Life during this time of global pandemic isn’t easy. But the good news is that although most of us might still experience sheer helplessness from time to time, we are in most part a bit more educated about the whole thing.
It was the afternoon of March 12, 2020 and I was folding laundry clothes – one of the most mundane of household chores – when the radio gave a shrill beep to announce breaking news. We were in lockdown! Just like that the life we had known and taken for granted would change for all of us. I continued with my task although flooded with a sense of bewilderment and then I remember walking from room to room not quite sure what to do next. What does a pandemic mean? Most of us had never lived in one; just read about it. As humans we are so geared to “doing” so for me not to be able to do anything at that momentous hour was appalling – I had to be up and about just to rid myself of this dread spreading slowly in my mind. But what could I do? We are reaching the one-year mark of the pandemic caused by COVID-19. Each one of us has had to come to terms living a new way of life. When the going gets really tough I remind myself that I can still communicate with family and friends through technology and perhaps the odd porch visit where we stand masked and at a distance of six feet from one another. I walk every day seeking solace from the art of nature and I am filled with wonder at what I find. It liberates my mind from fears of the unknown at the same time sustains and empowers me to share what I find hoping to bring some of that wonder into someone’s life. I have learned to love what I have within myself – to be myself – for doesn’t nature carry on fulfilling her duties no matter what? Yes, nature teaches to temper fear with hope. And, yes, emotions can impact our physical health. For this reason alone, I might add it is important to live, feel, hear, see and taste the moment. Like the dance of sunshine through a lacy foliage, tink, tink, tink of a radiator, whoosh of air released from a vent, song of melting snow rushing into the sewer, whiff of woodsmoke caught in the tail of a sudden breeze, distant chirping of a lone bird, taste of warm bread that makes the tongue do a jig of happiness. These are moments worth their weight in gold. Stay safe and keep well. Continue on your quest of momentous discovery! Purabi Sinha Das #pandemicdiary2021 #amwriting #writingcommunity #poetryinnature #natureheals #hopeisheretostay #writinglife #beautifulmoments #moments
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“Above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don’t believe in magic will never find it.”
~ Roald Dahl, The Minpins (1991) I believe Roald Dahl hit the nail on the head when he said the above. Too busy growing up and doing all those things that children do, I never really noticed the magical beauty of my birth place – until later, when returning year after year we travelled through towns and villages that had remained unknown to me thus far. Sometimes being bounced on the worn seat of a ramshackle bus along with a bunch of engineering students returning from college in a distant city; sometimes driven at breakneck speed in a taxi whose driver insisted on buying us breakfast; sometimes when a rickshaw driver took us to his home to meet his family. This is beauty. This is life. This is Magic. This is saying Thank You to our Creator. We have started the season of Lent. Most observers of Lent will forego for forty days something they love dearly. This is a period of reflection, of taking time to look deep within to find the real “me”, of keeping quiet, to give thanks for life and creation. The photograph is one of many I had taken while travelling through India in 2017. Stay safe. Be well. Keep looking for that magic in your life. Purabi Sinha Das #writing #writingcommunity #magic #magicinlife #pandemicdiary2021 #mywritinglife #poetryinmotion #hopeisheretostay I don’t know what I would do during this time of pandemic if I did not write every day. I am a pilgrim on this writing journey accompanied by other pilgrims. The only difference between me and them is that I am the live one who holds the string; the others created out of my imagination. Nevertheless, they make up who I am; living with me, breathing the same air I breathe. When my head fills with images, conversations, situations, humour and sadness, they take over, shadowy figures, each claiming a portion of that imagination as their own. My imagination becomes the skin on their bones giving them the ability to breathe and live.
