Years like embers!

With slow and silent burning
slithering on the calypso ghost of memories
Like a cigarette, I shower sparks of illusion
leaving behind the trails
and symbols of ephemereal truth
in abundance

Incsence wafting like cuckoo's calling
smoke arising and wrapping itself
around the moment now and the path trod Years behind me
Years ahead of me
in victories, in defeats
I'm still burning the flame of my firefly words
Keeping alive the tradition of a gypsy wandering
Gathering beads and golden leaves to garland my solitude
The wooden tray of this moment burns like cigarette

The years
like embers
glow translucent
in a crystal ball
of yearning!

NO METAPHOR FOR A POEM

NO METAPHOR FOR A POEM
Seema Gill

A trip on the Hammersmith line is no metaphor for a poem
A city pigeon accidentally climbs from the platform at Paddington Street
to find himself bewildered by the artist in blue streak
The pigeon with his bird mind has no language for a train station

A girl with elephant ear rings cuddles up on the seat opposite
Her heavy whiskey lips sings memories and Jamaica in her eyes twink
Like the cherry blossom tree loaded with psychedelic pink
The girl with ear rings is no headline for the hollywood movie shrink

As I pick up my green bag with images, metaphors fall lightly
on the ground beneath me and I walk in the crowd brightly
The dark tunnel opens up in mind with unstructured poem sup
I walk as if I’m in heaven, watching a psychedelic storm in a cup

JOURNEY WOMAN 1
Seema Gill
I nailed the blanket rain of the Monsoon
to the mast of a sailing ship
only to see there was no land in sight
...
I plucked the tree from wild Danish forest
and stitched myself a cloak
only to discover, I was in a time lapse frame

I tore an arrow from conflicting Yorkshire Dales
to build a compass for guidance
only to realise the direction to peace was lost

I pulled the thorn from a war torn child
to wash the bleeding scar into the Red Sea
only to witness that abuse was universal

I unfurled the flag draped coffin of Democracy
to wrap a shawl around a crying mother
only to behold there were others who’d lost their beloved

I stole a sparkle from Niagara falls
to lay a diamond on a soldier’s shoulder
only to find the Niagara Fallen were in the graveyard

I took the pearls from Oyster Bay
and thread it into a loop around a neck
only to find it was a hangman's noose

I borrowed the sun from mother sky
to cover up the mind’s blind spot
only to discover the un-enlightened

I gathered the incense from a English rose petal
to caress a broken heart
only to feel the pain was all mine!

JOURNEY WOMAN 2

JOURNEY WOMAN
Seema Gill

So she came to the wide, wide land of glories
To win her life
The chains had not been broken
The chains of the past that bind us all
Their roots, sucking deep into our souls
Posturing and prodding, nurturing
Even now, in this city of cultural extremes
Steep roads, on a hill overlooking the famous cemetery.
A wonderful place of rest, resplendent in reflected glory,
where obelisks point high to a hopeful God
and the bones of merchants lay in tombs fit for Caesar.
Where undergrowth spreads gothically in the unexplored parts.
Vast expanses of bramble bushes arched over like cathedrals
providing the perfect hiding places for insects,
spiders, small animals and dope dealers,
Like the underworld spreading through this city
of intolerance and separation,
of fear and suspicion,
of words that should not be spoken, of issues that cannot be raised
for fear of that midnight knock,
of segmented ghost towns which lie cheek by jowl
with the net curtain clipped accents,
of gypsies and thieves, of long gone Germans and Irish men
who rolled up their sleeves and dug those canals,
those flat, straight works of art,
Of Asian nightshift workers who toiled on dangerous machines,
Of penniless Ugandans who dragged themselves up by their bootstraps,
Of fading trolley lines and fumed up bottlenecks,
Of sixties white elephants and exotic back alleys.
This city has it all.
It’s where they burnt the book against the words of the Prophet
Where cappuccino drinkers admire Hockney,
Where Charlotte and Emily penned their rugged books
on moors that look down from their parallel world.
This city where she continues her search.
Why here? For what reason?
For one, she came here to clear the forest of grief
To let the eagles of violence fly away

NO SUPER MARKET JUNK
Seema Gill

I don’t want super market’s plastic junk
I wanna write poetry
My fingers are dipped in the blood
of memories and are twinkling stars

My language is an oar with which I sail into the
forbidden territories, absurd meanings and dig gold
of knowledge to share with others
When the light trickles down on my soul window
My inspiration turns into a fireball
Words role down the Grand Union Canal like ducklings
the fields of Punjab like showers
in a desert hope garden like flowers
This humble Sikh poetess lives in a lion’s den
Roaring gestures, razor blade intrigues and
survival of the fittest becomes her daily struggle

I don’t want to choke in the rat race for wealth
I wanna dance with my slithering desires
Hold hand with my soul mate
I wanna wear the bracelet of his shine on my arm
and together we’ll distribute wealth
to those who own nothing
Give light to those who are blind with selfishness
I wanna clothe myself with love and passion
and not diamonds and rubies
and make a bonfire of all the old values
I wanna rub the ointment of honesty
and not Elisabeth Arden on my face
I wanna gaze into the kaleidoscope of this universe
and watch the seasons as they roll into one another
I wanna sow enough food in my garden for all the hungry people
and reap the harvest of peace
I wanna collect seeds of change from the flowers
and grow verses and not despair
I wanna sharpen my mind with the tool of learning
I wanna empty my wardrobe
and dress up the down trodden
And when the time comes to revolt
I’ll join hands with the right cause

WHAT DO I CALL IT?

It is like a whimpering puppy. Seeking attending to, needing care. Hungry for more, so much so that it keeps me awake. It churns my stomach upside down at times. I have to stroke it with my hand, not with the affectionate palm of an expectant mother but the one who doesn’t want this rosemary's devil baby. In order for it to shut up, I do have to strangulate it with my thumbs. Not only does it keep me awake, it forces me to sit up to face it. Not only it forces me to sit up and face it, it demands me to walk up and down the corridor. But it never likes a walk in the park, or on the pavement when I can look at trees and the sky or birds flying overhead. No, damn it, it has made me a prisoner, to stay inside of this narrow basement apartment! It doesn’t want to be exposed to the outside world. It can be so embarrassed that it makes me bite my lip to hide its existence. But right it feels like as if I’m walking barefoot on the burning coals or walking on nails sticking out of a half damaged door in a Jeepers Creepers cellar. It is not only physical but it grips my mind like a leech to your skin, biting, sucking my blood. I try not to get it in my half asleep consciousness but when it comes,it doesn’t calm down unless...yes unless I snatch and tear one of the dull plastic packet from the cabinet to take one....
(Seema Gill: from my novel in progress)

OCTOBER NIGHT

OCTOBER NIGHT
Seema Gill
The moonlight
stretched out to touch
my feet, as a daughter's blessing
... The breeze synchronised music
in my ears
like a lover's kiss
While out there, like an errant vulture
the night was playing
a game of light and shadows
wrapping in it's wings
death and destruction

This journey from peace to conflict
is just another power struggle

Peace, a rare commodity
displays itself in disguise
in the name of war
Peace is....
Peace is my guardian angel
Is my mother's aching feet
I touch it
to bless my journey!

