What to say?

i seem to be loosing the idea of this - I write what I want to say and the beat myself up because I think no-one wants to read it. I write what I think people want, and frankly, it's mainly drivel. So I either

1. Stop writing altogether  until I am happy with what I am saying
2. Keep writing and hope the mojo comes back

I'm going with two and if you all stop reading well, at least I am still writing and this was always meant for me as a kind of therapy: which  it has been. The loneliest thing about depression is that it is very hard to talk about without stigmatising yourself as a bit loopy. Then, when you are a bit lata anyway, it's off to the funny farm or anywhere one doesn't frighten the horses.
For those of you who don't know this one I enclose in total. It is just too good not to:




Beatrice Campbell aka Mrs Patrick Campbell
"Does it really matter what these affectionate people do — so long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses!" -Reply to a young actress who asserted that an older actor in a production showed too much affection for the leading man 


I have always felt this to be a very sensible attitude to take to life, the rest of us can take care of ourselves. so, a little lata, a lot depressed. High hopes of new, rather strong anti deps. Apart from anything else had a great sleep two nights ago and most demons can be shrunk by "sore nature's bath", sleep "that ravels up the knitted sleeve of care". Was Shakespeare  the man or what? Who thinks of sleep a something that untangles our 'knitted' days and yet when you hear it it makes instant and perfect sense. Think we should have a picture or two now:




You may very well ask where this is going - I don't know. All of these memories and things constantly remind me how hugely lucky I was to grow up where I did, when I did and how I did. Talking about days out yesterday. They weren't. They were lessons, each place, each event was my curriculum and my pass mark was how rounded a human being I became. Hope I passed.


There were glitches in this process - before you cast me as some adorable curly haired little savant - my child's mind sometimes was too literal for some of the things we went to see or do. Most of you that know me  or have had the woe of being taught by me will have heard this story. At least five Year Seven were subjected to in the British Museum, in what now called the Parthenon marbles. No not that literal - I didn't think were glass balls with spirals in. I had a passion for ancient Greece and one of my most beloved books was called, "Theseus: A Boy of Athens", written in learned didactic style to inform the young of the great history that ties the west together. I loved it - I walked the streets of Athens with the boy, was thrilled when he received his pedagoue  so that his learning could begin, beside myself as they they walked through the Agora Looking up to Acropolis and upon it, high over Athens the white marble of the Parthenon with. in the foreground,  the Great Golden statue of Pallas Athena with her face of ivory and her gown and breastplate of the purest finest gold. 


I walked with Theseus and looked closely at the Caryatids shouldering the great roof and could not wait to see if it was true that each one looked different as they were all based on different models on the islands were made, In my book it said they looked like an army of friends, gazing calmly before them at the sparkling sea where any new ship arriving would see Athena's spear and know she sheltered and protected the Athenians.

Now my parents knew I was keen, could recite all the gods of Olympus and what their properties were so they thought they were giving the most special trip - a two day stop in Athens on our way back to Calcutta. I was beside myself - I read my dear Theseus until he and seemed entwined through time and, as we arrived late at night we saw the picture above, or something very like it. The great building towering over the city. I peered out of the cab window:"Mum,MUM! Where's Athena's statue?" Should have been warned at that point but they were hot and only wanted a G&T and meal somewhere


The next morning I was up at the crack of dawn, dressed, washed and ready to go by seven. My parents had bought me my first watch in Zurich two days before so I was very aware of the time. Luckily for me they too were up early - perhaps a ten year old muttering as she tried to dress in the dark was not conducive to sleep. By eight we were again in a taxi heading for the Acropolis. The taxi driver offered to walk round with us - he loved the site and would be glad to talk about it. If you don't know Greece you might he on for a con. He wasn't, he loved his country and its history and was glad to share that knowledge, I ran up the many, deep and rutted marble steps waiting to see ...

Something like this on the right. She comes form Vienna this Athena - I have never seen her.


That bright morning I arrived at the foot of the Parthenon and realised I was looking at a ruin. It was many years ago, buildings crumble but everyone of these carvings, I had seen photos of the caryatids in books - but they weren't there, Great marbles of battle that had Theseus pouring over them as he learnt the value of heroism in battle. Where were they? I sat on the bottom step and the tears rolled down my face. My parents, red faced from trying to keep up with me and the taxi driver all looked shocked. "Where are they all? Where's Athena? The Caryatids, the friezez. It looks like," and I paused, the unthinkable, " someone has just torn them away."


