A Poem for Peace in Times of Upheaval

 

Inkwells run dry, as

Masks accompany gasps

People picked up like litter

And deposited like trash,

In detention centers made for profits

Despairing and vast,

Not for the good of the public,

But out of blustery political 

Bravado,

By chest-beating chimpanzees

Playing out their fantasies

Of a world dominance hierarchy:

Blacks at the bottom rung,

Browns one step up,

Undocumented or not-

White supremacy isn't as far-flung

As the silent majority thinks,

Operating deep in the unconscious,

A test for our moral conscience,

Analyzable by a shrink?

Who am I to say?

I'm none of the above-

Half white-half brown,

American and Indian,

Still, with fair skin

Soon to witness,

the unity of Chindians,

And Planet Earth citizens,

Because when one nation and its enterprises

Own the whole world wide,

And the world wide web,

Where we watch, along for the ride,

When it's obvious who does most the work

On the immigrant and outsourced side,

It's only a matter of time

Before this world order crumbles

Because it's just not right

Signed- 

Simple, sincere, and humble

-sanam manas

The Falsity of History

I read through the comments

Of people on Instagram

Going back and forth about what happened

In history,

Never without an agenda,

Even if that agenda is simply

To set the record straight.

Though…

Truth can’t be carved out of eroded valleys,

Which time has already coursed through

Leaving behind only fractions of remains—

And not the other great expanses of events

That time sweeps away unflinchingly

Without making any marks.

The geniuses you’d never have heard of,

The crimes left unresolved,

The billions of everyday experiences,

The mundane, the profane, the sacred,

The goings on until expiration,

Lost, forgotten,

Impossible to name,

Impossible to describe,

Out of sight and outside time,

(For all intents and purposes).

Here, then, I honour all that has been wiped away,

Deleted,

Carelessly or carefully

Or by chance,

Knowing that history is not too far from a sham,

As best as we want to remember the glorious pasts,

We hardly have any connection to

What preceded our grandparents—

Not that our grandparents would speak of the killings

They committed, in wars and in peace

Or the “spoils of war” they “claimed.”

History is more a tool than a science,

More our artistic creation than 

Accurate observation,

A way of showing more than knowing,

Revealing what interests you more than

What actually occurred.

Because when you think you know something

About everything that has ever happened

You’re probably wrong.

Arriving

Walking up the stairs,

The same stairs I’ve hopped, skipped, and

Pondered over, most of the vacations of my life,

My mind flashed to the happy scenes of pre-marital bliss,

Those first co-vacations,

The occasions 

When photographs could not hide my joy,

My happiness, my

Gratitude—

Now bereft of

That source,

Who must be scattered far and wide even if self-contained,

Deep and vast and across dimensions,

As people of that caliber do not simply 

Vanish from this Earth,

Even if living subdued lives,

I know,

Her impact reverberates…

Now thinking of my late uncle,

Who barely would have made it to 28,

if not for a sudden eviction from our realm,

In the hands of my forevermore-scarred aunt,

Disappearing and appearing,

In the numbers of his death anniversary,

13/1,

The role number of my ex-wife when she was in school,

The number of test matches played by my favourite cricketer,

The hours and minutes spoken to my long-lost soul-friend,

When I first revealed my true self to another,

Who hit me with the shock of loss,

Forever numb,

Deaf and dumb,

When she chose to end her life…

Now sitting up in the bed,

That those dark stairs lead up to,

The room in which so much fun was had,

An idyllic childhood of monsoon summers

And dark moods pervading an otherwise

Beautiful life,

Filled with every privilege and experience one could ask for,

Debts impossible to pay back to parents,

For their long-suffering patience and 

Buoyancy of loving labor,

On we three kids’ behalf,

None the least for me,

And as I continue to live, 

Half-child, half-man,

Drawing spontaneously,

Letting these words flow out,

Thinking over and over and over,

Of bygone days,

Finding myself with the challenge of establishing

Myself

In this city,

Where we all suffer,

Though I suffer less still,

This City of Joy,

I embrace with open and patient arms,

Hoping for a prolonged hug with this unique civilisation,

Enough to keep me charged for another day,

Another year,

Another life,

Starting now.

