Onwards

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For pragya

Pragya, my heart hurts today. They say you killed yourself, I wish I could not believe it, wish I could turn away and see natural cause emblazoned on a cloud in a ray of sparkling sunshine.

Then I would know you were dead, but that you loved life, and in that living, held onto it through all that lies after. I would see you in memories of old school days, in the gentle push of sapling through earth, in every article on women's rights and justice for all, in a quite whisper calling "Ahoney" to me. No one, bar another dear friend, has used a nickname for me since you.

But now, I am forced to let go, to know you are dead and that you did not love life, that you spent years-days-months-minutes-seconds in abject misery. You let go of life, and so life must let go of you and I must live with the bitter knowledge of a life unsaved. Why is it so easy for me to tell you I loved you now? Why did I never tell you that while you were alive? How many more me's were there, loving you and keeping that close to our hearts, not stepping outside the dead zone of invulnerability? If all the me's had told you how we felt, would you still be here today?

You have taught me in death Pragya, to reach out to those I care for, like-love-cherish-admire-respect, to say my hellos and my goodbyes and my I-love-yous and thank-yous everyday.

You know that saying, if tomorrow comes? It's not just a saying anymore. And that makes me so heartbreakingly sad.

Pragya..

I never thought I would be writing this, feeling this, not feeling this, watching tears fall slow onto a table at Starbucks as I sip my gingerbread latte, listen to carols and think of you, you who will not be here this Christmas.

This was not supposed to happen, we were supposed to grow old together and grow old apart, you locked into your beautiful sparkly life, me slowly building mine, us bound by being part of each others tribes forevermore.

I am a big believer in tribes, more so than family, far more so than friends or lovers, partners or other descriptive relationship-making-and-building words. Tribe for me is all who have been and all who will be, a modern warrior girls version of ya ya smoke signals and wild naked dancing around fires. There are no fires to be found in Melbourne, and the only nudity to be found is in my backyard, as I streak around it on full moon night at 3 am.

You would have appreciated that Pragya, so much of the wildness in me was wildness mirrored in you, so much of my knowing and learning and sharing was yours too. Which is why we are tribe and which is why it hurts, to think of reaching out to you and then to recoil and realise that you are not to be found, that you have crossed the one last unfathomable chasm that I cannot reach across. Yet.

I want to ask you why, I want to ask you how, I want to ask you if you died in pain, I want to wish that pain away, I want to wish the dying away and have you be here, a part of my life but not a part of it, just as we were.

I will always love you for the girl you were, the one who wrote me funny poems in birthday cards with whimsical gifts. A crazy rubber ball and a gift tag saying "And a ball, so I can say, Ahona had a ball on her 12th birthday", beautiful pressed flowers, handmade papier mache ornaments, craziness and whimsy and love wrapped into shining packages. I will always remember hours of talk and talk and debate about human rights, women's rights, Bill Clinton and the impeachment scandal, animals and the ever-present what-want-to-be-when-we-grow-up.
I have the answer to the latter, alive and happy. You don't have the former anymore and I don't have the latter.

I will always remember those hours of phone conversations, the times when we read each others minds and the secret-special times in class, when a teacher said something and we turned to grin at each other in understanding of magic shared. I will always remember people saying "Pragya and Ahona", like we were one. And for a blessed 3 years, we almost were. I will also always remember fights and sulky silences and you breaking down in tears at the end of the phone and saying "Please talk to me." I learnt so much from you, about not hurting those I love. And about how to hurt those I love. I will remember you giggling at my first experiments with lip gloss and make up. You the tomboy, me the girly-girl-sometimes tomboy.

It would have made you laugh, to see me debating between copper-green-gold or blue-black-gray metallic eyeshadow palettes at Body shop today. It made me laugh, to think of you laughing, of how absurd you would have found it. And then it almost made me cry, to think of you never laughing again. I rarely cry Pragya, I never cry in front of anyone else. And today, I cried walking down Collins Street, in front of many hundreds of Melbournians, millions of pigeons and spring-summer leaves drifting down pavement, dancing their 'valiant dance towards death'. Today, I cried while talking of you to a coworker-friend, today, I almost cried while talking of you and raw edges to a heart-helper.

I feel blurry around the edges, like I have been rubbed raw raw and sharpened to fine points of pain. My skin hurts, a gentle, low throb reminding of the pain that is within, a constant that will not go away, a constant I don't want to go away. I remember the last time I forgot, it was right after your birthday, right after I spoke to you and said I would email you to catch up on the past 8 years. I never did, imagining that we would have years to do all that catching up. I started an email and then hit delete, not knowing where to start, wanting time to think about it. I didn't know that time was the one thing I didn't have. I never want to forget again.

You teach, you learn, in death as in life. And I learn today, I learn to reach out, to hold, to grieve. I learn that we are all wounded, I learn that we are all the walking wounded. And so I walk on, alone, wishing I could have held your hand when you needed it.