Spiro, our driver and guide, shrugged and blew his nose loudly. He looked at my parents, "She cries as the children of Greece do, for the loss of our heritage." Very gently it was explained to me that a English antiquarian(rapist of cultures more like) had arrived and thought the marbesl would look jolly good in the new British Museum. After all Johnny Foreigner couldn't understand their importance culturally to the whole world. It was his duty as an Englishman to save what he could. So he hired Turkish workers, no greek would help him destroy their heritage. And the marbles were literally torn from their places. I've heard it said that more was lost in mission to save that millenia had failed to destroy.


I still cry at the British Museum, to see them there, locked in their cold marble hall, placed on walls not high above pillars against the Aegean sky. I still cry at the Parthenon although the Greek has been trying to recreate some of the most important pieces to show what was the glory of the ancient world. And, in the exhibition centre at the Acropolis there are indeed many Caryatids with the faces of friends and eyes made to look across an ancient wine dark sea.


I do not forgive Elgin - anyone that has tried to defend him has used that trite and insulting argument that we take better care of them. Sorry if you are young and reading this -BULLSHIT!  Go to the 'Parthenon' room at the BM - at least we no longer call them Elgin's marbles - and see trapped in this cold country that never loved their gods or were the children of their children.  i believe art must be loved or it dies - they are dying. If reach you with this tonight - think and then ask the question, why can't we give them back?


Oh, the Athena I sought was taken in one of the many raids on the city at the end of the Hellenistic age - but there is one more, I have only ever  seen her picture but she at least still lives in Athens, albeit at a museum.

isn't she magnificent? One day soon she will be closer to real home and the Athenians will once again have their Goddess watch over them.

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Didn't We Have a Lovely Time ... ?

Firstly my apologies - I have been absent from my computer and writing this, what would you call it, epic, memoir, blog, self obsessed confessional? My reasons are twofold and have absolutely nothing to do with tonight's main theme - but they need to be revealed: firstly my ongoing battle with the bitter black dog has been very hard of late and finally some stronger medication was prescribed - don't know how long it will take to work but my God, did I sleep - twelve hours at the last count. The other is far more selfish - I have been reading the most wonderful book, absorbing, enthralling and beautifully written. If my aspiration is now to write then to write a book like this would be a gift - certainly reading it was. And yes, here is the title: The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver. Don't be put off if you tried and disliked the Poisonwood Bible - I loathed it and am so thrilled to have found this.I do realise that it must look a little odd to have these Amazon links but if you click on them I get a whole penny and we all know that from little acorns grow big oaks.

For those who are not sure - the story tells of young man's life in Mexico with the painter Diego Rivera and his wife Frida Kahlo. The main part of story and the turning point for the young man comes when Trotsky arrives in Mexico City as a refugee and Rivera sends Shepherd to work for him.



Now to days out, although I must confess to a longing to write of the Aztecs and Maya and  surrealist painting and McCarthy but I can't - someone else has filled my head with all of that and those are her stories and words. These now, are mine.

A day in out in England is a day spent  in a strange town or forest or National Park or by the sea. We live in such a tiny island that most places are accessible for a day. Not so in Calcutta; a massive city where to drive from Tolllygunge to Ballygunge could take twenty minutes or three hours depending on traffic, the weather or the season. Days out in Calcutta (yes I know it is non PC - but I also know the entymology of the name and it comes from one of three villages Job Charnock  found as he sailed up the Hooghly - Cali Cat or Kali Ghat - but NOT Kolkatta!) were therefore events, planned or spontaneous they involved travel, the need for food and water and some knowledge of where you were going.

My days fell into three categories, Mum and Desmond, school and days when I was old enough to brave the world with just my friends for company. Mum and Des were certainly the most informative and exciting. We would drive into North Calcutta looking for old houses or gates - one such day he found the Marble Palace and made it famous and eternal through his sketch and article in The Statesman. Another time we had use of the municipal boat and sailed up river to look for old houses at Garden Reach: we got sidetracked to looking at the magnificent new temple at Dakineshwar and he spent the day drawing sadhus as they sat at water's edge, ash stained smoking chillums and very frightening until suddenly the face would crack into an enormous grin and the monster became a man of humour and humanity. I missed countless days from school but the excitement - to go along the Dum Dum road looking for Clive's house, finding the mess, with Bangladeshi refugees encamped on the sprung ballroom floor and then walking around  a ruin with him and his citing rose bushes as a sure sign that this was certainly where Clive must have lived. We never find any proof of that but it made us all laugh some fifteen later when a young descendant of Clive's was taken to the house with absolute certainty that this was the residence of Clive of India. Only because of the rose bushes!