Leaving Town

Grateful this Thanksgiving week for the Athens community, a special place in my heart that feels hard to part with, when Athens has taught me so much thru schoolyards, classrooms, bar patios, and the most blessed days when I could write and draw on my father's collegiate blackboards anything in chalk, easily eraseable with a puff of chalk dust, and in my mother's office at Nelson and Hill play a version of civilisation and Castle of the Winds on a now oldfashioned computer, keyboard, and mouse. 

St. Mary's Hospital to my parents' and sister's loving arms, Parna's nursery, Athens Montessori for three grand years of playing duck duck go, singing "He's Got the Whole World, In His Hands"... playing on the old firetruck, the ropeway in the back, hiding in the overturned truck tire, breaking pecans with my shoes and learning tool use. David C. Barrow to follow, where we'd sing, "I love to go to Barrow school, to Barrow school I gooo, Five days out of every week, to Barrow school I goo," when we weren't singing the song with all the school sponsors named at school assemblies, where we received so much love from our teachers and Principal Wright, the unique moment of the 90s when multiculturalism was a blessed reality, shifting into Clarke Middle School and the joys of learning creatively, most of all in Mrs. Nagao's class, where I met future friends once we were separated from our Elementary school bonds in a haphazard way, thrown into the deep end of 9/11 on the TV in Mrs. Causey's class in 7th grade, Earl Ayers the bandleader teaching an entire class to play every single instrument single handedly, we in percussion pushing each other aside to get on that big bass drum or the snare and the cymbals. Bloody knuckles and Mossing each other on the playground, Yo Mama jokes that on this day I can understand the pain that could be inflicted on a peer if the joke hit home. Into high school where we all self-segregated into cliques, racial divisions in the cafeteria, College Prep, Advanced College Prep, and AP classes to divide us further. The humiliation of my peers having fallen behind in their studies and eeking out an existence far from the dreams of mothers and fathers envisioning their children going to college one day. Kids having kids and growing into the responsible parents as if it were destiny, wisdom I never have known. Dropping out of school and going on my experiments thru the woods, jumping over hedges, stacking chairs and trying to learn how to land...thinking I could feel the air to the degree to catch the winds and take flight. All foolishness, as were my many experiments with sound, sungazing, altered states of consciousness, and awakenings that had to be put to somnolence if not to sleep.

Leaving town for college at a private school on half scholarship, losing the connection to the peers who raised me in Athens, coming back to complete a masters in public health and a masters in social work, by the skin of my teeth, every year returning to a stupor once the delusions had been properly sedated. 

All this to say, working at Advantage must be my finest moments here in town, not to mention my marriage of which books could be written, where I felt I was giving back to the place that has given me so much, teaching me empathy and compassion in action, and recalibrating my playlist back to soul, Indian classical, and far from gangsta rap, some ill-informed rock, too, and their lures. Listening to the lyrics deeply and changing my mind to change my environment. Changing my environment to change my mind. And as I now depart to another world city, with the heavy feeling that I did not do enough for Athens, I embark on opportunity for redemption and reconciliation, non-violent communication, empathy and conflict resolution, courage and commitment, conviction and resilience, adventuring into the unknowns lurking in the shadows of the known, to complete my task I began 19 years ago, and maybe earlier- to make known the unknown, to know the demarcation of these in myself, to know in others for all good intents and purposes, and to get into the ground, plant the seeds to grow this tree, this tree of life that I hope to see one day as the fruition of public health, the indefinite lifespan, free of fear for all-too-preventable death. Because as the logicians said: "All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Socrates must die". Is it so unreasonable in this world of senolytics to dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness? As I said in the beginning, so I will say in the end...seek no fame, no glory in the game, go against the grain, try to stay sane, entertain the untamed unnamed lion's mane, be Adam's outstretched finger, be God's brain. 

What is the Value of Love that Must Prove itself to its Beloved?