We are not all sentenced to solitary imprisonment inside our skins for life. You let me into your skin, into your heart for a while, and I will always carry that, those pieces of you, with me.

summer!

d fSummer is here, heralded by hailstorms, lightning showers, giant pebbles of icy rain, blown fuses, colds, sniffles and dew drop mist of cloud spray on jet black hair. Such joy it is, to settle in with a large mug of steaming coffee and liberal quantities of Claratyne and laugh at the vagaries of Melbourne weather. The parts inside me that love juxtaposition, contradiction and bizarreness are dancing with joy and glee, while the rest of me quails and whimpers, "But, but, summer should be warm!"

In no particular order, a list of things I love about summer:

Cherries berries strawberries raspberries blackberries staining lips and tongue deep crimson, baked into pies and cobblers and crisps, eaten warm from the bush or cold from the punnet, with cream or without, with icecream, folded into eton mess, eaten with a tumbler of sparkling champagne, stained fingers flying from glass to bowl to mouth

farmers markets, firm spears of asparagus, silken eared corn, jewel tomatoes tumbling every which way the eye can see, asparagus grueye tarts, salads all washed down by glass after glass of crisp pinot gris. or sickeningly sweet moscato.

balmy days of cloud gazing and seeing faces and animals in towering masses or gentle wisp

the buzz of bees around fig trees, fig jam and nectarines eaten warm from the tree.

writing writing writing in cafes, literature washed down by copious quantites of iced coffee.

lazy weekends spent communing with friends far flung.

picnics and long hours of sleep in the sun. playing with the dog and watching sunshine gleam off his golden fur. splish splashing in the sea and watching sunset over velvet water. sandcastles, sea breeze. digging my toes into new grass. yawning.

no watermelon, yes, NO watermelon. NO mangoes. yes again.

floaty dresses, sandals, red nailpaint.

Babka. Filigree silver earrings. rose street market. spa days and candlelit nights.

And now, can I have the sun back please?

Dragonflies and then some

Yesterday, I found a dead dragonfly on the stairs. I usually run screaming from insects, bad memories of bull ants and hand-span-wide African spiders spinning through my head, but this time, I chose to pick it up instead. It was just a dragonfly right, not a scary mandibled arachnid, and besides, it was dead!

I turned it over, feeling brittle wing bend under my finger tips and watching sun glisten through the stained-unglass. I pulled the wings off, wrapped them in tissue and put them into my bag, with a prayer for them to stay intact. I've always liked dragonflies, they bring back memories of hot Indian summer spent chasing large-winged insect gleefully, running and ducking and weaving as they sailed through air, contempt for us noisy humans shining clear in every flick of bulbous eye. They also bring back memories of a very special amethyst necklace and large shining eyes explaining the symbolism of dragonflies to me.

Back home, I unwrapped the tissue swathed wings and clapped in glee to see that they survived intact! Googled dragonfly symbolism, found the below, and laughed! The universe really does have a sense of humor, timing and placement!

"Dragonfly symbolism crosses and combines with that of the butterfly and change. The dragonfly symbolizes going past self-created illusions that limit our growing and changing. Dragonflies are a symbol of the sense of self that comes with maturity.

They are fantastic fliers, darting like light, twisting, turning, changing direction, even going backwards as the need arises. They are inhabitants of two realms - starting with water, and moving to the air with maturity, but staying close to water. Some people who have the dragonfly as their totem have had emotional and passionate early years, but as they get older they achieve balance with mental clarity and control. They gain an expression of the emotional and mental together.

Dragonflies are old and adaptive insects, and are most powerful in the summer under the effects of warmth and sunlight. Their colors are a result of reflecting and refracting the power of light. As a result, they are associated with color magic, illusion in causing others only to see what you wish, and other mysticism.

The are often represented in Japanese paintings, representing new light and joy. To some Native Americans they are the souls of the dead. Faerie stories say that they used to be real dragons.

Dragonflies are reminders that we are light and can reflect the light in powerful ways if we choose to do so. "Let there be light" is the divine prompting to use the creative imagination as a force within your life. They help you to see through your illusions and allow your own light to shine in a new vision. "

we play the game

I don't notice a lot. Some people say I notice the unimportant, the way autumn leaves scurry down a sidewalk, the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans, the sparkly dragonfly hair clip a girl on the tram wears, pinning back waves of newly laundered auburn curl, sunlight, as it glints off the Yarra, making the muddy and polluted look beautiful, the whirl of the giant Ferris wheel as it tilts and turns near the docklands, near swanston street, near and far.

Some people say I don't notice the important. They cringe in annoyance as I walk past street signs, read maps wrong, ignore deadlines with ease and splish splash my way through life, happy as a fairy with a bubble wand and a dragonfly steed. And sometimes they forgive me, when I remember birthdays and who-wont-eat-wheat and children's names and favourite movies. And they stop and look at me, head cocked, like they are rethinking the important and the un. Perhaps. I have never asked.