School outings were varied - there were the traditional trips to the mint, the Metal Box factory and to see my friends Ule and Desrirees' father's computerised factory. We were always little strips of card punched with indecipherable holes and told this was our name and all our names would be be stored thus in the future. They became bookmarks, or gathered dust in a drawer. How could I know that now I can find my friends all over the world at the touch of a button or that plump Mr Sponner was in his own way, a revolutionary.

Other school outings were more interesting; my favourite always being to Kumar Tuli to see the statues being prepared for the pujas. My favourites, Durga and Sarawati, beautiful and learned, being crafted from the river clay that they would return to so that their souls could flow through the river to the sea and be taken into the air to return to their homes in the high mountains. Kali always frightened me - perhaps because  my most vivid memory of Kalighat was seeing a kid sacrificed, the blood spurting, the animal squealing. And then I read of the Mutiny and the Black Hole of Calcutta, and the Thugs and the phrase a goat for Kali, and I decided she probably didn't like English children as much as Durga and Saraswati who always smiled and looked beautiful. I was a child, what did I know? It was like a fairyland: a teasing promise of what was to come, Diwali and all the pujas and the lights and the excitement and the joy. For a child here this comes when the Christmas lights are turned on and lasts only briefly before it becomes tawdry and rather dull. Imagine days of different displays, different characters in the pandals and the sweets and the sheer joy of celebrating that is done nowhere so well as Calcutta. To look at some of these beauties go to http://www.kumartuli.com/photo_gallery.php

I am going to leave the last outings group for another day - I need to check on some names and places before I get hammered for getting them wrong - as I did the other day when I said we played Hearts in Puri - we didn't, as Harish and then Annabel both told me - it was Spades! Apparently there is a difference. C'est la guerre.

One last image - Diamond Harbour - a great day out! River, mud, empty. We went there a lot - I have no real idea why.

JOY TO THE WORLD

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Have you ever had a moment when you know, absolutely know, that you are truly happy? Think about it for a moment: we look back and say I was happy then but to know, to realise that this moment in time is perfect. I think that is rare. But, it happened to me when I was quite small. It actually happened twice but the second time I was a little older and and queried the veracity of the feeling.

After we had been in Calcutta for about four years we moved from the flat on Ballygunge Circular Road to a new, very smart one on the seventh floor of the newly built Woodlands Estate in Alipore. There were three tall blocks: Belvedere, Woodlands and Alipore Estates. Opposite them was Woodlands Nursing Home and behind a large army camp, From my verandah I could see  over towards the docks and the back of the Burdwan Estate and Palace.


I was quite a solitary child: I had always found the company of my mother, and now my sister who had joined us from England, more than enough. A bonus was time spent with the aunties, Desmond and his menagerie of young rescued Tibetans. And, I always had Joe and Mary. And my books. I devoured books as children today devour Mario and Sonic. There was always I could go to and discover new things and new people. For me the characters were also friends: Anne of Green Gables, What Katy Did and my beloved Little Women.














There were others of course; Rumer Godden and Enid Blyton and until I tried boarding school the Chalet School books. After having tasted the reality they were put away for good. Woodlands gave me the first chance to have friends close by who I could go out into the gardens and play with. Of course it didn't work like that. I was a mummy's girl, modelled pretty party dresses for the Women's Friendly, didn't know how to ride a bike and, most importantly, was terrified of the rope swing that one on from the high branches of a tree and clinging for dear life swung wildly in the air higher that it seemed physically possible to go.

That first year in Alipore was hard. Patsy Singh and Zoe Perks cut me no slack whatsoever and whatever our respective mothers tried I was terrified of them and they held me in extreme contempt. Then I got a bike for Christmas. At first I thought , one of the gang at last, but I still had my training wheels on and couldn't keep up with them as they cycled at speed through the gardens. Mum must have seen this and decided to take  some direct action.

One afternoon I came home from school and she was waiting for me with the bike. She had taken the training wheels off and we set off slowly with her holding the bike steady. It seemed easier doing it this way and I was soon pedalling hard and laughing because she was holding on and I was safe. Of course you all know she wasn't and in those minutes I had learned to ride a bike. As I realised that she was some way behind me I did wobble a bit and then the strangest feeling that I've ever known.

