Grandfather: A Portrait
I did not know this man, his face is not that of the man I knew as my Grandfather, Agha Jan, yet they are one and the same. I didn’t know him when he looked like he does in this picture, at nineteen or twenty. What is he looking at with that expression? I keep wondering, and I imagine that whatever it is, it is not pleasing him. “Is that what I have to look forward to?”, I hear him thinking, “Surely there’s more to life than that?”, and the feeling is aloof, disgruntled, distant, contemplative. Whatever he saw that gives him this expression, he chose a path that changed his face into that of the man I knew; a man who was at once grounded yet a seeker, a cultivator, and a dreamer. A man who looked at the script and said No thanks, I’ll write my own part in my own story. He brought out the dreams in himself, lived them, and brought out the dreamer in me too.
I didn’t know him when he looked like this either. It’s 1946, he must be in his early twenties, and there is a shift in his expression. This is his changing face in a changing country. India is breaking up into India and Pakistan. What will he do? He is from Madras, in South India. The idea of a new country, a new ideology, adventure, and journeying; these all appeal to his dreamer self. So he is still contemplative, but not disgruntled or distant as before, with a new confidence that comes from having chosen something that gave him purpose, with more choices to come.
He left India for Pakistan and escorted trains across the borders with no carnage. In a time when trains were crossing borders with living travelers and arriving with nothing but butchered bodies, it was considered quite a feat that the trains he escorted arrived with their passengers unharmed. I wonder about how he accomplished that. He never gave me answers, so sometimes I’d imagine him having conversations with people that resulted in solutions instead of death. Somewhere there’s an article in an old, old Time magazine about it. Perhaps he told them what he wouldn’t tell me.
What he did tell me was that he met the most beautiful woman in the universe in Pakistan and married her. The picture above is him on his wedding day. What’s he looking at here? Whatever this is, it’s putting a spring in his stride and he feels like he’s full of anticipation for what this choice will bring.
This is the face that emerged, the one he kept, the one that looked out into the world ahead and liked what it was seeing. I didn’t know him then, but the face is the one I knew, the face of Agha Jan with my Granny, Mummy Jan. I imagine that he was gleefully contemplating some mischief with that snow.
This man is the man who taught me not to just dream, but to dream so big that it would seem impossible. Impossible, unrealistic, unattainable, just how high could I stretch it? Is that all? Buss? Okay then. But if that wasn’t all and there was even the glimmer of more, no matter how silly or improbable, if it could be seen and dreamt, then what’s to stop you, he would ask? Sky high, no not good enough. Star high, okay a little better. Ah, yes, as vast and wide as the universe and beyond into places of infinity, yes!! That’s it, shaabaash, he would say! And then what Agha Jan, I would ask, and he’d twinkle his eyes at me and say, Now, now you wait and see. And I’d feel a bit dumfounded and out of my depth, but this man was a man I trusted completely, intuitively, from deep in my heart. There was naughtiness and mischief in him, we all knew that he was a big teaser, but if he asked me how come I wasn’t dreaming impossible dreams and encouraged me to aim for infinity and told me to wait and see what happened, I knew that was coming from deep in his heart, from his place of knowing, and so I embarked on my own dreaming journeys and did as he said.
Big, small, in between, I’d dream and dream and dream. My sister would come and ask me to play and I’d tell her I was busy, and she’d say, “But you’re not doing anything.” She’d enlist my mother’s aid too and soon I began arming myself with books. Some I’d read and some were shields, so when she’d come to do something with me I’d tell her I was busy, reading you know. In this my mother would not come to her aid, after all I was ‘reading’, and reading was okay, whilst ‘doing nothing’ was not. And in this way, book held high, I’d continue dreaming. Some dreams came true, some dreams changed, some were long forgotten, and then one day I looked around at my life and had the funny realization that it had become something I had dreamed and forgotten so long ago, that the waiting had blurred and life had shifted yet the dream had been dreamt long ago and seeded itself! What an awesome moment that was. I remember being filled with wonder and thinking about Agha Jan and his wait and see’s, and understanding in that moment that sometimes you forget about the dream and the waiting and suddenly just see what there is to see, and that is how come you must always dream.