*** The road is uphill as far as I can see. Will I be able to climb to the top? On the wings of a soft breeze comes the sound of a giggle and I immediately begin to feel better. Fiza, what have you been up to? Are you bothering your sister again? The dimples flash. I take her warm hand in mine and we begin the trek side by side. First stop Silchar where Fiza goes with her family. I almost tell her to be careful but catch myself at the last minute. She has a job waiting for her at the house her father has rented up there – a family getaway from the heat of summer. Fiza is brave, her mind filled with curiosity. She will be all right. I unwind a string, it is one of many, from around my fingers. Fiza is let loose. She will fulfill what is in her destiny. Hoofbeats pound on dry grass; chant of a folk song fills the air. They are late. What was the delay? I ask. Prince Kunjan stopped to speak to his child-bride Kantabali who had to be woken. Only eleven. What an age to be married! I understand it has to do with tradition. At least, the groom is only seven years older, handsome and kind-hearted. The procession passes me, I smell leather and sweat, catch a glimpse of a girl’s face peeping from behind the curtain of the palanquin. She has the heart of a lioness. Her husband, the Prince is keeping pace with the palanquin although the horse he rides wants to gallop. With a gentle hand he reigns it in, then turns suddenly. I feel the intense gaze of those almond shaped eyes. There is a world of sorrow in their depths. Can you not change the outcome? they plead. I cannot, I say with regret, for your destiny is already written. You are brave, kind and a loving young man. You have work to do, work that will help others, especially the young girl Bina. She will become Kantabali’s companion and keeper of your story. So, go now, fulfill what is in your destiny. The face behind the curtain is no more. I let go of three strings, the last being that of the village girl Bina. She did not accompany us on this pilgrimage deciding instead to wait at the very top. I know Chandni is keeping pace with me, I feel her quiet presence, my spirit rises to greet her for she is the one to have sustained me all these years. When I falter, it is Chandni’s gentle touch that steadies me. I see a strange light in the grey eyes. Diminutive and quiet, yet the personality comes through, strong as rock. I have poured out my heart in her and she knows it. When my tears will not stop falling, she dries them with a corner of her garment urging me to keep going, to never stop, for the world needs to know the story. Wise Chandni. She knows what even I don’t. She gently unravels the string from my hand, lets it fly up. She is going to join her ancestors and walks away determined not to miss them this time. Shoma prefers her own company. A fast walker she outpaces all of us; her long legs lift and point as if running a marathon. Always ten paces ahead. When I catch up, she is standing still by the side of the road and by her stance I feel she is waiting. For what? I want to know. But she takes off once more. I am trying to keep the tall figure within my line of vision. She is on a mission, a pilgrim, doing penance. She is full of bravado yet her heart is filled with unshed tears. She must seek redemption. Shoma is afraid if Ma discovers the truth, she will stop loving her daughter. Shoma is convinced she should never have been born. Perhaps then her father would not have left her mother. Most of the time I ignored her pleas knowing her personality is complex, she looks inward like a true pilgrim. My duty is to teach Shoma to also look outward. She has a lot of work ahead of her and only when she recognizes why her life was spared after the accident, she will understand the reason she was created. I unravel the string and let it float up. Shoma feels the sudden lightness of freedom, and moves ahead, her assurance marking every step. A lingering fragrance follows in her wake. I watch with a mixture of happiness and uncertainty. I had to let her go to find her destiny. It’s what I do. Asha, on hands and knees, is trying to hide behind the unruly mehendi bushes that line the road. Amused at her antics I cannot help smile when she gets up, snatches a bunch of leaves, then drops back to the ground. I know what she wants to do. She will take those mehendi leaves home to grind on the long stone Maaji uses to grind spice and apply the paste on her own hand and of course, Maaji’s. But first she wants to follow the procession of boys now heading towards the saint’s tomb near the pond. She has always wanted to see what happens there. I see trouble brewing but helpless to stop. Who has the heart to rebuke this mischievous imp? I feel a tug on my sleeve. Asha instructs me to let go of the string, she needs to find her own destiny. I do, as instructed. Mariam is running after the caravan. Her mother, who owns a tea stall in the market, has begged her not to leave but Mariam promises to bring back great wealth. She overcomes Maaji’s resistance who gives in to her daughter’s demand. Mariam has started on a perilous journey and there is nothing I can do to stop her. At fourteen, she has a mind of her own. She is also wise and kind, two qualities highly sought after within a pilgrim soul. Her presence is a dream, my imagination, a heavenly glow. And also, very real. Taking care of everybody’s needs she seems to be everywhere. But she must be careful. Not reveal her true identity. A girl of fourteen travelling alone! Mariam is one person who took the string from my hand and wrapped it around her own. She will make her own destiny and I for one will watch with great interest as to what transpires. Brava Mariam! *** These people inhabit the pages of the stories I have created. They are real, or as real as an author’s imagination can make them out to be. Each character is dear to me and I truly feel sad to let them go; but they have to move away, make room for the next ones to arrive. Stay Safe. Be Well. Purabi Sinha Das Author #amwriting #pandemic2020diary #pilgrims #hopeisheretostay #inspirations #writing #writingcommunity #inspiredliving #foodforthesoul #stories #storiesforlife purabisinhadas.com The picture you see is where my feet take me most mornings. It’s quiet here at this time, hardly any creature – big or small – about. Trees stand tall as if on guard, a brave sun tries its best to break through stubborn clouds that insist on blocking its path. As I walk, I might see a squirrel or two, and sometimes even birds appear to quickly disappear into the unknown. I walk, run, breathe deep, then make for home. I am thankful for this.