The air was still and the gardens full of marigolds and roses and every imaginable colour and scent. There was no-one there but the two of us and it was as if the world stood still. And in that moment, that second, I knew I was totally happy. That there was nothing more that I could want or pursue that would make it better. And, I understood the schadenfreude, the knowledge that this would only last for these few precious seconds and I must feel this with every fibre of my being and remember. I do remember so vividly I can see it now and almost weep with the memory of how perfect it was.

Would I have felt this way growing up elsewhere? I don't know but I think my beloved city cast its charm around me even closer by showing me that such a time was possible. I do think it was a kind f mystical experience that as a child I only understood on the most elemental level.

When this was painted was the second time I had the feeling. My parents had given a curry lunch with rather a lot of very boring people and Desmond. I was sitting on the verandah beside him after lunch and he looked at me and said,"Darling, I want to paint you now before you grow up and loose that innocence." Me painted? By Daddy Des? Of course I was out of the door and in the car before he had a chance to tell Mum where we were going. As it turned out he didn't say anything, just told Joe to tell her I was with him and she should come for tea and collect me.

He was right : this was a pivotal moment turning from childhood towards the adult world, the irony was that as he painted me he was the one who opened my eyes to another way of looking at the world.

And yes, my mother loved the painting.

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My favourite things.

Obviously raindrops on roses etc - but there are a few  others not quite so obvious: poetry, F1, trashy romantic novels and writing. Apart from F1 there are clear links - all to do with language and words. When I was thinking about what to write tonight it seemed like a homework task. I couldn't think of anything to say. And this should not be a task - not if I want to continue on this journey of discovery and memory. This  should always  be  a joyous time when the words come fast and furious, no cliche left unturned, no sparing of emotion. This is , perhaps, the most honest thing I have ever done.

So - not many words from me tonight - instead I want to share some of my favourites, in poetry and in  images.

Not this year's car and not Alonso - glory days with Schumacher. The sound of the engine makes me feel like Mr. Toad going, "Poop, poop", before he runs away with yet another car.

My favourite book - to be revisited at least twice a year for differing reasons: sometimes to rejoice with Mole at his homecoming and love Rattie for his sensibility. Sometimes for Mr. Toad and bubble and squeak and his battle for Toad Hall. But sometimes just for the sheer poetry of two sections of the book: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn and the section where Rat feels the call of the sea and adventures faraway from the Riverbank.
So, a racing car and book about talking animals - but then there are the poets, Donne, Vaughan, Shakepseare. Very hard to choose a favourite but I think it must be this one.

THE GOOD-MORROW. by John Donne I WONDER by my troth, what thou and I Did, till we loved ? were we not wean'd till then ? But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly ? Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den ? 'Twas so ; but this, all pleasures fancies be ; If ever any beauty I did see, Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. And now good-morrow to our waking souls, Which watch not one another out of fear ; For love all love of other sights controls, And makes one little room an everywhere. Let sea-discoverers to new worlds have gone ; Let maps to other, worlds on worlds have shown ; Let us possess one world ; each hath one, and is one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appears, And true plain hearts do in the faces rest ; Where can we find two better hemispheres Without sharp north, without declining west ? Whatever dies, was not mix'd equally ; If our two loves be one, or thou and I Love so alike that none can slacken, none can die. Source: Donne, John. Poems of John Donne. vol I. E. K. Chambers, ed. London: Lawrence & Bullen, 1896. 3. I am not even going to try and explain - it is like a puzzle that you need to follow through to its conclusion. Believe me when I say it is worth it. These paintings had a profound effect on me. My very dear friend Peter had taken me to the Tate Modern. I am not a fan of the abstract and am not really art aware. It is more of the 'I know what like', comment from me. We walked through a fabulous space with clever, ironic and downright odd paintings and sculpture. And then Peter took to the entrance of the Rothko room and left me alone for a moment. I looked at these paintings and I wept. It was a physical connection without knowing anything of the context or even who Rothko was. I had to rearrange my thoughts on the power of the abstract. Like Donne, not easy but worth the effort. You may notice that these are all men and the strong minded post modernist  feminists will be sure that I'll let the side down and rave about Jilly Cooper (which I could, quite happily). But no - my last favourite was the woman who ruled, cajoled, flirted and loved her country  like the mother pelican used so often in the iconography of her  image. An image that she fiercely protected and kept as a potent reminder of her royalty and her strength. An image that no-one until Princess Diana had created and used with such power and intelligence. And there I think we'll leave it - with good Queen Bess astride her territories. One last thing ... the first line of this is written on Mum's headstone - it was her favourite and as she was my most favourite person in the world it is only right she gets to have the last word.THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRED PRUFROCK by: T.S. Eliot (1888-1965) ET us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question ... Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"   Let us go and make our visit. In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.   The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.   And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me,

Weird and Wonderful

This week has been one of the most surprising and unexpected ones I've had in a very long time. Firstly, after some sterling research and detective work John Brinnand was found alive and well living in California. Now need to reread the obsession post to make sure it wasn't too over the top. I also got in touch with JB's younger brother Michael -who had no memory of me whatsoever but has become a Facebook friend with exchanges between us on the end of the world and new therapies for depression.