This poem was published in a peace poetry anthology we compiled after the 9/11 event and is still fresh! To buy the peace poetry anthology, SUN DOVES, BUMBLEBEES & BLUE STREAK BANANAS, please write to:seema@seemagill.org

A FIREFLY RIDE

Seema Gill

The sky is spiced
with rose petal clouds
touching raggedly on
my blue black hair
Like a thirsty rider
on the zigzagged alley of her dreams
I’m chasing illusion in the calm of a whirlpool

As the winding road slides ahead
like a slithering rattlesnake
like the monsoon drizzle on a pee pal tree
like an image from Kroyer’s painting
like my heart beats with solitude
like the shining bush of stars bending down
to touch my mother’s feet
like I shiver in anticipation

The sun skitters down through a
tiny black hole in my window fantasy
And the metaphorical
rain from my words pour down
I touch the scattered vapours with my eyes
A storm gathering
cryptically intended
My finger tips are twittering like birds
My feet grow taller with a burning itch
I’m traveling through the blizzard of a time machine
I hold my vulnerability in my hands like a crystal ball
I smoke the fireflies from its intangibility
I paddle vigorously on my journey
I shut out all the other noises
The earth is spinning with me
like a woman’s raw fantasy

Showers of illusion drown themselves
in a ambiguous horizon
I’m lost in this jungle of truth bewilderment
A moon walker trapped in the light like a dead wasp
shakes me up, ruthlessly reminding
“Look, you got to keep on moving.’

(This poem was published in 'Reach'.

I DON'T WANT TO SELL MY HEART

Seema Gill
I don’t want to sell my heart
Selling is for suckers
They suck the blood of the dispossessed
The pot-bellied monsters will never confess
They sell pieces of their soul to claim fame
They sell their dignity with no shame
They will send the boy to fight a war
If he ever comes home, he’ll carry their scar
Many more are dying, many more will tell tale
All their glory will be put to sale

I was sitting on a bench in a famous park
A bit scared and lonely, it was getting pitch dark
I had a three legged monkey in my back pocket
And a beggar asked whether I've seen his ‘rocket’
Are you a terrorist? trembling I asked
He looked me up and down and laughed
No madam, but I got a story with a twist
If I ever tell it to you, you’ll admit
That I just wanna lighten up my freedom
No, no, no, I don’t wanna end up in martyrdom
If freedom will be rounded up for interrogation
I’m afraid I’ll loose my fifty pounds salvation

Where do you think the freedom will end?
When she’s let loose she got no one to offend.
An I ‘m sitting on a lonely park bench
with the pinch of freedom in my heart’s content
My freedom and I are never apart
An I’m not selling you my golden autumn ache-heart

I MET YOU ON THE FAST TRACK OF TIME

I MET YOU ON THE FAST TRACK OF TIME
Seema Gill

I met you on the fast track of time
I, in my whithering elegance
And you in your divine prime
Like a shuddering sunray
Your image tickled my minds doubt
The glint in your eyes made me sway

Beneath the words we spoke
Between the lines we wrote
From the lines we didn’t cross
Freedom was caught
in desires golden cage

Without my wish
The concepts were drawn
On the battlefield of life
The distance is spread like dragon’s wing
Before the opening of my heart
Thursting to enter when we’re apart

Behind the walls of norms
Ritual was never performed
In between the canvas of trust
Images were yet drawn
Choices were never made
So the freedom didn’t bleed
And yet I ask this question
Why didn’t we feel the need?

I cage my golden wish
Hold it suspended in the air
My wish a razor blade
Ready but doesn’t dare
I met you on a fast track
That lights the fire in my heart
Pulls me back and yet we’re apart

FISHER WOMAN OF KERALA

FISHER WOMAN OF KERALA
By Seema Gill

She is not walking
She’s churning the sea
Sculpting hope
Each step cast on the tight rope
As sharp as the edge of a tidal wave!

She is not watching
Her eyes shower stars and dreams
hung upon the barbed wire
of survival!

She is not breathing
She’s melting the ring of fire
Each flame drips the sweat of her labour
into the fat belly of a shark!

She is not living
She is clothed in the layers of misconception
chasing the light and shadow
as they squeeze her body in a python grip!

She is not sleeping
She’s getting ready
to swim the life’s unglazed clay pot
risking her self
desperate for salvation!

She is not rising
She’s fuming with discontent
fighting to get free
from the claws of slavery
Wrapped in her arms is a bundle of hungry children!

And yet the roof over her head is a tattered norm
as fragile as the ray of Sun
hitting her conscience with an iron glow!

SEEMA'S NOVEL IS SVERA'S SONG: BY MARK CANTRELL

Seema’s novel is Svera’s song

Reading a novel by an author you know personally is fraught with dangers; all the more so when the novel in question is the author’s first. So Mark Cantrell approached Seema Gill’s Svera Jang with a certain sense of trepidation. What he discovered is a beautifully crafted novel about one woman’s resilience – and the strength of the human spirit

Svera Jang
By Seema Gill

Indigo Dreams Publishing: www.indigodreams.co.uk

Paperback (386 pages) | ISBN: 978-1-907401-14-5 | Price: £8.99

WHEN I got hold of a copy of Svera Jang by Seema Gill, I must confess that I wasn’t entirely convinced that the novel would suit my reading habits, but in truth I hadn’t really bought the book to read at all – I just wanted to own a copy.

Already familiar with Seema’s poetry from our mutual involvement, some years ago, in Bradford’s literary scene, I was curious about her prose, so I was motivated by something of a collector’s urge. Seema, naturally enough, was delighted to learn that I had partaken of her work: thus did she throw down the gauntlet and beg me to review her pride and joy.

Suddenly, I found myself caught in tangle of the ethical and the personal – what if I didn’t like the book? What if I thought it poorly written? A review is worthless for both potential reader and author alike, unless honestly given; likewise the truth has the capacity to hurt the author (or indeed swell their heads).

There’s a safe distance between reviewer and author when the two aren’t acquainted personally, so I suddenly found myself running the risk of slapping Seema unbidden in the face. I can’t say that I relished the prospect. So, would I dare to confront the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth?

Yes, I dared, with misgivings. And then I started to read… and read… and read. Fate, or rather Seema’s writing, had slipped me a saving grace. All my worries evaporated as I was pulled into the story of Svera Jang and became seduced by Seema’s evocative prose. In one respect, though, I was right. The novel exists beyond my usual reading habitat, so it was an added pleasure to find my literary horizons become expanded. And, in this case at least, the grass was indeed greener on the far side of the fence.

Quite simply, Svera Jang is a beautiful book. Filled with warmth and compassion, the writing has an eloquence that speaks from the heart to convey a life-affirming story that has a resonance for us all.