A year of isolation and silence; fear and confusion; grief and sense of hopelessness. A bleak picture but that has been the year of 2020 – the year of the pandemic, the year when the Corona virus spread its malignant wings over the world and is still holding us all hostage. The good news is that vaccines from various pharmaceutical companies have started rolling in and are being administered to front line workers, seniors at long term care homes, then hopefully to the rest of us. This was also the year to spend time with family, make a bubble of people who we see regularly. We stayed indoors during the lockdown, found comfort in the simpler things in life, tried to get a glimpse of a smile reflected in eyes barely visible above the confines of a mask. We prayed and looked out for neighbours, supported essential workers and local businesses. In all of this what stood out for me is we never let hope slip away. Under strict health regulations weddings, birthdays, festivals became virtual events. We carried on. We survived. Teachers and students faced the daunting task of teaching and being taught in virtual classrooms. I have special respect for teachers who not only were thrown into this situation earlier in the year with very limited resources and training, but in a lot of cases had to monitor their own kids’ virtual learning at the same time. As the months marched with no respite from the pandemic, I discovered free resources offered to writers and began to take advantage of them. Perhaps this is what steered me to finally publish on amazon an e-book of my personal essays What will It Be This Time under my author name Purabi Sinha Das. Was it the utter desolation of a lockdown, a sense of deep loss, a time when every waking moment was filled with fear and uncertainty, was it then I shouted – enough, I must break out of this world turned upside down? Yes, I believe, it was the lockdown that finally imbued me with courage to have my work published. The book is small, filled with my observations and recollections of life growing up in India then migrating to Canada. So, I am thankful I could and did turn my fears about an uncertain future and used it to turn a dream into reality. Looking back, I can say this has been a period of reflection, and long hours spent at the computer generating stories, poems and essays. My first novel will launch in the spring of 2021. Going through my travel albums made me realize our last destination was Grand Cayman we visited in January 2020. Digging deeper into the albums I came across a picture of me taken at the very last in-person writer’s conference I had been to way back in October 2019 – BIPOC writers connect presented by the Writers Union of Canada. Since then, it has been virtual Zoom meetings. Our church has had to adopt on-line prayer service which has been a lifeline for me, personally. I will attend Christmas service also in this fashion. Christmas this year will be very quiet, just the two of us, but we are thankful for this. This time of pandemic has taught us to be nimble and embrace any kind of change that comes our way, to work together for the common good; it has invoked feelings of generosity and kindness, taught us to appreciate our family and life in general and never to take anything for granted. We are on this road together and my prayers are with you and your family, now and always. Blessings and joy from our family to yours. Stay safe. Be well. Shalom. Happy Christmas. Purabi #christmas2020 #amwriting #seasonofhope #hoepisheretostay #pandemic2020diary #virtualchristmas2020 Pilgrim's Journey
I don’t know what I would do during this time of pandemic if I did not write every day. I am a pilgrim on this writing journey accompanied by other pilgrims. The only difference between me and them is that I am the live one who holds the string; the others created out of my imagination. Nevertheless, they make up who I am; living with me, breathing the same air I breathe. When my head fills with images, conversations, situations, humour and sadness, they take over, shadowy figures, each claiming a portion of that imagination as their own. My imagination becomes the skin on their bones giving them the ability to breathe and live. *** The road is uphill as far as I can see. Will I be able to climb to the top? On the wings of a soft breeze comes the sound of a giggle and I immediately begin to feel better. Fiza, what have you been up to? Are you bothering your sister again? The dimples flash. I take her warm hand in mine and we begin the trek side by side. First stop Silchar where Fiza goes with her family. I almost tell her to be careful but catch myself at the last minute. She has a job waiting for her at the house her father has rented up there - a family getaway from the heat of summer. Fiza is brave, her mind filled with curiosity. She will be all right. I unwind a string, it is one of many, from around my fingers. Fiza is let loose. She will fulfill what is in her destiny. Hoofbeats pound on dry grass; chant of a folk song fills the air. They are late. What was the delay? I ask. Prince Kunjan stopped to speak to his child-bride Kantabali who had to be woken. Only eleven. What an age to be married! I understand it has to do with tradition. At least, the groom is only seven years older, handsome and kind-hearted. The procession passes me, I smell leather and sweat, catch a glimpse of a girl’s face peeping