Life, Love and Marriage

I was meeting Rhea after five years. We had studied together in college and now she was married and led a settled life of a typical homemaker; while I was still single and still working. I distinctly remembered her long black hair and her sharp voice. How would she be now? And when it came to the matters of mind, Rhea always wanted to do ‘something different’. Even though I was her best friend, I could never figure out what exactly was that ‘something’.

Now I could hardly wait to see her again, if only to know she had managed to do that ‘something’.  It would also be interesting to see how the years had treated her.

She had found me on Facebook and had sent a message in typical Rhea style. “If you are the same impossible Trisha with even more impossible memory, then you would know who this is”. I had long back dubbed Facebook as ‘repackaged old friends’ service’ and this instance had proved it once again.

I had straight away searched for her pictures on Facebook, but for whatever reasons she had not put up any. So it was going to be a ‘wait and watch’ game.

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Trisha’s cab snaked in and out of the gullies and around chowks. She saw the local flower market that Matunga was famous for, the Tamilian provision shops and the narrow alleys that led to, well, more alleys. Trisha was thinking that in all probability Rhea would have married into south Indian community – Matunga was indeed their stronghold.

But the old bungalow where the cab stopped did not look anything like a Tamilian home. ‘Darya Mahal’ was standing tall in white, with the grey moss trying its might to spread over it from all around. The bungalow had definitely seen better days, but seemed to have fallen on bad times now.  Trisha hoped that it was not the case with her friend who lived in it…

As she entered the house, she was greeted by an old lady sitting at the window. 

‘She must be Rhea’s mother-in-law, seems to be sweet though….’ thought Trisha and just then Rhea entered with a glass of water.

Red saree tied tight around her pitcher-like waist, a small cummerbund, gold ear rings, bangles and armlet, red painted lips and kohled eyes, everything brought out her liveliness to the fore.  Seeing this, Trisha’s apprehensions on Rhea’s monetary well-being were somewhat soothed… she looked like a lotus swishing on pure water all in pink and red!

‘Hi, Trisha, I still don’t believe this we are meeting and meeting after a long time’, said Rhea.

‘Yes indeed. How have you been? I always wanted to stay in touch but you know how life changes when one is out of college …’ and suddenly strangeness of five years melted away. Old friends started chatting again. The spaces between the friends seemed to fill in rapidly with the flow of old memories.

‘And all of a sudden, Trisha asked, ‘You were one of the most brilliant students that our college had. What happened to all that education and learning? I know you get everything you want from your husband, but doesn’t that also mean a dependence on him? He can give you everything except your freedom- to think the way you want, feel the emotions that you want to feel and express desires that you want to?

‘You said he hasn’t touched you for a year. And you ask a monthly allowance with list of reasons, reporting each and everything that you did, knowing only what he wants you to know, following his words as gospel. You are not living in 16^th century, where is that independent, free willed and assertive Rhea?’

‘The Rhea that you knew was not in love then, Trisha. And love remains same across vast distances of time; it hardly matters in which century we live in!’

‘What kind of love is this where you become directionless, losing your identity, forgetting your dreams and limiting your will?’

‘Love means giving not holding back. My emotions fortunately are not dependent on reasons.’

‘Sounds good when written in books, otherwise it seems unreasonably idealistic. You have your needs Rhea - physical, emotional, and mental; how can you ignore them?’

‘Love supersedes everything, even the ‘self’. Nobody thinks when one is in love. In fact I am not in love its love that is in me, and that’s how love is impulsive, unabashed, volatile and free. What I really want to know is who is suffering it’s me, Rhea, in my so called ‘dependent world’ or you in your ‘independent world?’

Rhea’s words shook me and reached my heart. What was it that I wanted? Was I jealous? Was I regretting the choice I had made in my life?

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It started drizzling as I walked back home and soon it turned into a heavy downpour with lightning and thunder. I walked on unmindful and it was not the frequent clap of the thunder that was getting me shaken up.

I could see Rhea in my mind’s eye and I could sense that she had derived this stoic confidence from her love.  The lack of independence that was a suffering for me, was just another dimension of love for her, all encompassing, for ever.

The Lake

On a misty morning, I decided to sit by the lake and watch time drift by. My eyes were drawn to the translucent water - unmoved and untouched, I had never seen anything so pure. What was it that made this lake so placid, so beautiful?

The green trees, high and low, were protecting the lake as if it were a jewel, treasured by Mother Nature herself. To satisfy my whim, I pelted a pebble into the lake. Plop… the sound only made me more aware of the all-pervading silence around.