Now some of you will know that I don't exactly have a very high opinion of myself either physically or emotionally. One of the reasons no doubt that I am very much a spinster of this parish. But... Today I  had to phone my building society(not allowed a bank account any more) to see how much money was in there and got talking, as one does, to a young man called Melvin. Well, turned out not so young - 42 - and then two hours later as I dragged the shopping up the stairs the phone rang and it was him! Moment of concern, don't think he can have ever seen me and also random men phoning for flirtatious chats is so not me.

I humoured him, as you do, and after a very pleasant chat rang off. At six o'clock the phone rang again! Him, again. Now, am I flattered or frightened or a victim of some weird joke? I don't know but it really has thrown me from my comfort zone. Not looking for or needing anyone and tending to behave like a little old lady if there is the slightest hint of a flirt. Yes, you unbelievers, I can be mature when I need to be - ish?

The next strange and rather more pleasant thing was to find that Blogger had a new gizmo that allows you to see how many people have read the blog. I would have been ecstatic at twenty - but no - 607! That's right, six hundred and seven people, all over the world have taken my scattered thoughts and read them. To think that someone in Moldova has read these ramblings is extraordinary And what was the most popular? I thought Bhutan and Sikkim, Puri, the Calcutta childhood but no, it was the blog on the family row last Sunday. I guess everyone has families that are dysfunctional in some way and that must have struck a chord.

This is a ramble tonight, thinking on the page  - sorry if it wasn't what you were expecting. The other thing about this week has been the ongoing battle with the black dog of depression. Not sleeping or eating properly, not able to work up much enthusiasm for a new day - rather a feeling of, 'Oh bugger, another day.'

I wish I could cry and wail and scream at the moon but it is the most awful numb emptiness: even good things, like finding Johnny, become a worry, the feeling that he and most of you would be shocked if you saw me now. Self loathing is very much a part of it and recently self harming to release the pain inside - to have a physical display of the misery inside.

Why couldn't I  have been anorexic, neurotic or even a little bi polar? But no, I get the anxiety attacks where I can't go down the stairs without shaking, the being sick before I go out socially and the emptiness of lying under the quilt not wanting to acknowledge that there is a world outside. So, when I see the number 607 it thrilled and frightened me. It made me glad  that something I have  done will endure and maybe, just  maybe I do have a purpose after all.


All things considered a very strange week in my life. And as for Melvin - watch this space!

Monsoon

Image via Wikipedia

Imagine being covered in a wet blanket that is hot. Your limbs are slow to move and everything is an effort. It feels like thunder but the sky is empty. Everybody is tetchy, quick to argue. There is nowhere other than a roof top to feel some air.


And then... a single fat drop of water comes from the sky, followed by another and another until the deluge seems imminent. And you go outside and smell the rain and feel its coolness soak your clothes and hair and you laugh. The monsoon has come.
The Rains Came: A Novel of Modern India tells of time of waiting for the monsoon and as a teenager it was one of my favourite books,deeply torrid romance and a brilliant film.

For the poor of the great city it brought both relief and misery, the cleansing water giving relief but the flooding that ensued gave misery to many whose only home was a shack made of cardboard or a large pipe that turned into a river with the floods

For us as children it was sheer magic. Floods ankle/knee deep to be waded through with screams of delight. A friend had a blow up dinghy which we paddled down Burdwan Road feeling like great explorers

My old school had had its gates forced open be the floods and we went inside to see desks and chairs bobbing merrily in the muddy water.

Once, on our way back from Tollygunge, the skies opened and faster than we could drive the road in front of us flooded. My friend Shashi was  driving, the usual mob in the back: Harish, Darius, Annabel, Pomi and me. The car stalled - the boys offered 'helpful advice', Annabel and Pomi and me got out and started to push through the ever deepening puddles. Finally the boys got the message and we pushed and pushed and pushed, past the lakes across Chowringhee and then the engine sputtered into life and like the film 'Little Miss Sunshine' we ran to catch up and jump in.
I don't know why it is such a joyous memory, something about the sheer desparation, the mother of all rows between Shashi and Harish (she was always fiery), the being soaking wet or just the laughter as we kept on pushing and the laughter we caused from rickshaw wallahs and street vendors that made it a moment of pure joy.