from behind the curtain of the palanquin. She has the heart of a lioness. Her husband, the Prince is keeping pace with the palanquin although the horse he rides wants to gallop. With a gentle hand he reigns it in, then turns suddenly. I feel the intense gaze of those almond shaped eyes. There is a world of sorrow in their depths. Can you not change the outcome? they plead. I cannot, I say with regret, for your destiny is already written. You are brave, kind and a loving young man. You have work to do, work that will help others, especially the young girl Bina. She will become Kantabali’s companion and keeper of your story. So, go now, fulfill what is in your destiny. The face behind the curtain is no more. I let go of three strings, the last being that of the village girl Bina. She did not accompany us on this pilgrimage deciding instead to wait at the very top. I know Chandni is keeping pace with me, I feel her quiet presence, my spirit rises to greet her for she is the one to have sustained me all these years. When I falter, it is Chandni’s gentle touch that steadies me. I see a strange light in the grey eyes. Diminutive and quiet, yet the personality comes through, strong as rock. I have poured out my heart in her and she knows it. When my tears will not stop falling, she dries them with a corner of her garment urging me to keep going, to never stop, for the world needs to know the story. Wise Chandni. She knows what even I don’t. She gently unravels the string from my hand, lets it fly up. She is going to join her ancestors and walks away determined not to miss them this time. Shoma prefers her own company. A fast walker she outpaces all of us; her long legs lift and point as if running a marathon. Always ten paces ahead. When I catch up, she is standing still by the side of the road and by her stance I feel she is waiting. For what? I want to know. But she takes off once more. I am trying to keep the tall figure within my line of vision. She is on a mission, a pilgrim, doing penance. She is full of bravado yet her heart is filled with unshed tears. She must seek redemption. Shoma is afraid if Ma discovers the truth, she will stop loving her daughter. Shoma is convinced she should never have been born. Perhaps then her father would not have left her mother. Most of the time I ignored her pleas knowing her personality is complex, she looks inward like a true pilgrim. My duty is to teach Shoma to also look outward. She has a lot of work ahead of her and only when she recognizes why her life was spared after the accident, she will understand the reason she was created. I unravel the string and let it float up. Shoma feels the sudden lightness of freedom, and moves ahead, her assurance marking every step. A lingering fragrance follows in her wake. I watch with a mixture of happiness and uncertainty. I had to let her go to find her destiny. It’s what I do. Asha, on hands and knees, is trying to hide behind the unruly mehendi bushes that line the road. Amused at her antics I cannot help smile when she gets up, snatches a bunch of leaves, then drops back to the ground. I know what she wants to do. She will take those mehendi leaves home to grind on the long stone Maaji uses to grind spice and apply the paste on her own hand and of course, Maaji’s. But first she wants to follow the procession of boys now heading towards the saint’s tomb near the pond. She has always wanted to see what happens there. I see trouble brewing but helpless to stop. Who has the heart to rebuke this mischievous imp? I feel a tug on my sleeve. Asha instructs me to let go of the string, she needs to find her own destiny. I do, as instructed. Mariam is running after the caravan. Her mother, who owns a tea stall in the market, has begged her not to leave but Mariam promises to bring back great wealth. She overcomes Maaji’s resistance who gives in to her daughter’s demand. Mariam has started on a perilous journey and there is nothing I can do to stop her. At fourteen, she has a mind of her own. She is also wise and kind, two qualities highly sought after within a pilgrim soul. Her presence is a dream, my imagination, a heavenly glow. And also, very real. Taking care of everybody’s needs she seems to be everywhere. But she must be careful. Not reveal her true identity. A girl of fourteen travelling alone! Mariam is one person who took the string from my hand and wrapped it around her own. She will make her own destiny and I for one will watch with great interest as to what transpires. Brava Mariam! *** These people inhabit the pages of the stories I have created. They are real, or as real as an author’s imagination can make them out to be. Each character is dear to me and I truly feel sad to let them go; but they have to move away, make room for the next ones to arrive. Stay Safe. Be Well. Purabi Sinha Das Author #amwriting #pandemic2020diary #pilgrims #hopeisheretostay #inspirations #writing #writingcommunity #inspiredliving #foodforthesoul #stories #storiesforlife purabisinhadas.com Gardens I visited or passed by during my travels