I could see the ripples, and then the water quietly becoming settled and still again, unmoved as before. Amidst the sweet sounds of crickets, birds and insects I decided to stretch out on the dried leaves.

I could sense the dewy, woody smell of wilderness filling me with the flowing life force of nature. Just to feel the power of silence again, I threw a few pebbles. As the stones touched the surface of the lake, they made that resonating sound - Plop... Plop... Plop... Plop...these were the sounds of silence.

Again the lake became still, untouched and unmoved. I could see the quiet and beautiful soul of the lake. It did not react, it did not speak. The lake was now me, and I became the lake. Essence lies in being harmonious, and harmony is so serene. All the pebbles that were hurled at me were now sunk deep, deep inside and my mind was at peace. There were no ripples of thoughts left…

© Copyright 2011

The Vietnamese Bamboo

After being away on a long voyage that lasted several years, Hakkara had returned to his native town of Imaicho in Asuka, Japan. Nothing had changed - the grey podzolic soil, the smell of fresh air, the gnarled trees and the generosity of people – everything seemed to have defied time.

Guests were always revered in Japan, and following this tradition, he was respectfully welcomed by Numara, his cousin. Friends and relatives had been invited for Shuugou, a gathering in honor of the guest. After feasting on Temaki Zushi and Yakinikutea, the men lingered around Hakkara to listen to his stories.

‘People are no different from the waves of the ocean’, said Hakkara. ‘I hardly find any difference amongst them. They all think alike and move alike.’

Numara sighed, ‘I wish I could say the same’. ‘But whenever I remember how the land of the rising sun suffered at the hands of the of the dragon people, the anger rises up inside me like a serpent and tightens around my chest.’

Though he managed to hold himself from saying anything further, Numara could never forgive or forget the people and land of China. He quietly listened to the voyager’s tales of the seas and the places beyond.

Soon the guests left, and Hakkara opened his thin muslin sac, ‘This is one of the best things I got from my travels overseas - bamboo shoots. Bamboos have always symbolized the values of life and have stood upright with grace and integrity. I am sure Numara, you would love to have these Chinese and Vietnamese bamboos growing in your cherished garden.’

He gazed at the shoots - there was a slight difference of color, nothing else. The Chinese shoot was not green, rather it was pale yellow – the color of hate and cowardice, he thought..

Deep in his mind, Numara was wondering how he could refuse a part of the gift from Hakkara. He was sure the Vietnamese bamboo would become a sacred barrier to ward off evils (as all the Japanese believed) but the Chinese one was something he was not keen on.

Hakkara could easily sense Numara’s restlessness. Restlessness that resists change, restlessness that stems from blind beliefs passed down the centuries. But he was sure that with time would come understanding, and with understanding, the change.

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Crouching on his knees, Numara was digging two shallow pits in his garden for the bamboo shoots.  And all the hatred and prejudice rooted deep in his mind were coming up and mixing with the soil he was using to cover up the roots of the Chinese bamboo he was planting…

Three months went by and Hakkara came to visit Numara and see how the bamboos were growing. As they walked in to the garden a strange sight greeted them.

The Vietnamese bamboo had shot up to a good height, and the leaves, though thin and young, defied the wind and faced the sun proudly. The Chinese bamboo was stunted. It looked lifeless and dull. There was an air of despair and dejection all around it.

As Hakkara looked at the stunted Chinese bamboo shoot, Numara had a gleam of wicked satisfaction in his eyes.

‘I told you Hakkara san, nothing good ever grows out of Chinese’.

Hakkara did not reply but just gazed at him for long; Numara grew restless soon, and asked, ‘What is it that you are not telling me?’

‘Numara, there was no Vietnamese bamboo ever. Both are Chinese’.

Numara was confused, and it took a while for the realization to sink in.

Hakkara asked, ‘Both shoots were from China, and both were given the same sunshine, soil, water and air. So what was it that that made one wither away while the other rise full of life?’

‘It was your attitude that made the difference. Everyday when you came to water the bamboos, all your negative thoughts flowed on to the one you thought was a Chinese shoot while your positive feelings went to the other.’

‘What you give will get returned to you – be it a bamboo shoot or people. Do not bring forth your imagined hatred and prejudice when you interact with them.  Let not your perceptions overpower your true being. Everything and everyone deserves your equal love and affection.’

Numara’s heart went out to the lifeless bamboo shoot. He could feel its forlorn spirit, much like that of a neglected child. He vowed to shower it with all his affection so that one day, it would be able to rise up towards the sky in all its splendor and glory.

© Copyright 2011