This Grand-Father of mine had been awarded a Japanese Emperor for bravery and honor befitting a samurai! He had climbed Mount Everest and been to the moon, the stars, and beyond. He had battled three headed monsters, swum to the depths of the ocean, saved entire villages from ravaging hordes of bandits, and was friends with the gypsies with whom he danced. I believed these things about him with all of my little girl’s heart. He was my hero. When he told me he had blue eyes and blond hair as a child, and I giggled while looking at his bald head and dark eyes, he’d ask, “What, do you think I’m joking or something?” And I’d imagine him with blond curls and blue eyes, and he’d see me imagining and look pleased that I was pondering the possibility.
When I’d tell him I got 60% on an exam, he’d ask how come I didn’t get 200%. When I’d get 80%, he’d ask the same thing. One year I got 100% on an exam and thinking now I’d get some praise instead, I went bursting with pride to him, “Agha Jan, guess what I got? 100%!!”. And he smiled and said, “Busss? 100%. Haa, that’s very good, but how come you didn’t get 200%?” I was flabbergasted and nonplussed, so I tried explaining you know, how you couldn’t get 200%, and he just shook his head and said, “Really? Well if you can’t then you can’t.” I spent a long time wondering if 200% was possible. There were no excuses with him. He seemed to defy the laws of gravity and stretch them into space in such a way that anything was possible. He told me very few things outright, but one of them was that “You can do anything you put yourself to, anything. It just takes a lot of hard work and imagining.”
He was the best teacher I could have had as a child. Everything I hold dear, he taught me with his questions and by his own example. From him I learned that the answers are not always important, but the questions are. That often the questions don’t even have to be asked of anyone but yourself, that the answers are already inside, somewhere waiting to be found. It was from him that I learned how to listen and look at a person or situation, really look at what I was seeing. I received frequent scoldings and reprimands from my mother about this upward downward gaze that would stretch from head to toe, irrespective of a person’s age, but I would tell myself if my Grandfather could do it then it must be alright . . . . after all, it was him who I was imitating!
It was also he who asked me questions like, “Who are you doing that for?”, and “Is it important to you?”, “Does that really matter?”, “What do you think?”, and “How do you know?” And he didn’t ask unless he also had the time to give to reflecting and pondering with me. He seemed to have endless time to spend with me with his full attention and never gave me the feeling that I was in the way or being pesky. Some people found him a bit brusque, curt, even rude at times for he was forthright in his speech and in every aspect. I stood beside him and watched grown people cringe at certain things he’d say. I didn’t know what they were talking about, but I could sense the cringes or discomfiture of the person he’d addressed and got the feeling, from their responses, that whatever it was, was coming from a place of truth. When he spoke, it carried the weight of his honor and self-respect, and it was from him that I also learned that my own opinion of myself counted for more than anyone else’s. Could I look at my own countenance and feel alright about what I had said or done or thought? If I could then it didn’t matter what the rest of the world thought; for pleasing others if it meant dishonoring and dirtying one’s self was one of the unacceptable things in life.
He was a fun man to be with, mischievous, alert, and light-hearted, yet also intentional and precise. He ate with zest, finger licking, lip smacking abandon, and gusto . . . all of it slow and savored. Meals at his table were a long drawn out and lively affair. I never saw him utter a prayer before or after a meal, but he approached his food with such an attitude of prayer, that words were unnecessary. He would tease me and make me giggle and be silly. And I would watch him tease grown ups and see them become silly and giggly too; how that would make me smile! When I feel love well up in my heart and permeate my being, I remember him, for in his presence I felt unconditionally loved. Wholly, truly, deeply, and just however I was. I didn’t have to be anything other than myself around him. Growing up around many adults I found that often people would expect certain behavior or self-censorship on my part, which was a real bother and invaded my child like space; kind of like forcing a bud to bloom before its time. But he was one of the few people who did not have that expectation in his aura at all, in fact he seemed to delight in me just how I was and it made me love him all the more. He was playful and full of hugs, cuddles, and kisses. He could be loud and booming, but always loving and growing. And it is from being around him that I learned to distinguish between the open, free, full love that comes from your whole being and the thing that pretends to be love but really, it isn’t . . . . no becauses, ifs, or buts about it.