Svera Jang dared me to be honest, which in a curious kind of way is what her story is all about, but it is also about much more than that. As Seema wrote: “[I]t’s a story of life.” These few words, buried deep inside the narrative, stood out as I read them for the way they innocently encapsulated the entirety of the novel.

The life in question is that of the character Svera Jang, but it is more than that, since the narrator is the older Svera. Born of the same mother’s womb, they are nevertheless separated by time and space and experience, but the older woman has the clarity – or perhaps the cloudiness – of hindsight as she undertakes a journey to reconcile Svera past with Svera present.

As much as it is about Svera’s life and times, it is also concerned with the chains of motherhood that link us all, one generation to the next, in a great flourishing tree of humanity. Motherhood, yes, and convention too, the great waves of expectation that demand we conform to half-comprehended norms and values; we are all shrouded this way, but it is women who are bound the tightest and in many ways Svera Jang is an urgent plea to shed these webs – and be true to each other and ourselves.

In that respect, though the themes of the feminine course strong throughout the novel, it is above all a book of humanity: man or women, young or old, we are all born of a mother’s womb. If this sounds philosophical to the point of becoming esoteric, then yes it is, for the book is also resplendent with a spiritual aura (but don’t mistake that as necessarily religious), as the narration makes its impassioned plea for the human soul to shine through the veils of age-old stifling custom.

Svera’s journey of self-reconciliation starts in the Punjab, India, where the young Sikh woman’s artistic spirit is already straining against the everyday expectations of culture and country. From there, she strikes out on her own, running from an arranged marriage, but her idealistic pursuit of a life lived true and of a love unbound by conventional expectations lands her in a union with a “philandering Marxist”. Worse still, he proves a wife-beating coward; the very antithesis of everything that young Svera hoped and lived and loved for.

When Svera finds herself living in Copenhagen, she perceives in Europe a land free of the stifling conformity of her homeland, and in young Peter, her blond Viking as she calls him, the very essence of the unconventional man. A Marxist, a revolutionary, he appears to stand against expectation in his desire to change the world, but poor Svera learns – too late – that Europe and her Viking are every bit as bound in expectations of conformity as her homeland.

Peter’s Marxism is little more than a confirmation of his conventionality; a twisted parody of his role as the patriarchal authority figure he would no doubt claim it dismisses. The whole revolutionary show, no matter his personal and sincerest conviction, is but a vehicle for his self-centred narcissism; the demonstration of his stoic devotion to duty and self-sacrifice but a mask to hide his selfish interests and a justification for the neglect of his young wife. The man abandons his young bride on their wedding night to attend a party meeting, surly a sign of things to come as he warps the relationship to suit his own shallow needs.

We are all the sum total of our personal and societal contradictions, Peter the Marxist might say; true enough. Equally do we all carry within us the seeds of a tangled hypocrisy, but as the young Dane matures – in flesh if not in character – alongside his put-upon wife, those Marxian contradictions slough away to leave merely the hypocrite.

The story follows the increasingly mismatched pair from Denmark, to Bradford, England, where they settle for a time. That is, until Peter's wanderlust takes him to partake of charity works in Africa. There his more base lusts see him wander in pursuit of the local women. Svera's suspicions are eventually confirmed; sex with Indian women is so predictable he sneers, compounding his wife's humiliation. To my mind, this middle-aged man, so flushed with a sense of prowess at bedding African girls half his age, thereby further compounds his wrongs with a rather racist undertone.

Indeed, though he himself may not perceive it, he reveals himself as something of a caricature of the old colonialist, albeit it in a 'progressive' guise, striding forth under the weight of the 'white man's burden' to uplift the poor 'natives'.

Ironically, Svera demonstrates a far greater patience and compassion towards Peter than does this review; but then this reviewer found in Peter's curious amalgam of political and personal flaws an echo of his dealings with many a minor figure of the Left: the same familiar arrogance, the same distortions of ideology to justify selfish preferences, the same tendency to disparage others for their own personal failings.

The recognition, for me, made him a deeply unsympathetic character, but also a strangely compelling one. Perhaps Svera felt the same compulsion; certainly, in her story she demonstrates a tremendous energy in trying to reach out and pull the lost essence of her idealistic blond Viking out of his pompous shell. Ultimately, however, Peter proves to be a lost cause.

Reading the story, it is easy to find contempt for Peter as the years pass and he reveals his inadequacies. In truth, however, he is a pitiful and pitiable creature, completely unworthy of the mother of his children, or indeed of the politics he claims to uphold. It is clear that he cannot handle the free-spirited, artistic soul he has wed. The man is crippled by his own conventionality, stunted by his conformity, and the surface radicalism of his politics is but an expression of his stagnant spirit.

Deep down, one suspects he knows this; a tiny sliver of self-awareness that provokes him to take it out on his wife, but even this pathetic man’s fists ultimately prove unable to dowse the light of Svera’s spirit. Though she is forced to endure much pain, grief and shadow in the course of the relationship, she finally manages to liberate herself and rise above Peter to “soar like a firefly” as Seema writes on the book jacket.

The subject matter might sound grim and gritty, a journey in to some kind of misery-lit, but far from it. Svera Jang is a life-affirming story, a demonstration of one woman’s indomitable spirit and determination to remain true to herself. One might also describe it as a kind of ‘coming of age’ tale, the way that the older Svera confronts herself in the mirror of introspection and memory to come to terms with her younger self, yet remain true to her youthful ideals. This is a woman not content to let herself become staid and bitter as she rediscovers the threads that bind Svera through each of her living incarnations. In that, Seema demonstrates a lesson for us all.

Seema’s writing slips seamlessly through a number of narrative approaches. The story doesn’t simply interweave the contemporary with flashbacks of her earlier life, but slides back and forth along her timeline with graceful ease. At times, the prose slips into a delightful magical realism and Seema’s writing is lyrical whether Svera narrates herself, or whether the story slips into the observations of ghosts or even the house in which she dwells. They all take a turn in revealing Svera’s story.

An unusual approach this might be, but it conjures up a beautiful and at times dream-like quality that never loses its roots in the real. This is very much a reflection of Seema’s incarnation as a visual artist and poet, almost painting her story with the palette of her colourful language. Indeed, her prose is imbued with the living spirit of poetry, with its ebb and flow of its cadence, the rhythm lively with the eloquence of human speech in full flow.

“Admirers of Seema Gill’s poetry will not be disappointed by her first novel,” said Bill Broady, quoted on the cover. “Most poets damp down the fires when they venture into prose but she has gone for a full-on conflagration. Language is stretched to its breaking point – and often beyond – in its swoopings between the rhapsodic and the aggrieved.”

When it comes to stretching language to its breaking point, however, I must disagree with Broady: oh no, Seema shows herself too subtly aware of the malleability of her metal as she shapes the story into the fine filigree of its narrative strands, weaving them into the delicate sculpture of her living language, until with a gentle breath she stirs it to vibrate in a mellifluous melody.