In a city built on marsh land the water tries hard to reclaim its old ways and the river,  Hooghly, the artery of the city swells alarmingly. Once or twice a year there is a bore tide, where the tide rushes form both ends of the river to meet in clash of waves up to seven feet high. It is possible even when standing on a rooftop safely some distance from the water to feel a real fear that the river continue to rise and the wave will take us all.

And then of course, the Monsoon races, I received an announcement yesterday that they were due to start. These were not the cold weather fashion parades, but still the RCTC provided a good card that allowed for a few horses to pull off some major coups. There was a particularly nasty stallion called Aya Toofan (here comes the storm) who hated the statring gates and hated his jockey - had been known to turn and bite his foot during a race. He was at the end of his racing days and was seen as Darius put it; a donkey.

The time for the race neared and the skies above grew blacker and blacker; we could hardly see the 1400 metre start. I stood up in the box and said, " the storm's coming and he'll win", they all laughed and I went and put my last twenty rupees on Aya Toofan. When I got back to seat the race had begun and the lightening forked the sky and the thunder made the buildings shake. Further down the course for us by the home bend there was a cry of ,"Aya Toofan," and he was indeed coming yards ahead of the rest of the field and the rain and the storm and the shouts of the crowd spurred him on to win. For this was not a favourite but never has synchronicity seemed so perfect and all there that day understood and cheered for a bad tempered but great hearted horse.

Yes, I will tell you - 100/1!  Never listen to those who say don't back  it, it's a donkey, or those who say sentiment has no place in racing. They are both wrong.

When we moan at our wet summers and the grey rain we forget the elemental joy of the monsoon and its life enhancing properties, let us cherish our rain a little more and find the joy of splashing about in puddles again.

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Monsoon fun

Monsoon fun, originally uploaded by fahim_123752.

Politics and Poetry

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I would argue that the most powerful weapon man has is his ability to craft words. They can win wars in ways that guns cannot; they can move the most obstinate of believers to take a new stance.



The Dalai Lama knows this: for years he has used words to wage his battle against his aggressors. If he was not succeeding one has to wonder why China find it necessary to censor his words, his images and those of his followers. Jihad is a word - holy war. To some it is a call to heaven to others the knell of a death bell.
In Alice in Wonderland Tweedledum said that he could make words mean whatever he wanted them to. Post modernist criticism has taken that view to the point where words themselves cease to have any real resonance because they can be proven to mean so much and so little.



We argue about the Bible, the Koran, the words of this prophet and that. And then we take up guns, and tanks, and planes, and bombs and land mines and we no longer bother to speak for who would listen? The words that are understood now are finance, economy, globalisation. Where in those dialogues is there a place for the poor, the lost, the starving and the dispossessed. William Hague said that a dialogue with China was necessary for the global market. Then he mentioned the rather bad reputation China had on human rights in Tibet. They occupied a country - committed genocide and mass repopulation - attempted to destroy a culture unchanged for centuries. These are the words that should have been used, along with the statement that there is no place in our global economy for those who take greedily what is not theirs.

So words can matter, can be powerful. Look at the great figures of history and how they used words to move people to impossible achievements. "I have a dream", "Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country", "Forgive us our sins as we forgive others",  " We will fight them on the beaches..." and so many more. Words that made a difference to our lives today.

We all have voices, we use them to swear, and call out and talk of trivia but how often do you or I  use them to make a difference. Let's start. Let's use the example of the Dalai Lama, and speak for change, ask for change  and make ourselves heard. Ten voices can be heard across a field. Ten thousand  more   heard across continents and seas. If something is wrong say so! Say it again and again until you are heard.