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His garden was very much like himself. It started out as a scrub, sandy patch of nothing around the newly built house. As I grew, it grew too. Potted plants, coconuts, bananas, and what nots here and there, with the ever-challenging grass that didn’t want to grow, no matter how hard he tried. But he imagined and worked hard and that garden of his grew and greened and changed and transformed until it was a lush, thriving, vibrant space with orchids and bamboo and yes, finally, green green grass. How he loved to sit and take tea in the garden with Mummy Jan and any guests that visit. It took over a decade but the dream happened, and the garden was him, and he was the garden, and from within his garden I grew, until one day I left his garden to go and see if I’d find my own.
He has become over time the first Green Man I ever knew, Iron John, Odin, Joseph Campbell, Carl Jung, Krishnamurti and many other ‘real’ and mythological figures rolled into one. He showed me that you can invent and reinvent yourself until you are satisfied with who you are becoming, who you become. And if you’re not then you can ask yourself questions, make choices, make changes, and start over. He taught me to seek my own counsel and to see a choice through till it’s end, until the time comes to make a new one or change it. Transformation and evolution seemed an ongoing process with him. It was like being around an unfolding soul coming into its full potential as it reveals itself according to its own terms, its own will, its own truth. He was a man who owned himself and thus, was self-possessed. To me he was the embodiment of the awakened human being, and hence a part of the myth like figures that populate my imaginary pantheon.
When I look around at the Enchanted Woods and Faraway Trees that grow all around me, and I plant seedlings or pull up weeds, I have renewed inspiration that comes from the relationship I had with my Grandfather. I was told that he saved his breath on the day he died to wait for his final daughter to complete the circle around him, and only when she was present and he had seen the faces of all his beloved family, did he part ways and let go. He exercised his willpower and discipline until the end. I spent the summer he died with my sister. I don’t remember the exact day or date or month hat he died, if anything it’s somewhat surprising to me to think of him as dead, for he feels like one of the Immortals to me, a living myth who left his story behind . . . . it’s as though he’s walked out into a new dimension where there is no mail, email, cell phone, phone, or other form of contact beyond dream time. And if I can visit him in the dreams he encouraged me to dream, and he can visit me in the dreams I’m dreaming, then who’s to say whether he’s dead or not? After all, what does it mean to be dead anyway? They say that he died once and saw a light. He never said what he saw in that light, but he came back from the dead, and what in the world does that mean anyway?
toad hugs :0)
Flower Essence (Bloodroot)
The bloodroot has been catching my eye this past week, quite persistently. It’s so little and low to the ground but there’s something very determined and cheerful about it. White petals and yolk yellow dotty middles, they open and close and open every day, the leaves curled up around the stems like a cape.
I thought I’d make a flower essence with a few of the flowers, so one morning, before the sun was hot and at its brightest, we all set out with a glass jar of spring water.
On the menu . . . wild edibles
Today I planted onions and harvested marshmallow roots (only way to describe the taste is earthy and mellow) and rhubarb all alone. The children have been stuffed up over the past four days . . . with the exception of Girl, who pretends during the course of the day that she too is stuffy and changes into her nightie to go and rest before emerging full dressed in day clothes to go and check eggs since she’s ‘well’.
homemade playdough play day
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Take a rainy day (like today), the sort that comes out of the blue sunny sky and drops a heavy feeling of gloominess upon yourself . . . . which then vibrates outward and affects all those around you, until you all feel grey and glum . . . . well on a day like this one, making playdough was really very therapeutic. Surprisingly so. And it was incredibly easy to make. Here’s how you can make some too, even if you have no kids, try it . . . . it’s very healing :0)
You’ll need:
1 cup water, 1 cup flour, 1/4 cup salt, 2 tsp. cream of tartar, 2 tbsp. oil (I used olive), and some essential oils of your choice (lavender is a nice one, so is peppermint, or lemon . . . play around and see what feels right to you if you have some on hand :0) . . . .also, food coloring if you want it colored instead of creamy. . . . .I used 4 x the recipe, so all the chittlins had enough dough.
You’ll do this:
Stir the salt into the water vigorously in a saucepan, then bring it to a boil. Lower the heat and mix in the cream of tartar, then the flour. Add the oil, and keep stirring till it comes together in a ball. It’ll be lumpy, don’t worry about it, just stir it till it’s a ball like clump. Turn off heat and let it cool down till you can handle it, some like it hot, I like it a bit more than warm, but not scalding.