For all of its poetic verve, don’t be fooled by an assumption of indulgence, of purpled-flowers blossoming to tangle and choke the pace of Seema’s prose; she stays in control of this emotive and emotional journey to create both a compelling drama and a celebration of the human spirit.

This is a brave book, not least for the poetic expression the author uses, but also because Svera is none other than Seema herself. Fictionalised though it is, she reveals much of herself to the critical eye of her audience – and herself – as she airs her own struggle – her jang – to rise above an abusive relationship and reconnect with her self. The novel is as much Seema’s voyage of self-re-discovery – a mirror to her life – as it is Svera's and she invites us to keep her company along the way.

“So my mirror came to name itself Svera, meaning the dawn – an awakening – and Jang, meaning the battle. Svera Jang. I am not her now, but she was once me,” writes Seema as she embarks upon the novel.

“The more I wrote, the more I realised Svera was constantly fighting and searching for something. Hope? Longing? Desire? Or was it the freedom from those illusions? Hang on, hope is not an illusion. Or is it? I know I was searching for a place, a land where freedom prevails in its real sense. One thing was sure, it was a universal search. It started. It ended. It started and ended. It started over and over again. And again. A never-ending story of life, mapped out on the face of every breathing soul. The search for that total freedom of mind was her dream and the dream was her search.”

That’s something we can all share, if – like Svera, like Seema – we dare to look back at the path we trod and to face ourselves in the mirror. It’s called being human. It’s called life. And in this literary incarnation, it’s called Svera Jang.


Mark Cantrell,
Stoke-on-Trent,
12 September 2011


Copyright © September 2011. All Rights Reserved.

MY HOUSE SITS ON THE HILL

MY HOSE SITS ON THE HILL My house sits on the hill overlooking the famous Cliffe cemetery. A wonderful place of rest, resplendent in reflected glory, where obelisks point high to a hopeful God and the bones of merchants lay in tombs fit for Caesar. Where undergrowth spreads gothically in the unexplored parts. Vast expanses of bramble bushes arched over like cathedrals providing the perfect hiding places for insects, spiders, small animals and dope dealers, like the underworld spreading through this city of intolerance and separation, of fear and suspicion, of words that should not be spoken, of issues that cannot be raised for fear of that midnight knock, of segmented ghost towns which lie cheek by jowl with the net curtain clipped accents, of gypsies and thieves, of long gone Germans and Irish men who rolled up their sleeves and dug the canals, those flat, straight works of art, of Asian nightshift workers who toiled on dangerous machines, of penniless Ugandans who dragged themselves up by their bootstraps, of fading trolley lines and fumed up bottlenecks, of sixties white elephants and exotic back alleys. This city has it all. It’s where they burnt the book against the words of the Prophet where cappuccino drinkers admire Hockney, where Charlotte and Emily penned their rugged books on moors that look down from their parallel world. This city where I continue my search. Why here? For what reason? For one, it was here that the ghosts would depart from me. (from my book Svera Jang)

The Word On The Wall...: Seema's Jang

The Word On The Wall...: Seema's Jang

PEACE BECOMES A RARE COMMODITY

PEACE BECOMES A RARE COMMODITY Autumn is gently pushing it's way through the fog and the city lights bathe in majestic light. I have been awake all this time. I lay awake under the quilt of moonlit nights over my head. I lay awake when the pale sunlight gently peels my outer shell, watching over this city, as I watch over Svera. I have been on my guard all this time. I have to be awake. To watch. A house like me who has a ‘spirit’. The residues of a storm rattled the neon signs of cultural harmony in Bradford. Svera stood in front of this broad window. In the distance, smoke rose from the trouble torn area of Manningham. Her neighbour, Jane, had just parked her silver Porsche on the roadside. She waved at Svera who is lost in her thoughts, they carry her on their wingless shadows back to the distinct day in July when she found the list in Peter's pocket. A storm in the bath had shattered Svera’s belief in love. Peace became a rare commodity, both inside my walls and in this city. I could see with my own ‘stony’ eyes, Sir, that the peace between people had grown thinner and flat like a tire without air, like the layer of ashes, sooty and difficult to shake off. Social workers and defenders of ‘culture’ and of course the politicians who win votes on the promise of racial harmony had already started to play the game on the debris of these riots. Racism was a word people used and abused in order to achieve their own goals. This demon exists in every society, class and hierarchy in the world. On the name of racism, more resources were poured into projects to create ‘equal opportunities’, to ‘mobilise’ these ‘rowdy’ youths, to ‘bridge the gap’ and bla, bla, bla. Without getting emotional about the issue, we all know who makes the best out of these type of incidents, let’s glaze over some snippets of the ‘riots’.......... From my book, "Svera Jang."

Hello. Who's there?

Hello. Who’s there? It’s only me, who is, was, will be. I am the narrator, the creator, as well as the one who jumps into the heads of all the other characters and become them, I, me. I am yours sincerely, Svera of the present, playing the roles of figures in the cabinet of time and composing the pages to continue the story of the other Svera, in the hope of filling your void. You might imagine things, try to understand them, yourself, me, try to put yourself into my shoes or even laugh at me. I want you to. You might be wondering. Huh, what the hell is she talking about? Confusing me? Did I really startle you with my entry like this? I am so sorry. Get used to my style folks. If you can consume Bruce Willis mysterious stuff in "Sixth Sense" and Johnny Depp’s monkey business in “Sleepy Hollow”, you can easily digest anything. You are able to. I am enabling you to see through these small black and white words. I am taking control here. This time, I am not in my favourite bedroom, sitting in front of my lighted screen, but while this other Svera is waiting in my bed, I, the narrator, will paddle back on the boat of memories to another time where Svera was the one I am writing about. The month of June, the year..... Let me take you back on this beautiful sailing trip, so you can see when Svera met Peter! (From my novel: Svera Jang)

WHAT ARE WE SEARCHING FOR?

WHAT ARE WE SEARCHING FOR? It’s late afternoon, Undercliffe cemetery in the twilight of autumn. Yellow, brown, golden leaves falling under my feet like showers of memories, making a soft rug for the thunderous storms, winds and the snow yet to arrive in my life. I am the observer, a venturing travellor in a state of hallucination, watching Svera climb slowely the steep path. While she makes small stops, I listen to her gasping breath. She had wanted that moment so much, she was pregnant and in pain, was going to give birth, to nurture the baby of higher consciusness, feed it, let it grow. I was playing the role of a midwife. Many years of labour before the strong Svera would be re-born. I was waiting for it to happen. There was a long way to go. There always will be. You had gone through your pain, the birth of your search, your journey, your choice. Why couldn't I? Don’t you see what it is all about Mother? Minna, Nina. You? (from my novel: Svera Jang)

WHO IS SHE? WHERE IS SHE? HOW DID SHE GET HERE?