How can we on Earth bring ourselves closer together, or at whatever distance is most necessary to maintain an established harmony of our own, individual freedom, in a way in which we all personally find the happiness we may so easily reset and rest in? To begin each day, whether sunny or cloudy in nature, whether raining, thundering, or lacking in humidity; so that we go from what we are born to achieve as a species, a life of love, spread liberally around the globe without shame, from conversation to conversation; not seeking to convert others to our thinking, but rather seeking to understand and join with everyone in a way that will keep us bonded for eternity. I do the following:
Thinking of what situation others are in, listening to the stories travelling from the other side of the planet, protecting my innocence by judicious forethought and ultimate presence with each keystroke, footstep, thought, momentary forgetfulness. Reminded again, back on track, making no reference to anyone outside of my own self-knowing, knowing myself to the maximum limit of 24 hours, 7 days a week, and 365 days a year on my calendar.
Forgiveness is to halt and recover the perpetrators of intentionally malicious actors, to mould such bad actors in a way that allows them to understand the damage anyone fitting this description has done to our harmoniously envisioned ideal planet, and go on to participate in healing of immorality as sickness, and produce purification of heart, soul, mind, challenging of intellect, and enjoyment of the delight of living and knowing that we share our small blue and green and red and yellow and white Earth with billions of ones just like us in these universal desires:
To love and be loved, to build and maintain goodwill, to create and enjoy in fellowship, to choose our friends, lover, and the way by which we express our feeling of love and do the great work of loving, no matter what befalls us as a whole single civilisation in Modern time from the thoughtlessness of blind, unknowing nature.
To master our self and do what is right, what is the highest good, the ideal in each situation, every circumstance no mater how wide or narrow in scope, to persist effortfully and succeed effortlessly with a systematic rise in spirits, to feel hope, fearless desire for improvement of relations between entire parts of our whole and singular self, and likewise to make singular in being unassuming in our outlook towards our neighbours, compatriots, and global allegiance to universal siblinghood, universal responsibility of citizenry, whether as netizens or members of communities within communities within states, within nations, across all borders and with love, for all, by all, freely given, freely chosen as to what form fitting the instant in time, freely receiving of others’ positive intent, wholesome and fully real and touchable, sensible, thoughtful; patiently building foundations of non-violent inter-state solutions to what babies understand not about the complexities of world relations, as to the eye of the newly born blessed with sight, the light of the sun or a bulb may reign on an entirely new movement of love for the midwifes and parents’ and custodians and village members and that each newborn be given an equal treatment by all who support the movement of life’s defeating of death, the hope needed to prevail, the perseverance necessary to go on, and to continue to go on, and to look in any which direction but never to return to the foolery that has led us here to swiftly reinstitute our joint-family of hand-holding, fun-loving, expressive, all-feeling, all-knowing, all-respecting, all blessing and hoping for the peaceful, harmonious success of joint ventures.
I’m rooting for you and ya’ll, from the other side. EastWestNorthSouth and into the heavens and down through the middle of the earth (if one dares to dream)- I personally prefer the quiet of a simple life, organised home, and the privacy of love which only one can quite understand in their own way, as we swap pages and places, and get to task. Number one todo: Work to benefit and increase the benevolence of all who are other to me, a single human being together with all my human relatives known and unknown to me on a lonely planet listening to the universal fusion of music owing its masterfulness to in addition to tradition, a special novelty, original creation to the recognition of the breaking down of categories not of our own deciding, branded onto us at birth and cruelly regimented onto our life even as we begin to fight these vestiges of darker ages, when we did not choose, but allowed the notion of destiny to carry us away. Now the time has come to review words and escape the misinterpret able, to go deep into sleep and rejuvenation of the body, and to wake up tomorrow to think more deeply about where I am needed, who needs me, who does not need or want me, and who am I willing to become to advance my efforts towards solidarity for all those grieving those who never made it this far, and to prevent death from ever taking another of our human race, split apart by national borders and misgivings, when instead we could offer love for free, for what is the value of love that must prove itself to the beloved? All are welcome, and over the span of life, love truly will always prevail.

