into it. My favourite part was going down the slide and landing on top of so many coloured balls. I held my breath at every dive just like in a real pool. This is what makes this memory exceptional, I made sure nostrils covered and breath held, now I was ready to dive. I hope this too, brought warmth to your cheeks and laughter to your lips.

Dreams

The house is old and potholes spray the landscape of the exterior. She can still remember the orange stained smile of the kids that tracked her around. The auto man angrily shouts: ‘You are never satisfied!’ in Tamil. They can see his red eyes in the rearview mirror as he drives towards their house. He murmurs: ‘Sair, those kids only beg because they’re god-forsaken parents give them life but nothing to live on. You shouldn’t give them anything.’ Her father turns around to nod in agreement as he sees his elder child mouth in protest. 

‘This house has a long history. It was built by your grandfather on a piece of land that his older brother sold to satisfy his drinking problem.’ Her uncle pleasantly smiled as he received the reaction expected of a 13-year old listening to the pasts lived by her family. Her aunt came in to set some tea and mixer on the table. ‘My father was a great man.’ At this her aunt intervened: ‘He never spoke.’ Her uncle untied his arms and grimaced at his wife.  ‘He was still a great man.’ This time she smiled at their niece. ‘You have so much to learn.’

The house was large and at one time expanded a large area, but with tightening budgets, a small end piece of the land was sold off. There had been talk for many months that the proctor that had kept many of the town people’s money would run off with it all. This happened exactly as December approached, the rains would not stop as her grandfather’s body paraded towards the outskirts.  All his savings, everything he had saved up as a tea estate quality controller was now drifting into India. The proctor did what he thought was best, sent his wife and children first to Madurai and then to Bangalore. He followed them two weeks later with enough money to last them a lifetime and then some.  

Their house didn’t feel like home. It masked many stories, some happy, some hurtful and some brutal. The shelling had created potholes all over the front of the house. The furniture was unstable; it sometimes creaked at instances that sounded rude. The shutters protested not wanting to close. The house in total was a complete wreck. After her uncle’s family had returned from the displacement of 1995, everything had been ruined or stolen.

The small room, which housed luxshmi, devi, stood in peace as if no one had seen her. ‘The thieves must have believed in God, they didn’t bother taking the statuettes.’ She followed her Uncle around to hear his stories. She stood at every picture and stared at it to encourage the horror it saw to be spoken.  She finally reached the famous photo of the three astronauts. Armstrong, Collins and Aldrin sat in impending success. She stopped her uncle to ask where he had gotten this picture. He looked at the photo, used the corner of his shirt to wipe the photo and then replied: ‘Your father sent away for a picture when he was 18.’ He paused reminiscing those days. ‘Your father had big dreams.’ He stopped and caught his breath. He turned quickly and hid skillfully his tear-laden eyes.

‘The war was there. It was always there. But we had dreams, they kept us from believing the war was everything.’ Her Father’s older brother shifted in his chair. It creaked uncomfortably. Engulfed in solemn tribute to those that also had dreams, she stood up and ran towards the end of the verandah. Her aunt caught her before she leapt onto the dusty yard that bordered the school. ‘Let go of me!’ she screamed. 

‘It isn’t going to change anything for you to be upset.’ Her aunt knew the words that poured out. ‘When is this going to end, when are we going to be able to dream, when can we attain some of those dreams?’ She asked crudely to the sky. ‘You can’t change that your father wasn’t able to do what he wanted, but you can change the future, you can change.’ She smoldered in the hurt, overwhelmed to move anywhere, she stayed steadily on her aunt’s shoulder. She wept until her pain disseminated.

Her father returned to hear his child shutter in hurt.  He took her in his arms and let her tears penetrate his shirt. He allowed for all his daughter’s words to be spoken. He cupped her face and brought it close. ‘You are my dream, kanmani.’ He repeated them again: ‘You are my everything, you becoming something will make me the happiest father in all of Jaffna.’ He smiled. She wiped a tear from her cheek, He kissed her on the brow. He picked up his daughter like she had just been born and took her away.  He laid out a sheet and a pillow and closed the door. Her aunt waited at the door. ‘She is fine.’ He looked at her in dismay: ‘What happened?’ He was surprised to hear his daughter’s cries out onto the street in front of the house. His brother shrugged as he replied that he had told her about the three astronauts and that she had not taken that well. 

‘She has a tender heart. I don’t know why.’ The last of his words veered off into silence.  The three adults walked away from the bedroom door towards things that have to be done. Of course aren’t we the best at walking away from what we don’t understand. A whimpering was heard from inside the doors.

She turned her head away from the threshold of the entrance to the room. Her tears spread into a pool onto the bed sheet under her cheek. She was hurt and she was overwhelmed. Her memory relaying back one event in the past that now she cried about.

It was an afternoon like any other, full of vitality. She had come back from school, full of dreams that day. She wanted to be an architect, no wait, a teacher, well maybe an astronaut. Dreams are so wonderful she thought. She could dream to be anything and magically she could become that. A smile plastered on her face, she entered her building, rode the elevator to the 25^th floor and opened the door to her home. This was her daily routine, to come home alone and wait for her parents and younger brother. An untimely knock disturbed the sounds of cartoons on the television. She got up and as instructed asked: ‘who is this?’.  A familiar voice answered back. ‘Its me Ragu mama, can you open the door.’ The familiarity of the voice felt safe but just to do as instructed she opened the door carefully with the chain. She opened the door slightly to a young man with a receding hairline and bold smile.

This was her father’s cousin and in recent months with the breaking up of his marriage and his custodial rights being limited, he spent some evenings with her parents. ‘Ragu mama, come sit. Amma and appa haven’t come yet.’

He looked tired, his eyes bloodshot, but he was pleasant as always. He sat where she instructed him to sit. She returned with a glass of orange juice. She handed the glass to him: ‘Ah, You are becoming a wonderful hostess. Amma must be very proud.’

She smiled sitting adjacent to him. He drank the orange juice in one gulp. ‘So when will amma come?’ She responded looking at the clock on the wall. ‘ I think around 6.’

‘Maybe we should wait to see them come home, by the window.’ He stood up to walk towards the window. He allowed his arms to rest on the sill and then turned around to see her walk up next to him.  He turned back towards the window. She stared too into the outskirts of the fading light.

She felt disgusted when she realized what had happened: His hands touching places that should not be touched. She was cheated out of her innocence and in the safety of her home, her molestation felt like it was the worst dream one could have.

Now 3 years older, her eyes hurt as she relayed how much her trust had been taken for granted. She relived this experience for many years to come. She rocked herself to sleep and then finally fell asleep.

A silent lull fell over the room as her father entered the room. Her eyes moved and a smile formed. Her father looked at her, smiled: ‘She must be having a sweet dream.’

THE END.