WHO IS SHE, WHERE IS SHE, HOW DID SHE GET HERE? Lingam. Snake. Giver and taker of life. Curled like a womb in comfort and protection. The only escape through the tunnel. She is at a point of no return. Alone, breathless, silent except for the sound of her lungs crying out for air in a dark crevasse. Attached only by umblical cord, a hangmans rope dangling, half conscious, half confused, swept into the corner like a discarded piece of flesh. Dulcified. The space is bubbling with hot vapours, lava curling up against something creeping. Two blue marbles pierce the darkness and with a blink of the eye disappear into her fear. She seems an easy prey. The slimy creature hisses in excitement, advancing towards her. It’s gaze is fixed upon her destiny. White fangs ready to spit venom into her body and entrance her with its seductive poison. Birth and death. The game starts. To hypnotise her into a trance is the first objective, then strike, bite and administer the venom.Thereafter she will act according to the rules. Steadily her senses will be tranquilised, blinded, speechless, immobalised with no sense of direction. Then the monster will wrap itself around her like a hangman lovingly preparing the noose, like lava around Pompeii, like maggots around the tea table, wrapped up like a cocoon, womb becomes tomb, lingam squeezing the life out of mother giving birth. Her lungs cry out “I am breathless, for god’s sake inhale me.” Stricken by the deep, cruel intention lurking behind those blue eyes, she is helpless, crumbling, yet drawn to lay down paralysed in awe, at the feet of the footless. Fatal attraction kills rationality. Her frivolousness incites the creature to more action. It starts to release threatening sounds whilst advancing closer and closer. Death’s door opens waiting to swallow and she begins to shake like a chankana. Rattle baby’s rattle snake. At the back of her mind she knows that she must escape her paralysis, gather up the fragments of her 'self' to fight back. Now. Take the first step, for God’s sake, take the first step. The reptile can smell her determination. This is a battle of wills. Send more hypnotic shrills. Send more hypnotic shrills. Send more hypnotic shrills. Waves of vibrations, snake rattle and roll with her intention and she can feel herself weakening. Stumbling, vision blurred, she falls into the gutter. She has been laying there for years. Numbed by the systematic denegration inflicted upon her by an abusive man. Who is she? Where is she? How did she get here? The beast is waiting for her to regain some consciousness, so it can continue the game. Like a cat would a mouse and a snake would a pussy. (Prelude from my novel: SVERA JANG)

PICK YOUR BABY AS YOU PICK AN APPLE FROM THE MARKET!

PICK YOUR BABY AS YOU PICK AN APPLE FROM THE MARKET

Confused? Don’t be. You will soon be able to choose the looks and the characteristic of your babies. Why not? If Hubbell can take images of the birth of our universe, anything is possible.  I’m sure most women will do all they can to ‘improve’ their babies’ chances before they’re even born. From playing music to babies in the womb (music can apparently affect your baby’s foetal development thus improving their future academic skills according to a recent study) to knocking back handfuls of omega 3 (proven in some studies to improve your baby’s intelligence) and sticking to a strictly organic diet (proven to improve a baby’s attention span), increasing numbers of women are taking a multitude of approaches. Why do we want a perfect baby so badly?  Maybe we don’t want to spend time to make our children intelligent and capable to ‘fit’ in. Maybe because women want to concentrate more on their career. Whatever cause, a study by the New York University School of Medicine, 10% of parents said they would approve of genetic testing to ensure their child was athletic, 10% would test for height and 13% for superior intelligence.  

Unsurprisingly, a potential boom industry is waiting in the wings of reproductive technology, eager to tap into a market of well-intentioned parents. Within a decade or two, it may be possible to screen babies for an enormous range of attributes, such as how tall they’re likely to be, what body type they will have, their hair and eye colour, what sorts of illnesses they will be naturally resistant to, and even, conceivably, their IQ and personality type. If gene therapy lives up to its promise, parents may be able to go beyond eliminating undesirable traits and start inserting the genes they do want – possibly even genes that have been crafted in a lab. The 21st century may well see parents going to fertility clinics and choosing from a list of optional extras. Selling your genes will become incredibly lucrative with the rich and famous becoming even richer by peddling their attributes to those of us dumb enough to mortgage ourselves to the hilt to equip our offspring with  hair by Wayne Rooney and big tits by Jordan and David Cameron.  Then again why stop at human genes when you could give you babies, teeth by alligator, penis by horse and attitude by Vinnie Jones.  The next generation will be able to fly like an albatross, dance like a rattlesnake and sing like a supergrass.  We could have the eye’s of flies, the cunning of a spy, the robber baron instinct of a conservative cabinet and a pint of blood for seedy uncle Dracula at the pub on pay-day. But more likely everyone in the world will end up looking like  Clooney, Banderas, Washington, Beckham or Moss and Campbell. “It’s the ultimate shopping experience: designing your baby,” says biotechnology critic Jeremy Rifkin, who regularly speaks out against designer babies. “In a society used to cosmetic surgery this is not a big step.”

CAN YOU PRINT A NEW BOYFRIEND?

CAN YOU PRINT A NEW BOYFRIEND ON A 3D PRINTER?

The 3D printing technology is coming to your street, but how much do we know about this Sci-fantastic technology? One thing is sure that it’s gonna make you soon redundant. Or put it more directly, its gonna sack the factory labourer more ruthlessly then Lord Sugar on ‘The Apprentice’ show.

Do you also know we will be able to produce spare parts for a roof, a bicycle and a toy? You better put your seat belts on, the ride from printing books, leaflets, photos and labels on a laser printer to when you actually will be able to download parts is going to be scary! It may soon happen in our lifetime! It might soon be possible to produce anything from our homes, offices or studios. Then many of us don’t have to put up with the rising cost of the tubes in London. There will be far less cars and buses on our streets and what about the cost by reducing the waste, because we will only be producing what we need? Have more time to grow grapes and figs? Be the green technology? I won’t mind that because I have got fig, the new red-love apple and the kiwi growing in my patio. How about ‘creating’ or ‘producing’ goods in whatever shape, colour or designs you want?

Think about how this advanced 3D printing technology will soon be ridding the developing world of their capacity to produce low cost, low wage commodities and replacing the manufacturing capacity into the hands of the developed world? Some say that at the moment this process is only possible with plastics, resins and metals and is mainly used as hobby or by few industries, but the three-dimensional printing will certainly be able to produce single items to undermine the economical advantage of producing goods in bigger capacity. 3D printing will surely expand fast as the technology improves and costs will fall. I am also not so sure how it really will works but just like in photo shop on my computer, would I be able to fiddle with the shape and colour of a ‘commodity’ where necessary and press the print icon to produce? And can items be stored and described in a digital file?

What about producing ‘stents’ for the blocked arteries? What about new skin layers for the aged? Cher is trying hard to rejuvenate her youth. What about producing new genes for children born with deformities? A son for those who have many daughters and the vice versa?

And what about printing a new husband? A new boy friend?