Flowers, trees, gardens – all of creation. They are what make life worthwhile, especially, during this time of social distancing. We are gradually coming out of isolation; yet, that sense of uncertainty, of confusion underpinning the early days of the pandemic although showing signs of easing with each succeeding day, still by and large serve to determine our actions now. Flowers have stood the test of time and mishap over the centuries. And, by their very existence provide a sense of security, of mental well-being even when the earth trembles or the air groans under the weight of yet another disaster. Whether growing wild, creeping up a crumbling wall, blossoming in orderly fashion in a well-tended garden, offered in prayer or displayed in a florist’s window, flowers fulfill their duty without question. They keep nature’s ecosystem alive and well. So, my friends, today I want to take you on a virtual tour of gardens I visited or passed by during my travels around the world. Some had flowers and although small they drew me, like a bee is drawn towards the nectar filled center, and I clicked away happily. As always, you are in my prayers. Stay safe and keep well. Smile when you come upon flowers. Even a single bud radiates positive energy. Let creation restore your spirit – whether in the form of a garden or found growing by the wayside, they are all good. Purabi Sinha Das #pandemicdiary2020 #findingpeace #amwriting #lifeisfilledwithsurprises #staysafekeepwell #flowerspositiveenergy #gardensandmentalhealth When I visit my sister in Mumbai I step into a most coveted position and one that I love and believe is meant for me. I am put in charge of entertainment. Loosely translated this entails choosing which shows to go to, find out venue, date and show times, how to get tickets – my sister then plans the logistics. This portfolio is an extremely important one for both of us – I must make full and gainful use of the three weeks or so that is my quota of vacation time in India, while my sister is equally busy with her various commitments and must juggle a few to keep up with my constant suggestions/urgings to visit every art festival in town. Ah, life….it can be demanding! But, oh sweet bliss – wish this was happening every day of my life.
Anyway, back to what I was trying to say. Every morning during breakfast each of us opens a newspaper, from a pile of four dropped off early at the door by the paper-wallah, and between mouthfuls of toast and tea and intermittent conversation we are soon skimming through various subjects, which will be discussed later at a more leisurely pace. At that time we are both rather rushed for time. I need to go through the entertainment section (I know my sister will fill me in on whatever’s going on in the political scene so I skip all of that) and there is so much. Paper and pen poised I start jotting down shows, dates, venues, ticket information – for we will need to discuss logistics based on my findings. I chanced upon an ad that caught my fancy last November. Ruhaniyat. I was practically drooling for although clueless to its meaning it sounded like a ticket to heaven. I quickly Googled and was directed to the Banyan Tree website – they were presenting this event in association with Mumbai’s own famed and glorious Museum made possible by a group of major artists from across India. It promised to be mysticism at its best. I wanted to be there. After much planning we decided Saturday Nov 26th, would suit all of us. Getting tickets proved a bit complicated but a few phone calls later I knew where they would be found. Even the taxi driver turned out a real help and drove us downtown to the exact place, a bookstore, where in a corner sat a young man with our tickets to heaven. I still have mine as a keepsake. The show took place on the impeccably preserved grounds of Mumbai’s Museum. Imagine this: under the sky amidst palm trees and potted plants sit the audience. The stage is well-lit with coloured lights bringing a depth to the ambience. A scene of peace and harmony. The ticket aptly said – The Soulful journey begins….Oh my, one by one performers are introduced on stage and begin performing. The first one was ancient Vedic mantras for Peace and Harmony by Banaras ki Rishikayen, an all-girls group; second was Sopanam by Kavalam Vinodh and B. Krishnadas, third performer was Mukhtiar Ali and Group whose heart-stopping rendition of Meera and Kabir’s hymns had us swaying in our seats. An Indo-Belgian production came up next – combined effort of the Louvat Brothers from Belgium with Mukhtiyar Ali and group. The last performance of the evening was Qawwali by Hifzur Rehman Hakimi and group. We were served cups of heavenly aromatic tea and delicious savouries during intermission. This was a performance that transported me to a level of euphoria hard to imagine. Ruhaniyat has been performing for quite some time this being their sixteenth year and I was fortunate to have been in Mumbai when the caravan came to that city. The name itself conjures up feelings of eternal peace and love. Sitting among the audience that November evening in the heart of Mumbai city listening to the performers pouring out their souls singing and reciting ancient texts, taking us through a journey of divine love and showing us an emerging light that the world so desperately needs, Tagore’s sonnets, Rumi’s verses and the Psalms from the Bible began to mingle in my awe-stricken consciousness. Yes, we do need that reminder. That even during the darkest of days when bottomless despair will grip the very soul of humanity we need to lose ourselves in faith of the Divine. Mystics did it for theirs was a life-long search of pure love and peace. Another performance worth mentioning here that I was lucky