Last night, I noticed all of the unimportant. The soft swish of rain across metal tile, how I could hear the rain but not see it, for Swanston street by night loves dark well. The sounds of happy revelers, the clinking of glasses, the glow of streetlight as I looked out above the city, absorbed in cloud towers of thoughts, so absorbed that I lost myself in me, realising with a start that I was not alone. I notice the silhouette of leaves as they hang heavy near where we sit, dew drop clusters of rain drip dripping onto the heads of passersby. I notice music playing but do not listen to it, I notice people walking by, but do not see them. You can call me the girl who notices, but doesn't. I notice wine glass perched on rail, as I giggle at the memory of a night of tipsy debauchery and glass ground underfoot.

Later, much later, I look up at a curtain of what-looks-like dried herbs, the bittersadsweet taste of hot-chocolate-with-more-chocolate still dancing across my tongue. I look closer and realise it is not dried herbs I see, but dried rosebuds. Reds, pinks, purples faded, but still beautiful, one hanging from the next in floral wall garden. "Think of the insects," I say, feeling the need to say something trite. That is what was said, but what was heard was the unsaid, the giddiness and in-orbit-fear. And I noticed.

Juxtaposition and then some

Being Indian, I should be used to juxtaposition, to contrasts, to contradictions so wide and enormous that they span entire grand canyons of being! Being Indian, I have seen and lived, whether first, second or third hand (and does it really even matter?) riches and poverty, sudden death by dowry burning and love so intense and true it stands the test of time in white marble monument hundreds of feet high. I have seen heatwaves claiming hundreds of lives and cold waves claiming thousands. I have shivered and sweated, loved and hated, been loved and hated with intensity so bright that I have been scarred by both. Love can scar as deeply as hate, sometimes worse, for channels carved out by sweetness are far deeper than the gashes vitriol creates.

I love juxtaposition, I use it all the time, in my life, my art, my work, my love and being and creativity. Soft black hair and hard black eyes, red shoes and black tights, red nail paint and knee-high gladiator sandals, soft words of gentleness talking about hard fights of hate, African childhood, Indian adolescence, Australian youth, milk chocolate and salted caramel, romance and wild tigress sexuality, pink rose in unfurl in stark white vase. I live a life of contradiction and love a life of contradiction.And so I delight in seeing it surround me, in drawing threads of once-was-never-again-always-will around me and wrapping myself in sinuous strands of craziness.

Melbourne is good at contradiction, better at juxtaposition, superlative at life and madness. On the train this morning, I saw a girl at Southern Cross station. She was dressed in red and white polka dots, red underskirt floofing around her as she marched down the platform in high heels and cat eye glasses. And suddenly, it was 1950 again, as I pulled out my IPhone to tap tap notes to myself so I remembered to blog about it later.

At Queen Vic market, sun hot on my shoulders tanning milk chocolate skin deep brown and Inka Marka playing happy tunes for feet and smiles to dance to, I see a group of schoolgirls. They are sprawled against each other on the ground under large shade-shadow cast by oak tree. They sit shoulder to shoulder, arm against arm. I smile, remembering many days of the same, lying near the football field with heavy eyes in a tangle of arms, legs and conversation. I watch them for a while as they talk softly, of cabbages and ships and sealing wax. They complain of the heat, shrugging sweater off shoulder to reveal crisp white school shirt and skirts artfully rolled up to reveal and hide just so. They look across at a bench and as my eyes follow theirs, I see a girl sitting on it, dressed in the same uniform as them, so alike, so galaxies worth of different. They roll their eyes and call across "Samantha, take your sweater off, it's boiling!" She sinks inside herself and plucks at her sweater nervously, mumbling something about it being too large to fit inside her bag. I cringe for her, feeling her sadness and awkwardness. It is easy to feel anothers pain when it has been your own, when it is your own, carried close to your heart everyday.

I want to walk over to her and tell her it will be okay, just like I want someone to walk over to the parallel younger me in an alternate universe and tell the then-me that it will be okay, that it always is. Instead, I sit there, saying nothing, letting myself walk away again, letting me walk all over my heart again.

Later that night, an exhibition opening. I stand alone in a room full of strangers, looking at faces I know so well, hearing voices I know not at all. Everywhere I look, I see people smiling at each other, laughing with soft caress at friend or partner. The irony of C saying, "When I got pregnant, all I started seeing was pregnant women" does not escape me. I feel alone and alone and more alone, until I see a little girl, bopping away exuberantly to the strong beat of melody thumping out of the speakers. She stands alone, but she is so absorbed in herself as she sways and thump thumps her feet, so engrossed in the movement of her body and the joy of her feet dancing that she does not know the meaning of the word alone or lonely. And as she does not, slowly, I do not either.

Much later that night, I sit outside on doorstep, crying soft tears to myself. I cry softly at first and then harder, more ferociously as I watch clouds drift overhead, turning moonlight to diffuse daze. It is a bitter night, so cold, despite the mugginess of Melbourne summer. I hug myself gently and let myself cry a river, grateful for the gush of sorrow. The sorrow sinks deep inside me, water to parched heart making moist and fertile where once was barren. And I keep hugging myself and cry, softly, so softly.