A TYPICAL SATURDAY

A TYPICAL SATURDAY

“This is, well, this is me. I am, well I am a no word wizard, but a solid terraced creature, immobile on the hill, a tower of some fifty four thousands moons old which is hundred fifty years ago. A mindless series of brick walls standing for centuries, protecting the innocent and the abusers and whose fate might finally be to crumble to the dust, perhaps to be hurled by the homeless at a policeman in some urban riots.”

This is an excerpt from Chapter 20 of my novel, ‘Svera Jang’, published by Indigo Dreams Publishing last year in October. Svera Jang was nominated for the East Midlands Book of the Year Award last year when I was in Derby where I have lived from 2005-2010 and am back in London. Five years were a roller coaster of events, activities and of so much art, poetry, songs. I have visited London on many occasions before but London has been changing like a chameleon. Change is good for every thing. The whole universe changes constantly so if we don’t change we will be left behind, be stagnant water and rot in the company of our own narrow rituals and norms. The world is so connected these days that event keep on affecting us. The financial crisis, the natural disasters, the struggle for peace and democracy is happening everywhere. We all ‘feel’ what is happening in the world. I don’t know about you but I get really disturbed to witness hunger and war. Many people have nothing and many of us have abundance, that is unequal distribution of the resources in the world we live in. It annoys me a lot when my loved ones, my friends, the people I know and interact with get frustrated, grumpy and angry for small issues. Look at the world guys, how many people in the world have food, shelter, nice clothes, medicine? Not many. Why do we complain about our small let downs, frustrations and forget that there are others less advantaged then us, damn it. Wake up and get out of our ignorance, our absurdities, our narrow mindfulness, our ego, our desire, the greed. I can go on and on and on, but I am trying hard to be ‘positive amongst the ‘negative’, the greedy, the insecure, the egotistical. Give me a break guys! Hang on...I am getting negative vibes from my self, stop! I don’t want to go there, all I was going to let you know that a typical Saturday for me is to get up a bit early, do my necessary errands, like buying a newspaper and do the lottery (Yes I do, although I should be putting a few pounds away to send to the needy, but at times I too am selfish and needy).

After a light breakfast and soul searching, I either read my paper, write or paint until, until, yes until my tummy start to rumble with hunger. I am trying to cut down on luxurious food like, cakes, biscuits and fat foods.

Tonight I have to finish 2 paintings and carry on writing my 3 novels, maybe watch a film as well.
How do you spend your Saturday?

What is art?

Who is Waldemar Januszezak? Do you know? I don’t but have been watching the episodes of his latest series, ‘The Impressionists’. I am really impressed the way he presented the old masters. I particularly enjoyed the final episode. ‘Take a closer look at the last years of impressionism particularly the influence on and work of Seurat and Van Gogh’s time in Paris....”

The Impressionists are, as Waldemar Januszczak confessed at the beginning of his new series, "terribly popular, terribly familiar, terribly commercialised".
On his way to the hotel room from which Monet painted his famous views of the Thames, Januszczak communicates to you from behind a stack of bags and boxes, the fruits of an Impressionist shopping spree in London that had netted him Impressionist pencil cases, jigsaws, tote bags, chocolates and a memorably ghastly shirt. Dropping them to the floor (not his words), he wonders how it had come to this – the punks of the 19th century art scene reduced to mere decoration.Tolstoy once wrote that art must create a specific emotional link between artist and the audience, one that "infects" the viewer. Thus, real art requires the capacity to unite people via communication (clearness and genuineness are therefore crucial values). This aesthetic conception led Tolstoy to widen the criteria of what exactly a work of art is. He believed that the concept of art embraces any human activity in which one emitter, by means of external signs, transmits previously experienced feelings. Tolstoy even offered an example of this: a boy that has experienced fear after an encounter with a wolf later relates that experience, infecting the hearers and compelling them to feel the same fear that he had experienced—that is a perfect example of a work of art. As communication, this is good art, because it is clear, it is sincere, and it is singular (focused on one emotion). Tolstoy also believed that art that appeals to the upper class will feature emotions that are peculiar to the concerns of that class. Another problem with a great deal of art is that it reproduces past models, and so it is not properly rooted in a contemporary and sincere expression of the most enlightened cultural ideals of the artist's time and place. To cite one example, ancient Greek art extolled virtues of strength, masculinity, and heroism according to the values derived from its mythology. However, since Christianity does not embrace these values (and in some sense values the opposite, the meek and humble), Tolstoy believes that it is unfitting for people in his society to continue to embrace the Greek tradition of art.

“Art is life
The abstractness in art is
a beautiful illusion but not a lie!” (few lines from my poem, Art is life)

What is art to you?

WHAT IS YOUR RITUAL

WHAT IS YOUR RITUAL?

I usually get up at the crack of the noon, no, to put it right, in my crack less bedroom which doesn’t allow pieces of the sun in. So I get up when my soul kicks my body from ‘within’, just like a foetus kicking its mummy’s tummy, letting her know that it is time for the ‘awakening’. Then my soul window opens up to scream, “Hey you, get your hands up.”  What? What are you saying soul? Hands up, pants down? Are you gone mad? You wanna have sex...? You wanna rob me? For money? I don’t have much.....  “No, stupid, I mean take your hands up to your face....” the soul interrupts.  “Ja, ja, ja, det er sgu nok, fae helvede...I say in my Danish, yes, yes, its  bloody enough.” But then suddenly I know what the soul is talking about. Here it is:

The start of a day for me is not to open my eyes until I let my fingertips gently caress my face. This is a ritual, an acknowledgement, a thank to the universe that I am alive. Then I gently open my eyes and that’s it , but another kick comes out from my ‘soul’ buddy. ‘Get up, get up now, time is up, don’t sleep anymore, while you still can, get up”. So in a flash of one second I jump start up and trotting along the long corridor of this basement flat where sunshine never knocks at the front door unless, yes unless when a useless leaflet is pushed down through the letterbox hole. The next thing I do is I open the long and heavy cinnamon coloured curtains as I try to open my heavy eyelids as if they were a lid on the glass chutney jar ( I don’t take jam to poison my blood stream, but the chutneys are usually made by myself at occasional leisure time, with very low level of brown  sugar). Then I hurry down to the kitchen and switch the plastic kettle on. I loathe plastic, I tell you whenever an ignorant shopkeeper who hasn’t got a clue about our environment, tries to put my Guardian or a bottle of milk (that is also plastic) into a terribly smelling plastic bag, I shout, no, please no, don’t give me a plastic bag. Some of these shop owners just smile and are happy to ‘save’ a filthy smelling plastic junk, but when I see a plastic flower on anybody’s window, I swear in my most dangerous, vulgar Punjabi tongue. Oh yes...you’ve guessed it right I do have more then one tongue...hang on I have several tongues, so whenever I find it appropriate, I’ll pull one of my tongues out to be very intrusive, but no one understands what I’m saying and it suits me right, because normally I am a very peaceful person, but at a time like that when I have to swear and it is in a tongue no one else understands, with not much effort, I can pull one of my appropriate tongues. Ok, enough of speaking in tongues, yesterday when I went out with my ‘soul buddy’, I saw pieces of sun giggling down from the sky in front of me. Some of them were sneaking from behind the tress like trouble, but I was genuinely surprised. These days we aren't getting enough sunshine. All this up and down of the economy, the riots (I was really upset by the riots, because I have witnessed the ,”Manningham Riots” too although long time ago), sun is the only saviour and it does put a smile on our face........so what is your ritual? We all have something, no?.....
  