The Best Days of my Life:

 The Best Days of my Life:

"some lessons are learnt too late"
some customs are burnt by fate
some immigrants are usually late
some locals share the exact same fate

met my Sita at the circle K
agua linda, la montana, light and gay
CaliNTitos and fine museums
historically a part of my dreams

"death is a part of life" you said
As an MPH, I think not instead

Learning, Mate!
Loading...(fate)...
Wheelers spinning multicoloured
Microsofts hour-glass blurr'ed

chasmhudin jaise Vettori
Daniel ki parivar hain ek kahani

Clinton, Inc, Obama Inc, Bush colour ink
a moment of remorse, a drunken drink

The Big Three rule the ICC
the International criminal court, too

love over power
I'll see you, you see me?

World Population Pie Chart

This pie we share, ever expanding,

Could be more gracious, less demanding

More generous and kind

On our neighbour's porches

More responsible and just

Like Polaris Northest

'Cause the value of a chart

Is not in its appearance

It's how it leads our way

As we think about experience

And as we think about ourselves

And the gifts we want to open

Made by Santa's elves

Or by aMMa's eloping

What diyas we want to light

In the core of darkest night?

I have a party to attend

I've got to catch this flight

What a world we could create,

With the rightest interest rates

This pecan, walnut, apple pie

Above the ground beneath the sky

Where percentages and ratios

Don't define our solo souls

But each person is heard

And no one is sold

Sweet and salted, gooey goodness

Gushy, crunchy, nutty hoodless

Gullible enterers of a gully narrow

Gulliver's travels of the mind's marrow:

Imagination will take you places

When you stop playing games

Stop running rat races

Put out the flames

(Dedicated to Jesus and the baker's dozen disciples)

Stairway to stairwell

Stairway to stairwell

 Enjoyed the Athens porchfest festival is dupehar aur sham. Caught the whimsical early wisps of the hair at the nape of my sky friend in the form of a pinkish blue sunsetting, not on the phone but in my arbitrary access memory. 

Chose wisely today after starting a quibble with my source, that was put out before it could trickle down like the water droplets that together constitute Victoria and Niagara Falls. 

Remembering now the time I excitedly and chillfully fell down the steep stairs of a once haunted home, dropping the green ceramic plate covered with Choo Choos chicken and rice all over the last steps down to the landing. The yellow sauce and rices I had to handsomely clean up but my life was spared by an Act of God, unlike our home's predecessor, who drunkenly lived out her last moments falling down the very same stairs.

Public health announcement: falling down kills more individuals every year than lightning, hurricanes, and tornadoes combined. Most people who are not homeless die in their homes. 

Say what you feel to your loved ones, for no moment is promised. If you know me, I love you, and I wait every mindful moment for the refrain that will bring us home. Om Shanti Om

Tabalchi

Tabalchi, Yours Truly

Throwback to the last time I had the great honour to meet Anindo Chatterjee in-person, touch his feet, with my guru Masterji (Amitabha Buddha), a disciple of Anindo Chatterjee. Through learning tabla and doing my best to return to it no matter how many hours, days, weeks, and even years I may have strayed away from it for, returning to tabla is always a mental-physical psychosomatic health check-up for me, and a spiritual saviour. 

I savour each moment in audience of such Masters of music, men and women who understand the whole life as music, who dedicate their whole life to music- and teach countless students. 

Ever since I went to an Indian reservation near the 4 corners of Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona and took home a drum, singing and beating along to "Humma humma humma (ek a ho Gaye ham aur tum), I have been a percussionist (unless you count piano, also a percussion instrument, which came first). 

I wish all the love in the world to all my teachers, be they my friends, my acquaintances, strangers, frenemies--enemies (the one's I learn from how not to be)- I hope you know who ya'll are to me. I never forget a friend and I never forget a lesson, even if time elapses in the interim of my exercising of these lessons. 

Music is universal, compositions plan the way and distill the past into crystallised packages, much like the packages of data sent through the internet protocols. 

How you play music is what matters, with what in your mind, what love in your heart, what feelings in your skin, what beliefs about where to begin? "With what does the Science of Logic [philosophy] begin?" (George Wilhelm Frederique Hegel)

I pose that question to ya'll. Where have you been, tell me, where do you want to go, how can I help you get there, and which pathways will be for the betterment of all? "Via the spectrum road"? - (Tony Williams Lifetime)

signing off...your tabalchi

Sanam Manas