Delusions......

"How are you Sonia?" Papa's tone was so confident when he asked this question. As if he already knew the answer. Mum had been a little shaky at first but she believed in Papa's decisions with the simple sincerity of a wife. 

"I am fine Papa" was Sonia's reply to both of them. 

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"I knew it", came the assured response from the other side. After a brief conversation Sonia hung up the phone. 

Papa had chosen the best match for her. He made sure that the boy was not just good-looking, something she too had wanted and also got. Papa saw the salary, the background, the home, the locality....everything. Like most fathers, he wanted his daughter to get the best. 

Like most fathers, her father-in-law had acted in the best interest of his son too. He had chosen for his son a beautiful, confident but obedient bride from a similar background. He too bragged about his wise decision.

Only Sonia and her husband knew the truth. She found it out when she discovered his picture with his boy-friend. He had lost courage before his overpowering father. She wanted to help him. The few days they had been together, she had fallen in love with him. He was gentle unlike most men she had known in her life. That he would reciprocate her feelings was just wishful thinking. 

Still she wanted to help - help him and herself. But she didn't know how......

Linking to Blog-a-rhythm's Day 6 of the #BarAthon #Blogging Challenge 

Outgrown.....

Soumya looked at them again. Then, she picked them up, and caressed them. The gentle grey and the soft pink colors played in her eyes, and perhaps in her memory too. She was in that room, but only physically. Her mind was transported somewhere else along with her heart. She was of slim built. Her hands were long, and her fingers thin and lean. In those slender but long hands, the tiny shoes looked even tinier. She hugged them, once again. Then, she lifted her head as if she was woken from a trance. She looked around. The room was scattered with clothes. Her four year old daughter was busy playing with some trinkets she had just taken out from the closet.

"Devika, can you come here, my dear?" She called out to her daughter.

The little girl took some sprightly steps towards her and landed in her lap.

"Look at these shoes. These were your first walking shoes. You took your first little steps wearing them."

Devika looked at them. "Pretty", she said. Then, she held the tiny shoes in her hand for a moment. Something else caught her attention the next minute. "Dollie.....my lost dollie....", she loosened her mom's grip dropping the shoes from her hands, and jumped away.

With a sigh, Soumya picked up the shoes.

They don't mean anything to her at this age. And why will they? I am the one whose mind is filled with memories of those days. The many moments I have spent with her, the times I have fallen with her, the instants I have cried with her, feeling the pain of the cuts and scrapes on her knees and hands. It is me who is more attached to these tiny shoes. They are not just shoes for me. They are part of my motherhood. But to her, they are just shoes that don't fit anymore......... Baby shoes, how I had searched for the best I could afford for her, going from one shop to another....... Baby shoes are so pricey. The cuter they look....... the pricier they get....But I stole a deal that day, thank my lucky stars.....

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She touched the shoes one more time. Even though her daughter had used them so often, they were in the best condition. Unspoiled, un-torn, and beautiful.

They can be really useful for someone....another little girl like mine....someone's little princess.....They might brighten her eyes as she will look at these little beauties....hmm....I will miss them.....but.....that's not important.....Some other mom like might be able to smile as she watches her angel walk in these gems....

Her hands hesitated. Her heart ached. She put them in a bag and dropped them in the box labelled DONATION.



Linking to Blog-a-rhythm's  Day 5 of the #BarAThon #blogging challenge

Greed or Sacrifice....?

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Race for sovereignty

He who is caught red-handed

Wins the race, but loses -

Loses hand to gain the land

Crushes might with mind

Thirst for the crown it is -

Or a mark of bravery?

Wisdom or foolery?

Or manifestation of ultimate sacrifice?

The prompt 'caught red-handed' has its probable origins in a Celtic legend. It had nothing to do with being caught in the act. It was used just literally - with blood on the hand. A king (some say he was Niall of the Nine Hostages, but it is debated) wanted to choose his heir. But he was unable to decide between his two sons. A race was held. Whoever touched the shore of Ulster would be crowned. The prince who was lagging behind, cut his hand and threw it on the shore before his brother could reach the finish line and hence was declared the king. 

The story made me think about sacrifice as well as greed. The prince who cut his hand must have been motivated by some strong urge or emotion. What was that emotion? Was it the love for his kingdom? Was it his princely duty? Or was it an overpowering desire? Who knows? 

Linking to Blog-a-Rhythm's Day 4 of #BarAthon Blogging Challenge

Frangible Sculptures

Holding on to their fragile lives

They ran, they stumbled

Etched in stone forever

Hot lava turning cold

Life's warmth sucked away

But not the hope

Still they are there

Standing

Slumped

Resigned

Still Clinging to their fragile lives 

Young and Old

Master and Slave

Mother and Child

Father and Son

Pregnant then

Plastered now

Brought back to 'life'

Shatterable Life

Frangible Sculptures

Frozen in time....

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The devastation of the city of Pompeii in Italy due to the eruption of the deadly volcano, Mt Vesuvius in 79 AD, left behind a strange spectacle. Those who see it are filled with an awe, an angst, an unspeakable feeling. I have not visited the place but seen the pictures which stunned me. This poem is my response to the fatal result of that disaster.


Linking to Blog-a-rhythm's Day 3 of #BarAthon Challenge

Begin with a Clean Slate

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For today's prompt, I remembered the Zen story of the overflowing cup. Many of you might be familiar with it. For those who are not, let me narrate it in my own words....