What is happiness?

Today, the 16th of August.

Today, I was about to sit on my uncomfortable wooden chair ( I don’t want to drag my nice comfy chair from my studio to this room) in front of my lightened screen, when I saw another person is now following my blog. Fantastic and I clicked on his name and found this quote very interesting.

"The practice of art isn't to make a living. It's to make your soul grow" Kurt Vonnegut. The cool bass player image is 28 years old...holy crap. Malcontent and gobshite. 49 years down and still struggling to find that identity and walk the right path.”

Yes man, how right you are, 40 plus years I have been travelling and promoting others in need of support like the immigrant and the Asian women in Denmark, Bradford. The youth, the children, the old, the people in the then fighting for their liberation, countries in South East Asia, Africa and elsewhere. I have done nothing then promoting, supporting and giving my time and energy and money to different causes and I am still struggling to ‘sell’ my own skills. Art, poetry, novel, photography. I have lived in this beautiful country for the past  20 years encouraging people to create art and not destruction. When I arrived in the land of the Shakespeare, Tudors, Kings, Queens and Robin Hood, great poetry, films, literature, I was simply gobsmacked. Gob is a slang for face, so to be smacked in the face, means stunned or taken aback. Flabbergasted. Surprised. Caught off guard or flat-footed. Holly Christ, Guru Nanak,  Shiva and the naughty flitter, the Lord Krishna.  I know, I know I shouldn’t drag the pious names of these ghods (god+ghost=ghod) of the past, but I have been smacked on my gob many, many times before, metaphorically and physically. I’ll tell you more about it later when it is suitable to tell! But  I was simply caught off guard when I first arrived in this country.

“Where is your ticket?” I didn’t have a clue where my bloody ticket was? I just wanted to get out and breathe, especially when I had been travelling all the way from India, Denmark, Africa and landing in the middle of a provincial town, Bradford, so cool that it was frozen in a time zone! It was September the 3rd, 1992. The crescent moon, the pendant branches of trees and the inviting hands of nocturnal sky offered a mystic, soothing glow to my inevitable destiny looming ahead as I had stepped down at the platform.

“Could I see your ticket please?” He repeated.
I looked in my big bag, then my purse. I couldn't find it. I must have used it as a bookmark.  It was snuggled up between pages 82 and 83 of my Danish novel, “Sort Te Med Tre Stykker Sukker”, the story of a Turkish immigrant woman written by Renan Demirkan.........

"A very strange place to put your ticket,” he said and looked at my heavy baggage. His broad pale West Yorkshiran face flexed with anxiety.

"Oh, yes indeed." I smiled.......

A bit more from my novel Svera Jang:

Et par ar efter modtes de ved et tilfaelde igen I spisevognen I inter city toget fra Frankfurt til Koln. Han havde………….”

“Coincidentally, they met again in the dining compartment of an inter city train from Frankfurt to Koln. He had gone to attend a seminar with some colleagues. He had lost some weight, his broad forehead had become taller and he had become round shouldered. "I have a new family now”, he said and spread some photos of his wife and children on the table. His new wife was from his birthplace in Turkey. “Are you happy now”, she asked him.
He became quiet, put his head in his hands and ran his fingers through his hair.

"What is happiness? I am satisfied-at least for some time”. He squeezed the tea bag, added some drops of lemon essence in his cup and smiled”.

So what is happiness, reader? The blogerr, the poet, the writer, the artist?f
Do I know what it is now? Do you?
Have you got it?
Can you let me know where to ‘get’ or ‘buy’ it?
Can I tell you how?
Who knows........ see you soon......

NOT A TYPICAL DAY

This Saturday the 13th of Aug, I went cruising on Edgware Road which is noted for containing within it the famous Church Street Market. If you are not a Londoner, you might be interested to know that the road itself is one of the oldest thoroughfares in Britain, and stretches back to Roman times. It was used by pilgrims in mediaeval times, French Huguenots settled in the 18th century, Arabic communities in the 19th. London's first Indian restaurant opened there in 1810 and Middle Eastern immigrants started putting down their roots in the 1970s. It’s distinct Middle Eastern flavour comes from Lebanese restaurants, shisha cafes and Arabic-themed night clubs. The Odeon cinema was once the location of the biggest screen in London. 

But before you start to yawn with boredom and think that I might go on and on about the history of Edgware Road, I must tell you that this had been a special day for me. Atypical to my normal rituals after waking up where the first thing I’d do would be to trot along the corridor to the kitchen and put the cattle on. Then I have to go to the loo, do my cat-posture, stretch my wrinkles with the bare palm of my hand and finally draw the curtains away to let the pieces of sun into my one bedroom basement.
But today, yes I mean by the time I would post this on my blog it would be the next day, so yesterday when I woke up I had instantly decided that this was going to be one of those days when like a teenage girl I would just do some dilly dallying in Church Street Market hunting for nothing but just enjoy the feeling that I do not need to buy anything. The days are long over where I would go to these attractive places like this one or The Portobello to collect more junk and clutter to my rather peaceful existence and the thought was really liberating. But as soon as I stepped down from my bed, I got  drawn to this lighted screen of my appleMac. There were no urgent e-mails to read or answer to, not much to follow on the twitter and no skyping terror from far away family members. And then as if I had this premonition, my fingertips started to ‘punch’ facebook in google. I clicked to the news feed page and there it was, the cover of my recently published novel Svera Jang with a brand new review from my good old (he is not old in age but young and dynamic) buddy Mark Centrell. I instantly read the review and felt so emotional that tears started to roll down my cheeks like hot embers of gratitude. A blessing for a unknown novelist/poet, a destitute, left on the escape door of consequences, on protuberant limbs, cracked hands with a bleeding heart, a struggling artist! All because I haven’t got the guts to expose my bedroom secrets or the money to craft a diamond skull.......YET....
Read Mark’s review of ‘Svera Jang’: www.goodreads.com
and Tykewrite...
www.guardian.co.uk