Put the mass on the counter, add the essential oils, and begin kneading. This is the fun part. Just knead any lumps away. Fold. Roll. Pinch. Slam. Swirl. Knead. We kneaded our blues away :0) When you’re done, it should be a smooth, lump-free, ball of yummy smelling playdough. This is where you can add coloring or not. And then it’s good to go have a play day with!
Like this:
Creekrose
dragon borne, i walk the rythm bridging here and there, now and then, one to the other: where my pitter patters or thump stomps, on that bridge, beauty meets the beast and the gap dissolves into nothing,the bridge falls away, kali yuga eats us all up and spits us back out into tender buds on an apple tree, a baby crowns head on hands slick wet bloody alive looking at you with the eyes of the world, dissolve, and what remains is the rythm dancing out, spirocheting into the universe: me : i am healing flower, nice to meet you :0) four hatchlings and a mate round me out. they go by: tenderfoot (girl, 9), little man with monkey eyes (boy, 7), stormy sky (girl, 5), little bird (girl, 3), and laughing fox (boy, 36).
i flew over the big water from there, land of the pure: black eyed turbanned men wielding scimitars while they danced in pointed slippers to a rousing drumbeat silhouetted by fire, raw, primal, a land where self-governance and common sense formed the principal law. all men and women were my brother, sister, aunt, uncle, grandmother, grandfather, one enormous family with many different tribes and clans within it.
peddlers sold their wares in the midst of traffic: rose garlands, combs, religious booklets, rosaries, newspapers. beggars wheeled one-armed and legless on carts, followed by blind men led by young children, and mothers with babies on their breasts; all paying dues to the guildmaster, working designated spots, organized within the hustle and bustle of seeming chaos. the muezzins called us to our devotions five times a day, some singing others shrieking out the summons, from at least three different mosques within listening distance from my home all at one time.
it was a noisy place, horns blaring, music blasting, bells ringing, donkey carts carrying washed and ironed clothes from house to house, the milk arriving on bicycles in plastic bags, fishermen coming and going from house to house, camels and buffaloes weaving in and out between yellow buses adorned with murals and bells. this was the land of the pure, where we rejoiced and mourned in grand style, taking ourselves and our emotions out onto the streets whether it be dressed in jewels and silks atop elephants, or dressed in black, faces veiled, carrying candles while the men were bare backed and flagellating themselves with a dozen tiny sharpened daggers on chains to the sounds of mournful songs and rythmic chest beating, the women walking over beds of hot coal.
this was a place where feuds and vendettas lasted seven generations, violation of tribal tradition leading to a hunt resulting in certain death for perpetrators. we followed the moon, each one having its own rituals and festivals. henna adorned our hands and jasmine flowers we wove into our braids. a place filled with contradictions, both fierce and gentle, violent yet completely true in its aspects. we lived fearlessly. ah yes! the land of the pure. it is embedded within me and i carry it wherever i go.
even here, in this pleasant, quiet, and rustic woodland that i now call my home, i see it all intertwined and mingled in the faces of my gunslinging, wild eyed, bearded neighbours; who dance their own primal beat to the sounds of banjo, mandolin, and the hoofbeats of a running stag. here too everyone is my mother, father, brother, sister, uncle, aunt, son, daughter; all a part of my growing family. this too is the land of the pure. iron john makes his home here and self-governance and common sense are our laws. here we live. fearlessly. fiercely. purely.
the village has its own turban toting, dark eyed, scimitar wielding, pointy slipper wearing dancing dervish who practices holistic medicine by day. there are mystics, and mis-takes, renegade knights, cauldron stirring witches cooking up who-knows-what, shamans with holy fire, medicine wheels, and feathers arranged about heart shaped stones spiralling into a turtles back, blacksmiths working the forges while walking on hot coals and juggling ten balls on one-wheeled bicycles. the circus moves with me and without me, and the moon, earth, planets, clouds, and everything in between moves purely and purposefully all at once in perfect accord, aligned to the tune of dhuk-dhuk-dhuk-dhuk . . . . do you hear it too?
