Together

Icy glass like trees
Stand juxtaposed
With warm musical strains
And cinnamon tea
This winter evening

Surreal, touching zeniths
Sometimes within reach
Slippery to my comprehension
Yet clear to the soul

Beauty and perfection
Fused fluidly
Meeting lightly
In the middle
Storm and upheaval
Both colliding
While creating
A third
Unknown, welcome energy
Whispering
While bringing home
Strong and sure
A bracelet of words
Woven to soothe
Turmoil with calm

“There is space
For you
And the other
I continually flow 
And allow spaces
Between truths
Of differing existences
Binding gently
Paradox simultaneously
At all times
Co-existing
At once
It can all be”
                                                                                                


 

 
    

Birthday note...to a childhood friend

I wrote this birthday note to a dear childhood friend from my Duliajan days, reminiscing a particular event, that also speaks of what friendships and belonging felt like then...

Dear Mainoo,
Happy birthday!
A few decades ago, towards this day, your birthday, you had a grand plan. This was expressed by you to Ma and me. From that point onwards, we got going in trying to fulfill your wish. Ma started to plan the cake you had wanted and the menu that you had wished for. You had expressed everything in detail so that there was no doubt in anyone's mind. Part of the party planning was also inviting some of your friends. So I would take out my cycle, and you would gladly plonk on the back seat. I might have been heavier than you, but cycling you around Duliajan with numerous stops in-between was no easy task. I did it with  joy as it was an adventure I was sharing with you. We would stop at all the fortunate invitees' homes including every white person that lived in Duliajan (there were 2 or 3 foreigner families, as we would refer to them, living and working in Duliajan then, I think). Before going in to invite them,  you would give me a detailed profile of each family. I would obediently go in with you as you would confidently invite these strangers for your party in my home. When I look back now, I loved this confidence as it spoke of your sense of belonging to my family. There really was no "us" and "them"  in those childhood moments...Later, we would giggle non-stop about every little thing and wonder with some fascination by the way the foreigners did and said things..everything that was new or unfamiliar to us, we would run those by each other. Once the invitations were done, we would go back home tired, and Ma would have some of our favourite goodies ready for us and we would devour those, but not without competing for the bottom sticky parts of certain dishes that always felt like the richest part of a meal. As your birthday came nearer, the planning was on full swing. Then, one day, your Ma visited us and requested Ma to cancel your birthday party. She was so apologetic, thinking that this was creating great inconvenience to Ma. Ma insisted that it was okay to have your party at our place...but...anyway, to my child's mind, this felt like a big disappointment, especially as I felt your heart at that moment. Maybe it made sense to the elders, but I really wished we had your birthday party in our home that year. So the crux of the matter here is, today on your birthday, my mind captured that childhood memory and brought it to the forefront, inspiring me to write about the fun, the adventure, the giggles, the laughter, the serious party planning discussions we had together for that grand party that did not happen... but what it did and perhaps this is the most important part...it created a sweet and unforgettable memory..and I am thankful for that. 
You will always remain my childhood friend whose plans I believe in, irrespective...
Love 
Mimi
             

Immigrant

what would you do?
if the stranger
beside you
opened a door
into a space
offering glimpses
some insight
possibilities perhaps
of familiarity
even belonging?

would you step in
and also step out
finding yourself
in between
perhaps the other
sometimes here
nowhere then
everywhere still?

In this neither land
somedays you see
perspective
shades in the spectrum
bold colours too
creation, then obliteration
changes encompassing
power on its own

only for those
privileged by pain
identity unlike 
any before...



An island that captures...


Prince Edward Island (PEI) is the smallest province of Canada. Yet, it is big in history (known as the birthplace of the Canadian Confederation) and breathtakingly beautiful to the eye. Lucy Maud Montgomery's famed novel Anne of Green Gables is set here in PEI. Here, Edouard Arsenault, a local PEI resident, over a period of 25 years since 1980, gathered and assembled around 25000 recycled glass bottles to build the unique PEI Bottle House. This creation is set amid exquisitely maintained gardens. A perfect meditative space. 

We were in PEI recently. Cousin Michelle, who lives there part of the year, graciously showed us around the island's main landmarks. Below is a visual representation of PEI, captured by the camera. These feel more apt and vast than words could, in this post today...

To read further about PEI, here is the official link: 

https://www.tourismpei.com/

With love and thankfulness

Mimi/Rukmini




Unexpected

Noisy, crowded and alive
The bazar pulsated
With odours
Strong and mild
Air spiced with scents
With colours
Familiar and unknown

The mixed aroma
Of fried oils
Colourful trinkets
Ribbons and rings
Syrups and sweets
Filled my senses
Softly tingling

Spellbound I entered
Alleys and lanes
Bursting with displays
Merry-go-arounds, ferris wheels
They had them all
Enticing new trades
Perfectly pampered
Ready for the game

My head giddy
With steps sprightly
I found myself lost
In a magical world

My reverie disturbed
Suddenly
Quite unwelcomingly
By someone behind
Obsequious, unwanted
Desperate, strange
Almost wild
That salesman
Expressions completely
Out of line

Anger and irritability
Quickly intertwined
Burst and exploded
Within my mind

Moving closer
A bit reluctantly
I tried to decipher
Muffled words
Of a choked chord
Words that formed right
Yet evaporated
Soundlessly
Within my sight

Then
In one chaotic moment
I paused
To realise
The man
With incoherent sounds
Was voiceless
Muted forever...