enough to witness in Mumbai last year was Chi Udaka. The name signifies Chi or Earth, and Udaka or water. This was a seamless blend of exciting Taikoz virtuosic drumming with the sinuous beauty of Lingalayam’s Bharata Natyam and Kuchipudi dance forms. It was explosive and energetic, colour, rhythm and music of this cross–cultural performance coming together like they belonged to each other, a veritable cornucopia for the senses. What more could I ask for? I love my portfolio….work involved is hardly anything to speak when the end result succeeds in feeding my ever-demanding appetite for art, culture, mysticism and all things glorious. Keep Well…..Keep Smiling Purabi Das As in previous years, this August we heard the siren call of the road. There is something about a trip taken in the comfort of one’s car – simply throw a few things in the back seat and you are good to go.
A pre-dawn departure has a lot going for it. The previous day is history, a new one on the horizon with promises of better things yet to come. A certain stillness in the air, the road less-travelled, the sky hovering between dark and light, a magical aura on everything. There was one road trip I remember, from my childhood. One December our aunt (father’s youngest sister) and her sixteen-year-old son (our wonderful cousin) were visiting from Calcutta. When the time came for them to leave it was decided we would accompany them to Calcutta. And, we would travel by car, a distance of about 300 miles, I imagine. I set about collecting my favourite dolls, their clothes, bedding, etc. to take on this momentous journey. Instead of the train we would travel the distance by car. The day of our journey arrived. Although the sky still bore traces of ink around the edges, yet we are up. That winter was especially cold, we could see our breath. Our cousin was still abed. He wasn’t used to frigid temperatures. My aunt pulled the comforter off of him, it had to be packed, and the house filled with his startled yelling his mother trying to convince him to leave the warm bed. Father intervened, the boy was allowed back under the covers. I looked on wide-eyed. I failed to fathom why he would want to sleep and miss out on the fun. Soon, my sister and I were put to work. Father instructed us to sit on what appeared (to the un-initiated) a huge mound; it was actually the family bedding in a brown canvas hold-all, and into its capacious and numerous pockets and compartments were packed various pieces – sheets, blankets, comforters, pillows – it had been rolled tightly ready to be strapped and buckled. Only, it wouldn’t cooperate. The leather straps just would not meet. That’s where we came in. The two of us pressed down as hard as our little selves could, father tried the straps one more time, our cousin who was up now and wanting to get in on the act, helped. The joint effort won the day. The hold-all was tightly buckled, it was placed beside an assortment of cases, a large trunk, the food basket, water canteens, shawls to ward off the chill (cars were not heated) our faithful cook standing guard beside the lot. He had been up even before the rooster crowed. Mother had been helping to prepare food for the road. Tons of mouth- watering items were still being packed into tiffin carriers. Ah, the life of a spoilt young’un. I couldn’t wait to begin the journey sure of the tasty reward somewhere in-between. Our dog would be left with cook to guard the house. I would miss him. Our journey through the Hudson valley last week, although not as exciting as the one taken in childhood described above, was still every bit as enjoyable. As the sun began to rise, cars and trucks magically appeared on the highway their tail lights a warm glow in the grey dawn. Our first stop would be Kingston. We were fairly confident not too many people would be out at that time. Boy, were we wrong! An enormous tourist bus followed us to the first stop, we sprinted to the restroom, returned to the car and were enjoying the sandwiches packed from home before the first tourist had got off. As I ate, my mind cast back to the time when we had eaten potatoes and loochies on that other road trip. Around noon, and still far from New York city, we stopped in a small town called Deposit. I was immediately captivated by the quirky name. Deposit is in the county of Delaware, New York with a population of approximately of 1,712 (this last was gleaned from Wikipedia). After re-fueling, we entered the small store which is part gas station, part restaurant. As I ordered a veg subway and chatted with the very nice lady across the counter she asked if I would like cucumbers in the sandwich. Of course, that’s awesome, I replied, and discovered they were surplus from her own garden. Holding my lunch, I walked to the back to get a cup of tea. A very nice old man moved over insisting I get the although he had been there before me. I demurred, he replied that he had all day. The store was nicely set up for travelers like us to sit and enjoy a meal, then carry on. A delightful place, indeed. We spent the night in the town of Wallkill (another one!) in Orange county. Next morning, we reached Manhattan in a couple of hours. Keep Well….Keep Smiling Purabi Das Many years ago a child once approached her mother and asked in a timid voice if she could join a dance school. Her mother loved the idea. Bu where could a school for dance be found in their small town?