Once upon a time, a learned man went to a well-known Zen master to gain knowledge. The Zen master welcomed him. The man was very knowledgeable and wanted to seek enlightenment from the wise teacher. The man spoke many things to the master about what he knew. The master heard him quietly. Then, he offered him tea. The master started pouring the tea. The man watched with much astonishment that the master was continuing to overfill the cup, and when the tea started spilling from the cup, he urged the master to stop. He could make no sense of what the teacher was doing. He asked him in exasperation, to which the teacher replied," Just like this cup, you are overflowing too - with your own thoughts and opinions. If you need Zen, you need to empty up first."

This story tells us by way of a very simple example the mistakes we commit when we seek knowledge and wisdom. We often perceive ourselves as wise. We look at things subjectively but presume that we are fair and objective. Our quest is limited because we do not open our minds completely. Our prejudices, preconceived notions of what is or ought to be often limit us. 

Confucius has rightly said that "Real knowledge is to know the extent of one's ignorance." In order to know more, you need to first accept that your knowledge is not absolute. In order to know what you don't know, you have to begin with a clean slate. Previously held thoughts and ideas can create hurdles in the path to enlightenment much like the way it happens in the above story. To be able to explore, you need to expand your horizon. You need to retrace your steps with every new bit of wisdom you gain. To experience the vastness of the ocean, you need to abandon your pond. To embrace the immensity of the sky, you need to open your doors and windows and venture out. Like a child, you need to crawl, then wobble, then walk, then climb, then fall, then learn, then climb again. 

De-clutter the mind first. Only then can a fresh space be created. 

Linking to Blog-a-rhythm's Day 2 of #BarAthon Challenge

Stranger Than Fiction

"If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this : In love, we find out who we want to be; in war we find out who we are."

So begins the best-seller The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah. The book is a fictional rendering of World War II and the German occupation of France by the Nazis. It tells the story of two sisters, Vianne and Isabelle, who have natures completely opposite to each other. The novel deals with issues of heroism, bravery, patriotism, treachery, the necessity of survival, and the irony of the morality we live by. This post, however, is not about the novel. This post is about that recurrent figure Isabelle relates to in the novel. That figure is straight from real life. That figure is a part of that shameful history we all inherit. That figure is of the British nurse Edith Cavell, whose life was much stranger than fiction.

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Hundred years ago, and this is not a tale, a nurse by the name of Edith Cavell in German-occupied Brussels, was executed by the German firing squad. The date was October 12, 1915. Her only crime was her compassionate humanity. She had aided soldiers from both sides during the First World War. It is said that she saved more than 200 Allied soldiers and sent them back to their country. The Germans considered this treason which was punishable by death. 

There was no alternative punishment for this crime as per German law. No other country could come to the rescue of the nurse who had saved so many lives. Edith, in her last moments, said that for her "...patriotism was not enough. I must have no hatred or bitterness towards anyone." She also wanted to be remembered forever as a "nurse" who had done her "duty", and not as a martyr. But her execution enraged the Allies. Edith was a woman who wanted to spread the message of only love and humanity. Her death was a blow to humanity itself. The Americans joined the war too. 

Did Edith know no fear? She said that she had seen "death so often" that it doesn't feel "strange or fearful" to her. 

Isablle in The Nightingale, does feel fear. She wants to be "brave" like "Edith Cavell risking her life" but she is "scared". 

In case you are thinking that Isabelle's character is modeled after Edith, I must tell you one more thing. During the Second World War, another woman, as brave as Edith, would emerge. Her name was Adrienne de Jongh and she played a prominent part in aiding Allied soldiers against the Nazis. Isabelle's character is close to de Jongh. 

Life is a twisted tale. Much twisted than fiction. Much stranger than fiction.


Linking to Day 1 of the #BarAThon Challenge by Blog-A-Rhythm

Photography is Truth - Is it?

This statement rests on the fact that there is one 'truth' which can be reached, comprehended. Therein lies the fallacy of the statement. Although the context in which Godard put it must have been more challenging, and revolutionary (something I cannot cover in this post), let us focus on just the statement itself.

What is photography? To put it simply, it is a 'picture' taken of something - some object, or some person. In other words, it is a 'representation' of that thing or that person. 

When we speak of 'representation', we have already moved one step away from what we understand as 'reality'. Representation can be one part of truth. but probably not the whole truth, assuming that there is something called Truth. (I assume it because truth for me might not be truth for you.)

So, the context of the representation becomes important.

The context of the photograph becomes important. 

If we remove it from that context, the representation, or the truth that it represents will become irrelevant.

Consider photographing motherhood. Advertisers will hail motherhood as a period of celebration, and complete happiness. The photographs that will represent motherhood will probably show a calm and composed mother with a calm and composed child. But that is just one aspect of motherhood. This representation will hide the other 'truths' about motherhood too - the physical pain, the mental exhaustion, the bouts of depression many suffer from, the colic babies, the sleepless nights. 

Consider photographs of soldiers fighting in a war. Each warring army will represent their side as 'true', as 'correct'. But that representation will alter if the opposing army were to take the task of portraying their enemy.

Consider your own photographs. Consider your 'selfies'. Is that you reflected in that picture? Or is that you 'constructed' in accordance with certain 'shared meanings' in a society. (It would be helpful here to read Stuart Hall's essay on the politics of representation and views of post-structuralists.)

When we consider a photograph to represent reality or truth, we fail to understand that meaning circulates in a given context. To uproot it from that context would alter its meaning significantly.
Photographs are a means of constructing and imparting a certain sense of knowledge but that knowledge may just be only a part of the whole reality.

Meaning changes as perspective changes. Since a photograph's perspective is crucial to the making of its meaning, its meaning will change too with the shift in perspective.

As Ansel Adams rightly said, "You don't take a photograph. You make it."

What is your say on this? Do share your thoughts.


Linking to Write Tribe #writingwednesdays