Exile

“I hail from that land
across the snow-clad hills
my little village, choudah hajaar pyuthaan,
where my old folks live

I was thirteen I think
when I came here
walking long ways
with my husband, then thirty
no one really counts age in my village

Don’t blame my folks, O please don’t
I had to take off the debts
from their frail souls
they always gave me enough
to eat and sustain
with hearts filled with love
there is nothing really to blame 

When I left home
this red bead necklace is what they gave 
I often clean 
and smoothen the beads
it is then that I think
of my home…across the hills

This land was alien, the language new
people were scary, I did not know what to do
then, in the lonesome hour of the night
I would think of aamaa
and the precious gift 
only a mother could give
she taught me to be happy wherever I lived

My husband died, a few years ago
I have children,
grandchildren that cradle on my lap
I am devoted, surrounded...but always alone

I have worked long years
for the people down the lane
they feel like my own
I found them, perhaps that's why
this pull is not 
from this lifetime alone
It is beyond words 
to explain 
the love we share
the day the young one graduates
just you watch
she will buy me a ticket 
to my distant land

Until then,
I rest and smile
with a vision
of my folks
my home, choudah hajaar pyuthaan
across those snow-clad hills…”

This poem is a tribute to and gratitude for Nani (Devi Sonar), my Nanima. Nani was an integral part of my childhood in Duliajan, Assam. She has greatly contributed to my understanding of what it means to be kind. Towards her, I hold a deep, never-fading love and immense respect. Her extraordinariness will not go quietly into the night...



    A photo of Nanima and me in Duliajan





Where the rivers meet in Winnipeg.…I saw Manabhoom

Winnipeg


As we arrived at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers in Winnipeg, Manitoba, the enthusiastic tone and spirited knowledge of Jay, the Winnipeg Waterways tour guide brought alive glimpses of Manitoba's rich history, the life and struggles of its great indigenous leader, the founding father of Manitoba, Louis Riel, the history and challenges of the indigenous peoples, the French, Métis and multicultural influences here, the diverse cuisines and festivals celebrated, the severity of Winnipeg winters and the sweet relief of the summer months that unfreeze these rivers...

The boat cruised along as my thoughts drifted onto many directions settling gently on one that indulged in my childhood visits to Manabhoom, in the eastern most part of India in the state of Arunachal Pradesh where deta (my father, Ranjit Kumar Borooah) was head of an engineering project for the company he worked for. Manabhoom was a tiny township that had people working there, away from their families and there for work. I had witnessed deta transform Manabhoom into an inclusive, dynamic community with activities that nurtured mental health and a sense of belonging to assuage feelings of loneliness that workers often felt being far away from home. I remember him (and his team) building the "horbo dhormo naamghor", an all-faith prayer room where people practicing different belief systems could go and find their quiet space, then an auditorium to screen movies and other spaces that were built with locally available, environmentally sustainable materials. These structures blended into the environment in an aesthetic and visually pleasing manner. Some of these were makeshift but perfectly functional. Nothing stuck out or looked odd. A beautiful township in the middle of a remote nowhere...

The indigenous peoples in the villages surrounding Manabhoom were regularly consulted and included in activities there. Deta had dialogues with them, heard their concerns about how their children had to walk miles to get to a school and other socially persistent matters and he helped and supported them in best ways possible, connecting them to much needed resources. When the first movie was screened in the makeshift auditorium, indigenous peoples from nearby villages were invited for the screening. As the movie started, there was a huge commotion where the villagers rushed outside holding their lives dearly together...they had never seen a movie before, or anything projected on a screen ever. In those days, there was no exposure to media of any kind in that remote part of the world (except maybe an occasional community radio). Slowly and steadily, as things settled, they came back and enjoyed the movie screenings, other events and mostly, the friendships built with people in Manabhoom. To this day, so many years after deta has passed, I have heard that his photo still finds place in the sacred spaces of the homes of the indigenous villagers as the man who had listened, loved, included and befriended them.

My thoughts drifted back to the present as the boat stopped at its destination. Something about Winnipeg, with its quaint gift shops, locally roasted coffee places, the artistry of its Exchange district, the history of its labour movement, its social challenges and the various indigenous resource and support centres, the indigenous markets and bistros, its quieter pace, the multicultural population that call Winnipeg home...all of it brought alive Manabhoom for me. Miles apart yet woven together...inclusion, leadership, pride, challenges, acceptance.

                    Aerial view of the Canadian Prairies