A poet that I love, went for a walk one night and came home and wrote this

THE WORLD. by Henry Vaughan  I SAW Eternity the other night, Like a great ring of pure and endless light,               All calm, as it was bright ; And round beneath it, Time in hours, days, years                       Driv'n by the spheres                                    5 Like a vast shadow mov'd ; in which the world                       And all her train were hurl'd. The doting lover in his quaintest strain                       Did there complain ; Near him, his lute, his fancy, and his flights,                         10                       Wit's sour delights ; With gloves, and knots, the silly snares of pleasure,                       Yet his dear treasure, All scatter'd lay, while he his eyes did pour                       Upon a flow'r.                                             15 2.                The darksome statesman, hung with weights and woe, Like a thick midnight-fog, mov'd there so slow,               He did nor stay, nor go ; Condemning thoughts—like sad eclipses—scowl                       Upon his soul,                                                  20 And clouds of crying witnesses without               Pursued him with one shout. Yet digg'd the mole, and lest his ways be found,                       Work'd under ground, Where he did clutch his prey ; but one did see                     25                       That policy : Churches and altars fed him ; perjuries                       Were gnats and flies ; It rain'd about him blood and tears, but he                       Drank them as free.                                    30 3.                The fearful miser on a heap of rust Sate pining all his life there, did scarce trust               His own hands with the dust, Yet would not place one piece above, but lives                       In fear of thieves.                                        30 Thousands there were as frantic as himself,               And hugg'd each one his pelf ;* The downright epicure plac'd heav'n in sense,                       And scorn'd pretence ; While others, slipp'd into a wide excess                               35                       Said little less ; The weaker sort slight, trivial wares enslave,                       Who think them brave ; And poor, despisèd Truth sate counting by                       Their victory.                                              40 4.                Yet some, who all this while did weep and sing, And sing, and weep, soar'd up into the ring ;               But most would use no wing. O fools—said I—thus to prefer dark night                       Before true light !                                        45 To live in grots and caves, and hate the day               Because it shows the way ; The way, which from this dead and dark abode                       Leads up to God ; A way where you might tread the sun, and be                     50                       More bright than he ! But as I did their madness so discuss,                       One whisper'd thus, “This ring the Bridegroom did for none provide,                       But for His bride.”                                      55 JOHN, CAP. 2. VER. 16, 17.                     All that is in the world, the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eyes, and the pride of life, is not of the Father, but is of the world.     And the world passeth away, and the lusts thereof ; but he that doeth the will of God abideth for ever.        60 [* Money (AJ Note)] Source: Vaughan, Henry. The Poems of Henry Vaughan, Silurist E. K. Chambers, Ed. London, Lawrence & Bullen Ltd., 1896. 150-152.

This he wrote in the late seventeenth century when such an image was unimaginable - yet here it is. Eternity. You see words do have power to move and inspire and to make us dream of impossibilities.

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JOURNEYS (PART TWO)

The other great journeys were always in the hot weather - to get away from the stifling humidity of the plains- and they were always to the mountains. I was very blessed in that i went to all three independent mountain kingdoms while they were still free. Nepal and Bhutan exist still by playing a dangerous game of cat and mouse between India and China. Beautiful, gentle Sikkim fared less well and lost its ruler and its independence to the machinations of Indira Gandhi. Anyone who saw the Chogyal in his last days would have wept for the mean spirited way that he was treated. A man of peace and love,a former monk who gave up the monastery to lead his country; he deserved better and so did his Sikkimese.

To understands the politics you must realise that during the sixties and seventies India face faces war on three fronts: the Pakistanis, the East Pakistanis, and , following two attempted invasions a very real threat from the Chinese looking for an Indian Ocean port that would allow them access to the oil-rich gulf. Ironically a port they will soon have with Rangoon.

All this said my journeys were taken in innocent wonder. All of the doctors in Calcutta were invited to the Sikkim Coronation. The young Chogyal had remarried an American heiress Hope Cook and this was to be the event of the decade.

My mother had come home to look after my grandmother, with me along as usual. She screeched when she opened the letter. My father and sister were going! But they would send us many photos. It took her years to forgive them. Yet these pictures taken by my father tell us of another time, another place another world.

That he was close enough to take this is a small miracle. There they sat at the moment of assuming absolute power with their people. Few could know the sadness that was to come their way.

You can't see it clearly here but Hopela wore a woven coronet of pearls and those heady days of the sixties an Amercian girl becoming not just a princess but a queen was the archetypal hippy fantasy - go backpacking, meet a good looking man, marry him and there you are Gyalmo of Sikkim.

Of course there was more to it than that. She was very kind to me - once when my mother and I finally made it to Gangtok there was a film playing in the bazaar, Danny Kaye in the Black Fox. We were summoned to dinner at the palace and Hopela asked me if I was enjoying my stay. "Very much," I said, " but my favourite film was on tonight at the cinema and it finishes tomorrow and I should have liked to see it." That was a Cinderella moment. ADCs were summoned, the cinema phoned and the next day I was part of the royal party that took over the cinema simply because a child had expressed a desire.
Yes, it was power but it was kind power - she did not need to do it. I had no political clout: I was ten! But I never forgot.