The girl’s desire to learn the intricate steps of Indian classical dance forms turned into a contemplative dimension of longing as in prayer. Then it seemed her prayer had been answered. For the school she attended hired a professional dance teacher, she was ecstatic for now she could learn what she had seen performed on stage. Life could not be better. Unfortunately, it seemed too good to last – the teacher after only one year left for another school. You may have guessed, that child was me. Yes, I have had this dream ever since I can remember of longing to learn Indian classical dances. Now thinking back of those days I cannot help but chuckle and yet, underneath that mirth there is a trace of sadness. For I still live that dream in my heart. So, the next best thing to an unrealised dream is to see it alive in others, vicariously. Not a performance do I miss and there are absolutely great ones from artistes from India who have performed in Toronto. Then, one day, I read about the Little Masters, a short article without too much background but it had fired my imagination. Since we were planning a trip to India then why not incorporate parts of the south in our itinerary? After a brief tour of the backwaters of Kerala we set off on our quest for that for which I had been waiting. As it often happens with us we did not actually plan anything in particular preferring instead to wing it. Just that article had fired my imagination. The bus took us along the Thrissur-Shoranpur highway. From Thrissur town Kalamandalam is about thirty two km in the north. We had booked a room in Thrissur for the night. Next morning saw us boarding a local bus, when we asked to be dropped off at the school we were met with blank stares. No one had heard of it. Now here was a problem. How do we get there? Not to be daunted my husband and I got off midway and decided to ask the locals; finally a three wheeler took us on saying he knew how to get there. Our vehicle stopped in front of a beautiful structure, somewhat dilapidated but situated in the midst of vast orchards and quaint gardens on the banks of the river Nila. At our calling out repeatedly someone did appear. Imagine our disappointment when told that the school had moved to a new location. Did we give up? Not on your life! If I was determined to find the school before now my heart was hard with unshakable faith. I had come so far to see with my own eyes and feel with my heart something that I knew was waiting for me, like the pot of gold at the end of a rainbow, then nothing on earth could stand in my way. I did not rant or rave yet my husband sensed my feelings. So now, armed with the address we jumped into the waiting tempo and were off once more hoping this time it would take us to the end of our quest. It was now close to 11am – we had been on the road searching for that elusive school for almost three hours. I had set my heart on visiting this school, Kalamandalam, the place where students as young as nine receive training in the performing arts – vocal, percussion, Kathakali, Koodiyattam, Mohiniyaattam, Bharatanatyam and Kuchipudi. I was happy to learn that thanks to this academy two of the major dance forms of Kerala, Kathakali and Mohiniyattam – which were on the decline, had been revived. All this was made possible by Vallathol Narayana Menon, an eminent poet, who founded the school in 1927 aiming to bring back Kerala’s rich tradition of art and dance forms. The place itself is beautiful beyond imagination, the main building or Koothambalam (Natyagriha) being the heart of the school. The roof and floor are made of teak the pillars of granite, there are no doors and the school keeps to the tradition of Gurukula sambradaaya – the ancient way of education in which exists a deep bond between teacher and student. The administrator took us around various buildings, free of charge, and we had the privilege of watching students at their kalaris (teaching classes) where students were practising hand gestures, facial expressions, leg exercises, torso movements, character enactment and more. In a daze I stood by the open door of a class where students were being taught the basics of Karnatic music, then watched boys painting Kathakali masks. The sight of students seated on the floor and applying different facial makeups on earthen pots conceiving them as human faces was as intriguing as it was enlightening. How can I ever describe my feelings when I walked through the gates of Kerala Kalamandalam that January afternoon in the year 2003? Surrounded with such beauty I became part of the dance of life. This journey had turned into a pilgrimage. Keep Well…..Keep Smiling Purabi Das It’s another beautiful night so why waste it sleeping? I lean out of the window, our room overlooks the Praca da Figueira, and get a clear view of the square. In the distance there are lights making the hills and houses alongside seem magical. Even the sky tinted in indigo gives the impression of a floating veil. After all the bustle of the day the square is quiet.