The riots

Sorry I’m late, I began to lose control of my sensory oars in the river of time while the tide rose high to wash away debris from the troubled, polluted landscape of London and the other cities. Although the riots didn’t happen in my neighbourhood, I got ‘infected’ by the extent of violence created by these youngsters. Fires were burning, buildings were falling, windows were smashed and the looting was taking place. Sitting in my comfortable lounge, watching in awe the whole scene, I really got affected. The image of the 11 years old boy who also took part in the riots still keeps on pestering my mind. It is not long time ago when I was doing an interactive painting workshop with these youngsters in the a city of the Robin Hood in  Nottinghamshire. Robin Hood looted the wealthy kings and landlords to distribute money and food to the down trodden, the poor. I even started to imagine and hoped for a Batman to come and save the Gothic city of London from destruction, and yet it only happens in Hollywood films. Did you get ‘infected’ like me, I suppose although we are all humans and the same red blood runs through our veins, we all have different brains. Some of us do carry troubled brains, just like these youngsters. We can blame the teachers, the society, the vicar, the doctor, the social worker but we all inherit a ‘culture’ right from the time when we are born. I believe a mother teaches the first word to her child. No matter what society we live in, it’s a mother who teaches the language, the culture the behaviour to her children like I did. Of course you can disagree with me and we can have a debate because we live in the land of the ‘freedoms’. We have choices. There are hundreds and thousands choices laid in front of us in this country. Take them and be a good human being or choose to be a bad human. We also form our own identity. I don’t agree with those who tell me that it’s because of their mother or father they have their identities crisis. No, as soon as you have a thinking brain and you are old enough to do what you do, you can mould your own identity. Don’t blame the teachers, the parents, the society!

The type of brutal events we have witnessed during the past weeks cause pain to me, but then again I had been working on my self for years and building a defence mechanism around my soul for not to get ‘hur’t or ‘infected’, but I swear I ain’t any robot I like Will Smith. Let me tell you that I too was taken for a Hell’s Angel’s ride from Victoria Station across London on Tuseday the  9th. Unlike the other times when I travel on this bus from the station, it was almost empty like the streets. A mysterious fog had wrapped the whole city in its grip like a spider traps its victims. The passengers looked frightened and mute. A woman stepped in at a stop and couldn’t find her pass, so the driver had an argument with her and then he sped off so fast that he didn’t even stop at a couples of red lights. I nearly got a heart attack and was about to phone 999 when another passenger came to sit beside me and I calmed down a bit when she started talking to me that she also was frightened. I had to suppress my fear in order to calm her down. I could have got up and told the driver off for his mindless driving when he suddenly slowed down at the site of a police car. Phewwwwwww..... we all sighed in relief to see our protecting guardian, the police. One of the politicians had blamed the police for ‘being slow and not reacting at the rowdy youth, but I feel safe in the police’s company. Maybe because my dad was in the police once and he took me and my little brother to his police station to show us off. Look at my picture! That was a long time ago in India........

Speak to you soon...I promise...

A 'friend' phoned me out of the orange yesterday, the 6th of Aug. offering me a ticket to a  concert. I got so excited that I had to run down the looooohooo...ha...joking. I did feel small nutterflies in my smooth and a bit round tummy, why round because: 1. The bloody knee pain does not allow me to walk for too long. 2. I have not been invited to many things lately. 3. I have not made any conscious effort to ‘go out’ and ‘about’ or ‘socialise’. I did attend a couple of previews to art exhibitions and a few walks along the Grand Union Canal but these days I tend to sit on my black leather chair and dream. A few years ago, people use to tell me that I had a aura of peace and tranquility but the problem is my ‘trance’ is trying to escape me ever since...ever since, hmmmm never mind when, but if you wanna read about my beautiful‘trance’ I used to take with me every where in order to survive,you will have to buy my novel. If trance was a snake it would have disappeared into the thick, muddy and slimy rain puddle like some politicians these days, but it is not a snake (and the puddles are rather transparent) but that kindda ‘thing’ what is it you call it? Is it....anhoooo.. it is....it’s....I can’t find a word for it, I will leave it to your on drowsy Sunday imagination to ponder about a bit. Sometimes, I suddenly realise that I am all alone, sitting in my studio gazing at the universe as if it was a running train or a huge flower hung over my head looking down at me, teasing me, you, she, him, them. I am busy figuring out the inevitable question of, ‘why am I here? Now? This time of my life? Doing what? For who? And where? Don’t we all ponder and question? I do not want it to become a habit because a habit never dies...unless you got a strong mind but you can ‘kill’ or ‘slaughter’ your own useless habit instead of killing an innocent victim or slaughtering a poor animal. Agree?

Oh my..my..it’s raining again as it does at this time of the year, but it is raining softly this time like the buzz of a dragonfly...damn..it, I can’t go outside and dance in the rain as I used to do when I was a little girl growing up in India...I do still like the rain..I love the rain because it polishes my clouded thoughts, it cleanse my dusty heart just like if it was a plant. It makes music to my ears. Yes the summer rain is pleasant and is much needed for the thirsty planet. My plants in the patio are doing so well....let me have a peek outside...“Watchha...cha...cha...chacha your spelling...” I hear a thick. stern voice from behind. I jump in my wooden chair and look around. Here he is looking to my direction from that far corner of his own fantasy world. It's my fat, cuddly do....nut...do....gma, budding....buddy. He sometimes jumps out from behind the trees to give me a big piece of his own troubbled behind...oh sorry I had meant to say mind..ah..well what the heck, I got the freedom of writing what I want, but he does watch my back and stairs into my eyes as if I was an ‘object’ of desire...Me? Never...who am I to say this...but oh please don’t watch me as I sit here pouring my naked thoughts to feed your minds just read them and watch this space....will be back....back to tell you more stories and take you to cities, continents and places  you’ve never been before.....

.....to be continues.

SPOKEN IN COLOUR

A few years ago I was interviewed by the BBC Asian network in London for a 60 second film I made on my life.

“What is your identity,” The young interviewer asked.

“I am a traveller who’d trotted around many countries of the world and learnt to fit into many societies, without changing into this and that form and ism. I don’t see myself as a Sikh woman neither am I a typical Indian, nor do I consciously dress up or eat any particular way. I wear what I like, I buy what I need. I eat what is healthy. I see what I want to. I hear what I like to, I listen to what is tolerable. So then what is my identity? It is what I have made myself to be. An artist, a poet, a writer and a pacifist.

 I have lived in India, Denmark and Tanzania and have travele to many cities of the world and now live in London. I speak at least 5 languages. I had a few dramatic experiences, some were adventures, some wonderful and some painful ones. Pain and happiness are two sides of the same coin-life.  Pain is a shadow and painfree existance is light. I have been on top of the pain mountain where I had no other choice than to return back to life. But I also realised that I didn’t jump to die but had seen tiny pieces of light through the dark clouds.

Pain ceases to exist when it becomes enlightenment!

One of the reason of surviving my pain was my creative spirit. I could express myself through writing, art and poetry. I believe everyone of us has something to offer to this univerese. A story, a skill to share, a strength to unblock, a life to live.

On this blog, I will let you into my colourful world of stories, adventures and how despite pain, abuse and let downs, I have survived and each moment of my life I have kept on learning.

So what do you want to know? Want to share my experiences? Show me yours?

Let the journey begin……..