Bhutan was always a hidden and secretive kingdom. For many years the Dorje family had rules as kings in all but name. Raja Dorge had married his children carefully, his daughter Kesang to the young king, his son Jigme to Yutok's daughter Tessla. And so it was that Jigme became Prime Minister and the young and oh so beautiful Dorje men began to arrive in Calcutta. Lenny, a glorious, quickwitted, funny man married a very beautiful girl Glenda and my father delivered their first child Kesang. Not long after this tragedy struck and Jigme was assassinated as he sat eating his meal in Punsoling on his was up to Thimphu, the capital.

Lhendup Dorge now became Prime Minister in his brother's place. The king fled to Switzerland: he had a bad heart. And at this time we were invited to go and stay in Paro with Lenny. And of course we went - assassination of no this was a chance of a lifetime; previously the only way in was to trek for many days (as Desmond had done when he accompanied Indira Gandhi acting on behalf of her father in a diplomatic mission). Lenny assured us that the road would be built and it would no time to reach Paro from the border. to accompany us he sent his secretary, Mary MacDonald, yes a relation, and two friends Martin Sarkies and Willy Tam.

This photograph was taken during the eight hour drive across the terai. This followed an early morning arrival at Dum Dum where we were counted and then the necessary seats bolted into place. The rest of the cargo was mangoes and to this day I am sick at the smell. The reason they all looked so happy was because we had stopped.

Finally our first night in Bhutan was at the guest bungalow in Punsoling. Where Jigme some few weeks earlier had been shot and where in one of the rooms the bloodstained sheets still lay on the bed. Mary had been there when it happened and relived the horror of it again. We were glad to leave in the morning.

And thrilled beyond belief to see the road opening up before us! It quite literally was being blasted from the rock face as we climbed. We would have to stop, wait for the debris to be cleared enough for the jeeps to stagger over and then move forward cautiously until the next boom told us more road lay ahead.
It sounds impossible and awful. But the views, the mountains and valleys and rivers. And the people, laughing at us, with us but such merriment and joy. No wonder the gross national product is happiness.

After a while the torture stopped and we reached a metalled road that wound its way alongside the mountain and across to reveal a valley.

Paro valley, the dzong looming over this exquisite, enchanted place and here, at last, we were.

A lovely set of guest cottages surrounded by pine trees and with an intoxicating aroma of their resin. The green grass was actually pine needles spread across the ground and the elegant guest quarters has all mod cons - except as they rushed to tell us - not yet plumbed in!

At night we would meet in a central room with a huge fire pit dug into  the floor. Alcohol would flow and there would be dancing and laughter. Lenny very much the centre of attention all in red with a pistol at his belt.

The days were spent fishing for the men, exploring the dzong and the most glorious of all pilgrimages the trek to see Taksung, the Tiger's Nest. Paro valley is roughly 7500ft above sea level: Taksung is 900 metres above that. Sorry, can't work it out but it is high!

The story has two parts: Guru Rimpoche, also know as Padmasambhava, was flying on his white tiger across Bhutan when he saw this place and stayed in cave there for three months. Guru Rimpoche in renowned for bringing Buddhism to Bhutan and to Tibet so this cave is a very holy place. On the climb up to the monastery there are some carvings in the rock that look like a very complicated keyhole. It is believed when the world ends Guru Rimpoche will come and take the key (which is also carved) unlock the rock and release all the joys of the world and all will be saved.

Many, many hundreds of years later a statue of Guru Rimpoche rising his tiger was being carried from Paro to Thimphu. As they passed Taksang the statue moved its head towards the mountain. The men were terrified and thought they would be blamed for its misfortune. They ran to find a lama. When they returned the head was straight but as soon as they tried to move it it turned again. Word of the miracle spread to the King in Thimphu and he came to see for himself. He ordered the building of a monastery on the side of the mountain next to Guru Rimpoche's cave  and ordered that the statue should be at the high alter. When I was there it still was with an odd crooked head surrounded by butter lamps.

Auntie Annie used to say to my mother,"Don't look so long at the mountains Joyla, they will take you and keep you." How could they not? I leave you with one last image. The Nathu La: the pass that brings you from Tibet to Sikkim and Kalimpong and from this side promises clouds of glory beyond its mists and mountains.