Only a couple of hours left before the sweepers start to rumble by cleaning the cobblestones so I must hurry and claim my seat under the jacaranda tree. A sigh of sheer bliss escapes my lips, I stretch out on the cool marble slab that serves as restful seat to millions during the heat of day. My eyes close and I begin to doze. The last thing I remember before falling into a deep sleep is the stillness surrounding the place. It is so quiet the very silence thrums. With so much to see and absorb I have not rested at all these six days. And, we leave tomorrow. Images of the various places we have visited flit through my mind when I feel a hand tugging at my sleeve. My eyes refuse to open yet I am aware of a presence, an urgency in the very air when I hear words of a foreign tongue. My limbs have turned to lead although I try very hard to sit up. That is when the same hands pull and physically lift me. The sound of confused voices, and running feet on the cobblestoned roads of the Baixa now converge into a mighty roar. My captor or is it saviour? still has me slung across their shoulder. The next time I awake I find myself drifting on a piece of wood on the river Tagus. I am still unable to see but I feel the stranger’s presence once more. Our raft is tossing dangerously as the river roils. Somehow, I am confident that we will be safe. Now there are voices so I assume there are more people on our little raft. It is November 1, 1755, we should be at the cathedral since it is All Saints Day. But something awful has happened. Lisbon has been hit by a terrible earthquake, the sea is rising and falling and ships are splintering into smithereens the plundered treasures visible for miles. Someone pipes up they can get at the treasures which earns him a cuff on the head. The voice whimpers into silence. Poor lad. What is happening on this holy day? Who knows what happens when? Baixa and Belem have succumbed to the tsunami’s fury, they are low-lying areas you see. We drift for hours until someone says it’s safer to get to Alfama on the rock hills. That part is the poor part and yet it is here that we are offered food, shelter and refuge. Such is life! I listen avidly to news being tossed back and forth like scraps to a dog – fires rage all over the city probably from the thousands of candles lit for mass in the churches. So now we have a fire in the city. I swallow and force my mind to stop jumping around, to think. I know I was supposed to be some place with someone but cannot remember where and with whom. I do not belong here, yet I do. Why can I not move? The grand library, the royal Ribiera palace all destroyed. The entire Baixa turned into rubble. I press the flat of my palms around my head for it aches so. Tiny pieces of my life appear behind my lids, like points of light – I live in the Baixa and must get back. Strong hands lift me off the ground and tie me to a post. That is to prevent me from trying to jump off the cliff, they say in gruff tones laced with sympathy. People are saying that our King Joseph 1 and his family were lucky to have attended the earlier mass and have survived. They are now in Cascais. Good for them. Five days I have waited for news. Five days of longing, praying and sitting on the cliff and yet I have not been able to remember my past. Our prime Minister, Sebastio de Melo has proved a worthy leader for it is he who organized search parties to seek out the dead and wounded. People are praising him to the skies. I wonder if Carmo convent still stands. Well, I shall have to find an opportunity to leave – I know they mean well when they secure me with bonds but I need to get back from where I came. Perhaps then my memory will return. **** I was fascinated by Lisbon but when I sat down to write a travelogue my fingers began to type something completely different from what I had in mind. I succumbed and conjured up a fictional scene in a setting during that terrible time when almost everything was destroyed and lives lost as a result of the great earthquake of Nov 1, 1755, and consequent tsunami and raging fires. It was thanks to the genius of Prime Minister Sebastio de Melo, or Marquis of Pombal that the first grid system was implemented in Lisbon and later copied in various Western cities. The entire Baixa (pronounced Baisha) and Rossio were re-designed with buildings fortified to withstand an earthquake and wider streets. I hear the pride in their voice when locals speak of this brilliant man and how he brought Lisbon out of the ashes, so to speak. This is the first in a series of articles about my time in Lisbon. Keep well…Keep smiling. Purabi #amwriting #imaginewhenwriting #lovetotravel #imaginationandwritinggotogether #lovetowrite |
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